The Sisterhood

by Penelope Friday

  “But he did not marry her.” Charity gave her sister a quick smile as she sorted out a pile of petticoats. “And I am certain you are younger and prettier than she, not to mention being better born than either she or Fotheringay.”

  Rebecca pressed her hands to hot cheeks. “Oh, Charity, you must not say things like that! He would be furious if he heard you.”

  “Only to you,” Charity promised. But there was something in Rebecca’s voice when she spoke of Fotheringay which…“You’re not afraid of him, are you?” she blurted out.

  “Not afraid. It’s just that…” Rebecca looked down at her hands, a habit of hers when she was anxious or being scolded. “There is so much to learn, you know, and…and—”

  Charity dumped the petticoats down on the bed and went over to her sister. She took one of Rebecca’s hands, patting it in a sisterly fashion.

  “What? You know you can always tell me anything, Becca.”

  Rebecca gave a faint smile. “Sometimes I think that you should have been the older sister and not I. It seems wrong to burden you with all my worries.”

  “Well, if it comes to that, I’m forever leaning on you too,” Charity retorted. “I’d probably still be stitching my first ball gown if it were not for you.”

  “Silly!” Rebecca took a deep breath and raised her eyes a little higher up, which was encouraging. “It’s just that I rather angered him once.”

  “Oh, that I am sure you could not!” It would be a harsh person indeed to show much anger towards Rebecca, especially if that person was her newly-wed husband.

  “It was the shooting and hunting, you see.”

  “He did not take you to either, surely?”

  “No. I think he might have considered allowing me to hunt, but when he saw me ride, he saw that it would not do.” Rebecca could ride, but she preferred horses that Charity privately termed ‘slugs’ for their slow, placid ways. Anything less likely to be a hunter was hard to imagine. “I would only have held him up and been in the way. It was early, really. The fox hunting season isn’t supposed to start until November, but Mr Fotheringay said that it didn’t matter, just this once.”

  “Well, that’s understandable,” Charity said gently. “I take it he went without you? A little bit unkind, when it was supposed to be your honeymoon, but—”

  “Oh, it was not that.” Rebecca drew her hand gently away from Charity’s, twisting it with the other on her lap. “He brought me home a…a trophy.” She blinked hard. “I will not cry. He says that is silly. But this little fox, Charity, only a cub, I think. So small, its fur all matted with blood. I could not…I did not…” She trailed off.

  Charity could see it all in her mind’s eye. Fotheringay, bringing home the spoils of the hunt to his new wife, expecting praise and admiration. Rebecca, looking down at the mangled body and dissolving into tears at the idea of the pain and suffering the fox had experienced.

  Charity had a faintly guilty suspicion that she might rather enjoy some aspects of hunting, if not the final outcome. She was fond of animals and particularly attached to horses. In her younger days at Forsbury, she had been accused (not entirely without reason) of being more inclined to greet a neighbour’s horse than the lady or gentleman riding it. And on the few occasions on which she had had the opportunity to ride full pelt, she had enjoyed every moment. To think of riding ventre a terre, surrounded by hounds and like-minded people, was definitely appealing. The kill did not draw her interest; indeed, she would have much preferred not to see an animal die merely for sport, but she had a feeling that she might be prepared to accept that part for the sake of the rest. Rebecca, however, was of a very different temperament, and Charity found it easy to visualise her gentle sister’s distress at being triumphantly presented with the broken body of a fox.

  “Oh, how horrid for you,” she said sympathetically.

  “I was a goose to get so upset,” Rebecca said hastily. “I know Father hunted sometimes. Most people do. I was just taken by surprise. I had not thought to see—well, you know the rest.”

  “And Fotheringay was angry,” Charity said. Rebecca nodded. “I suppose,” Charity continued, feeling her way slowly through uncharted territory, trying to find the right words, “he had meant to please you, and was upset rather than angry.”

