“Harry, darling, it is so good to see you!”
“It was kind of you to invite me.”
Though in truth, Charity wished that Isobelle had done no such thing. She had no time to dwell on this matter, however, for Isobelle was leading her towards the large downstairs drawing room.
“We usually meet down here. My sitting room would hardly be large enough to hold us all,” Isobelle explained, driving more terror into Charity’s heart with every word. “Come, in here.” Charity’s heart beat fast, and she felt almost as if she was walking to her doom. “Welcome,” Isobelle added, in her low, clear voice, “to the Sisterhood.”
Although this was not the first time Charity had visited Isobelle’s drawing room, she had never seen it so densely populated before. To her startled eyes, it looked as if there were tens—dozens!—of ladies in the room. Then, as her shock lessened, she saw there were really only five other ladies present, save her and Isobelle. Three of them she even recognised. That was Lady Caroline, wasn’t it, that angular figure on the left of the fire? She was well known for her erudition, holding literary and other soirees for a specially chosen few. Charity had never attended one, but another debutante had pointed Lady Caroline out to her in hushed tones at a less impressive party. The second was Miss Musgrove, and Charity found herself bristling at the very sight of her in a pretty pink dress with her soft brown hair curling around her head in an elegantly styled coiffure. This was someone who had pretended to be friendly only so that she could laugh about it later. Realising that she was a friend of Isobelle’s made Charity suddenly wary. Was Isobelle really as lovely as Charity had first thought? Charity shook herself. Just because one of Isobelle’s lady acquaintances had once done something unkind, it didn’t therefore mean that Isobelle would do so also. The last lady she recognised was Mrs Seacombe, a married lady a few years older than Charity. Seeing her, Charity wondered whether she had mistaken the nature of Isobelle’s invitation. Surely a married lady could not…
She bobbed a curtsey, feeling dowdy and out of place in the company. Everyone else looked so comfortable, as if they were born to attend half-secretive meetings. Charity felt as if she had stumbled into a party to which she was not invited; every set of eyes was on her, watching, judging.
“Miss Charity Bellingham,” Isobelle announced to the room. “But I call her Harry. It suits her so much better, does it not?” She smiled at Charity’s look of amazement. “We stand on no ceremony here. And men, even servants, are forbidden the room. Are you terribly shocked?”
“N-no.” Charity stumbled over her denial, and Miss Musgrove spoke up.
“Don’t tease the child, Isobelle. Everything is new.” She rose to her feet and walked over to Charity. “Nan Musgrove,” she introduced herself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again.” There was a certain hesitancy in her voice, but her hazel eyes were friendly enough. Then again, thought Charity, she had seemed so friendly on their first meeting. Appearances could be deceptive.
“And you.” Charity heard her voice squeaking in an unaccustomed manner, and she coughed in an attempt to cover her embarrassment.
“And these others…Lady Caroline Farrell, I imagine you know. She is quite the most famous of our little group. Then Miss Garland, Mrs Seacombe, Miss Louisa Walters.” Nan indicated each lady in turn.
Lady Caroline looked up from her position by the fire. “But it’s all first names here, of course,” she said, her no-nonsense tones contrasting strongly with Nan’s quiet voice and Isobelle’s sweet one. “Call me Cara. Everyone does. Mother was foolish enough to wish upon me the name Carolina, but I refused to be called any such thing. Even as a child, I believe, I was stubborn on the point. Never was a girlish Carolina type. Nothing like Caro Lamb, thank heavens! Cara, now. That’s a sensible name for a sensible woman.”
“I’m very glad to meet you,” Charity said.
“No, you’re not, not yet,” Lady Caroline said gruffly. “You’re feeling shy and awkward. Nothing unusual in that; first meeting and so on. But you will be in time. I’m told I am a useful person to know by my sisters here…Any meeting involving me will be safe from the slightest breath of scandal. Everyone knows my business, or they think they do.”
Charity nodded, unsure how she was supposed to respond to this diatribe. She glanced at Isobelle for reassurance, but Isobelle had gone, butterflying across the room in her appealing way to swap confidences with Mrs Seacombe. Miss Musgrove saw her dilemma however.
“Have you been deserted by Isobelle already?” she said. “Oh, she’s talking to Lydia. Rather ruthless of you,” she called across the room to Isobelle, “to leave your new guest so quickly. The other two are Louisa and Mary.”
“I know you would look after her, Nan of my heart,” Isobelle retorted lightly. “And I simply had to tell Lydia the latest gossip about Lord Wendham and his servant. Too, too delicious not to share.”
“Gossip,” Cara said in a tone of disgust. “Why they describe gossip as the province of elderly ladies, I do not know. It seems to me that it is the younger generation who are the purveyors of such.”
“Alas, too true,” Isobelle acknowledged. “But you forgive us this one little sin, do you not, Cara?”
“Hmph.” Cara looked back to Charity. “You come here and we can have a sensible conversation for once. If anyone here is capable of such.”
“It’s all right. She’s not nearly as ferocious as she sounds, dear Cara,” Miss Musgrove murmured into Charity’s ear as she assisted her in moving a kneeler close to Lady Caroline’s chair. “One of the old guard.”
