Charity had blushed, both because of the description of the relationship between herself and Isobelle, which implied that Isobelle saw her as more than just another member of the Sisterhood, and because of the reference to Lady Caroline, which was identical in nature to something Isobelle herself had said. Despite Cara’s own comments to her, Charity did not feel quite confident enough to throw herself entirely under Cara’s protection. It still seemed too much of an imposition. She had been grateful when Isobelle had shrugged and said that she would ask Lydia instead.
“Little protégé,” however, had been Isobelle’s response to Lydia. “Harry, little?”
The ladies had both laughed then, but Charity had not minded.
Now, however, she wished herself smaller, that she might more easily slip into the background. In a meeting attended solely by women, her height made her even more conspicuous than usual. And now they had arrived, both Isobelle and Mrs Seacombe had vanished on errands of their own. Lydia Seacombe had been quite frank about the fact that in her eyes this was likely to be the most interesting part of the whole evening. Charity sat quietly on a chair near the back and waited for the meeting to begin.
When it did, she found herself transfixed from the very first moment. The first speaker was a plump lady whom Charity had never seen before. Her dress was peculiar, in puce with light pink ribbons; she seemed a figure of fun, and yet Charity was certain that Lady Caroline would not invite someone to speak merely to laugh at them. She looked enquiringly at Isobelle, who smiled.
“Wait. Even Lydia occasionally enjoys these moments.”
Lady Caroline introduced her speaker, and without further ado, the lady began.
“Little child, little child, why do you cry?
Your clothes are all tattered; there’s mud in your eye.
The marks of the slave whip show the reason why
A tiny young child begins now to cry.”
There were four more verses, and the audience listened quietly. It was the merest doggerel, almost humorously bad, and yet—and yet the sincerity of the speaker and the simplicity of her words brought it home. Children were beaten and forced to labour with no payment and no hope of anything better, ever in their lives. No payment, no freedom. To labour without hope. The children might look different to the pampered sons and daughters of the elite, but they were still human. The lady was applauded when she finished for her evident passion more than her attempt at poetry, for the kindness and humanity which led the ideas, rather than the words themselves.
“They often start with some sort of story or poem,” Isobelle explained under cover of the applause. “It breaks the audience in gently. Once Cara managed to get Amelia Opie to start us off with her poem The Negro Boy’s Tale: a poem addressed to children. Although it was originally written for children, a few ladies actually cried.”
“I’ve never heard of her,” Charity admitted guiltily.
“Not? But she’s famous! A novelist, you know. And Josiah Wedgworth himself praised her. I suppose you know who he is?”
“Ye-es,” Charity said. She knew he was a jeweller, certainly, though his association with a lady poetess seemed tenuous.
“The Quaker. They’ve been against slavery for centuries, you know,” Isobelle informed her.
For someone who claimed to have little interest in the abolition of slavery, Isobelle appeared to Charity to know a great deal. Fortunately for her, before she could continue to demonstrate her own ignorance, the evening continued and the audience fell quiet once more. Lady Caroline herself gave a speech dealing with certain issues which were currently forming in terms of changing legislation: “Although we, as women, have no part in the legal process, we can perhaps encourage our menfolk to work through such channels,” she had said at one point.
It seemed odd that someone who not only had no gentlemen in her life and was committed to a society of ladies that in and of itself precluded gentlemen should speak in this way, but Charity learned that Cara was a pragmatist. Many of the ladies attending had husbands. By speaking to them in this way, she hoped to garner more support for the cause. It was well known, it seemed, that some of the most vehemently anti-slavery gentlemen in Parliament resented what they saw as the interference of ladies, and therefore asking men to voice the concerns might have more influence.
All in all, Charity was fascinated. She was humbled by her lack of knowledge and the strength of feeling apparent in the room and torn with the desire to learn more and do more. When the meeting drew to a close, she sat still in complete silence for several minutes until her attention was drawn back to herself by Mrs Seacombe. Isobelle had disappeared, she noticed for the first time; it was Lydia only who stood by her.
