The Sisterhood

by Penelope Friday

  “Perhaps I am a snob,” Isobelle admitted on one occasion, “but I would not like the information to be popularly known that I visited this part of London.”

  Charity tried hard not to be offended. It was not as if they lived in the slums. On the contrary, it was an elegant and extremely expensive part of town but, and this was the rub, utterly associated with trade.

  “I imagine everyone knows that I live here,” she said in response. As she came towards her second Season, she had taken to heart the principle that everyone knew everything, or nearly everything, about each other.

  “Oh yes,” said Isobelle, “but that is a little bit different. You are not involved in business, after all. And everyone has certain relatives who are…less than reputable, shall we say?”

  Charity could not answer that. If Isobelle felt that way, then she must have some reason for it. All the same, she hoped and trusted that Isobelle was referring only to Fotheringay, and not also to Rebecca. It was true that Rebecca and Isobelle had not found much spark of friendship between them, much to Charity’s disappointment. Rebecca, she knew, was intimidated by Isobelle’s aristocratic background and, scared of doing or saying something wrong, had hardly been able to speak or move at all in her presence. Isobelle had quite evidently attempted to put young Mrs Fotheringay at her ease, but the blatancy of the attempt had only served to make Rebecca even less at ease. She stammered, and blushed, and spoke in tones so quiet that even Charity, used to her sister’s voice, struggled to hear her.

  “Of course, she’s a lovely girl,” Isobelle said politely afterwards. “Nothing like you, mind.”

  Charity had heard the latter statement many times over the course of her life, but this was the first time it had been said in her favour rather than to her detriment. She could not help a little guilty wave of pleasure wash over her.

  “Much, much nicer than I am, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, now, how could that be?” Isobelle asked teasingly. “Nobody can possibly be nicer than my Harry. But seriously, dear one, a lovely girl. Just a little…well, staid.”

  “She was shy,” said Charity, half-defensively.

  “Quite understandable. But come, let us speak of other things. What dress do you think I should wear to the Galloways’ ball this evening?”

  The more Charity met Isobelle at events, however, the more surprised she became that Isobelle had wanted her as a friend. Looking around, she could see so many people approach Isobelle for a chat or, if male, for a dance. On one occasion, when Isobelle had invited her to meet to walk with her at the park—a brave adventure in the chilly days of early December—Charity said something of this. She was in Isobelle’s sitting room, waiting for her friend to decide which of a number of fetching hats she desired to show off this morning.

  “You have so many friends. It is good of you to give so much of your time to me.”

  “Good of me?” Isobelle placed the fifth hat on her head at a jaunty angle and looked appraisingly at herself in the mirror. “No, not this hat. I like your company.”

  “I do not see why,” Charity said honestly.

  Isobelle flicked a mischievous glance at her over her shoulder and then replaced the fifth hat with the third one. “You do not need to, dear Harry. You have only to be who you are. After all, you are quite unique! But come. You promised to walk with me in the park, and I insist that you keep your promise, even though it be so cold. A lady must never go back on her given word, you know.”

  Charity followed her. “This lady,” she retorted, “has no wish to do so, certainly not on this occasion. I would love to come with you.”

  It was a different experience walking in the park with Isobelle than it was walking with Rebecca, or with Charity’s mother. Mrs Bellingham had always been on the lookout for acquaintances, especially those in the higher echelons of society, with whom to pass the time of day, or more importantly, to be seen passing the time of day. Rebecca, meanwhile, would walk soberly, gazing more at the trees or flowers than at the company. Isobelle, however, could hardly go a few steps without someone wishing to speak to her. It was a little frustrating for Charity: she would have preferred to have Isobelle to herself; but nonetheless it was much more enjoyable than any of those other walks she had taken in the past. The gentlemen tended to be much less polite than the ladies, directing the vast majority of their conversation to Isobelle alone. The time had been when Charity would have been distressed by this, but Isobelle made it more than clear that she preferred Charity’s company to that of any gentleman, so Charity could bear the interruptions with equanimity. It also worked as a marker, as Isobelle pointed out to her as they watched a couple of children play, their governess hovering nearby, ready to intervene should any squabble break out.