There was clearly nothing wrong with Cara’s hearing however. “One of the old guard, indeed?” she demanded. “How dare you, Nan Musgrove?” Charity shrunk back a pace at Lady Caroline’s severe tone, but it seemed that Miss Musgrove had been correct in her description of Cara. “I am not,” the elder woman said, “‘one’ of the old guard. I am the old guard. One of them, indeed. I have never been merely a part of anything, ever.”
Charity laughed, and Cara looked across to her. “That’s better. A smile suits your face better than a frown, you know. Couldn’t have you continuing to glare down at us all with beetling brows. Now, tell me about yourself.”
Charity went home from the gathering full of whirling thoughts and emotions. The ladies had all been very nice to her: kind, polite, not treating her as if she were only one step up from a servant. She had been shocked by the very egalitarian nature of the meeting. First names for people she had only just met that very day! Everyone knowing everyone else’s business. Indeed, everyone knowing the most private information about the others. If someone joined the group deliberately to spread gossip, how much more might they get than they had anticipated. Deep friendship between ladies, with flowery, loving language, was expected. But this group was so much more than that. She had seen Mrs Seacombe—Lydia—kissing, actually kissing, Miss Garland, in a fashion that Charity did not even remember seeing her parents kiss. Though given the cool state of their relationship, that was perhaps not so surprising. But to kiss in public!
Discovering that the famed Lady Caroline Farrell was a lady-lover had also taken Charity aback. Somehow, despite Isobelle’s position in society, Charity had imagined the others of the group being less prominent. The realisation that such a respected lady was a member of the Sisterhood would take Charity some time to get used to. It had seemed curious to be ordered to speak of her own experiences to Lady Caroline (despite the encouragement, Charity could not yet think of her as Cara, not even in the privacy of her own thoughts), as if Charity herself was as important and interesting as any other member of the group. Charity had been cautious with her information, albeit taking punctilious care to make sure that Lady Caroline knew her social background. The other ladies might feel comfortable being totally open about their lives (and from what she had overheard, they certainly were open!), but Charity had been used her life long to keeping the majority of her thoughts and opinions to herself. It would take some ti
me for her to change, if indeed she ever did.
Rebecca met her when she came in.
“Hello, Charity. Did you have a nice visit?” she asked. “Did you meet Miss Greenaway’s friends? Pray, come and tell me all about it. I have been dull today in your absence. Won’t you come and cheer me up?”
“Of course.” Charity went rapidly through her thoughts, trying to find anything appropriate to share with Rebecca. She could find nothing, so she temporised: “Let me just take my cloak off and wash myself, and I’ll be with you.”
“Should I call for tea?”
Charity smiled at her. “Not on my account. I dare swear I have consumed more tea than the rest of this household put together!”
“Very well. I will be in the drawing room when you’re ready. Mr Fotheringay is still out. I believe he is due home for supper, but I do not expect him any earlier.”
Charity, aware of the listening ears of the servants—so cautiously kept out at the Sisterhood’s meeting—merely nodded. “I will be with you soon.”
Washing the grime of the city off her face and hands took only a minute, but Charity was still struggling with considerations of what she might and might not say to Rebecca as she allowed her maid to brush and restyle her hair. There seemed to be so much that she could not touch upon. However, when she rejoined Rebecca, she realised that it would be an easier conversation than she feared. Rebecca’s mind ran on the ‘who’ rather than on the ‘what’ of the group meeting. She requested details of the ladies—their dresses, their manners, their place in society. She was overawed to hear that Charity had met Lady Caroline Farrell, and asked so many questions about the lady that Charity had to protest.
“Becca, I have no idea of the stones in her jewellery! You know how I am about noticing clothes. The fact that I can even describe the basics of Lady Caroline’s dress is a miracle. Asking for more detail is impossible. You will have to meet her yourself and ask her.”
“Oh, I could never do that,” Rebecca protested quickly. “I would be too terrified to look at anything but the floor.”
“I’m sure you would later be able to give a very good description of her footwear in that case,” retorted Charity, smiling, and the girls laughed.
“And the others?” Rebecca asked. “Miss Greenaway? With a name like that, she ought to have a green dress.”
“Oh no,” said Charity seriously. “She usually wears blue. It matches her eyes so well, you see.”
“Goodness!” Rebecca’s surprise was evident, and Charity frowned, confused as to why Rebecca could find such a small detail so interesting.
“What?”
Rebecca reached out a hand towards her. “Do not be cross with me, dearest,” she said. “I merely could not help being amazed that you had noticed the colour of her eyes, and that it matched her dress! It seems so unnatural in you, when you care so little for fashion.”
Charity blushed. She noticed everything about Isobelle, if truth be known. She had not realised that she was doing so until now, but Rebecca’s comment had brought it home to her that if it had been Isobelle’s jewellery under discussion, she could have told Rebecca every piece her friend had been wearing. The necklace with the pretty blue stone in the middle—perhaps a sapphire. The way Isobelle’s hair had been caught up and how the sparkling crystals on the ribbon had made it seem to shine in the light. The simple silver bracelet she wore, which seemed in so much contrast to the rest of her attire.
