Mr. Bennet did not soften. “As necessity requires.”
Laurence turned and left the parlour, his step less assured than when he had entered, the door closing behind him with a soft finality.
Mr. Bennet remained standing long after, one hand braced against the mantel, his heart beating too quickly now for comfort—but his mind resolute, fixed upon the single truth that guided him still:the recklessness of a son must not be allowed to ruin the life of a daughter.
Then he felt a sudden, searing burn along his left arm—sharp enough to steal his breath—before it spread inward, tightening inexorably across his chest like a vice drawn by invisible hands.The air seemed to thin at once, the familiar parlour tilting and blurring as though the very walls had lost their anchor. He reached instinctively for the back of a chair to steady himself, but his fingers met only smooth air, and the room slid away from him in a slow, treacherous spiral.
There was a distant sound then, muffled and unreal, as if carried through deep water. Voices overlapped—alarm, movement, the scrape of a chair—but none of it seemed to belong to him any longer. His knees gave way, and the floor rushed up to meet him with a dull, final certainty.
Somewhere far off, a maid cried out, the words breaking through the haze in fragments, distorted yet urgent. “Master Kit—come quickly! Your father—your father has fallen!” The voice quavered, rose, then steadied itself with desperate resolve. “Mrs. Bennet—the salts! I am running for the salts!”
Mr. Bennet tried to speak, to reassure them—to tell them it was nothing, that he only needed a moment—but the thought dissolved before it could find form. Darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision, heavy and insistent, until even the voices faded into a dreamlike echo.
And then there was only stillness, broken by hurried footsteps and the sharp tang of fear that hung in the air, as Longbourn held its breath around the fallen master of the house, the weight of unspoken consequences settling upon the family like a gathering storm.
***
The hours following Mr. Bennet’s collapse passed in a hush that enveloped Longbourn like a heavy quilt, muffling even the usual sounds of the household. Doctor White, summoned withurgent haste from Meryton, had examined his patient with grave deliberation, his brow furrowed beneath the powder of his wig as he delivered his diagnosis in the low, measured tones reserved for matters of life and consequence.
“Your husband has suffered a dangerous affection of the heart, madam,” he informed Mrs. Bennet in the privacy of the bedchamber, his voice steady yet conveying the seriousness that admitted no false reassurance. “Brought on, I fear, by agitation, exertion, or long-standing strain—perhaps all three in combination. He must have absolute repose.”
Mrs. Bennet, pale and trembling, pressed a handkerchief to her lips, her eyes wide with alarm as she absorbed his words. “Will he recover, Doctor? Pray tell me he will recover.”
“With care and obedience to my directions, there is every reason to hope for it,” Doctor White replied, his tone firm yet kind. “Warm poultices or flannels must be applied to the chest without delay, to soothe and draw comfort to the afflicted part. Mustard plasters, as well, to encourage the blood away from the heart. Brandy or cordial waters in small, measured quantities—nothing more. And above all, peace, silence, and complete inactivity for a week, or ten days at the very least. No stairs if it can be avoided. No riding, no walking beyond the room, no emotional exertion of any kind. The heart must be allowed to mend undisturbed.”
Mrs. Bennet nodded fervently, her voice breaking as she assured him of her vigilance. “I shall see to it myself, Doctor—every instruction shall be followed to the letter.”
Doctor White inclined his head, a faint approval softening his features. “That is well, madam. Diet must be strictly regulated also: gruel, light broths, weak tea—nothing rich or stimulating. No heavy meats, wine, or rich puddings. A little brandy,administered sparingly, may prove the one prescription Mr. Bennet would find most agreeable.”
The physician’s visit, and the assurances he offered, had the effect of calming the mistress of Longbourn—for a time. Mrs. Bennet recovered a measure of composure while he remained, clinging to his words with grateful attention; yet scarcely had Mr. White taken his leave when her spirits began once more to flutter, and anxiety returned with renewed force, as though the very sound of the closing door had undone all the comfort his presence had supplied.
Confined to his bedchamber with the curtains half-drawn against the light, Mr. Bennet felt indeed ill and weakened, his limbs heavy as though bound by invisible weights, his thoughts drifting in a haze of discomfort and reluctant dependence. Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Hill guarded him with unwavering devotion—Mrs. Bennet seated beside the bed for hours at a stretch, her hand often resting upon his with anxious tenderness, while Mrs. Hill moved about the room with silent efficiency, applying the prescribed poultices and ensuring every comfort was at hand.
In the evening, when the house settled into deeper quiet, Mr. Bennet opened his eyes from fitful dozes, his mind slowly clearing from the fog of illness. As the shadows lengthened across the chamber, he stirred and looked about him with mild confusion, his voice faint yet audible.
“Where is James?” he asked Mrs. Bennet, his gaze seeking the familiar figure of his eldest son.
His wife leaned forward at once, her hand tightening gently upon his, her voice soft and reassuring though touched with the strain of her own worry. “My dear Mr. Bennet, James is not here—he and Elias are still in Kent, visiting our cousin Collins, as you will recall. They have not yet returned.”
He frowned slightly, the effort of memory evident, before his expression cleared with the recollection of more pressing matters. “Miles, then,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet urgency. “I must speak with Miles.”
Mrs. Bennet hesitated, her eyes filling with fresh concern as she smoothed the counterpane with her free hand. “You must not exert yourself, my dear. The doctor was most insistent—no agitation, no discussion of troubling matters.”
Yet even as she spoke, the gravity of his gaze checked her agitation, and she rose with reluctant obedience. “I shall fetch him at once,” she murmured, bending to press a light kiss upon his forehead, before signalling Mrs. Hill to quit the room and summon the eldest son then at home, while she herself struggled to compose her spirits and maintain the calm she so earnestly resolved to display.
Miles entered shortly thereafter, his posture straight though his countenance betrayed the anxiety that had gripped the household since his father’s collapse. He approached the bed with quiet deference, taking the chair Mrs. Bennet had vacated, his voice low and respectful. “You wished to see me, Father?”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes fixed upon him with the clarity that illness sometimes sharpens, his hand lifting slightly from the coverlet as though to emphasise his words. “I gave my word to Father Monro, Miles, my son,” he said, his voice faint yet resolute. “Tomorrow I was to call upon him—concerning Laurence and Miss Alice. The matter cannot wait. You must decide and go in my stead.”
Miles’s expression altered at once—surprise mingling with understanding, his hand reaching to cover his father’s with gentle pressure. “Of course, sir. I shall go at noon and conveywhatever message you entrust to me. But you must not trouble yourself further—rest now, and let me bear this for you.”
Mr. Bennet’s fingers tightened briefly upon his son’s, a faint nod conveying both gratitude and the unyielding sense of duty that even illness could not diminish. “Tell him… I hold to my promise. The young lady’s interest remains foremost. We shall determine a course that protects her—whatever it may require.”
Miles inclined his head, his voice steady though emotion deepened it. “I shall tell him exactly that, Father. And I shall act as you would wish, with care and honour.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had retreated a few steps and lingered in the doorway, stepped forward then, her eyes bright with unshed tears as she observed the exchange, her hand resting upon Miles’s shoulder in silent support. “You will do well, my dear,” she murmured, her voice trembling yet proud. “Your father may rely upon you, as indeed we all do.”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze softened as it moved between them, a quiet resolve settling upon his features despite the weakness that held him captive. “I know it,” he whispered, his hand relaxing at last as exhaustion reclaimed him. “I know it. Thank you, Miles.”
