Since my last update was a shorter one, and this one is all ready, why not post it now? But I make one disclosure: things were different in that time period. Knowledge of these subjects were more limited in Jane Austen's day. I'm not a historian. But I'll do my best for historical fiction.

Chapter 11

For a mere four and twenty families, in the addition to the militia, the house at Netherfield Park had never seen so lively a throng, nor so numerous. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst need not be ashamed for presiding over such a gathering. If anything, it would serve to the advantage of young ladies of fortune to surround themselves by the lower classes. Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself highly recommended that distinction of rank be observable to all present. Having received their father's fortune through trade, the silks, feathers, and emeralds deceived the untrained eyes of rural Hertfordshire as to real gentility, even if it did not dazzle Mr. Darcy.

Myriads of candles lit the gallery, and set off the ballroom to perfection. The musicians were in position, tuning up for the dancing. Servants gathered cloaks and wraps for storage. Lydia shed hers in a flare, as though her cloak protected silks and lace as delicate as Mrs. Hursts' own garments. A single white feather arched over a fashionable chignon. Amidst showers of praise from her own mother, and deaf to such lavishing compliments, she was instantly surrounded by her dear old friends, and soon enough a few redcoats, with Kitty close behind her.

Poor Kitty, slightly shorter physically and without feather, appeared to any relative stranger like a younger sister. Instead of a feather, she had to settle for a few faux rosebud hair pins. Mingled pink and white, she matched Lydia's own colour scheme. They were not unbecoming to either hair colour, complexion, or her own gown. Flowers did not show up in the crowd so much as feathers, a dozen to one wearers among the ladies. Jane, Lizzy, and Mary saw no need for white plumes. In fact, their modest choice of ornamental hair pins expressed an elegance that made them distinct from the fashionable crowd. Mr. Bingley even found Jane and Lizzy much more quickly.

With the dismal turn of events, Mary abandoned any further schemes to get Mr. Collins by her side. If Mrs. Bennet might have done anything useful, as she had stated to Mr. Bennet, she might have helped her daughter find safe harbour in a quiet, inconspicuous corner of the room. Once again, the tonic had worked, and to be sure there was endurance for the whole evening, Mrs. Bennet also instructed that she keep it in her reticle. It meant a boring evening ahead. A boring evening, a good one. Once music began for dancing, occupied chairs emptied, relieving Mary from standing.

Mr. Denny was the one to break the news. Lydia earnestly sought him as soon as it could be ascertained that Mr. Wickham was absent. In a matter of fact way it was broken to her. Perhaps it wasn't far from mind that he was the one to gift her some shillings for a beloved bonnet. For a moment, her heart was rendered broken as well as thoroughly vexed. How dare Mr. Bingley not invite him! Lizzy, standing nearby, asked the proper particular. Had Mr. Wickham received no invitation, or was the invitation rescinded? Mr. Denny replied that he was sure Wickham would not have avoided attendance if he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman. It quite put Lizzy out of humour for a few minutes. Of course, it could only last so long; for being of general good spirits and temper, her concentration shifted on finding and observing Mr. Bingley with her sister.

Settling that matter, that she would not be able to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, she set herself upon a happy alternative. After all, Mr. Denny was also rather handsome and good company. Plenty of partners to be had. The happiness anticipated by the youngest sisters depended less on any single event, or any particular person. A ball was, at any rate, a ball. Lydia claimed Mr. Denny for the first dance, and Kitty, Mr. Pratt. Later, Mr. Chamberlayne was spotted across the room, only to be roped into a set of dances. Lydia did look about for Captain Carter, only to find him dancing with Miss King.

"Insupportable! To think, he was so sweet on me weeks ago. Now, he asks Miss King for the first dance. She's as plain as our own Mary. Oh Kitty, what a fickle world we live in. Oh, Colonel and Mrs. Forster!"