  “Any gentleman who is so rude as to ignore you is quite clearly not worth notice himself,” she said, tucking her hand through Charity’s arm. “And really, I had no idea that so many of the aristocracy were so badly behaved before I met you.”

  “I don’t think they mean to be,” Charity said, surprising herself with her defence. “It is just that they look upon me as being part of a different class. After all, none have spoken to the governess over there, have they?”

  “Harry, you surely don’t rank yourself alongside a governess!” Isobelle protested.

  “Maybe not,” acknowledged Charity. “But it is all of the same ilk. They just do not see me as worthy of their attention.”

  “It is as I said.” Isobelle nodded. “They are badly behaved.”

  They walked a little further, and Charity looked wistfully at a couple of ladies riding by. She missed riding; it had been one of the only times at home in Forsbury where she had had a sense of freedom. Accompanied only by an uninterested middle-aged groom, she had been able to explore almost alone, released from the criticisms and disapproval of her parents. Rebecca had a horse in London, and Charity had borrowed it a couple of times; but Fotheringay had bought it with his wife’s skills and likes in mind, and the frustrating sluggishness of the animal had driven Charity to the edge of distraction.

  “Do you ride?” she asked, thinking to herself that Isobelle would look marvellous on horseback.

  “No.” Isobelle pulled a face. “I can, of course, but I don’t enjoy it. Whatever one does, one ends up covered in horsehair and smelling so strongly of animals that it is quite distressing. The maids seem to be incapable of removing all the hairs, so that I am forever finding them for the week afterwards.” She brightened. “I drive, though. I have the most delightful little phaeton, drawn by a matched pair of greys. I do think grey horses are the most beautiful, would you not agree?”

  Charity had frankly not ever considered this. It was the temperament and the bond that one built up with one’s horse which was most important to her, not their colour.

  “Ye-es,” she agreed doubtfully. “I suppose they are.”

  Isobelle laughed, correctly guessing her train of thought. “Confess it: you have never even considered the colour, now have you?”

  Charity shook her head with a wry smile. “To be honest, no. Do you truly drive your own carriage?”

  “I will take you out with me,” Isobelle promised. “Then you will see the difference from mere riding.” She smiled, and lowered her voice. “And I have other things to share with you, even better things, if you care for them.”

  Charity felt her heart thumping inside her. She was not sure what Isobelle meant, but she was very certain that she was willing to learn any lessons Isobelle wished to teach her. She did not have words to answer, but she suspected that Isobelle saw it written all over her face. Isobelle was…was everything, and Charity would follow her anywhere she wished to lead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the following morning, Charity had convinced herself that she was being foolish, reading far too much into Isobelle’s comment. Her friend had made a vague reference to ‘new things’; certainly she had done so in a meaningful tone, but the meaning might have been anyth
ing. It was ridiculous of Charity to feel such emotional turmoil over such a simple comment. Isobelle might have meant anything or nothing at all.

  It was clear when she and Isobelle next met two days later that Isobelle really did have something she wanted to talk to Charity about. Ostensibly, it had been agreed that the two ladies would take a trip to the milliner’s, for Isobelle wanted to buy a new hat (her particular obsession), and Charity had been putting off retrimming one of her own for long enough and must bite the bullet and at least buy some supplies. However, unusually, Isobelle was not so keen to go shopping when Charity arrived. She suggested tea and then decided against it; asked Charity if she did not think that it looked like rain and then dismissed the idea herself; spoke vaguely about staying in to make sure her mother was all right and then, seeing that Charity looked anxious, corrected herself and admitted that Lady Greenaway was no more ill than usual. Finally, flicking a glance up at Charity from below lowered lashes, she said: “The truth is, of course, that I want to speak to you about something, and am wondering how to find the words.”

  Charity had never known Isobelle short of words. “That sounds interesting,” she said politely.

  “I am wondering whether I dare tell you about something,” Isobelle explained, a slightly mischievous expression on her face, for she must know perfectly well that Charity would allow her to ask anything she wanted.