“You enjoyed yourself, then?” Mrs Seacombe asked gaily.
Charity was not sure that ‘enjoyed’ was quite the right word, but she nodded.
“There’s so much to understand,” she said.
“Yes, and all of it so dull!” mourned Lydia
Isobelle joined them at this point, arrayed in a grey evening cloak that shimmered in the candlelight.
“Lydia, darling, are you never serious?” she scolded gently. “You know it is important work Cara does.”
“And you, of course, find it fascinating,” Lydia tossed back.
“No,” said Isobelle slowly, “but I think perhaps I ought to. Listening to Cara and her guests speak, I can’t help feeling that I should be doing more.”
“Yes,” cried Charity eagerly, “that is what I felt!”
Lydia Seacombe shrugged. “My advice is to drink a cup of tea and wait for the feeling to wear off.”
“You’re hopeless.” But Isobelle smiled at her friend. “Harry, I saw Cara speak to you at the end. Do you feel now that you are welcome to attend? Even without this hopeless creature here,” she added, shaking her head at her friend.
“She was very kind. I’m not sure whether my sister, Mrs Fotheringay, would feel comfortable about that, though.”
“That’s easy,” Isobelle said. “Ask Cara to invite her too. The more the merrier, you know…or perhaps not quite that!”
“If you call that merrymaking,” put in the irrepressible Lydia, “you need more than a cup of tea. Allow me to correct my prescription to two glasses of champagne! And allow me also to carry you off to your respective dwellings. To think I missed Miss Jameson’s party for this!”
“I’m very grateful,” Charity said. Whilst she could not condone Mrs Seacombe’s comments, she appreciated even more the generosity that had made Lydia agree to chaperone her. “It was especially kind in the circumstances.”
“The things I do for a Sister,” Lydia said, and would brook no more gratitude.
“All the same,” Charity said to Isobelle the next day, as they met to discuss the evening before, “it was generous indeed of Mrs…of Lydia,” she corrected herself, seeing the correction on Isobelle’s lips, “to agree to go. I could see she felt little interest in the subject.”
“Oh, Lydia is a kind-hearted soul, if she is such a flibbertigibbet,” Isobelle agreed. She looked up at Charity with a quick glance, her eyes alive with mischief. “Will you think me just as bad if I admit that it is not my preferred method of entertainment either?” she asked.
“How could it be?” Charity said sadly. “It was all so…so—”
“Serious?” suggested Isobelle.
“Shocking. I had not realised…I suppose I never thought about it. Well,” Charity said with determination, “there is one thing I can do right now. I will take sugar in my tea no longer until I can be certain that I am not supporting such a dreadful trade.”
“Oh, Harry,” Isobelle said, laughing. “What a disappointing end to that sentence! For a moment I quite thought that you were intending to…I don’t know, perhaps go and work as a missionary for those poor benighted savages, or something of the kind.”
“I know it is only a small thing,” Charity acknowledged, “but I want to do something, and in truth it is
the only think I can think of as yet. I will ask Lady Caroline—”
“Cara,” Isobelle corrected her.
“Cara, then, if she will be good enough to point me towards some literature on the subject. I feel I have barely begun to understand what is happening, beyond our sight but in our names.”
“Cara will be delighted to have made such a conquest of you.” Isobelle sipped her (sugared) tea. “I quite see that something must be done, Harry, but—and I know this is sacrilege to the Sisterhood, but I must say it—can we not leave it for the gentlemen to sort out? They have made this mess, after all. Let them solve it.”
“I see your point, but…” Charity was just beginning before she was interrupted by the entrance of a footman.
“Miss Musgrove to see you, Miss Greenaway.”
Charity got to her feet again, still fighting shy of Miss Musgrove. She couldn’t understand how the lady could seem so genuinely considerate and thoughtful and yet have treated her so badly. She had kept a watchful eye on Nan Musgrove since the first Sisterhood meeting she had attended and had become more, not less, confused. She was nice—or at least, she came across so. She had a gentle sense of humour that would have attracted Charity under any other circumstances, and she was always ready to help others.