“You know I’ve always described her as the lady in blue,” she said.
“That’s true,” her sister agreed. “Now, about the others. You mentioned a Miss Musgrove?”
“Yes.” Charity felt as if a cloud had been cast over her afternoon’s pleasure. “I’d met her before,” she said at last. “She was…I don’t know if you remember, Becca, but she was the one who teased me about my height. At least,” she corrected herself, “she did not tease, but she laughed with the other girls behind my back. I wish…oh, I wish she hadn’t been there.”
“Oh, dearest, how awkward for you,” Rebecca cried, her sympathy at once aroused.
Charity thought for the first time how glad she was that it was herself who had been teased and not Rebecca. It had hurt a lot to feel herself a figure of fun, but it would have hurt Rebecca that much more.
“It doesn’t matter,” she lied. “There are plenty of others. I’m sure I need not see much of Miss Musgrove if I choose not to.”
“So you will meet them again?” Rebecca asked.
Charity nodded, realising for the first time how much she wanted to return. All of that worrying and fretting over meeting a group of ladies so friendly! Isobelle had been right—of course she would have been. It suddenly hit Charity: she felt like she had been with friends. And then the fear struck. Was this all to be snatched away from her? Had the Sisterhood truly liked her, or might they be speaking to each other in private, now that she’d gone? Criticising her, laughing at her…Miss Musgrove had done it once. She might well do it again. And this time it would destroy her, she believed.
“I think so. I believe Iso—Miss Greenaway has meetings quite often. I…I don’t think I did anything to shame her,” she said, suddenly doubtful.
“You didn’t. You couldn’t,” her older sister said, always loyal. “Of course she will want you to attend again. Miss Greenaway has been so very kind to you already. It was silly of me to ask.”
“I hope you’re right.” Charity’s thoughts were troubled. “I hope you’re right.”
Chapter Fourteen
Charity did not have to live with her concerns for too long. Visiting Isobelle the next day, she was greeted with a sparkling smile and the warmest of welcomes.
“Well! That went beautifully yesterday, did you not think?” Isobelle asked.
“I…I hope so. I did not let you down?”
“Let me down? How could you possibly have done that? Anyway,” Isobelle said gaily, “I hope you felt welcome?”
“Very much so. Your friends are delightful.”
Isobelle shook her head reprovingly. “Don’t say ‘your’ friends, say ‘our friends’. You must not be unfriendly, you know! You are one of us now. As long as you want to be?” she added inquiringly. “I know I pulled you into this half-unwilling. Do you forgive me now that you have met the Sisterhood?”
“I was honoured to be invited. But yes,” admitted Charity, “I was scared in advance. Can you blame me?”
“Of course I can! What sort of person do you think I am, who would force you into a situation in which I knew you would be uncomfortable?” Isobelle rearranged some flowers in a vase as she spoke. “There, that is much better. I knew you would be scared at first. But you were not uncomfortable for too long, I hope.”
“No, indeed.” Charity pushed the thought of Miss Musgrove firmly to the back of her mind. “How could I be? Everyone was so friendly!”
“I hoped you would say that.” Isobelle grasped Charity’s hand and laid a kiss upon it. She seemed to find it so easy to perform such gestures; Charity herself would never dare even to take Isobelle’s hand in hers unless it was clearly offered, let alone to kiss her. Would she ever learn to be so free and confident in her desires? “Because,” added Isobelle, “for once we have another meeting following close upon the heels of the first. It is unusual for us. We usually have so many other commitments, and we try not to make the Sisterhood too visible by meeting too often in private. But yesterday’s meeting…Shall I shock you now? Yesterday’s meeting was really called to welcome you to our midst. Our intended meeting was to be in three days’ time, on the last Saturday afternoon before Christmas. A celebration, if you will. Can you…would you possibly agree to join us once more?”
“I…” Charity’s mind was racing. The Sisterhood had welcomed her; that was wonderful to know. But to discover that the meeting she had attended was solely for the purpose of introducing her to the group was shocking. She was glad she had not known in advance: her nerves would have been unbearable
to cope with. And now, she was invited to a second meeting, not a week later than the first!
“Have I shocked you terribly, dearest?” Isobelle asked, with amused sympathy. “They told me not to overpower you too much, and I fear I have done just that. Have I overpowered you?”
“I’m…well, I’m not certain what to say,” Charity stammered, reaching out a hand that she might lean upon a chair back for support. “They gathered to meet me?”
“Well, yes. Sit down, dear Harry, before you fall down.” Isobelle suited her movement to her words, sitting herself comfortably down on the chair to one side of the window. Charity, too stunned to do anything but what she was told, followed suit. “And they liked you a lot.”
“All of them?” Miss Musgrove would intrude herself on Charity’s mind. How could someone who had previously been so unkind to her claim to like her?
Isobelle reached over and patted her knee. “All of them who were present. Of course they did! Why, which of them were you unsure about? Cara? I know she can be an imposing character. Lydia? Were you scared by her self-confidence? You surely can’t have been worried about me!”
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