“It will be all right, won’t it?” her sister asked.
“I hope so,” Charity said quietly. “I hope so.”
The next morning, Mrs Bellingham rounded up her daughters almost before they had finished their breakfasts.
“Before we do anything else, we must do something about your dresses, girls,” she said briskly.
Charity looked down. She was wearing one of her favourite morning gowns, put aside for so long in the country as they wore the black appropriate to their bereavement. The dress was a light apple-green colour that reminded her of spring. “What’s wrong with what we have?”
Mrs Bellingham tutted indignantly. “Surely you can see that it isn’t suitable? No, it is obvious that you need a whole new wardrobe, and right speedily. I have found the names of some reputable modistes—indeed, the first flight of fashion—and I hope to visit several today.”
“Several?” Rebecca repeated faintly.
“Sounds delightful, doesn’t it?” Charity murmured to her, sotto voce, and Rebecca fought to conceal a smile.
“Quite. You can hardly be introduced into polite company garbed as you are.”
Mrs Bellingham would brook no argument on the subject, and the girls knew better than to try. It seemed a short period before they had entered into the first dress shop, where they were greeted with little enthusiasm by a doleful-looking woman.
“Have you an appointment, Madam?” Mrs Bellingham had not. The woman shook her head sorrowfully as she looked the three incumbents up and down. “I’m afraid Madame Clarabelle is extremely busy. Have you thought to try elsewhere? Perhaps one of the smaller establishments?”
Mrs Bellingham drew herself up. She was several inches shorter than Charity, but she had a presence that Charity knew she did not share. “I was told,” she said, almost squawking in indignation, “that this was one of the most reputable modistes in town. If you behave so to all of your customers, I am surprised you have any reputation left at all. Now, are you going to serve us, or are you not?”
It became evident that the answer was “not”. Barely knowing how they ended there, Mrs Bellingham and her daughters found themselves back on the street outside the building in a rather short space of time.
“Well!” their mother exclaimed. “Well! If that is how we are to be treated, I shall be proud not to have attended.”
Rebecca was flushed and tearful; Charity hid her embarrassment behind a layer of silence that allowed her to make no response to her mother. With a frustrated sniff, Mrs Bellingham ushered the children back into the chaise and gave another instruction to the coachman.
It seemed to begin with as if the second attempt was to be more successful than the first. Whether less busy, or more open to new business, Mademoiselle Farellone invited the ladies in without issue, and they were soon sitting comfortably whilst Mrs Bellingham explained her daughters’ needs to the dressmaker.
“First season, you understand…Yes, Rebecca is the beauty…A whole new wardrobe…Advice for hats and gloves to match…”
Mademoiselle Farellone nodded, took measurements and made delicate suggestions. Charity was soon bored rigid by the process, but Rebecca looked at herself in mirror after mirror with stars in her eyes.
“This dress? Truly, Mother?” she asked, dressed in a rose-pink confection with a few modest frills.
“Indeed, it suits the little mademoiselle to perfection,” the modiste agreed, turning Rebecca this way and that so that she could admire herself on all sides.
“Well…” Mrs Bellingham pursed her lips. “I suppose…” She gave a nod. “And those other two in lilac and white, also.”
“And Charity?” Rebecca asked.
Charity stood to one side. She had been conscious that the dresses suitable for delicate Rebecca looked foolish on someone as tall as she was; the suggestions by Mademoiselle to this accord had dressed her instead in much plainer garb of dull green, white and primrose yellow, with not a flounce to her name. Although nothing could disguise Charity’s height, the simplicity drew attention to her better features: a slim waist and hips, and her pale, unfreckled skin. Charity had not known she could look so elegant.
“The yellow, perhaps,” Mrs Bellingham said, superb indifference in her voice. “And the price, please?”