The sight of the captain and his selection, while proclaimed a distress, was hardly regarded with any emotion. Funny thing how Lydia seemed to have her pick of officers, yet took offense when any of her beaux did not step forward in an effort to claim it before anyone else. While distracted by the Forsters, Kitty broke away momentarily for refreshment. A manservant stood at the table passing servings of punch. Cherry red in colour, and so enticing; the inclinations for sweets must be indulged.

"Why all alone, Miss Kitty?"

"I am not unhappy about it. Though I'd be much happier dancing, Mr. Denny."

"Perhaps I might remedy that."

Kitty glowed. "I'd like that very much. Give me a moment." Her cup was finished. "I never thought you'd be able to break away from my sister's side."

"Lydia can only dance one gentleman at a time," he teased. "And besides, I was glad to have a dance with your sister, Miss Elizabeth. And now, I am dancing with you."

"Hardly an improvement from your last partner."

"You're all most charming, Miss Kitty. I hope you're enjoying yourself this evening overall."

"It's certainly not failed my expectations."

"You know what I find more charming, about my dance with you?"

"What's that?" she asked, blushing.

"You've not asked me one word about my friend."

"Oh, well… well, I…"

"I ought to have known," he grinned, with humourously wounded tone. "You too are disappointed he is not here. He out-swaggers us all, so universally liked."

"No… Well, I suppose I'm sorry Mr. Wickham is not here. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy myself."

"If I could beat my friend at anything, sport or game or otherwise, it is I hope that I dance better."

"You dance divinely." A wicked thought sprung on her. Having taken one lesson from her younger sister, she learned to prey upon her sister's absence. "If Lydia can throw you over for any good-looking man that walks by on the street, she is a great fool. For I'd never treat you so!"

Mr. Denny laughed good-naturedly. "Some girls do have hearts then?"

"Certainly!" The tempo of the music picked up, leaving little breath for conversation in the rotations and steps of the couples. Kitty leapt to the rhythms with satisfaction, and made Mr. Denny laugh more than once during their time in the middle of the ballroom. Her younger sister, all the way down the line of dancers, twirled and clapped her hands to the steps as well, perfectly ignorant. Wiping feet on her character made Kitty envy that pretty little plume the less. Perhaps this Mr. Wickham was all that was charming, but he was not here. Perhaps it would serve a coquette just so to hold out for her prize, only to lose the conquests she gained.

Gossip worsened as the evening progressed, especially as Mrs. Bennet's voice grew in volume at dinner. She too, like her youngest, had donned a feather. Either when violently agreeing with Lady Lucas or quarreling with Lizzy, that plume danced like no other couple had danced through the entire evening. She expressed much surprise that Lizzy should be persuaded to dance with so horrid a man as Mr. Darcy. To the fatigue of Lady Lucas, the woman's felicity and victory of having secured her eldest daughter at Netherfield were heard across the table. Out of a round and rosy face, such hot air! Lizzy turned as deep a red as her own mother, who seemed to rally more and more gusto after each swallow of wine.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's words, the chief of them overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat at an opposite table.

"Don't be so nonsensical, Lizzy!" chided Mrs. Bennet. "What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear."

"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You'll never recommend yourself to his friend!"

"I've no interest in Mr. Darcy's recommendation. I'd be ashamed to have it. If he doesn't care for our humble opinions, he may go where he chooses." So she said, popping a piece of bread into the mouth. "Where is Mr. Collins?" At that moment, he was speaking to Charlotte Lucas. They were permitted a few breaths of air, without hearing more about Mr. Bingley's impending marriage. Lizzy saw Mary sit down to the table, with a plate scarcely touched. Despite keeping to a chair, regulating her movements to only what was strictly necessary, the face looking back at Lizzy was ashen. At the same time, an odd gleam flickered in her eyes, which watched movements around the table somewhat distracted.

"Mary, are you alright?" Lizzy whispered, tried to whisper.

"Pardon? Yes…" Mary had not really heard it.

"You look dazed."