  She had no such conviction, but Rebecca was married to the gentleman now, for better or worse. It was best, Charity told herself, that she be made as happy as she could within the marriage, even if it meant ascribing inaccurate emotions to Mr Fotheringay.

  “Yes,” agreed Rebecca, in a soft voice. “He told me I must learn, and I will try. That is, I will try not to be such a silly again.”

  Charity patted her shoulder encouragingly, before turning back to her task. “Well, he will hardly be fox hunting in London, so I think you are safe for the moment! And you must feel for Fotheringay now. He is moving into his own new experiences. You and I will still have each other, but he is changing from a bachelor life to being a married man. It is you who will have to look after him, now!”

  Rebecca giggled as she checked the number of morning dresses Charity had brought up. “Now it is you who is being silly. Mr Fotheringay is not concerned. And anyway, it will be strange for us without Mother here.”

  “Strange, but not necessarily unpleasant,” Charity said. “And you, Mrs Fotheringay, will have to be my chaperone. All the time I remain unmarried, you know, Mother will have to live with the fear that I may someday be returned to her care. It is positively your duty to find me a husband!”

  “I’ll do my best.” Rebecca looked uncertainly at her sister, clearly unsure whether Charity was joking or not.

  Charity gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, sister dear. I think I was born to be a spinster. Every family requires an old maiden aunt, you know, and I foresee myself filling that role admirably.”

  Rebecca opened her mouth to say something and then shut it again abruptly. Charity, looking at her, realised that it had been the mention of the word ‘aunt’: for Charity to fulfil the destiny of which she had spoken, Rebecca would have to have a child. And for that to happen… Well, that was something Rebecca would have to work out for herself, with her husband’s assistance.

  * * *

  It was a curious experience for Charity, though, to see the intimate workings of a marriage. She had only known her parents’, and it had hardly been a model for a healthy relationship. They had either fought so that the arguments came thick and fast, or they were no longer on speaking terms with each other, which had been more peaceful but hardly to be desired. One of the few things they had ever agreed about was the unworthiness of their youngest child, and her unforgivable sin of failing to be a son.

  Rebecca and Fotheringay’s marriage was very different indeed. He gave dictates, and she obeyed them: it was more, Charity thought, of a parent/child relationship than a marriage. However, it made for a considerably more stable home than any Charity had known before, and outside the instructions he gave, Fotheringay was not a particularly stern husband. As long as Rebecca was where he required her, when he required her to be there, he asked little about the ways in which she spent the rest of her time. Charity did not believe that her sister had deliberately brought this about, but in fact Rebecca bought herself a good deal of freedom by her usual obedience. Rather to her surprise, for a while Charity began to think that the marriage might work quite successfully.

  It was true, however, that the two were hardly a match in interests or knowledge, something which became clear that October. The month had come in with gusts and showers of rain, but as the days progressed, the weather became more mixed—neither one thing nor another. It had not the stifling heat of a London summer (that, to Charity’s relief, was over), but the days seesawed between warm and fine and rainy and cold. A pelisse or cloak became a necessity outside the house, rather than a garment worn to show off its owner’s fashionability.

  Meanwhile, the newspapers were full of the war with France and S
pain and the latest doings of Napoleon: suspicions were that a sea battle could not be far away, and so it proved. Fotheringay looked up from his perusal of the morning news one breakfast time and commented, “The Navy boys’ve got their way, then. They were itching for a fight.”

  “Oh?” Rebecca asked.

  Charity could tell that her sister was endeavouring to show an interest despite not knowing what Fotheringay was talking about.

  “Napoleon?” Charity asked, to help her out.

  Fotheringay shot a disapproving glance at her. “Of course Napoleon. Not himself, of course. He ain’t fool enough to get out there in the rough of it. But it’s him, all the same. What else would I be talking about?”

  Rebecca also looked at Charity, but in gratitude. “You mean there has been a battle?” she asked, dismayed. “What has happened?”

