Page 19 of The Sole Love

Dear sister and brother,

Since my last letter, many delightful events have taken place in our lives. Do not blame the girls for not writing. They spend almost every day in pleasant company. I hope, dear sister, that you remember our old friend Harold Haskett. We met him some ten days ago at a ball, and since then we have renewed our acquaintance in the most agreeable manner, much to the pleasure of Lizzy and Jane. Overwhelmed by memories, he has invited us all to his estate near Bath.

Mr Bennet looked up from the letter to see whether his wife remembered their old friend. But instead of the happy face he had seen only moments earlier, he found her staring at him in terror. She swallowed with difficulty.

“What is it, my dear?” Mr Bennet asked.

He was not yet worried. During their married life, he had witnessed many of his wife’s emotional states, from anger to deep sadness, though she was seldom silent for long before explanations or reproaches followed.

“Read,” she whispered, her face first losing all colour and then becoming dangerously crimson.

Mr Bennet knew his wife well enough to do as he was told. He continued, this time in some haste, hoping to finish the letter and put an end to the strange scene.

The good news is that our dear Jane has recovered her joy in life and appears to be forming a promising attachment to Mr David Haskett, the son of our dear friend.

Mr Bennet had barely registered the welcome news when he heard a thump. He looked up and saw his wife lying unconscious on the floor.

It was not the first time Mrs Bennet had fainted, so he did not immediately fear the worst. He called for his daughters and the housekeeper, who helped carry her to her bedchamber. But when ten minutes passed, and she still had not properly recovered, Mr Bennet sent for Mr Jones.

The doctor was accustomed to being summoned to Longbourn for one or another of the girls. When he entered the hall, he asked Lydia with his usual joviality, “Which of you is ill this time, miss?”

Seeing Mr Bennet approaching, however, Mr Jones immediately understood that this occasion was different. He was accustomed to meeting his old friend after his consultations to enjoy a cigar, a glass of sherry, and some conversation.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It is Mrs Bennet. She fainted and has not properly recovered. Please come. Mary is with her.”

“How did it happen?”

“We were reading a letter, and suddenly she fell.”

“Was it bad news?”

“No. On the contrary, it was a welcome letter.”

Mr Bennet did not enter the bedchamber. His heart was filled with worry and pain. He had always assumed that he would be the first to die, and the prospect had frightened him chiefly because he knew how precarious his daughters’ situation would become after his death. He did not approve of his wife’s methods of persuading them to marry, even if marriage remained the most secure future available to them.

Confronted with the possibility of losing his wife, he discovered something he had never seriously considered. Being left alone with his five daughters seemed worse than contemplating his own death.

Mrs Bennet was the heart of the house, the force that kept it functioning. Life without her suddenly made no sense. She could be annoying, forever complaining about his lack of compassion for her nerves, and he frequently escaped her by retreating to his library. But he could retreat because she was always there.

He felt suddenly lost in a way he had never experienced before. Even the familiar landscape beyond the library windows offered no comfort. Mr Bennet was not a particularly religious man, but he found himself praying that he might be spared this.

Perhaps she was not dying. Perhaps she had suffered a seizure that would leave her helpless, which might prove an even greater burden for a household such as theirs.

When Mr Jones entered the library, Mr Bennet could not read his expression, and his heart seemed to miss a beat.

“She is awake,” the doctor said. “It was only a bad swoon.”

“Is she…?” Mr Bennet began, but lacked the courage to finish.

“Yes, yes, she is perfectly all right, only weak. Someone should remain with her throughout the night, and I shall visit her tomorrow morning. I have given her something to help her sleep.”

Mr Bennet sank into his armchair, much of his tension relieved by the good news. He invited the doctor to sit, and they shared something stronger than their customary sherry.

“You were frightened, my friend,” said Mr Jones. “I understand it well. They may be a nuisance from time to time, but without them, we men are lost.”

The good doctor had a beneficial effect upon Mr Bennet, who gradually regained his usual composure. He trusted the man who had helped them through the illnesses of childhood and the many complaints that had seemed to multiply as the girls grew older.