The Sisterhood

by Penelope Friday

  “Silly!” said Charity affectionately. “Now, whilst you’re awake, let me wash your face and brush out your hair. Yes, I know you have a maid to do that, but she isn’t here and I am. And anyway, you know you prefer to have me when you’re ill.”

  She cleaned and tidied her sister and then sat with Rebecca until she was confident that Rebecca had fallen asleep for the night. Fotheringay had gone out some time earlier. Charity had heard his exit: it was an unusually bad-tempered display where his valet was criticised for failing to notice a small mark on the collar of his jacket and his footman castigated for not having the umbrella at the ready to shelter him between the front door and the carriage. Rebecca had heard him too. She had said nothing about it, but Charity saw her wince at one particularly loud bellow of disapproval from below. When Rebecca was comfortably asleep, however, Charity crept to the door. Encountering her sister’s maid, she gave instructions that if Rebecca woke and asked for Charity, she should be woken up.

  At two in the morning, the knock on her door came.

  “Please, Miss Bellingham, you said as to come for you if the mistress wanted you.”

  Charity blinked the sleep from her eyes and threw off her sheets and the lingering remains of her dream. Jenny, Rebecca’s maid, stood by the doorway, a candle in one hand.

  “Yes. Thank you, Jenny. Just take me to her, and then you can go back to bed and try and get some rest.”

  The house was hardly at its warmest in the darkest hours of the night. Charity gave a little shiver as she followed the maid down the corridor to Rebecca’s room. She could hear her sister crying quietly, and when she went in, she saw a bedraggled heap of dark curls in the flickering light.

  “Now then, Becca,” she said gently, lifting her sister and cuddling her as if she were a child, “what’s the matter?”

  “I’m silly,” Rebecca cried woefully.

  “Well, I know that,” teased Charity, “but what’s the matter? It’s all right, dear. I’m here.”

  She stayed a couple of hours until Rebecca settled down again, but she never did get more answer as to what was wrong. Charity could only put it down to the melancholy of illness.

  The next day, and the next day, passed by in similar fashion. Rebecca seemed to be over the worst of her illness, but having improved to a certain degree, she then did not recover fully. Charity had wondered whether to ask Fotheringay to call a doctor in, but a tentative suggestion had got a response of “Pooh! Nonsense,” so she had left it for the present. Rebecca was certainly not dying, nor even severely ill. She was just noticeably unwell, and appeared incapable of improving further.

  In truth, Charity herself was not perturbed by spending her time in a sickroom rather than going out and about to events and engagements. She had no objection to most of them, but there were few she really mourned missing, and Rebecca’s gratitude was enough to overcome any of her remaining regrets. On the third day, however, Rebecca gave voice to her own concerns.

  “I’m sorry.” Rebecca still had skin so wan she seemed almost to fade into the sheets on the bed. “I am keeping you from so many things. It is not fair to you.”

  Charity stroked her hand. “Don’t be daft, dear sister,” she said, her tone more sympathetic than her words. “You know I like looking after you.” Charity had a reputation within her family, not unreasonably, for blunt honesty. It meant at times like this, she could choose to offer a little white lie and still be believed. After all, was it so much of an untruth? The thought of Becca sick and Charity not there to care for her was horrible. “Come, take a sip of water.”

  Rebecca reached out a hand for the glass, but Charity shook her head with a smile. She put one hand behind Rebecca’s head to raise her up a little and held the water to her lips.

  “Thank you. I am so much trouble.”

  “Shh. No more of that.” Charity lowered Rebecca back down to the pillow and set the glass on the bedside table. “Now, if I sit here beside you, perhaps you will be able to go to sleep.”

  Rebecca, indeed, looked almost asleep now. She gave a weak smile to her sister and closed her eyes obediently. Charity picked up the book she kept for these quiet moments and buried herself deep in the novel. Would Pamela prevail? Or was it already too late for the heroine? She gave a little snort of amusement. In novels, the heroine almost always did end up happy; it was only real life which proved different.

