“Let me know when you have heard from your mother,” her new friend said as they parted, holding Charity’s hand for a second between her own much smaller ones. “Will you do that?”
“Of course.” Charity wondered whether that would be the last occasion on which they met, and again felt that tug of sadness. “And…and thank you.”
Chapter Eleven
Charity did not have too long to wait, after all, for her mother’s response. It was a mere two days later that the letter arrived. She snatched it up the moment she saw her mother’s handwriting on the envelope, for the first time anxious to hear from her remaining parent. She noticed that it was addressed both to herself and Rebecca, but then if she were going to move to Bath, her sister would need to know the details. A pang of regret washed over her at the thought that she might speak only one more time with Miss Greenaway. Somehow, in the other lady, she had found something that she had not known that she was looking for, without which she would be forever not-quite complete. She would miss Rebecca too, of a certainty, and the thought of living only with her mother was not a particularly attractive one. But of course, Miss Greenaway probably had no thoughts of continuing their acquaintance, and living with Mrs Bellingham was better by far than living in fear of Fotheringay. Sliding the envelope carefully open, she took out the sheets contained within and smoothed the first one out. Mrs Bellingham had written: My dear daughters,
I hope that you are both keeping well, and that Charity is behaving correctly. I know I need not ask about you, Rebecca: you have always been well-behaved. I myself am leading a very quiet life in Bath, and cannot possibly have Charity here, as I believe I told you before the wedding. I cannot think what brought you to suggest it, Charity. Besides, however unlikely the possibility of Charity attracting a suitor, she certainly has more chance in London than in Bath. Charity, you must just make more effort to be obliging to your brother-in-law.
Now for my news. You will be glad to hear that taking the waters has had a salubrious effect. I have—
But Charity read no more. She felt suddenly faint, her breath coming out in gasps. It was cruel, cruel, to send such a letter. She had known that her mother did not love her, but to dislike her enough to send an epistle like that… For the first time in her life, she had begged her mother to help her, and her mother had rejected her plea.
“Charity?” Rebecca’s gentle voice pierced the fog in Charity’s mind. She blinked a couple of times and then turned to look at her sister.
“I’m fine. I just felt a little dizzy for a moment. Forgive me. I think I will go and rest in my room.”
Rebecca hurried across the room and slipped an arm around Charity’s waist. “You do look pale. Is there anything I can do?”
If her mother’s disdain had cut Charity to the heart, Rebecca’s sympathy nearly destroyed her.
“No, I…must go.”
She pulled herself free of her sister’s grasp and half-ran towards her room. She knew she was behaving oddly, perhaps unkindly, but she could not bear any company in that moment, least of all Rebecca’s. When she reached her chamber, she flung herself face down on the bed and finally let out the emotion she had striven to hide.
When the sobs subsided, she took a few soothing gulps of air, wiped tear-stained cheeks with a shaking hand and began to think. It was clear that she could not turn to her mother for help. Now that she was calm again, she wondered distantly how she could possibly have believed that Mrs Bellingham would come to her rescue. Miss Greenaway’s confidence had bolstered Charity’s own—but then Miss Greenaway did not know Charity’s mother. Charity should have realised that Mrs Bellingham would not suddenly produce the maternal love that hitherto Charity had never experienced from her. It had been foolish of her to expect anything else. No, she would have to cope by herself, just as she always had done, yet this time even more alone than usual, for she could not confide the least hint of this particular problem to Rebecca.
Sitting up suddenly, she raised a startled hand to her mouth. Rebecca. What could she possibly say to Rebecca that would explain that letter from her mother? Becca must be wondering why Mrs Bellingham had felt the need explicitly to say that Charity might not join her in Bath: she must have realised that Charity had requested a move she had been previously outspokenly grateful to avoid.