The look in Mademoiselle Farellone’s eyes implied that it was the most grotesque of all behaviours to bring up the sordid subject of money. It was nothing, however, to the look in Mrs Bellingham’s when she heard the cost of those four elegant gowns. Five minutes later, the family were once more on the pavement outside the shop, with no dresses ordered, but Mrs Bellingham with a face not dissimilar to the colour of a tomato.
“What now?” Charity asked.
Mrs Bellingham gave her a quelling look. “I would have liked to think that I had brought my daughters up better than to ask foolish questions like that in the street.”
Rebecca was crying, and Charity reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze. For herself, it did not matter, but Rebecca had looked very pretty in that pink dress.
But it turned out that Charity had more to worry her than Rebecca did. The ladies returned to their house for lunch. When Mrs Bellingham had regained a normal sort of colour, and had consoled herself by means of a ranting monologue about the profligate rich ladies who had caused dressmakers to think that it was acceptable to charge such outrageously inflated prices, Rebecca asked: “So what should we do about dresses, Mother? We surely cannot go out in society with the few we brought with us.”
“Of course not!” Mrs Bellingham’s voice was sharp, but no more than usual. She never had liked being questioned. In her view children, even grown-up ones, should be seen and not heard—or, in Charity’s case, preferably neither seen nor heard. “Don’t talk nonsense, child.”
“Then…” Rebecca left the word hanging.
“You will have to make them yourselves,” she said briskly. “There are patterns to be followed, lengths of material to be bought at quite reasonable costs. It will do you good to do some work preparing for your launch into society. So far, I have done everything for you, but you girls should pull your weight also.”
“Make the dresses?” Charity was so dismayed that the words were out before she had a chance to think. “But Mother, I—” She felt Rebecca lean against her in an attempt to stop her continuing, but Charity couldn’t stop herself. “I’m an awful seamstress. I’ll be laughed at.”
Mrs Bellingham took a long breath, always a preparatory signal for a tirade. “You need hardly tell me that your sewing is beneath contempt. If you were only a little bit more like your sister, things would be better. She has the proper feminine talents: sewing, embroidery, even cooking. You can’t clothe or feed a family by means of a piano. If you are laughed at, you must remember that you are reaping what you’ve sown.”
“I’ll certainly be wearing what I’ve sewn,” Charity mumbled bitterly.
Her mother ignored this frivolous response. “Time and time again, I’ve asked you to work on your sewing, but have you listened? You have not. And now we come to this: I am giving you the opportunity of a Season in London, and all you can do is grouse about every little thing. I do not know what I did to deserve such an ungrateful daughter.”
Charity bit down hard on the sides of her cheeks to prevent herself responding in kind. Rebecca had been right: she should not have spoken so. She should have known that it would only rile her mother into one of her rants.
“Sorry, Mother.”
There was no more to be said. Mrs Bellingham would not change her mind, and any further discussion would just serve to anger her to no good purpose. Charity looked down at the remains of her meal and realised that she felt slightly sick. She pushed the plate away.
After lunch, when Mrs Bellingham had left the girls to their own devices, Rebecca turned to her sister. “I’ll help you,” she promised, looking up at Charity with much more maternal tenderness than their real mother offered her. “With the dresses, I m
ean. I don’t mind. And your sewing isn’t as bad as you claim, you know.”
“No. It’s worse.” But Charity couldn’t help smiling a little bit. “You’re an angel, Becca. I don’t deserve a sister like you.”
“Silly.” Rebecca brushed off the compliment, blushing a little. “Come, now, let us talk of something else and only worry about those silly dresses when we need to.”
Chapter Three
Mrs Bellingham had many faults, but she was at least efficient. Within two days of her declaration that the girls must make all of their dresses, she had ordered several yards of various materials, discovered some patterns which she claimed were suitable and taken Charity and Rebecca to buy the various ‘extras’ it would not be possible to create for themselves: gloves, stockings and stays. Instead of resting on her laurels at that point, however, it was then time for her next venture.