  Mr Fotheringay had not been in Rebecca’s room since early that morning. He’d taken one look at his ailing wife, said “Glad to see your sister’s caring for you” and left. Charity resented his attitude towards Rebecca but was grateful for his absence. Living with the man had not been able to reconcile her to her sister’s marriage, despite its usual peaceful nature. The age gap, and the lack of interest in Rebecca that Fotheringay showed, made it clear that although they lived in relative harmony, it was by no means an ideal relationship. Nevertheless, she admitted to herself, it must have been difficult for Fotheringay to set up house not only with a young and beautiful wife, but with that wife’s “ugly sister”. Since the moment she had heard herself described in that fashion, Charity had been unable to forget it. The sting was not in the insult itself, but in the kernel of truth within it. Fotheringay had accepted Charity’s presence in his house, and if he only barely stayed on the side of politeness to her, perhaps that was not so surprising. It was his careless disregard for Rebecca that Charity could not forgive.

  When Rebecca woke, Charity put the book aside.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “A little.” But Rebecca’s face was woebegone as she spoke.

  Charity stroked her sister’s hair off her sweaty face. “Well, there’s no need to sound miserable about it,” she said teasingly. “Anyone would think you didn’t want to get well.”

  “I don’t.”

  The words were so softly spoken that for a moment Charity thought that she must have imagined them.

  “Becca?”

  “I wish I could stay here in this room with you, forever,” Rebecca whispered. “Every time I wake up and realise I still feel ill, I am grateful.”

  Charity’s head began to spin. “Dear sister, this is just the illness speaking. It is trying to keep you in its grasp, making everything look bleak. When you’re feeling well again, you’ll laugh at yourself for the way you felt.”

  “No.” Tears collected in Rebecca’s eyes. “I won’t. I’m safe here, Charity. He doesn’t come. It’s just you and me, almost like we’re children again.”

  “You’re really that unhappy?” Charity asked. “Rebecca?”

  A tear slipped down the side of Rebecca’s face, and Rebecca wiped it away, blinking a little. “No. Don’t listen to me. I’m being silly, you’re right. It’s just that I’m not well.” She tried to raise herself, and Charity slipped another pillow behind her so that she was propped up. “You know what I am. I never had any sense.”

  “Are you so unhappy?” Charity asked again.

  “No,” said Rebecca—and burst into tears.

  Chapter Nine

  It was clear to Charity in that moment that there were undercurrents to her sister’s marriage of which she had been totally unaware. Rebecca had soon been petted and reassured out of her tears, but the revelation that her illness was actually a relief to Rebecca was quite shocking. Certainly after the first day and night, Rebecca had complained very little about her ill luck in becoming so unwell, but Charity had thought little of that. Rebecca rarely did complain, after all. And even a couple of weeks later, when Rebecca was thoroughly recovered and back to her usual daily tasks and obligations, this new knowledge stayed with Charity, permeating everything she saw and thought about.

  What was it that upset her sister so? The idea of being married to Fotheringay, Charity admitted privately to herself, was unpleasant—but then the idea of being married to anyone, and expected to “honour and obey” them, especially without the “love” usually partnered to those words in the wedding vows, was hardly
appealing. It was, however, unfortunately one of the few ways in which a lady could assure herself of a stable home. Marriages without love were hardly uncommon, and Rebecca had never thought that Fotheringay loved her.

  For a while, Charity played with the idea that Rebecca had fallen in love with someone else. That, certainly, would make her rue her enforced marriage to Fotheringay. However, she was forced to drop that theory very quickly. Rebecca showed little interest in any of the men of their acquaintance, and certainly none for one above another. Further, that explanation would not be consistent with what Rebecca had said. “I wish I could stay in this room with you, forever,” were hardly the words of a woman in love. It spoke more of a particular dislike of the marriage she was already in.

  Rebecca added no more to what she had confessed. Charity did not press her, knowing from personal experience how one said things when worn down that one would not say in other circumstances and indeed might blush about, or wish unsaid, later. But her mind worried at the problem, and she watched the couple with more jaded eyes.