To her surprise, however, Rebecca asked no such thing. Indeed, Charity would have found her lack of comment extremely confusing and potentially worrying had she any concern left for such a thing, but, caught up in her own issues, she could only be thankful that Rebecca did not ask the obvious question. Of course, she thought that night as she lay in bed, in the few days since Fotheringay had learnt of Charity’s association with Miss Greenaway, he had not tried to touch her again. In fact, he barely spoke to her at all, something for which she could only be extremely grateful. But would his awe would wear off in time? Charity shivered at the thought that she might find herself in a similar situation in the future. It was almost too frightening to contemplate.
And would Charity continue to be under Miss Greenaway’s protection anyway, she wondered? Her heart sank. It might be that Miss Greenaway, who had clearly believed that their friendship (if thus it could be described) would only be short-lived before Charity moved away, would cease to show an interest in her. After all, who could blame her for that? That Charity had fallen so strongly for Miss Greenaway was one thing: she, after all, was kind, beautiful and talented. But there was no good reason, truly no reason at all, for Miss Greenaway to have any interest in her. In fact, there had been no need in the first place for the lady to have taken such notice of a girl who had quite literally stumbled into her path. Expecting her to continue mentoring Charity forever was surely unreasonable and perhaps even arrogant. Charity bit back a cry of anguish. London without Miss Greenaway—it might seem ridiculous after only two meetings, but it was so—was unbearable to think of. But at the same time, what right had she to force herself upon the lady’s notice? She turned over the problem in her mind as she tossed and turned in her bed. What should she do? What could she do? Well, Miss Greenaway had asked her to let her know what response Charity received from her mother. That was something. Charity would write to her: that way, she would not look as if she was assuming on Miss Greenaway’s good nature, but she would at least have made contact. And surely Miss Greenaway would recognise her at balls, if nothing else. It was not what she longed for, but perhaps it would suffice.
Putting pen to paper the next morning, then, she attempted to compose a missive she hoped would hit the right notes of gratitude and information, without appearing to wish for anything further from Miss Greenaway. Packing away all her tangled emotions for the moment, she tried to keep her language simple and clear.
Dear Miss Greenaway,
I am just writing to thank you for your support and help over the past week. Words cannot express how grateful I am. You were kind enough to suggest that I might tell you when I received my mother’s response to my letter to her, which came today. Unfortunately, she is unable to have me with her in Bath; but, since the day I first met you, I have had no further problems with Mr Fotheringay, so I hope and believe that the necessity which drove me to write to her in the first place has passed.
With greatest gratitude and respect,
Charity Bellingham
After folding the letter and then addressing it, Charity went downstairs. It was as well to conclude the business now, so she requested that a footman take the letter round immediately. Then, following her pattern of many years standing, she went to the piano. If anything could take her thoughts off her troubles, it would be playing through her favourite pieces. And goodness knew, she thought ruefully, that she was in need of the practice. She sat down and played through a couple of her favourite sonatas, and then, finding one that was in need of more in-depth practice, she settled herself to perfecting it.
She hardly knew how long she played, but she was disturbed from her task a while later by the fo
otman’s return.
“Miss Greenaway wrote a reply, Miss,” he said, offering her a folded sheet.
“Thank you.”
He bowed and left. Charity, absently admiring Miss Greenaway’s delicate script, opened the letter as fast as she dared. She did not expect to see much writing—an immediate response would hardly lead to flowing passages—but the note was even shorter than she had anticipated.
Dear Miss B,
Come and tell me all about it! Come now—or at latest, tomorrow morning. I will stay in expecting you to call in the morning.
Best wishes,
Miss Greenaway
Chapter Twelve
When Charity paid the expected call to Miss Greenaway’s house the next day, she did so with a strange fluttering in her stomach. Until this point, she had always wondered whether Miss Greenaway was just being kind: at the point where Charity’s immediate problem was solved, would she fade out of Charity’s life with not a second thought? Now, though, it seemed that Miss Greenaway was willing, even pleased, to continue the friendship.
