With a sense of absolute dread, Caroline Bingley slowly turned around and nearly swooned at the sight that met her astonished eyes. Following her friend’s example, she turned ashen and then crimson. Caroline’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish; however, no words passed her pale, thin lips. She waited in vain to be acknowledged by her superiors, and the foreboding silence dragged on for what seemed an eternity. The icy stares she received sent frissons of fear up and down her spine, and Miss Bingley prayed the esteemed ladies facing her would, at least, be merciful. The unnerving silence was finally broken by, not words, but the swish of four expensive silk dresses as they brushed past the two future pariahs of society.

Miss Anna Darcy, Miss Georgiana Darcy, Lady Anne Darcy, and her revered sister-in-law, Lady Rebecca Fitzwilliam, wife of the Earl of Matlock, regally swept out the front door of Harding, Howell & Co. The respected ladies, in the wake of their significant leave-taking, left behind not only the gaping Miss Bingley and Miss Dalrymple but also the dozens of important members of le bon ton who had witnessed the cut direct. Tongues immediately began to wag, and gossip spread like wildfire among ‘the Upper Ten Thousand’. Caroline Bingley knew at that moment her prospects within polite society were forever ruined.

The Darcy women entered their carriage in stunned silence, and Lady Anne reeled at the potential impact of their unprecedented renouncement of an acquaintance. She had raised her daughters to be genteel, gentle, generous girls; and she almost felt sorry for the other two young unfortunates who had become the victims of their noteworthy, and very public, cut direct. Almost.

Lady Rebecca Fitzwilliam, however, had no such qualms. As an influential member of ‘the Beau Monde’, she knew the repercussions of her action and had no regrets whatsoever. “The unmitigated nerve of that Bingley harpy to dare align herself with your family and, by extension, my own noble one!” She saw the stricken face of her sister-in-law and said, “Anne, do not dare give those two conniving, name-dropping, wheedling sycophants another thought. They are unworthy of your concern. Caroline Bingley has been a thorn in our side since Fitzwilliam and Richard befriended her brother. When she could not win your son, she tried for my James and even Richard; and now she has been dangling after your Fitzwilliam once again. I do admit I rather like the amiable Charles Bingley. Still and all, I cannot abide his social-climbing, upstart, nouveau riche … mushroom of a sister.”

Georgiana quite agreed with her aunt; nevertheless, she also felt remorse for their actions, until she remembered Caroline’s vitriolic words spoken against Elizabeth.

Although quite sickened by what she and her family had done, Miss Anna attempted to lighten the mood in the carriage. “I am afraid Miss Bingley’s character is not of a very high morel standing and she certainly has mush-room for improvement.”

Her exasperated mother sighed and said, “Anna Darcy, now is not the time. Your newly acquired sense of humour is fast becoming a punishment for us all. Do, please, have some compassion for our poor nerves.”

Charles Bingley, back in his study, impatiently waited for Caroline to return; and he was not in a very receptive frame of mind. He still had not reserved a set with Miss Bennet for the ball. He fretted over Colonel Fitzwilliam’s intentions toward her. The uninformed coachman had chosen Boodles, where none of his friends had gone that afternoon; and he worried Caroline might have exceeded her allowance by making unnecessary orange-hued purchases all day. A knock interrupted his fit of pique; he bade the intruder, “Enter.”

In proper form, Fossett, the forbearing foyer footman, forged ahead and formally announced, “Miss Bingley has returned, sir. However, she is unwell and wanted you to know she is indisposed and regrets being unable to take dinner or meet with you this evening.”

“Oh, really? Well, we shall just see about that.” Bingley jumped up from his chair, donned his discarded coat, stomped out of the study, marched upstairs, and pounded on the door to his sister’s apartments. “Caroline, open this door, right now. I need to speak with you.”

“Go away, Charles.”

His sister’s voice had an unusual quality to it, so he asked, “Caroline, are you truly unwell? Open the door, please.” Bingley had seen his sister disgusted, angry, disappointed, aggressive, contemptuous, and even, on occasion, frightened and sad. However, he had only once before, in their adult life, seen her cry; and that was years previously, at the death of their parents from scarlet fever. Therefore, when the key turned in the lock, the door opened, and he saw her red, blotchy, tear-stained face, he was truly alarmed. “Good God! What is the matter?” Caroline hesitated, but her knees trembled under her; and she sat down, unable to support herself. She looked so miserably ill it was impossible for Bingley to leave her. In a tone of gentleness and commiseration, he said, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine? Shall I get you one? You are very ill, sister.”

She burst into tears and for a few minutes could not utter a word. Bingley, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern and observe her in compassionate silence. He passed Caroline a pristine handkerchief and considered how else he might comfort her. They had never embraced, and he felt awkward even considering such contact.

At length, she got up, paced, and spoke. “Oh, Charles, my humiliation cannot be concealed from anyone; and I know very well that nothing can be done. I have not the smallest hope. It is in every way horrible; and I am so very, very sorry, brother.”

When his sister began to weep again, Bingley became increasingly worried. Fiend seize convention! Caroline needs me. He disregarded their past differences and indifferences, wrapped his arms around her bony shoulders, gathered her against his chest, and let her tears soak through his waistcoat and shirtfront. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs wracked her body; she whimpered and repeated, “I am so sorry. I am so very sorry, Charles.” He murmured and stroked her hair and felt tears sting his own eyes in empathy with such overwhelming sorrow.

When she had cried herself out, she withdrew from his embrace and plopped down on the bench at her vanity table; one glimpse at her reflection in the mirror was enough to make her swivel around and face the other way. It was not her swollen, blotchy features that disgusted her so much but rather the evidence of her own miserable existence. She shook her head, took gulps of air, and yet would not look her brother in the eye.