Moments: One-Shots || Benedict Bridgerton

Moments: The Birth of Baby Isobel

"Mr Bridgerton!" the doctor exclaims, "we have this in hand. Please wait outside; we will call you in when your baby is born."

"I'm okay, darling honest," you assure your frazzled-looking husband. "The doctor is here; I will be fine."

"But I don't want to leave the room," Benedict answers, almost frantic. "I can't miss this!! I want to be here! I couldn't for James. I have to for this one, my love; please don't send me away!" He looks genuinely distressed.

You hold his hand and look at the doctor. "Doctor Samuels, if he promises to stay up by my shoulder with me, can my husband stay?"

"If he does not get in my way. Fine," the doctor sighs, "but why he would want to is beyond me. No husband normally stays in the room."

"Well, I am not a normal husband," Benedict clips, not looking at him, and you squeeze his hand to calm his irritation.

"Stay here with me, darling. I need you to help me breathe," you request, but at this moment, it's as much for him as it is for you—anything to keep him from becoming a ball of anxiety.

"In two, three, out two, three," you talk him through deep breaths, and the pulse hammering in his neck seems to slow as he breathes with you.

Then another contraction hits you, stronger than the last, and you grasp his hand tight and groan loudly, panting out breaths. It's his turn to talk you through it.

"You're doing wonderful, darling," Benedict assures, taking a damp flannel offered by a midwife and wiping your brow.

"Push Mrs Bridgerton," the doctor orders, and you do. Yelling and pushing with all your might. The pressure and pain are intense. You only have vague memories of this moment with James. You don't remember it being this bad, but you suspect the mind may deliberately make you forget after it is over, or else no one would ever want another child, based on what you feel in this very moment.

"It hurts Benedict!" you wail, squeezing his hand so tight you swear you might break his knuckles.

"I'm sorry, my love," he soothes, "it will be over soon then; just think, we will have another perfect little baby."

"No more after this one!" you bemoan, puffing hard breaths.

"Yes, of course, darling," he placates.

You scream again as another wave of pain hits you, doubling over, sweating and yelling.

You feel Benedict's strong arm wrap around your shoulders and him talking into your damp hair, encouraging loving words. Which, on the one hand, you know is incredibly sweet of him—no husband you know of has sat with his wife in the final throes of childbirth. But, on the other hand, you can't deny that at this very moment, you sort of want to murder him for doing this to you.

After another round of dizzying pain, yelling, and crying, you hear the doctor announce they can see the head. Then it's a frenzy of movement around you in quick succession. The passage of time seems elastic; it could have been minutes or hours; you honestly have no idea. With so much effort, your body feels like it is turning inside out, and a pain that is searing and life-altering, you eventually hear a lusty infant cry, and you flop back against the pillows as Benedict keeps talking sweet words.

"It's a girl!" the doctor announces after a short pause, snipping the umbilical cord. "A healthy baby girl, all fingers and toes are here."

"Let me see!" Benedict turns, looking away from you for the first time since your intense stage of labour started.

"The midwives are just swaddling her, Mr Bridgerton," the doctor replies, "then she will be handed to your wife."

"Benedict," you croak exhausted, flopping your head over to look at him hazily, "thank you for staying with me."