Lady Lucas dared to venture on another topic, something to do with the regiment. In doing so, anything else Mary had to say was drowned out. Maria and Sir William joined them, noisily dragging their chairs on the floor. The Harrington sisters and their parents across the room, their whole table, laughed out loud as someone told a joke. One of the servants passing yards away stepped in front of an officer, causing a clatter with silverware. A single glass even dropped. Ladies gasped. Mr. Collins' startled voice seemed to collide with Mr. Bennet: "Oh, forgive me sir! I beg your pardon…" Every single sound in the room, no matter how slight and trivial, the ear captured. The volume of them all, though noisy and quite regular for a crowd, escalated inside the head. Every little thing. Even the sound of her own breathing…

Jane and Mr. Bingley. The honour of the militia. Mr. Collins. Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Mr. Collins just sat down. It was now or never, and she just couldn't get rid of him… What to do? Lady Lucas, yawning and exhausted by single-sided conversation, took comfort in her cold ham and chicken. The knife alone, sound and sight of which, made Mary shudder. If nothing else was going to happen, something desperate would come. Unhappily, Mr. Bingley provided the opportunity in requesting the general party for music, anyone within hearing. Elizabeth, who had only briefly revived from her mother's behaviour, observed her sister, with mortification, rise without entreaty from anyone. Mary, though dazed yet conscious, took her place at the instrument, that had been moved front and center in the dining hall. Despite the ringing in her head, it was a chance like no other, never to come again.

By many significant looks and silently pleading did Elizabeth try to stop her. Not only for the sake of thwarting impertinence but also concern for the odd, unwell countenance. All in vain, as Mary began her song. Even had she the full command of her senses, Mary would have chosen not to take any hints. Such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful, and all the present company witnessed the height of vanity she preached against. Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display, with a weak voice and affected manner. It took only several stanzas to convince the company that the Bennet family had never kept a governess. Elizabeth, and also her father, watched in helpless agonies. The Bingley sisters leaned close in derisive whispers. Mr. Darcy turned his back and faced his plate, pretending not to hear anything around him. Mr. Bingley and Jane heard nothing at all, only too composedly enjoying each other's company. Mr. Collins, the object of her scattered thoughts and hopes, was perhaps one of few to reward her with applause. It was a hushed, pitying applause, but more than enough to rattle the inside of her skull.

She started up on another song, unbidden, even though Mr. Collins politely made comment that she might favour them with another selection. Between Lizzy and her father, who had heard more than enough, he put an end to it as quickly as it began. Mary's fingers slowed to a standstill.

"You've done extremely well, child. You've delighted us long enough." Leaning close to escape their hearing: "Let other young ladies have a chance to make their own exhibitions."

While it gave pain, a little pain was necessary for the sake of sanity. Watching Mary rise from the piano, chastened from her position, gave as much pain as it inflicted. And upon rising, more than one kind of pain gripped Mary. Many at once. Suddenly, the room was overly warm, too warm to breathe comfortably. Sounds only grew louder and harder on her brain. While Mr. Collins stood up to attempt his own exhibition, the family suffered too much distraction to see Mary disappear out the nearest door of the dining hall. Hurrying for the nearest outside door, she collided with, and was nearly trampled by Lydia herself, who had just wrestled away a saber from Mr. Pratt.

"Catch me if you can, Pratt! I dare you, Denny!" she cried, laughing as she ran. Kitty, trailing behind with a whole red troupe.

The noise, footsteps, laughter, exclamations, seemed to pursue. No, it had caught and captured her. Mary staggered to the doorway, head throbbing, hot, and dizzy all at once, verged on tears. Before restraint could be mustered, the floodgates began to break. The stabbing cramps returned with a vengeance, and her reticle was in the coat room. Any passing servant might aid her.

"Miss, are you well? You need help," spoke some kindly, older officer. Not a young one, not the twenty-something old lads that had raced by. His attention and kindly arm gathered the attentions of other nearby officers. "Where's Carter?"

