The Sisterhood

by Penelope Friday

  “She doesn’t dance very often,” Miss Scorton said lazily, as if she were above the conversation. Far too important to gossip herself, at least publicly, she was willing to facilitate the gossip of others, it seemed.

  “Well, hardly! I can’t imagine the gentlemen flocking to her side, can you?” said the redhead, knowing herself to be in a different category altogether.

  “Ah, but do you know why they do not do so?” asked the first.

  Miss Scorton made a small snorting noise.

  “I can think of several reasons,” said the other.

  “Oh no, forget any of those,” said lady one. “You know, I know Miss Musgrove quite well. Our families, you know,” she added vaguely. “So I talk to her at any event at which I see her. And it seems that Miss Charity Bellingham’s lack of dancing has nothing to do with herself, her person, at least according to the young lady herself.” She shook her head in mock regret. “It’s her height.”

  “Her what?”

  “She’s too tall!” The girl rocked with laughter. “That’s why no one asks her. That’s why she doesn’t dance! She’s just too tall!”

  “She truly said that?” asked another young lady in a pink satin dress.

  Charity blanched, moving back a step in the hope that no one would see her. She had liked Miss Musgrove, and this was the outcome. The one lady she’d met in her entire Season whom she had felt positively towards had taken her words and twisted them to make a joke out of her. Biting her lip, which was quivering in a most unaccustomed manner, Charity wondered how many other people the lady had told about their brief conversation. Was the whole of London laughing at her?

  Turning, she stumbled away. She would not cry, she told herself fiercely. She never cried. And she was certainly not going to give those girls the pleasure of having been seen to upset her. Taking a few deep breaths, she raised her chin high and turned back to the throng. What did it matter what a parcel of silly girls said? Nonetheless, one thing was for sure: she would try to make no more friends. Splendid isolation was much to be preferred to this sort of unkindness.

  Without her own friends, Charity was forced to rely on Rebecca, and the friends—or friendly acquaintances, it might be more accurate to describe them as—that her sister had made. Despite her shyness, Rebecca somehow understood how to converse with people. She knew what subjects would be welcomed and which would not. She also had a kind word for everyone, which Charity was glad to see appreciated. Charity had wondered whether others might take advantage of her sweet-natured sister, but if they did, Rebecca did not seem to mind. So on those occasions when Mrs Bellingham allowed the girls to go out without her, it was usually to visit one of Rebecca’s new acquaintances.

  One such was Mrs Hollings, a lady several years Rebecca’s senior in age, if in nothing else. Mrs Hollings was of moderate age, moderate height and moderate intelligence. While by no means a stupid women, she had no desire to learn anything new about the world. If she had not needed such knowledge in her previous thirty-five years of life, she seemed to imply, it was clearly not worth knowing. Rebecca got on well with her, though Rebecca got on well with most people. The two ladies discussed the trials involved in trimming a hat successfully, or their favourite flowers in the Botanical Gardens.

  Charity was reduced to utter boredom within ten minutes. Although she was fond of flowers, after having once described those she admired most, she felt no need to go over the same ground again and again. She had never trimmed a hat for pleasure in her life, and those she had been obliged to design had been saved from ruin only by Rebecca’s skilful fingers. She was unwaveringly grateful to, and admiring of, her sister for this; however, as a conversational subject, it was one to which she had little to add.

  From time to time, when the conversation between the two others flagged, Mrs Hollings would look over at Charity, saying archly to Rebecca: “Your sister is very quiet again, Miss Bellingham.”

  Charity, if her mind had not wandered so far that she was completely oblivious of the conversation going on around her, would blush and apologise.

  “I am so sorry. I was just admiring the arrangement on your mantelpiece.” Or the flowers, or the piece of embroidery which had been discarded by her hostess on their arrival. After the first couple of occasions when she had been caught wool-gathering whilst in company, she had begged Rebecca to tell her what she might express interest in. Rebecca, who knew her sister well enough to know the boredom she felt during such visits, had provided her with a list.

