Hattie, who so far had not been blessed with children, and Sarah Lucas, who had delivered another son in March 1788—named Johnny—were with Fanny in addition to the midwife and Mrs Hill, the new housekeeper.
After ten hours of labouring, at just after nine the morning of the ninth day of January, Fanny heard the command she was ready for.
“Push, Mrs Bennet, push with all your might,” Mrs Brown, the midwife, said.
She bore down with all that she had. Fanny screamed as she pushed as hard as she was able to. How she wished this was all over already.
“The head is out, and I see the shoulders. With the next pain, push for all you are worth. Yes, that is it, Mrs Bennet, one more big push and he or she will be with you,” Mrs Brown exhorted.
“I cannot any longer; I am too tired,” Fanny said weakly.
Sarah took one hand and Hattie the other. “Yes, you can! You must!” they chorused.
Fanny drew on hidden reserves of strength and gave a mighty push as she screamed at the same time. Halfway through her exertion she felt the release of pressure.
“You did well, Mrs Bennet; she is out,” Mrs Brown waxed over the mewling of a newborn babe.
“Did you say ‘she’?” Fanny verified.
“Indeed, I did, Mrs Bennet. The little mite looks as healthy as any other I have ever delivered, and I deliver almost all the babes in this area,” Mrs Brown assured Mrs Bennet.
“Perhaps you will be the opposite of me,” Sarah Lucas soothed. “I had a son, a daughter, and a son. Could it be that you will deliver a daughter, then a son, before another daughter?”
“Just be happy He blessed you with at least one babe,” Hattie said sadly.
“I know you want to be a mother, Hattie. However, now I will need you to be an aunt to my daughter. If Thomas agrees, I would like to name her Jane Frances, after our late mother and me.”
Even though Hattie still nursed hurt feelings for her late mother, she still loved and missed her, notwithstanding the way her late mother had always denigrated her looks throughout her childhood. She did so occasionally after she married, until Frank put paid to that when he told her that if she ever hurt his wife again, they would break the connection. From that day forward, until the day she died, Jane Gardiner never commented on the relative beauty of her daughters. Hattie had basked in her husband’s protection and his standing up for her. Now if only she could give him an heir, either male or female, her felicity would be complete.
Gardiner, Phillips, and Lucas had been keeping Bennet company. At some time after half after nine, Mrs Hill knocked on the study door to inform the master the mistress was ready for him so he could meet his first child.
Bennet was a little disappointed he did not have a son, but he was happy to welcome his daughter and did not object to her names.
~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~
The four subsequent Bennet children were born in March 1791, November 1792, February 1795, and December 1796.
After Jane was born, Elizabeth Rose was next. She was named for her late paternal grandmother and born on the fifth day of the month. Mary Eloise, named for a grandmother of her father and another of her mother, joined the family on the eighteenth of the month. Another daughter, Catherine Amanda, named because her parents liked the names, was born on the tenth of the month, and last to arrive was Lydia Harriet, named for her late grandmother Gardiner and her mother’s sister. She arrived on the fourth day of her birth month.
Lydia was so large that according to Mrs Brown and Mr Jones—the apothecary and doctor in one person—Mrs Bennet would never be able to carry another babe due to damage wrought when Miss Lydia was born. Mr Jones opened his practice in Meryton three years before Lydia’s birth.
With each daughter born, there were significant changes to the relationship between Thomas and Fanny as well as shifts in the characters of both.
The couple who had married for love drifted further and further apart with the birth of each successive daughter. Instead of spending time together, enjoying one another’s company, as they used to, they essentially began to live separate lives.
Fanny was driven by fear. Yes, she had married her husband knowing about the entail, but she had been certain that she would be blessed with at least one son. The day she had heard that she could not bear any more children, that dream had died a swift death, and she had locked her door to Thomas. What was the point in having marital relations—something Fanny still considered unpleasant—when there could not be any more children? Was not procreation the reason for that act?
Fanny felt like a failure and assumed that her husband saw her as one as well. In order to make sure that he did not attempt or desire to spend time with her—she assumed she would see pity in his eyes—Fanny developed anervouscondition. She had begun to manufacture it after Mary’s birth. When Catherine—who was called Kitty—was born, Fanny had begun to add flutterings to her repertoire of complaints.
Then came the final blow—Lydia and the loss of her ability to ever be with child again. That was when the screeches of ‘Hill, my salts’, were first heard in the halls of Longbourn. Further, Fanny added palpitations of her heart and shuddering toher list ofnervoussymptoms she suffered.
As her supposed nervous condition became worse, Fanny began to ignore everything she had learnt from Beth Bennet regarding her duties as the estate’s mistress. The only duty she willingly performed was that of hostess.
After Mary’s birth, she had begun to insist that they would be tossed into the hedgerows once her husband passed away. It was also the beginning of Fanny’s belief that the only way they would be saved from said hedgerows was for her girls to come out as early as possible—fifteen was the age she decided on—and that they needed to marry, preferably to a man of wealth, as soon as may be. In her mind, it was the only way to protect her daughters from being left impecunious.
Bennet knew that Fanny’s nerves were an invention of her imagination. He, however, chose to do nothing about it. He had always had an indolent tendency, but he had never allowed it to rule his life. As each successive daughter was born—and it must be said it was not that Bennet did not love his daughters—he passed more and more time sequestered in his study. This meant that he did not spend as much time as was needed in managing his estate. By the time Lydia was born, the income had dropped from a little over three thousand pounds per annum to barely two thousand pounds.
When Fanny had been with child with Lydia, Bennet had believed—because he had needed to—that Fanny would be correct and that this time they would finally have their son, which would repair their relationship and make sure Bennet would pay attention to running his estate rather than sit idly reading and sipping port in his study.