  “We thrashed ‘em, of course. Load of continental cowards,” Fotheringay said robustly. “All due to Lord Nelson, the paper says.” He scanned the article that had caught his eye. “Oh, that looks bad.” The two ladies looked at him, Charity at least trying not to show her impatience with this unhelpful remark. “Looks like Nelson’s number might be up,” he explained.

  Rebecca caught Charity’s eye again in mute appeal.

  “Dead?” Charity asked.

  “Or dying. ’Course, there are a fair few fatalities. Only to be expected in a skirmish like this. But dammee”—Rebecca winced a little at his bad language—“if that puts paid to Napoleon’s little plans to invade us. Can’t be done, of course. The English will rout ’em every time. But with Villeneuve…” This time he recognised his wife’s bewilderment and deigned to explain, “…the French Vice-Admiral…captured, they won’t be trying again in a hurry.” He paused. “Pity about Nelson if it’s true,” he said regretfully. “Good sailor, good tactitioner. But these things happen in war.” He took a long drink of his ale and then set it back on the table. “Well, to work. But mark my words, you’ll hear nothing but Nelson the next few days.”

  For once, Mr Fotheringay was prophetic. The battle of Trafalgar was discussed in all houses at all strata of society. The news about Nelson was true, it seemed: the great admiral had been shot in the battle. But those in the know maintained it was the way he would have wished to die, and he was lauded as a hero. By the time Trafalgar had been talked out, both Charity and Rebecca knew as much as most other ladies about the war.

  But the different interests and knowledge of Rebecca and Fotheringay concerned Charity a little. Could a marriage really be said to be happy, or even successful (a different thing, by some people’s standards) when the parties had barely a thought in common? Her doubts had grown by the end of the month. Rebecca and she had planned a shopping trip for one morning; Charity was in need of some new gloves, and Rebecca had an urgent desire to visit a milliner of her choice. This was to be followed by a quiet afternoon, before Rebecca and Fotheringay went out at night to attend a dinner with some business acquaintances of his.

  When Charity descended to the breakfast table that morning, however, it was clear that Rebecca would be going nowhere, and certainly not to the milliner’s. She was awake and dressed, but her face showed black circles beneath the eyes, and she rested her head on one hand as if it was too heavy for her body. Instead of her normal greeting, Charity said: “Becca, shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  Rebecca looked up at her. “We have so many things to do. I will be fine as soon as I have eaten, I’m sure.”

  “And I’m sure you won’t,” Charity said briskly. She came round the table to her sister’s side. “Come on, Becca, I’m taking you back to bed right now.”

  “I’m fine,” Rebecca insisted, but she was already getting to her feet.

  “Then,” Charity said, toning down her briskness a little in deference to Rebecca’s obvious headache, “you can come and be ‘fine’ in bed. Come on, dearest,” she added, resting a hand underneath Rebecca’s forearm. “You know I’m right.”

  Tears sprang to her sister’s eyes. “You’re so kind to me, always.”

  Gently, Charity ushered her upstairs. “Well,” she said, “that’s nothing to cry about, is it?”

  She led Rebecca to her room, where she helped her undress and held back the covers on the bed to allow Rebecca to slide between the sheets. Rebecca did so with a sigh of relief, and as she lay back on the pillows, Charity examined her sister. Clearly she had a high temperature: her forehead burned underneath Charity’s hand. For all Charity’s brisk, boyish ways, she was an excellent sick nurse.

  “Now,” she murmured to Rebecca, “try and rest. I will be back in a moment.”

  Meeting Fotheringay on the stairs, she informed him of his wife’s illness. A little frown appeared between his eyebrows.

  “That’s dashed inconvenient,” he complained. “You shouldn’t encourage her to lie about. We’re supposed to be going out this evening.”

  “Perhaps if she rests now, she will be better later.”

  Charity thought it unlikely, but the last thing Rebecca needed right now was Fotheringay striding into her room like a charging bull and demanding that she recover immediately. He continued to grumble, but Charity was past him, requesting water and a damp handkerchief to put on her sister’s forehead.