From the first moment Charity had seen her, dancing at the ball, she had thought and dreamt about Miss Greenaway more than she could really explain by any logical process. Miss Greenaway had been a fairy princess, an idol to be adored from a safe distance. It had never occurred to Charity that she would speak to the other lady even once, let alone be on terms of friendship with her. And now that she had met Miss Greenaway and discovered that not only was she beautiful, but kind, warm-hearted and generous to the last degree, Charity barely knew how to cope with her emotions and feelings about her. She felt hot and cold all at once, desperate to meet her again, and unsure about how she would possibly manage to say good morning, let alone hold a conversation. She had thought it a fleeting friendship on their previous meetings; now, though, the possibilities of a stronger bond filled her with both hope and fear. And her jumbled emotions made it difficult for Charity to know whether she was looking forward to the visit, or dreading it.
It seemed strange, too, that the thought of the Greenaways’ house was positive. She had only been there twice before, neither time the best of circumstances: it would seem more natural to associate the journey and the house with the chaos and distress in which she had first discovered it. But it felt instead almost like a safe place. If Charity anticipated the meeting with Miss Greenaway with mixed feelings, the house itself still seemed like a refuge. And when she arrived, she felt, and perhaps it was just imagination, that the staff welcomed her in with more warmth than was strictly necessary. The pleasure with which Miss Greenaway greeted her, too, helped Charity get over the worst of her nerves.
“Miss Bellingham!” She came towards Charity, her hands held out to her. Charity felt herself tremble as their fingers touched, and she pulled away after a second, confused and embarrassed by the feeling. Miss Greenaway did not seem to notice however. “It is so lovely to see you again,” she continued. “Mama is resting this morning. Her doctor is attending her this afternoon, and she always likes to be at her best when he comes. You might think that this is somewhat at odds with the usual situation in which one calls a doctor, but nothing will cure her of this tendency! Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you.” Charity sat, feeling it was safer so. “It was good of you to invite me to visit again. I had not intended to intrude any more than I already have done.”
“It is not an intrusion but a pleasure,” Miss Greenaway said. “Now, tell me everything. How can your mother possibly refuse to house you? Did you explain the situation?” She stopped. “Forgive me, I am impertinent. You are quite within your rights to tell me that it is none of my business.”
“When you have been so kind,” Charity said gratefully. “I think you have earned the right to call it your business, if you are sure you are interested.”
Miss Greenaway laughed. “Unkind people might call it nosiness. I am glad you do not. Forgive me asking, but is your mother so very ill? I recall that you said she was taking the waters in Bath.”
Charity felt as if she had lost a layer of skin: somehow, all the worst, most painful parts of her life were on show to Miss Greenaway. The lady had every right to ask, but oh! It hurt to speak of it. She hated to confess to her heroine that her mother cared so little for her that she had refused to help in Charity’s deepest hour of need. How could she expect Miss Greenaway to like her when even her own mother could not love her?
“She is not ill…that is…” She stumbled to a halt and tried again. “I do not think my mother ever wanted children,” she said baldly. “Certainly not one such as I. I am afraid I am a very bad daughter.”
“That I am sure you are not,” interrupted Miss Greenaway warmly.
“I am, though. I am not quiet, gentle or biddable. My mother and I never got on, and I can only presume that she has discovered in my absence that her life could be so much better. I do not…I should not blame her,” she corrected herself. She looked up at Miss Greenaway. “I do blame her. I am angry and hurt.”
“I am angry on your behalf,” Miss Greenaway assured her. “If it were not for the fact that I will now be able to continue my friendship with you, I would be furious. Forgive me if I admit that I feel a little pleasure that you will be staying in London however!”
Charity’s heart thumped irregularly. Was Miss Greenaway really so very keen to keep her friendship? It seemed impossible. Who was Charity really, after all? An ordinary girl, whose mother didn’t even love her. Why should a rich, beautiful, gifted lady like Miss Greenaway show such an interest? She stammered something of this nature aloud, but Miss Greenaway just smiled and shook her head.