  “But of course,” Charity said.

  “I have a group of friends,” Isobelle said. “Special friends. Particularly special friends.”

  “Oh.” Charity tried not to feel downhearted by hearing about Isobelle’s ‘special’ friends. What was she, then? A passing interest? Had it been arrogant of her to hope she was more than that?

  “We call ourselves the Sisterhood,” Isobelle continued, her eyes fixed on Charity as if making sure she did not miss a single fleeting emotion which crossed her friend’s face, “and we are a particularly exclusive group.”

  “I see,” Charity said, not seeing at all.

  A smile flickered into life. “No, you don’t. Anyway, we hold private meetings quite regularly. One of them is happening soon, in fact, to celebrate the beginning of the Season. Oh, I know it’s a little early, when it’s usually only considered to start in January, but most people are back in town by now.”

  Many of the ton, Charity knew, liked to be in town over Christmas, to take part in any festivities that were taking place. For herself, Christmas was a time to be survived rather than enjoyed: her childhood experience had been that enforced bonhomie brought out the worst in her mother, and she could not anticipate enjoying the time of year, even in her mother’s absence, welcome though that would be. She turned her mind back to Isobelle’s description of the Sisterhood.

  “Is it a bit like…like Almack’s?” Charity suggested tentatively. Almack’s was a social club with strict rules and regulations. No one might attend without a ticket and invitation from one of the club’s Patronesses, who ruled over it with a rod of iron. Charity, of course, had not been within any distance of attending, but she knew that Isobelle went regularly to their balls.

  Isobelle gurgled with laughter. “No! Sorry, Harry, you were not to know. But oh goodness, the Sisterhood compared to Almack’s! I must tell the other ladies! Cara—Lady Carolina Farrell, you know—will be so entertained.” She paused. “And yes, by the way, we are all ladies. A very special sort of ladies.” Charity nodded, and Isobelle moved nearer. “Aren’t you going to ask what sort of ladies we are?” she murmured.

  “W-what sort of ladies are you?” Charity asked, obedient but bewildered.

  “Oh, now, I’m glad you asked that. You see, we are ladies who love ladies,” Isobelle said. Charity had never heard of such a thing, and for a second she was open-mouthed with surprise. Yet suddenly, everything slipped into place. At last it all made sense: Charity’s feelings for, Isobelle. How long had she been attracted to Isobelle? Perhaps since the very first moment she had seen her. “You are one of us, are you not?” Isobelle pressed. Her blue eyes glinted as if daring Charity to deny it.

  Charity was too shocked to deny anything. Her whole world had changed in an instant, and it could never be the same. “How did you know?” she blurted out. “I…I mean—”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Isobelle assured her, smiling.

  “But you cannot be suggesting that…”

  “That what? That I want to do this?”

  Isobelle got up on tiptoes and placed a gentle kiss on Charity’s lips. It should have been wrong, but it was so right. Charity trembled, her whole body tingling in response to those soft lips against her own. She wanted Isobelle to do it again, and then again. Unwanted, a comparison came into her mind: when Fotheringay had tried to do something like this, she had been repulsed. With Isobelle, she was anything but.

  “I never…I didn’t…I think…” But Charity could finish none of the sentences. She had no words to describe her feelings.

  “Would you object if I kissed you again?” Isobelle asked, still looking up into Charity’s eyes. “You did not pull away last time.”

  “I don’t know.” Charity was scared by the depths of her feeling, scared by how much she wanted Isobelle to kiss her again. But she could not say it aloud.

  “Oh, Harry!” Isobelle laughed. “So unsure, so worried always. Why don’t you trust yourself, trust me?”

  It hurt, just a little bit, to be laughed at by Isobelle. Isobelle was beautiful, confident—everything that Charity would like to be. She was delicate, as a lady should be, not a mess of gawky long limbs and tiresome flyaway hair.

  “I’m sorry,” she said bravely, taking a breath. “Of course I trust you.”

  “Of course you do, silly,” Isobelle said. “And you will attend the meeting?”

