I'm just experimenting with styles. Let's not have a cow because I used a bunch of big words and complex phrasing.

Jane breathed erratically, and, through the undulating cycles of pain that coursed through her, she remembered the torments of her past, all the combined, troubled harassments that had tainted her youth, and thought them nothing even closely akin to the joyous agony she experienced at that moment.

Edward sat next to her in a chair next to the bed, his good eye harshly strained out of unprecedented concern. Jane Eyre was exceptional, he had always known that even if she had not, but she was still only human, and the screaming had begun a mere ten minutes before. She cried through her contractions with passion, anticipation, love, terror and tears, and the overwhelming mix of emotions scared Edward with their intensity and their complexity. He held her hand with fortitude, and fought against the doctor's orders that he leave the room. He brushed aside the nurse's blatant disapproval at his unconventional insistence and remained by her side, determined and filled with love for the child to come and awe at his wife's brave and selfless undertaking.

He watched her face while she fought her battle with a certain calm repose. There was nothing more he could do; he understood this and accepted it but not without some feelings of helplessness. It seemed to Edward that, for the father, having a child is a period of experiencing relentless and numerous variations of waiting from conception to birth. When Jane had first told him she was with child, he was exultant, for nothing more could please him so much as a child with Jane Eyre merely months after he had regained his sight, but she had then proceeded to point out, obviously, that it would be another seven months before they would actually see it. This set about the agonized waiting. They waited to see if the pregnancy would hold. Edward waited for her to start to show. They waited for the point when they could commence waiting for labor. And now, Edward found himself waiting again: when would this child be born? When will he see it? When will he see Jane holding it so closely, their child, their creation, a happy legacy incarnate that could carry on their name and pride through another generation.

Time seemed to pass slowly and, at the same time, too quickly in that tiny bedroom. Jane, in her delirious splendor, hardly noticed the people passing to and froe, in and out of the room. Everything but the task at hand, the knowledge of the reward at the end of the journey, and Edward was a blur. Hours passed transiently and insignificantly, and, before she knew it, the doctor was there, and he was working to maintain her attention. "Push!" he said.

Jane Eyre looked at him, so sincere, so stern, and then she looked at her husband whose face was bright, frightened, and shining with tears. 'He shouldn't be here,' she thought. 'I don't want him to see me suffer. I ache with physical weakness and strain, but my heart is singing and embracing the work that brings this child. But he may not understand. I see him and know his sympathy is constant and regretful but guilty because he wants what I want.' Jane did as the doctor commanded. She put aside her concerns and determined to show Edward that all would be well in the end as she had predicted.

Soon the child was born at ten o'clock at night in the autumn three years after their marriage - a boy with a full head of raven hair and eyes so wide and so black that they charmed their parents in an instant. Edward watched with reverence the passing of the miracle which had so long eluded him and only then showed itself at the mark of his midlife. It proved to be the most splendid and beautiful thing he would ever witness. Jane had had a difficult time; she was weary and small, but the child was born healthy. Its loud, ringing cry marked its birth, relieving its parents and setting off the happy laughter and congratulations.

The boy, whom they named for a member of the family, was given immediately to his mother who cooed at him with inexperienced maternal love and smiled more than she could ever remember smiling. Jane met her son and laughed, crying with gratitude. She looked at Edward whose face was rosy where it had, minutes before, been paler than the gray overcast outside. His lips parted as he stared at the tiny body in the bundle at his wife's breast: his son. In the midst of Edward's brief enrapturement, Jane beckoned, with a nod and a smile, for the nurse to take the baby from her and hand him to Edward. Before Edward was able to say anything, the newest little Rochester was placed safely and serenely in his arms. He did not cry or squirm. He opened his eyes wide and stared at his father who gazed back with an intense, renewed sense of wonder that nearly broke him but filled him to the brim with pleasure.

"He looks like me," he said. "Poor bloke." He chuckled. He looked up from his son at his wife. "But he looks like you , too. At least he'll have that."

Edward rose from his chair and sat back down on the bed next to his wife. She looked tired, pale, like she could sleep for days. He bent down, with the child still in his arms, and kissed her. With his good arm he brushed back her hair from her face with tender fingers. Jane looked down at the baby, and noted with pride that this was her family.

This was her family – she and Edward and this new liaison, a product of pure, untainted love, a boy that was an end and a beginning. Their son was between them - small and adored and waited for and peaceful. He yawned a little yawn and closed his eyes. His parents laughed a little laugh, watched him fall asleep. They waited for rest to overcome him and then watched his chest rise and fall in the rapid intervals of infancy. This was a family, waited for by both without them really knowing it.

All was well.