  “Though really, Charity, you could just stay away.”

  “And stay home with Mother?”

  The girls’ eyes had met in unspoken accord, and Rebecca had provided suggestions with no further comment. Charity had a strong suspicion that Mrs Hollings believed her half-witted, but that was a difficulty she would just have to accept. However, today’s conversation was one in which Charity did not have to feign interest. After they had been provided with tea by Mrs Hollings, and the usual courtesies had been exchanged, Mrs Hollings took the chatter in an unusually personal direction.

  “A little birdie told me”—and oh, how Charity disliked that phrase—“that there might be an Interesting Announcement coming in the not-too-distant future.” She raised a beautifully groomed eyebrow in Rebecca’s direction. Charity, bewildered, looked first at Mrs Hollings and then at her sister, whose pretty face was unusually pink with embarrassment.

  “I don’t…I mean, there isn’t…That is…” Rebecca stumbled through a number of half-sentences without finishing a single one.

  “I don’t think we know of anything,” Charity interjected hastily, attempting to spare her sister’s blushes.

  “Really?” Mrs Hollings’s archness was in full flood. “You mean a certain gentleman—we won’t mention his name out loud, not yet—has not visited your mama lately?”

  “He has,” Rebecca admitted, to Charity’s surprise and bewilderment, “but…nothing is settled yet, you know.”

  “I’m sure it will be soon. I don’t think…our mysterious ‘X’…is a gentleman who wishes to wait too long for his pleasures.” She gave a little affected laugh and said in a sing-song voice, “I see wedding bells in your future.”

  Rebecca blushed and disclaimed, and Mrs Hollings mercifully changed the subject.

  When they took their leave, however, Charity turned to her sister. “What did Mrs Hollings mean, earlier?”

  Rebecca gave a hunted look around, as if fearing that someone might overhear the conversation. “I…It…Charity, you must have noticed that Mr Fotheringay has visited more and more often?”

  Charity stared at her with blank astonishment. “Yes, but you surely don’t think that Mother will marry him? When she’s so fastidious and he so…” She gave a little shudder of distaste.

  Rebecca looked, if anything, more anxious still. “Charity!”

  Charity sighed. “I know, I know, it’s unkind to speak ill of someone, no matter whom they may be.”

  “No, Charity, you don’t understand.” Rebecca drew a deep breath. “He doesn’t wish to marry Mother. He wants to marry me.”

  Chapter Six

  For a moment, Charity stood in frozen silence.

  “You’re teasing me,” she said at last.

  Rebecca pressed her lips together tightly and shook her head. Charity was finding it hard to breathe. Fotheringay, marry Rebecca? No, it could not happen. It must not happen.

  “Charity, we can’t talk about it here,” Rebecca said urgently.

  Charity, coming to her senses, looked around. They were in the hustle and bustle of a smart London street. Rebecca was right: it was no place for private conversation.

  “All right. Let’s get home, and then we need to talk about this.”

  They made their way back to the house with not a further word spoken between them. Charity was stunned. She was not sure what Rebecca was feeling, but it was clear that she knew more of what was going on than Charity did.

  When they got in
, they divested themselves of their cloaks, and Charity turned to Rebecca.

  “Come to my room.” Rebecca obediently followed Charity up the stairs. “We’re less likely to be disturbed here than in your room,” Charity explained further. “Now…” She sat down heavily on the bed and looked at her sister. “What’s going on? You can’t marry Fotheringay, of course. But tell me about it.”

  Rebecca had wrapped her arms around herself as if holding herself together. “Mr Fotheringay has spoken to Mother, and Mother has spoken to me,” she said. “We are expecting him to propose to me at any moment.”

  “But that’s preposterous!” Charity exclaimed. “Becca, he’s twice your age and more.”

