The first contraction struck like a thief in the night, stealing Sandra's breath as she stood in the Blackwood library. A book slipped from her fingers, its pages fluttering like startled birds before thudding against the Persian rug. Outside, the late autumn storm that had been brewing all day finally unleashed its fury—rain lashed the windows, wind howled through the chimneys, and thunder rolled across the moors like the drums of war.
Paul was at her side before the second contraction hit, his hands steady on her shoulders as she doubled over. "Sandra?" His voice was calm, but his fingers trembled against her skin. "Is it—?"
"Yes," she gasped, gripping the back of an armchair until her knuckles whitened. The pain receded, leaving her panting. She met Paul's wide, terrified eyes and managed a shaky smile. "It's time."
Chaos erupted. Mrs. Bell scurried to fetch the midwife, maids flew to prepare the birthing room, and the usually unflappable Mr. Davies stood frozen in the hallway, clutching a stack of legal documents like a lifeline. Through it all, Paul remained at Sandra's side, his face a mask of forced composure that fooled no one.
Eleanor appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair hastily pinned up, her eyes alert despite the late hour. "I've sent for Dr. Evans as well," she said, falling into step beside them as they made their slow progress upstairs. "And Clara should be arriving tomorrow—her last letter said—"
Another contraction cut her off. Sandra groaned, her nails digging into Paul's forearm. "Damn the letters," she hissed through clenched teeth. "And damn this *pain*."
Eleanor, surprisingly, laughed. "Spoken like a true Barton woman." She winked at Paul's horrified expression. "Don't worry, my lord. Rumor has it your mother cursed like a sailor during your birth."
The birthing room was a haven of warmth and soft light, a stark contrast to the storm raging beyond its walls. The midwife, a no-nonsense woman named Mrs. Tallow with hands like seasoned oak, shooed Paul out with a firm, "This is women's work, my lord." But Sandra grabbed his wrist before he could retreat.
"Stay," she pleaded, her voice raw with fear and pain. "Please."
Paul needed no further invitation. He dragged a chair to the bedside and took Sandra's hand, his grip firm and grounding. "I'm not going anywhere," he vowed, his grey eyes dark with determination.
Hours blurred together in a haze of pain and whispered encouragement. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within Sandra's body—waves of agony crashing over her, each one more powerful than the last. She lost track of time, of place, of everything except Paul's voice in her ear, steady as a lighthouse in the tumult.
"You're doing so well, my love," he murmured, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. "So strong."
Mrs. Tallow bustled about, her voice calm but firm. "Nearly there, my lady. Just a few more pushes."
Sandra wanted to scream that she had nothing left to give, that her body was breaking apart at the seams. But then she met Paul's gaze—the man who had faced his own demons, who had rebuilt himself piece by piece for her, for their child—and she found a reserve of strength she didn't know she possessed.
With a final, primal cry, the pain crested and broke. A new sound filled the room—the indignant wail of a newborn taking its first breath. Mrs. Tallow's voice was thick with emotion as she announced, "A son, my lord! A healthy boy!"
Paul's face crumpled. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he pressed his lips to Sandra's sweat-dampened temple. "A son," he whispered, the words reverent. "Our son."
Sandra reached for the squalling bundle, her arms trembling with exhaustion and awe. As Mrs. Tallow placed the baby against her chest, the world narrowed to this single, perfect moment—the weight of him, the scent of him, the way his tiny fingers curled instinctively around her own. He had Paul's strong brow and Sandra's mouth, a living testament to their love, their battles, their victories.
"What shall we name him?" Paul asked, his fingers gently tracing the baby's cheek.
Sandra didn't hesitate. "Alexander," she said, smiling through her tears. "After your grandfather. The last good Barton, you once told me."
Paul's breath hitched. "Alexander," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "Alexander Reginald, then. To remind us of the darkness we overcame."
Outside, the storm began to abate. The rain softened to a gentle patter, the wind sighed rather than howled, and the first hints of dawn painted the horizon in hues of rose and gold. In the quiet aftermath, with their son cradled between them and the ghosts of Blackwood finally at peace, Sandra knew—this was just the beginning. The storm had passed, but the calm ahead was sweeter for having weathered it together.