  “A meeting of other ladies? Like me, like—” She took in a sudden, disbelieving gasp of air. “Like us?”

  “Yes, dear Harry. Did you really think you were the only one?” teased Isobelle.

  Charity had not recognised her own desires, let alone considered that another might share it. She blushed hotly. “I…don’t know. I must speak to my sister, of course. She may have plans that can’t be changed.”

  “I’m sure your sister will agree to let you come to me, even if she is busy.” Isobelle brushed over Charity’s anxiety. “She knows you will be safe with me.”

  Rebecca might know it, Charity thought, but she wasn’t sure that she did. The feelings she had for Isobelle were anything but innocent: confused, tangled skeins of anxiety and desire, of worshipfulness and uncertainty. For Charity, Isobelle was anything but safe.

  But it seemed that Isobelle was correct about Rebecca’s response. Charity caught her sister that evening, as she was preparing to go out. Whilst the maid prinked and prepared Rebecca, Charity explained in the simplest, most innocent of ways about the Sisterhood.

  “It is a group of ladies. Lady Carolina Farrell is a member, I know, as well as Isobelle. To be honest,” she added, apologetically, “I am not certain of many of the other ladies, but I will be able to tell you about them after the event, if you are not going to forbid me to go?”

  Rebecca caught her sister’s gaze in the mirror. “Charity…I, forbid you to go anywhere?” she asked. “Is it really likely?”

  Charity gave a reluctant laugh. She had known that Rebecca would not object. Perhaps part of her had wanted her sister to do so however. It had all happened so fast—that kiss from Isobelle; the information that there was a secret group of ladies who met with the same unusual desires; a suggestion that Charity join them, that the kiss was not just ‘a kiss’ but an entry to a whole new world. Charity had found it hard enough getting used to the London that she knew. To change it all now and begin again, in a way, seemed terrifying. But Isobelle had asked her, and above all things Charity wanted to please Isobelle.

  “I suppose not,” she admitted. “But I had to ask you about it.”

  “Of course.” Rebecca began to nod, but the
movement drew a squawk of protest from her maid, who had just begun to arrange her hair. “Sorry Molly,” she said to the maid. “When is the meeting?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” Charity tried to dampen down the anxiety inside her. “At Isobelle’s house.”

  “Then you must go, of course, and tell me all about it afterwards.”

  But that, Charity thought grimly, was something she certainly would not do.

  The night passed fast, and the morning faster, so that the time for Charity to attend the meeting of the Sisterhood seemed to rush upon her, like a torrent of water she could not hold back. She dressed carefully, as perhaps for the first time in her life her choice of dress seemed imperative. What impression would she give? What would these other ladies think of her? Indeed, who were these mysterious ladies who loved other ladies? Charity fretted and changed from one dress to another several times before making her choice. In the end, she chose a light-grey muslin: plain, almost Quakeress-like. She realised that she hoped not to be noticed, as if she could attend the Sisterhood almost as a ghostlike figure—someone who wasn’t really there, who did not need to draw attention. But the dress was nonetheless one of her more expensive ones, and one both Rebecca and Isobelle had complimented in the past. Its simplicity suited her, and somehow the quiet colour seemed to minimise her height.

  She was ten minutes later than she had intended by the time the rest of her toilette had been completed. The carriage was already at the door, and she had a moment only for a quick farewell to her sister before she climbed in and was borne away to her fate. As they drove up the street, Charity had her first glimpse of a member of the Sisterhood: the door was quickly closing behind an elegant lady in a pink, sprigged dress. It was no one she recognised, and Charity was not sure whether to be relieved or regretful on that level. Would it be worse to come face to face with someone she had met regularly on a different level, at picnics or concerts, or to walk into a room full of complete strangers? Neither option sounded comfortable and she had not come to any conclusion before the coachman was opening the door and assisting her out of the carriage. Perhaps that was as well, she thought to herself: if she had picked one, then the chances were high that the other option would be what she discovered. The front door opened to allow her in, and she saw Isobelle waiting in the hall for her.