“I will not allow you to talk like that, Miss Bellingham. Now, should we continue to abuse your mother’s behaviour, or should we get onto a new topic? Since we are going, I hope, to be such good friends, mightn’t we drop some of the dreadful formalities and speak to each other on first name terms? As you know, my name is Isobelle. I know you mentioned yours at one point, but I am going to be brave and confess that I have forgotten it.”
“Charity.”
“Oh yes!” Miss Greenaway gave a little smile of reminiscence. “Not “Sorry” but “Charity.” Of course! But really, dear, are you always called by all three syllables? Isn’t there some way of shortening it?”
“I don’t know. No one has called me anything else.” Charity thought, but did not say, that no one had cared enough to give her a nickname. Rebecca was Becca as often as not, but since their parents had tried to speak to Charity as little as possible, what need had there been to shorten her name? Especially when it reflected so well on her place in life: only kept by her parents out of charity, not because they wanted her.
“Well, take pity on me now.” Isobelle pressed gloved hands to her bosom, a gesture which somehow set Charity’s heart thumping more quickly than she could quite explain. “‘Miss Bellingham’ was long enough. ‘Miss Charity Bellingham’…No, a thousand times no!”
“Just ‘Charity’ will suffice, if you truly do not mind?”
“But I have already asked you to be on first name terms. Nevertheless, I think we could do better than ‘Just Charity’. An awful thought! Mayn’t I call you something shorter, something more like you? ‘Charity’…I couldn’t. I honestly couldn’t!”
“Call me anything.” Charity could hardly believe that someone as kind and lively as Miss Greenaway should even want to be on first-name terms with her.
“But it must suit you,” Miss Greenaway insisted. “Now,” she said, reaching out a hand to draw Charity closer, “stand there. Let me look at you.”
Charity stood motionless in front of her. Miss Greenaway examined her as if she were a piece of art. She cocked her head to one side to look at her, and then to the other. She walked around her. She looked her up and down. Charity flushed a little; she wasn’t used to such close attention, and to have it from Miss Greenaway was exciting, perhaps, but terrifying too. The lady must have seen some sign of her discomfort.
“Am I distressing you?” she asked, stroking Charity’s arm. “You mustn’t mind me! No one ever minds me.”
“No, no,” Charity protested. “I don’t…You mustn’t…I don’t mind in the slightest.”
She smiled brilliantly. “Of course you don’t. Now, about your name. Charry—no, that’s so ugly. Carrie? Oh no, you could never be a Carrie. It doesn’t suit your particular style of beauty.” She looked up into Charity’s face, so many inches above her own. “I have it,” she announced. “Harry. Of course. You were born to the name. I shall call you Harry.”
“But that’s…” Charity stopped. A boy’s name, she had wanted to say. But hadn’t she always felt like a boy, somehow, in some ways? Hadn’t that always been part of her problem? “That’s perfect,” she said.
Miss Greenaway looked up at her through lowered lashes. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I rather think it is.”
* * *
Much to Charity’s surprise and delight, Isobelle and she began a strong friendship. Difficult though she might find it to believe, it seemed that she was liked and valued by the one person above all others whom she would have most wished to care for her, and whom she would never had believed could possibly do so.
There were flies in the ointment, that was undeniable, but such was to be expected. It had usually to be Charity who went to Isobelle’s house rather than the other way around, for reasons that hurt a little. Charity could not fault her heroine for anything, but she wished sometimes that there wasn’t quite such a large gap between their social standings. Isobelle visited the Fotheringays’ house a couple of times, but Charity was aware that it cost Isobelle something when she visited and was torn between shame and distress, even though she knew Isobelle’s reasons and they had nothing to do with Charity herself. The truth was simply that Isobelle did not wish to give Mr Fotheringay any social advantage by her attendance at his residence. Her prejudice against Fotheringay was on two fronts: first because of the manner in which he had treated Charity, which of course Charity could understand, but second (and almost as strongly), because she and Fotheringay simply did not belong to the same social circle. When it came down to it, Charity thought sadly, the same could well be said for herself and Isobelle.
The Sisterhood Page 11