Their voices clustered loudly, echoing the call for Carter. Much to Mary's alarm, she recognized the name and struggled to compose herself. "I am well. I'm earnest… I'm well," she insisted, with the room tilting and heating to a furnace all around her. She did not recall exactly how it came to be, Captain Carter coming up from behind. As soon as his presence was known, the other officers dispersed into the background. He had an arm round behind her, and held onto one of her hands to give stability.

"Where are you going?"

"Outside."

In all this mental agony, reduced to short, unintelligible answering of questions at the threat of nausea, she did not have to communicate very much. He guided her to the nearest side door, opened it up, and filled her lungs with the cool night air. To the right, he walked her to a stone bench, placed against the wall on the terrace, facing the trees on the right side of the house.

"Sit down. Do you feel ill?" She nodded. "Stay right here. You'll be safe here. No one will see you here. I'm going to fetch a servant and have some tea brought. Don't talk, just listen. See that bush ahead of you, see those leaves going up the post? It's a fine bush. Set your eyes on one spot, and try to move your eyes as little as possible. I'll be right back."

Everything she could have feared: the nausea, the violent and uncontrollable shaking, the urge to vomit, surrounded by many people, being forced to lie down in a room with a fire, to only have the nausea and cramps made worse by it. All such fears had been completely removed. Quite the reverse. Even in her ill absence of mind and weakness, she had nothing to fear. Alone, in the cold air, no loud noises. The loudest sound to register, which wasn't much at all now, was the clinking of Captain Carter's saber against the thigh as he walked. Within minutes, he had gone and returned with a cup of tea delivered from a servant.

"Drink it slowly," he instructed. "Are you cold?"

"No." Regardless of answer, a shawl was placed around her shoulders. "I… just seem to do this, when I'm ill."

"You don't need to explain. I only ask because you're trembling."

"I can't…" Explanation as difficult as usual.

"Just drink, try not to talk," he urged again. Instantly recognizable, the cool, pungent aroma of peppermint. Mary could barely manage to sip it. "Will it help you if I bring your mother or one of your sisters?" The head shook. "Very well." Perhaps he wished to escape this? "Are you out here because you're more comfortable?" The head nodded. "Are you certain I couldn't bring one of your family, at least to escort you home?" Head shake again. "Will it make it worse?" A nod.

There was an instant understanding that bewildered Mary, how it came about anyway. He didn't expect explanations, much less full sentences. Instead, perceiving the great effort and troubling effects of nausea on speech, he changed to inquiries that required nothing verbal. Even more startling, Mary felt her arm lifted and two of his fingers wrap the inside of her wrist, which had wormed themselves beneath the delicate lace lining of her glove. He held her bound with one hand, while the other hand held a chained pocket watch attached to his uniform.

Mary wished, earnestly wished to speak freely. It would be several more minutes before the tea medley began to work upon her. So often at home, her mother had forced ginger or licorice root for an upset stomach. Many women swore by it. Doctors all over pointed to it as a sure fix. It never did any good, in fact, even worsened her. Chamomile, as an alternative, proved more mild and tasteful, but not strong enough to curb that ill urge. Although mint greeted the nose like an assault, the assault was nothing but kindness. Within ten minutes or so, the shaking in her limbs and body slowly began to subside. Her stomach, by degrees, calmed. In combination with the cool air, the panic of all that accompanies these symptoms relinquished. It never, never happened so quickly.

"You seem to be improving. How do you feel?" he observed.

"Thank you, Captain Carter. I am… I am better," sighed Mary. "I cannot believe how quickly that turned. I thought I would be sick for sure."

"I'm glad to have spared you that."

"How did you know?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You knew exactly what was wrong. Normally, when I feel ill like that, the rest of the day is ruined, the night, any sleep is gone. I'll spend half the night shaking and… Oh dear, that's more than you need to know. Forgive me. I'm just surprised…"

"I'm rather surprised your family would bring you to Netherfield when you're feeling so ill."