  It was not through anything that Rebecca either said or did, however, that Charity discovered something of what might be bothering her sister. Rebecca had gone out for lunch with a number of other newly married ladies; Charity had been invited out of politeness, but had been quite as anxious to turn down the invitation as the ladies had been for her to do so. She spent the morning playing the piano, quite alone, and revelled in the solitude. Somewhat to her disconcertion, however, Fotheringay was home to lunch, which made for an awkward tête-à-tête between the pair of them. The meal passed mainly in silence, though Charity saw that her brother-in-law was drinking considerably more than could be healthy for him this early in the day. But it was as she got up to leave the room that the encounter became suddenly alarming.

  Fotheringay lumbered to his feet behind her. Charity thought that he was about to open the door for her, since the servants had been dismissed to their own mealtime. Instead, though, he grabbed her by one shoulder, spinning her around so that she was facing him.

  “I’ve been wanting a word with you,” he said.

  Charity, confused but not alarmed, stared at him. “Mr Fotheringay, we had the entire luncheon together. Could you not have spoken to me then?”

  “Thought I’d talk to you privately.” There was a curious emphasis on the last word, as if privacy was hard to come by. Granted, they had a greater number of servants than in any household Charity had ever been part of, but it was hardly difficult to find a moment or a room in which to speak without their overhearing.

  “Pray go on, then,” she said. “I am listening.”

  “See, I’ve been thinking. You owe me something, Charity, don’t you? To stop you being a charity girl all round, eh?” he murmured, his hot, alcoholic breath making Charity lean away from him. “You owe me rent. I keep you, I feed you. If I ask for something in return, that’s fair, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Fotheringay was drunk, that much was obvious. It was hardly surprising after the amount Charity had seen him put away at the meal. But the request for rent was bewildering. Charity had no money of her own, only the allowance her mother made her, which covered the essentials of dress and fripperies. How could she give something she didn’t have?

  Fotheringay’s hand tightened on the front of her dress; she could feel his fingers through the layers of material. She wanted to pull away, but wasn’t sure that the cheap material would take the strain. The idea of her dress fraying, or coming away entirely, leaving her half-undressed in front of this man, was horrifying. Terrible enough as the situation was, she could not bear to be so literally exposed in his presence. Charity raised her hand to his to try to disentangle it, her fingers trembling a little though she did not know why. But his grip was firm.

  “Come here. Come an’ give your brother a nice kiss,” he slurred. “Tha’s all I’m asking. A nice kiss, maybe a bit more. You can’t be as frigid as that blessed sister of yours, eh?”

  With a sudden, sickening realisation, Charity knew what he wanted. What he meant. He was already leaning in towards her, the stench of sweat and brandy assailing her nostrils. For a second, she was paralysed, but then she came to herself.

  “No! I won’t!” She pulled away—anything was better than this, even finding her dress torn apart in her escape—but the dress was clearly made of sterner stuff than she had realised. His grip didn’t loosen. She took a breath. “Mr Fotheringay, if you do not let go of me this second, I will scream until every servant in the house comes to discover the meaning of this. Now, leave me alone.”

  Whether it was the threat, or sheer surprise at Charity’s determined tone, Fotheringay’s grasp became unsteady. With a determined yank, Charity was free, and then she was fleeing down the stairs towards the front door as if running for her life. Instinct made her stop a second to find a pair of shoes, but thinking that she heard Fotheringay’s step on the stairs, she could do nothing but slip on the first pair she found. Tears she had no memory of shedding were on her cheeks, and her heart beat fast and heavy. She had nowhere to go, no idea save one—that she must get as far away from Fotheringay as possible.

  Charity stumbled down the residential street, angry, scared and a little ashamed. She must surely have done something to encourage Fotheringay’s advances. Shivering in the cold November air, it was only now that she realised that she had no cloak or pelisse with her. She must look a sight. More tears scalded her face at the thought, and made her eyes too blurry to see properly. She felt her petticoat rip as she tripped on the edge of it and fell headlong to the street.