“I must be going,” she said abruptly, wondering whether there was something she might have done to spur Miss Musgrove to such unkindness. “My sister will be wondering what has become of me. Pray excuse me, Miss Musgrove. Goodbye for now, Isobelle. And thank you.”
In fact, as Charity had known, Rebecca showed no concern over the length of time her sister had been absent. She did, however, have another subject that she wanted to raise with Charity. The conversation came up as they were sitting together, Rebecca with her sewing and Charity reading a book in the window seat. It was companionable being in the same room, even when the girls were not chatting to each other. But as Charity finished her chapter and put the book down with a sigh, Rebecca looked up at her suddenly.
“Charity…” She sounded shy, and Charity looked at her with surprise.
“Yes?”
“Miss Greenaway…she calls you Harry.”
“I’d noticed.”
“But don’t you mind?”
“Mind what?” Charity leaned back against the deep window seat and eyed her sister quizzically.
“Well, it’s a boy’s name.”
“And hasn’t everyone always said I’m half a boy?” Charity asked. “The wrong half,” she added, and a note of bitterness would creep into her voice, no matter how much she tried to conceal it.
“I’ve never said that.” Rebecca walked over to her and put a hand on her arm. “My big little sister,” she said, smiling. Her conversation turned back to Isobelle. “You like her a lot, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Charity put her own hand over Rebecca’s. “So no, I don’t mind if she calls me Harry. Are your fears quenched, my dear?”
Rebecca nodded. “You didn’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all.”
But Charity’s mind went back to this conversation later, when she was alone. Rebecca, of course, did not know about the relationship between Charity and Isobelle; it would certainly never have occurred to her. And although Charity did not consider herself a man, she always had had boyish tastes in so many ways. ‘Harry’ suited her far more than ‘Charity’ ever had, she thought. And the other ladies in the Sisterhood had followed Isobelle’s lead: Charity was probably, she thought with amusement, called Harry more often than Charity these days.
She had never thought to find a home in London. She had not even realised who and what she was. But she was happy—happier than she had been in her life. Happy to be Harry, to be accepted for who and what she was. It had seemed, growing up, as if Rebecca had it all: the love of her parents (in as much as they were capable of such an emotion); a delight in the feminine pursuits which society considered suitable for a girl of the Bellinghams’ class. But where had it got her, in the end? A circumscribed life, married to a man who was no gentleman—not because of his birth but his behaviour—and forced to pander to his every whim. No, Rebecca was not so lucky after all.
But I am, Charity thought, her happiness flowing through her veins, more intoxicating than champagne. I have Isobelle, I have the Sisterhood. However did it come to this?
However had it come to this?
Chapter Sixteen
To Charity’s surprise, and not a little amusement, Lady Caroline had been speaking nothing but the truth when she said that the Ancient Greece discussion would be more heated and angry than the Abolitionist meeting. When Charity thought about it later, it seemed more obvious: of course, it was likely that only Abolitionists would attend the anti-slavery group, whereas it was quite possible to have a deep and abiding interest in antiquity and yet disagree profoundly with a fellow enthusiast. Charity had not been able to persuade Isobelle to come with her—“No, Harry, not even for you!”—but Emily and Jane had picked her up in Emily’s carriage.
Emily herself made a strong, stirring speech at the event, criticising Lord Elgin for the removal of marbles from Greece as vehemently as if he had stolen the crown jewels of England. Charity thought of the quiet, timid girl she had seen, first at Isobelle’s party, and then at a couple of balls, and was privately amused by the difference. Here, at last, Emily was in her true element. Her opinions, to be sure, were shouted down by a number of other people, but Emily seemed little concerned by this. On the journey home, she explained calmly that her father had always made it quite clear that opinions might vary, and that the important thing was to state one’s own point of view as specifically and with as little unnecessary emotion as possible. Charity had originally considered that Emily’s speech had been extremely emotive, but when she thought it over later, she realised that Emily had backed up each of her arguments with clear, precise facts. The emotion was in the power she gave to the words, not in the words themselves.