"Well… if I had stayed home, after all my mother fought me to come, I'd be worse off." As soon as she had gained a pause, and some of her wits back, she turned toward him. Now, the thought of their first introduction, sat heavily on her heart. Between the kind eyes, the black band on his upper arm, and dutiful service, all hateful words and thoughts turned upon herself. "You didn't tell me you were a doctor."

"Naturally. How could you have known? Yes, Miss Bennet, though a captain, I also hold the title as the -shire Regiment's army surgeon."

"You were taking my pulse just now."

"Why yes."

"You seem a bit disturbed."

"Do I?" This pause proved more disturbing. While the lips may have tell lies, the flickering movements of the eyes, the reluctance to set upon hers whispered more lies, or perhaps truths. "It's no cause for concern, I assure you. Your pulse is a bit high. Sometimes, that's normal to a person, but in distressed circumstances, it may be a sign of alarm. Are you prone to fainting at all?"

"No. I don't believe I ever have, sir."

"That's probably my only immediate concern. I'm glad to hear it. However, pardon me if I seem impertinent, but may I ask another question or two, and then I promise you may be quiet and peaceful."

Mary smiled her thanks. "Yes, you may ask, sir."

"I briefly observed you during the ball," Captain Carter admitted unabashedly. "You seemed to me rather subdued, even a little pale. Then, in the dining room, you went to the piano and played for the company." The recollection caused a hot blush. "That drastic surge of energy, for lack of better words, from dullness to lively performance, I suspect a stimulant."

"A stimulant?"

"Did you take anything for the nausea, before the ball?"

"Well, I… I do. I've a tonic prescribed by Mr. Jones, our local apothecary."

"Do you know the name of it? The tonic?"

"Not exactly. My mother gave it to me. I don't have my reticle with me. It's in the cloakroom."

"You brought it with you?"

"Yes, just in case I needed another dose."

Another pause. He seemed to make a face, a furrowed brow with his eyes turned up. A stranger might say he rolled his eyes. That was Mary's conclusion, but he was frozen in this face for a few seconds, then to the side, in the rapid current of a hundred thoughts.

"You don't know… There's no label on the bottle?"

"No. It has no markings."

"What colour are the contents?"

"Colourless."

"Does it have a taste?"

"No."

"Consistency?"

"Like water. Where do these questions turn, Captain Carter?"

Merely to the illustration of the medicine, which he struggled to name. "Do you take it straight from the bottle or with a stopper?"

"It has a stopper on it. Mostly I put the dose in my teas. That's how my mother first served it to me. I must say, for all your questions," retorted Mary, "and your tenacity, you act as though I'm dealing with a poison."

"I wish I could be humourous about it," he replied in kind. "On this, I'm not going to be light about it. Miss Bennet, do you mind I ask, what is this 'tonic' for?"

"Now, that's a question I will not answer."

"If it's too personal, just be vague. Is it for this nausea or is it for pain?"

"… Pain. And now, I ask you please don't ask me anymore." It was neither her wish or within her strength to quarrel. "Of course, I understand you ask for a medical purpose, not for morbid curiosity. If I sound cross, I beg your pardon. But on this subject, I'll only discuss these matters with my mother, or Mr. Jones at the most."

"I'll accept that," he agreed. "I do not wish to pry in matters that do not concern me. Your mother knows you best, and I cast no aspersions on her decisions. It does concern me, however, when any patient is being administered a medicine or procedure without express consent or full knowledge of what this medicine or procedure is; surely you can understand that. I also do not cast any aspersions on Mr. Jones. I'm sure he's likewise very experienced. Are you not the least bit curious, though?"

"Should I be?"

"I would be, Miss Bennet. A common treatment for chronic pain is opium. Your answers fit the description. It might also explain why your mother is discreet about its identity."

Astonishment could not have been greater than if he'd deliberately, maliciously slapped her. Mary had still been holding the tea in her lap, and for its own safety, she put it to the side.