  “Goodness. Can I help?”

  Charity looked up at the lady who had spoken. She was descending from a carriage with an air of elegance Charity had never reached. Her eyes were bluest blue and her voice so sweet. Charity’s face flamed red with embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry. I must be in the way,” she said stupidly.

  The lady bent down to her. “Victor,” she said sharply to the coachman. “Help this lady to her feet.”

  The coachman jumped down promptly, easing Charity to a standing position once more. “That all right, ma’am?”

  Charity wasn’t sure whether he was speaking to her or to the other lady. Either way, she could not find the right words.

  “Wonderful,” her benefactress said, smiling at him.

  Charity looked fully into the lady’s face for the first time, and her breath caught for another reason. It was the lady in blue whom Charity had watched dancing so many times. She was beautiful. Even more beautiful close up than she had been at a distance. Not merely pretty, like Rebecca, but beautiful.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  The lady smiled at her. “And I’m Miss Greenaway. Are you really called ‘Sorry’? It seems a curious name for a lady. I can see that you are a lady,” she added.

  Charity, whose face was beginning to regain its normal colour, flushed once more. “I cannot be said to be acting like one,” she said. “I apologise. My name is Bellingham. Charity Bellingham.”

  Miss Greenaway giggled infectiously. “Really? Not ‘Sorry’ but ‘Charity’?” She sobered. “I should apologise. It is unkind to laugh.”

  Despite herself, Charity’s lips began to curve into a smile. “I’m afraid that really is my name.”

  “Why don’t you come in for a minute?” Miss Greenaway suggested. “We are just outside my house. You look as if you are in need of a quiet place to sit.”

  “I’m fine,” Charity said hastily. “Really.”

  The other lady shook her head. “You really aren’t. Come.” She reached her hand out to Charity. “I won’t bite, I promise.” Then, more quietly, “You really don’t wish to continue down the street as you are now, you know. I realise something must have happened. But come in, sit down, recover yourself.”

  Charity took a deep breath. Miss Greenaway was correct; she could not continue to run pell-mell down the streets as she had be
en doing. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know why you should be so kind, but I’m grateful.”

  “Victor?” Miss Greenaway turned to the coachman once more. “Please take Miss Bellingham’s arm and assist her into the house.”

  He stepped towards Charity, but although she had allowed him to help her to her feet, the thought of having a man touch her again was repugnant. She saw, in her mind, Mr Fotheringay, and felt his rank breath against her skin once more.

  “No!” she said sharply. Then, suddenly aware that she was making the scene she had realised so recently she must not, she added, “Thank you. I’m perfectly able.”

  Victor nodded his head. “If you say so, ma’am,” he said, his voice showing clearly what he thought of young ladies who fell over in the street and then refused help.

  “That’s fine,” Miss Greenaway said. “Come, Miss Bellingham, you cannot refuse to take my arm, at any rate. Victor, please take the coach round. I can manage from here.”

  “Certainly ma’am.”

  He turned back toward the coach with the merest disapproving glance at Charity. Miss Greenaway offered her hand, gloved in pale blue, to Charity, and Charity went to take it, but hesitated.

  “My hand is all messy.” She had no gloves on, and when she had fallen, she had scraped her palms so they were dirty—much like the rest of her, she thought, becoming conscious of the state of her dress. Her left thumb was bleeding, just a little bit.

  “So are the gloves,” her new friend said gaily. “Come.” She took Charity’s hand and led her up the steps into the imposing house. “I live here with my mother,” she explained as the butler let them in. “Unfortunately, she is an invalid, so I hope you will understand if she is unable to meet you. There is no disrespect intended.”

  “It’s more than I deserve,” Charity said. “I don’t know why you have been so kind.”

  “Silly! It’s what anyone would do.”

  But that, thought Charity, was not her experience. She fought off a wave of self-pity impatiently. “I’m very grateful, anyway,” she said.