Charity herself was beginning to feel more at home in London than she had done throughout the whole of her first Season. Partly, she knew, this was because she was more used to the city life. It was partly, too, the absence of her mother, who had always been capable of throwing a dampener onto anything that Charity did, but mostly it was because of the Sisterhood’s wholehearted adoption of her. For the first time in her life, she had friends who cared for and supported her. With Rebecca at home, and her friends around her, Charity was happy.
Fotheringay and she had held an uneasy truce since the day he had assaulted her. He was clearly uncomfortable in Charity’s company, and she made no effort to change this. She knew perfectly well that if it hadn’t been for her well-to-do circle of friendships, he would not have thought twice about forcing her to do whatever he wished. She was concerned for her sister’s well-being, but Rebecca was beginning to regain the bloom she had lost in the early days of her marriage. Her gentle, agreeable nature almost disarmed Fotheringay, Charity suspected. Whilst he had presumably married her in the idea of having an obedient young woman to fill his needs, Rebecca’s willingness and lack of complaint about anything he said or did was quite probably beyond anything he had hoped for. Charity had forced herself to check with Rebecca that all was well, but her older sister had reassured her that she was content with her lot. She offered little information to her husband about her doings, and it seemed that he was prepared to allow her a surprisingly high degree of freedom provided that it did not inconvenience him in any way. It was not the lifestyle that Charity would have wished for herself, and she suspected it could hardly be what Rebecca had wanted, but they all—as Fotheringay himself might have described it—“rubbed along together rightly enough”.
The meetings of the Sisterhood did not all take place in Isobelle’s drawing room, either, to Charity’s great delight. Though she loved Isobelle’s beautiful home, it was a thrill to see new places and discover new things. Therefore, in mid-February, she received an invitation to visit a
large house on the outskirts of London with her Sisters. The owner was a friend of Lady Caroline Farrell’s. He was currently away, travelling abroad, but he had given Cara explicit permission to show guests around whenever she so pleased. The weather, which had been rainy for some days, had obligingly cleared up just in time for the picnic, and Isobelle had arranged to pick Charity up in the morning.
Charity discovered, to her surprise, that when Isobelle had promised to pick up her, she literally meant that she would do so. Awaiting the carriage, she was disconcerted when she went outside to see a small vehicle approaching. Waiting for it to go past, she realised as it stopped that the driver was Isobelle herself, in the phaeton she had once told Charity about. There was a groom up behind, who leapt down and held the horses as Isobelle went to greet Charity.
After the hellos, Isobelle said proudly,
“There, Harry! Isn’t she a beauty? I know it isn’t really the right time of year for this, but I could not resist a moment longer.”
“She’s amazing,” Charity agreed, awestruck. The phaeton was picked out in light blue designs, the colour of the sky on the morning of a warm day. It hung beautifully and seemed to be perfectly weighted. The horses drawing it were as close to identical as two animals might possibly be, and Charity acknowledged to herself that their markings did indeed work exceptionally well with the colour of the phaeton. “Isobelle, you can truly drive this?”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Isobelle mocked, leaping lightly back in and scorning the hand of her groom. “Of course I can, can’t I, Jem?”
“When you concentrate, Miss,” the groom said cautiously.
“Which I always do,” she tossed back at him.
“Which you usually does, Miss,” he replied. “Can I let ’em go now?”
“Just let Miss Bellingham in.” Isobelle reached down to Charity. “Jump up, Harry.” Obediently, Charity settled herself beside Isobelle, who took up the reins in confident fashion. “I wasn’t sure until this morning whether the weather would be fine enough to allow me to bring the phaeton,” Isobelle confided. “We will be in dreadful trouble should it start to rain, because I fear there is no cover at all.”
The Sisterhood Page 15