"I think you are very impertinent, Captain Carter. I am most grateful for your intervention, and I must confess that my opinions and attitude expressed in our first conversation was very ill-judged on my part. You are a better man that I believed you to be. I am certain you mean no offense by such question, but it does offend me. You suspect my mother would do me any such harm, resorting to duplicity along with the apothecary?"

"Miss Bennet, the harm is not in the use of it. It's in the misuse of it, the lack of understanding how to use it."

"Thank you. That is enough," she stopped him. "No more please."

"Before embarking on this method as a cure for your pain, or whatever it may be, try to ascertain the contents of your tonic. If it is effective, my suspicion is laudanum, if not the seeds itself. I give you that caution. That is all."

"Very good," huffed Mary. "And I'm sure I can depend on that you will not repeat this conversation to anyone else?"

"Certainly not."

Dismissing him was tempting. Although, doing so with abruptness would further antagonize. A small part of her still dreaded the reliability of his word to keep silent. One or two doctors of her acquaintance, including the apothecary, did not think twice of confiding in mothers or fathers regarding the ailments of children. While the parents may know all, their children remained in blissful ignorance. Mr. Jones had always been agreeable in dealings with her mother. Any insights or advice could be gleaned secondhand. Such an arrangement also spared her the embarrassments that come with consultations. Especially with regards to health complaints of this kind, consultations with a doctor are the greatest indignity. It had been over twenty years or so since there had been a midwife in the neighborhood, according to local report. Aside from Mr. Jones, no happy alternative existed.

"Don't let your tea get cold," admonished the captain.

"It seems to have worked and done me good. I thank you, Captain Carter."

"Do you by chance grow peppermint in your gardens at Longbourn?"

"I don't believe so. I'm no gardener."

"Perhaps you have good reason to take it up," he teased gently. "Maybe ask one of your servants or sisters, whoever tends to them. It may be growing voluntarily. Give them a chance, they can grow like weeds."

"It would be worthwhile."

"Makes good tea, especially for illness. Another possibility is lavender."

"Lavender? In tea?"

"It's not all too uncommon. It's a pleasing aroma, but has its own medicinal properties. Might do good to make a study of it. It is an interesting field... But enough of that for now. I can see you're tired. Do you feel capable of coming back inside?"

"I may stay out here a bit longer, if you don't mind."

"No."

"It's best not to be too hasty. I may think I'm better, but I've learned to give myself time."

"I'm very sorry. I can tell you are very experienced in managing this illness, probably years of experience." A statement, not a question.

"What else can I do, Captain?"

"Well, I will not intrude any more medical opinions on you tonight. However, if you do change your mind, if you need any sort of guidance in this area, I'd be happy to offer my services."

"… How long have you been a surgeon for the regiment?"

"Three years now," he shrugged his answer. "Not the kind of experience I can boast of; have learned quite a bit in my time. But not quite enough."

"… I have already said so, but again, I am very sorry for your loss. Not quite enough to have benefit your loved one, I take it. Death comes and takes all too easily. I'm sure you did all you could for them."

"That is kind of you."

"Your skill and knowledge will benefit many others, in future." Truth indeed, but somehow it felt cold. What was just the right thing to say was not her forte, no more than her own singing.

"Well, time will tell, won't it, Miss Bennet? When you feel ready for it, can I escort you back inside? There's a small parlour to the left of the door. I'm sure Mr. Bingley won't mind."

"Oh no-"

"There's a divan. You can lay down if you choose, and I can open the window so you won't be cut off from fresh air."

"Well, actually, if there's a window, that will suit me well."

It didn't require a lot of coaxing beyond that. Captain Carter took charge of invalid and tea, escorting her with extended arm to the parlour room. Lighting a fire was offered but politely declined. A lamp in the corner was lit by a candle, however. Since nothing else was needed, Mary was left to a quiet and semi-dark room. He left the window ajar, with the shawl that was large enough to spread like a blanket. As final instructions, he asked that she recline if possible and take some rest. Any offers to summon mother or family were further resisted. This solution allowed the festivities to continue without interruption to anyone's pleasure. He promised to check in at least once, to ensure the nausea did not return later. Whether he returned to check at all, Mary had no idea of it. After half an hour or so of repose, she indeed did lay down, draw her feet up to the divan, and closed her eyes.