“I am going out to leave a few cards,” Mrs Bellingham announced on the third morning. “My clothes, at least, leave nothing to be ashamed of. You girls can begin the sewing.” She fixed a basilisk glare on Charity. “And you, Miss, concentrate. Your sewing is never good, but that does not mean that it needs to be execrable.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Who are you visiting?” Rebecca asked, in a clear, if kind, attempt to change the subject.
“Yes. I didn’t know you had any friends. In London,” Charity amended hastily.
Mrs Bellingham apparently found it preferable to ignore her younger daughter’s rudeness on this occasion. Her tone quelling, she said, “I received many letters of condolence on the death of your father. I felt it my sacred duty to reply to each one of them. Many had London addresses, and I am sure they would feel slighted were I not to visit them whilst in town.”
Charity groaned inwardly. Translated, her mother’s reply meant that she intended to force herself on any and all passing acquaintances she or her deceased husband had ever had, in the hope of being ‘taken up’ by one or more of them. No, not all, Charity corrected herself—only those with money or position in society. Mrs Bellingham would avoid at all costs anyone of her own or lower status.
“That’s nice,” Rebecca said.
Charity knew her sister meant it, too. She wished sometimes that she had Rebecca’s gift of taking their mother’s words at face value. This was, she mused ironically, perhaps the only wish that she and their mother shared. Mrs Bellingham nodded at Rebecca, sent another baleful glare in Charity’s direction and left. When it was certain that their mother was no longer in the house, Charity gave a sigh of relief.
“Peace at last!”
“Charity!” protested Rebecca. “Anyway, we have so much sewing to complete.”
“Sewing.” Charity groaned. “Did you have to mention that dreadful word? Peace…and sewing. Today’s joys never end.”
Becca giggled. “Charity, you’re so silly! Anyway, you know I’ll help you. I promised.”
“I’m counting on it,” Charity assured her.
The making of the dresses was both better and worse than Charity had anticipated. Better, because she and Rebecca came to an agreement that Charity should do the measuring and cutting—a task much better suited to the younger girl, given Rebecca’s anxiety around numbers—and, with the maid, form the basic seams and shapes, whilst Becca would work on the complicated embroidery and visible stitching. Worse, though, for the patterns Mrs Bellingham had instructed the girls to follow. Certain fashion plates had been selected by Mrs Bellingham, almost all with high waists and tight bodices. The dresses played to Rebecca’s best features beautifully: her breasts looked plump and womanly, whilst the long skirts skimmed against her hips before falling waterfall-like to the ground. Charity, a full six inches taller and with a much less full bosom, looked ridiculous, however, as if her legs were half a mile long, or like a gentleman had fitted himself out for amusement.
“I look a fool, like your brother dressed up in skirts,” she told Rebecca. “Look at me!”
“Oh, Charity, you do not!” Rebecca laughed. She looked at her sister once more, and her mirth subsided. “Though I must confess that it is not the most flattering design for you. I don’t know why mother didn’t choose different patterns for us both.”
“Don’t you?” Charity turned to look at herself in the mirror again, feeling helpless and humiliated. Which was, presumably, the effect her mother had intended.
Rebecca bit her lip and smoothed her fingers over the blue figured muslin of her own dress. “Anyway,” she said, ignoring her sister’s interjection, “I have a couple of ideas for how we could…not change, precisely, but adapt your dresses.”
“If you can stop me looking like the biggest freak of nature, I’ll be forever in your debt,” Charity assured her.
“And anyway,” her sister continued teasingly, “it has had one good effect already.” Charity turned to stare at Rebecca, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. “I think this is the first time in your life you’ve ever shown an interest in your clothes!”
Charity directed a playful glare towards Becca, but she couldn’t entirely hide her smile. “Miracles do indeed happen.”
As the girls had stitched, Mrs Bellingham had continued her attempts to make contacts within the ton. Nevertheless, the return calls to the Bellingham household did not so much flood as trickle in. Mrs Bellingham checked through the cards as the maid brought them up, apparently cross-referencing them with her knowledge of the ladies and gentlemen involved.