  “Mother thinks I would do better with an older husband. She says…she says I have no idea of the modern world and I need someone who will be able to guide me.” Rebecca looked hopelessly across at Charity. “She considers it the perfect match, she said.”

  “No! No, no, no, and a thousand times no!” Charity said. Then, more gently, “Becca, I’ll support you if you tell Mother that you can’t do it. I promise.”

  Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked away from Charity, clearly hoping that her sister had not noticed her distress. As if Charity could think of anything save Rebecca’s distress.

  “I must. I’m not like you, Charity. I’m not brave.”

  “You are, dear. Braver than me if you really intend to go ahead with this. I couldn’t do it myself.”

  “But if Mother says it’s right? And—and she spent so much money bringing us here, just to help us and find us secure homes. How could I defy her now?”

  Charity’s own eyes prickled a little at this. For of course Rebecca wouldn’t, perhaps couldn’t, defy Mrs Bellingham. The obedient daughter, she always had done everything that her parents asked of her, genuinely believing that they must know best. To turn around now, and refuse to obey her mother’s will, was unthinkable. But at the same time, marriage to Fotheringay was also unthinkable. She looked across at Rebecca and knew she could protest no more.

  “If you change your mind, dearest, I will support you,” she said quietly. She got up and stood behind her sister, wrapping her arms around her so that Rebecca had a double layer of her own and Charity’s arms. “You don’t have to face this alone. You don’t have to face it at all.”

  Rebecca turned her head so that she was looking up at her tall sister. “But the trouble is,” she said, her voice quivering a little bit, “that I must.”

  A few days later, in the balmy days of late May, with the Season nearing its end, came one of the minority of events that Charity had actually been looking forward to. Part of her frustration with London lay in the fact that so much took place inside. To be sure, there were always walks in the park and even riding, for those ladies who chose or could afford it. Charity’s desire for a horse, however, had met with a stony refusal by Mrs Bellingham on grounds of expense…with the additional comment that she could not trust her daughter to behave impeccably at the best of times, without giving her the opportunity to romp about like some common hoyden on the back of an ill-trained animal. In vain had Charity protested that she would ride the most staid horse Mrs Bellingham could find; in vain had Rebecca tried to persuade their mother to relent (a generous gesture, for Rebecca, though she could ride, did not enjoy the experience). Horses, it seemed, were a luxury and risk Charity could not be allowed to take. For once, when she considered the matter and learned of the costs, Charity could not entirely blame her mother.

  However, it meant that a picnic—an entire day’s entertainment, away from Mrs Bellingham and away from the dirt and noise of central London—was a treat very much to be anticipated. Even with the knowledge of Rebecca’s soon-to-be-agreed betrothal to upset her, Charity was enthusiastic about the event. A few older ladies were coming, of course, to chaperone the group, but only a few, and the group itself was not too large. None of the ladies Charity most disliked were due to attend, so the idea of a day out in the sunshine was a highly welcome one. Rebecca had caught a little of her sister’s eagerness and chattered expectantly of flowers and friendship. Charity was glad to see it. Rebecca had been quiet, even by her own standards, of late.

  But the picnic, after all Charity’s enthusiasm, was not a success. It had been arranged that she and Rebecca would travel to the park with Mrs Carbory and her daughter Catherine, but it was nearly an hour later than arranged when the ladies appeared at the door—time enough for Mrs Bellingham to have furiously called the Carborys all the names under the sun and time enough for Rebecca to have twisted herself into a panic that they had been forgotten. There was no apology or excuse given, and after Rebecca had asked politely whether there was anything wrong and been roundly snubbed, the journey had continued in silence.

  The park itself was pretty enough. Large oak trees spread their branches to give shade, whilst sun lovers had plenty of room to revel in the brightness. The party split up into small groups, wandering and chattering and laughing, and Charity thought for a moment or two that the occasion might live up to her expectations. Rebecca was looking cheerful, and the idea that they both had hours before they need return to their mother’s bosom was a joyful one.