For a fact, unbeknownst to Mary, the rest of the evening brought the family little pleasure. If anybody would've been happy to escort her home, Lizzy would have claimed any excuse to escape the teasing of Mr. Collins, who adhered to her side the rest of the evening. She could not prevail upon him to stand up for a dance with anyone else. As she was not inclined to dance with him either, he put it out of her power to dance anymore that evening. For all of Lydia and Kitty's merriment, and determination to fill as much of the evening with dances as possible, in the hopes to outdo their older sisters and each other, they started to wear out by three o'clock in the morning.

All dancing and music ceased around that hour, allowing for either one last refreshment or chat with friends before bidding for the carriage. In the case of the Longbourn party, they were the last of all the company to make their departure, about four in the morning. Mrs. Bennet sent for her carriage but on some invented pretext, she was able to delay everyone a quarter of an hour. Lizzy had a quiet hint from Mr. Bingley where Mary was and had been laying down for some time. Upon coming to fetch her, Mary appeared still tired though quite more refreshed than the rest of the family. What a scene to walk in upon in the drawing room: Mr. Bennet leaned by the wall to keep himself vertical yet free to close his eyes, Mr. Darcy kept near a window as was habit, and the ladies all around longing for bed. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue. Between the glares and moans over the exhaustion of hosting, their impatience for their visitors to go was visible. For all of Mrs. Bennet's attempts to engage them in conversation were repulsed, throwing a langour over the room.

"There's a chair by Kitty," whispered Lizzy. She guided Mary over. Kitty and Lydia were hardly any better than the Bingley sisters.

"Lord, how tired I am. What a merry time," yawned Lydia. "Indeed, the most superior of balls I've ever attended."

"It was merry," mumbled Kitty. "But my head hurts."

"It's all that punch you've had to drink."

Lizzy leaned over to whisper: "How much did you have to drink, Kitty?"

"I don't recall. Maybe… four or five cups."

"Why, our sister is quite drunk, Lizzy."

"Lydia, keep your voice down, and it's nothing to laugh over. We'll talk about this later."

If only Mr. Collins could've heard. He should have had plenty material for a sermon within twenty four hours. Any sensible man might have reconsidered his choice. Mary sat listening as bitterly as Lizzy. How could such a man dare wish for such sisters-in-law, when their own sisters blushed over them? Mr. Collins was in the midst of a pretty speech to Mr. Darcy, with thanks and compliments upon the evening, when the carriage arrived. For the only ones sorry to see this departure was Mr. Bingley, who had ensconced himself near the fireside in low conversation with Jane.

There was something said about his going to London in a day or two, on business that shouldn't take him very long. While Mr. Bennet was about ready to slump over and fall asleep, Mrs. Bennet heard this with satisfied suspense. Certain unnamed business in London meant the ordering of new carriages and more servants to be procured. She would soon enough be doing likewise, ordering clothes and a whole trousseau for Jane.

"We'll be having a wedding here in less than three months if you ask me, Mr. Bennet," she boasted within the safe confines of the carriage. "Perhaps we will have more than one to celebrate."

Feel free, regardless how I describe these characters, to put in your own preferred version.

Well, this one was a bit of a heavy chapter. How I described Mary, how she gets when she's nauseous, this is exactly what happens to me. Why? Why trying not to be sick makes the body so dramatic, I have no idea.

As regards Captain Carter's suspicions, it was a controversy of the time, probably more so in later decades. So I'm probably taking some license. There's more reference to it in the novel by Wilkie Collins called The Moonstone. There's also references in Poldark. But was it accessible and commonly used medicinally in that time, yes.