“Mrs Carbory…hmm. She has a daughter about your age, Rebecca. No sons, but a good background. I believe she attended Lord Firtingale’s ball the other evening.” Mrs Bellingham put down the cards and picked up the newspaper to rifle through it. “Where was it? Ah yes. ‘Mr Frederick Firtingale was seen dancing with Miss C on more than one occasion, as well as with Miss L, Lady K and Miss F’. So she certainly would be worth cultivating.”
“Mother, she is not a flower,” Charity said impatiently.
“I fail to see your point.” Mrs Bellingham picked up another card and gave it a cursory glance. “Mrs Warburton. Oh, no, no, no. Neither style nor breeding. I recall her from my own debut. Plump and clumsy. The surprise was that anyone, even a commoner like Mr Warburton, was prepared to marry her.”
It was Rebecca’s turn to wince, though unlike her sister she was wise enough not to comment. By the time Mrs Bellingham had looked at all the cards, there were three piles: those who would certainly not be contacted, those that would and those who must be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy. This last pile was very small, and Mrs Bellingham was heard bemoaning the number of calls she had paid that had not been reciprocated.
Nevertheless, there were enough respondents to Mrs Bellingham’s calls to mean that when the girls had completed the dresses, they had events to which they could wear them. Charity knew that despite her mother’s indignation as to the paucity of invitations, Rebecca was happy to have a more tentative start to their London debut. Her sister was shy and retiring, and although her company manners were perfect, she suffered agonies of anxiety before larger events. Charity, less keen to attend anything bar the picnics and music evenings, anticipated boredom rather than fear at the balls and routs. However, despite her lack of interest in clothing, she was mortified by the knowledge that her dresses, whilst neatly made—Rebecca’s stitching was impeccable—looked ugly and inappropriate on her. Rebecca had done her best: her adaptations had dropped the waist a little lower, and she had tried to use the plainer materials for Charity’s dresses, which at least made her look slightly more feminine without looking vulgar. But nothing could really make up for a style that seemed deliberately chosen to make Charity look ridiculous.
Now that they had received cards, Mrs Bellingham graciously allowed the girls to accompany her on a round of social visits. While the visits were another form of purgatory to Charity, she knew that Rebecca would enjoy herself, so she kept from complaint. In a situation where well-bred girls were expected to sit and say nothing
unless spoken to directly, Charity consoled herself with the thought that at least she wouldn’t be obliged to think up subjects for small talk. She knew that the silence would allow Rebecca to lose the worst of her nerves before speaking.
But it was a little over a month after the Bellinghams arrived in London that they attended their first ball. January was over, and the Season was in full swing around them. The maid was kept busy that evening, running between the two girls in an attempt to perfect their hair, dress and accessories. Mrs Bellingham was determined that Charity would not embarrass her publicly by looking shabby or unkempt. Since her dress, whilst appropriate, hung badly on Charity’s long, thin frame, poor Annie had her work cut out for her trying to make her younger mistress look elegant. They finally settled on ‘not too inelegant’, and Annie was free to convert Rebecca into the pretty young debutante she really was.
All the hustle and bustle played on Rebecca’s nerves, and as they stood together in her bedroom, awaiting their mother’s attendance, she moved closer to Charity’s side, taking her hand.
“I’m so nervous,” she whispered, increasing her grip on Charity’s hand to the point that it was actually painful.
“Becca,” Charity said, gently detaching her. “You’ve been to assemblies back home. And there’s sure to be some of the people we have met in the park or on our visits.”
Foiled of Charity’s hand, Rebecca fiddled with her skirt, twitching the folds back and forth. “Yes, but that was not London.”
“An undeniable truth,” Charity agreed. “But we have met people in town. I’m sure there will be people we know. And anyway, you will take the shine out of most of the ladies. You look beautiful in that dress.” She grinned. “It is all thanks to my sewing, you know.”
The Sisterhood Page 2