  “How beautiful this is,” Charity exclaimed to Miss Watkins as they walked together.

  The lady, an unobtrusively handsome woman in her mid-twenties whom Charity suspected felt sorry for her, smiled.

  “It is. I love it particularly in autumn, but it is always delightful.”

  “And such a difference from most of London,” Charity added, trying to conceal a sigh.

  It had taken her a long time to realise that it was the countryside that she missed most from home. To be able to walk out of her front door and see grass and woods, not dirty, smelly streets. And animals—apart from the array of horses and dogs ranging from sleek, over-fed and over-trained beasts to bone-thin feral creatures snapping at the heels of passers-by, there was barely an animal to be seen in the city. Out here, surrounded by nature, she felt more comfortable in London than on any other occasion. Or she did until she was approached by a familiar figure, one whom she had not thought invited to the picnic—one whom, above all others, she was anxious to avoid.

  “Miss Bellingham.” Miss Musgrove smiled. “How good it is to see you again.”

  Charity froze. The audacity of the lady shocked her. To think that she could laugh at Charity behind her back and yet then walk straight up to her and greet her like a friend.

  “Good afternoon,” she said frostily.

  “May I walk with you a little way?”

  Miss Musgrove was obviously expecting an affirmative answer. Miss Watkins excused herself, leaving Charity alone to face her nemesis. And Charity could not think of a word to say. Miss Musgrove fell into step with her.

  “I confess I prefer outings like this to stuffy ballrooms, would you not agree?” she asked.

  If I say yes, will you tell the polite world how I insulted their balls? Charity could not say the words aloud, but with them dancing in her head, she could think of little else to say.

  “Excuse me,” she managed instead, her voice frosty even to her own ears. “I believe my sister wants me.”

  She walked away to Rebecca, aware of Miss Musgrove’s eyes following her as she went. Perhaps she had been inexcusably rude, but Charity had not been able to help herself. Her heart beating a little faster, she realised that the charm had been taken off the day by the contretemps. Where it had been a sunny, cheerful occasion, it was now grey and gloomy. She looked up to the sky and realised it was quite literally so: the sun had gone in, as if affected by her mood.

  “I did not know Miss Musgrove was due to attend,” Charity said to Miss Carbory, as they sat together over the luncheon. She had lost her appetite and picked moodily at the feast in front of her.

  “It was a lucky chance. She is only recently back from a stay in the country,” Miss Carbory said gaily. “Mama met her two days previously and mentioned
the picnic to her. Miss Musgrove was, I believe, reluctant to come on such short notice, but Mama was able to persuade her. That was why we were late, you know: we went to check that Miss Musgrove had managed to organise to come.”

  “I see.” Charity mentally added another fault to Miss Musgrove’s chart. Not only had the lady mocked her behind her back, not only had she spoiled the picnic with her intrusive presence, but she had also been responsible for the late start—for Rebecca’s anxiety—and for Mrs Bellingham’s wrath.

  “She has so many friends, you know.” Miss Carbory chattered on, each sentence digging into Charity as if she were sitting on a thistle. “Everyone likes Miss Musgrove.”

  Charity bit her lip almost to the bleeding point and said no more. The day was ruined.

  But the next day, in its way, was even worse. From the way Mrs Bellingham fussed over Rebecca’s clothes, making her try on three different dresses and pair them with her smartest stockings—“But you mustn’t look overdressed, Rebecca. Just beautifully natural”—Rebecca and Charity knew what was to come. “Beautifully natural”: an ironic turn of phrase given the amount of work needed to appear to be in such a state. Rebecca’s hair was curled, straightened and curled again. A small mark on her glove made the pair totally unwearable, leaving Charity and the maid to search through every pair of gloves the girls possessed to find a suitable replacement. The dilemma over jewellery and adornment nearly brought Rebecca to tears, except that she was strictly forbidden to cry because of the detrimental effect it would have on her face.