  Armed with a range of supplies, she slipped quietly into Rebecca’s bedroom. Rebecca had her eyes closed, and sleep would be the best thing for her, so Charity settled into a chair beside the bed. She had been there only a few seconds when Rebecca opened her eyes.

  “Charity?”

  “I’m here.” Charity leaned over her sister.

  “Is he angry with me?” Rebecca asked. “I heard you speaking with him.”

  “Fotheringay? Why would he be angry?” Charity thought back to her conversation with her brother-in-law. He had seemed disgruntled, as if Rebecca was being deliberately awkward by becoming ill. Surely, however, he must have known after these months of living with his wife that Rebecca was anything but obstructive?

  “I…” Rebecca looked away. “I wasn’t feeling well last night either. And he…” She broke off. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just being silly.”

  Charity patted her sister’s hand and then picked up the damp cloth to wipe Rebecca’s sweaty brow.

  “I told Fotheringay that you would be better left in peace for the moment, dear. So you don’t have to worry about him. And anyway”—she smiled—“he would have to get past the dragon guarding your door: me! So stop fretting, and concentrate yourself on getting better.”

  “Yes, Charity. And…thank you.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes, and soon Charity knew that she was sleeping. The gentle rise and fall of the sheets bore witness to Rebecca’s regular breathing. Looking down at her sister, she was filled with tenderness for her. Rebecca had loved and looked after her in their childhood, when no one else was there to do it. If Charity could return the favour now, it was the least she should do.

  The morning passed peacefully into afternoon. Charity had some food brought up to her, and tried to persuade Rebecca to eat a little when she woke, but her sister just shook her head and turned away.

  “You must at least drink something,” Charity urged her, sliding an arm around her sister and lifting her into a more upright position.

  Obediently, Rebecca opened her mouth and took a few sips of water, but Charity could persuade her into nothing more. As the afternoon wore on, Rebecca became hotter and more restless, tossing and turning in the bed and complaining in a most unnatural fashion that she could not get comfortable. When Fotheringay knocked at the door in the early evening, even he was forced to acknowledge that his wife would not be able to accompany him out that night. His suggestion that Charity might come in her place was rejected bluntly by her.

  “Rebecca’s unwell, and she needs me,” she said. “You do not.”

  Fotheringay puffed out his chest in indignation at this plain speaking. “Remember who pays your bills,” he said. “It ain’t that sister of yours. She h
as nothing. You’d be well advised to treat me with respect.”

  Charity bit her lip to prevent an intemperate reply. Quietly, she said, “I’m looking after your wife. You can hardly fault me for that.”

  Fotheringay peered round her—he was not tall enough to look over her shoulder—at Rebecca writhing in the sheets.

  “You don’t seem to be doing much good,” he retorted. “She’s worse now than she was earlier. Maybe, Miss Charity, she would be better for your absence.”

  Charity’s resolve broke. “It’s evening time. Her temperature is rising. Of course she’s not well. And if you would only leave me alone to look after her, she’d be doing considerably better. Now, pray excuse me!”

  If she did not slam the door in his face, it was only because that would have disturbed Rebecca further. She closed it, nonetheless, with great determination, and further expressed her feelings by making an appalling face at it. She had never particularly liked Fotheringay, but until this moment he had given her no reason for positively disliking him. She exhaled in a quick pant of breath and then turned round. Rebecca was half-sitting up in bed, her hair tangled and her expression anxious.

  “Must I get up, Charity? Must I get up?”

  “Of course not!” Charity was still angry with her brother-in-law, and her tone was consequently sharper than it might otherwise have been. She felt guilty as she saw the tears collect in Rebecca’s eyes. She forced a smile as she walked towards her. “It’s fine, Becca. There is nothing for you to worry about. Mr Fotheringay has agreed that bed is the best place for you, and that I can continue to look after you.” She bent over her sister and wiped the tears away. “So stop crying, and let your poor old body rest, all right?”

  Rebecca reached out a hand and grabbed Charity with a strong grip. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you more than I can say.”