“I beg your pardon?” Nan looked up, as if checking that Charity had not suddenly lost her mind.
“For misjudging you. I’ve felt terrible about it since I discovered, but didn’t know how to say it.”
“Oh.” Nan was silent for a moment. “Oh dear,” she said at last, smiling but blushing. “Must I confess?”
“Confess what?” Whatever path Charity had anticipated this conversation taking, this was not it. “I don’t understand.”
“If you must know, you were perhaps not the only person to misjudge another.” Charity raised her eyebrows. “When you snubbed me…I was hurt, of course. But shortly afterwards, I thought I had found out the reason why. The news of your sister’s betrothal was the talk of the ton, you know.”
“I still don’t…Oh.”
“’My sister requires my attention’,” Miss Musgrove said reminiscently. “And shortly afterwards, that same sister’s betrothal was announced…to a rich man.”
“And you thought I only cared about money. Oh, Nan!”
“Whereas you thought I was cruelly laughing at you behind your back,” Nan threw at her teasingly. “Shall we acknowledge that we were both unfairly prejudiced and move on?”
“I…” Charity stopped and shook her head, amused. “Well, they say that confession is good for the soul,” she said. “We must both have spotless spirits after this moment.”
Miss Musgrove laughed. “Trust you to come to that conclusion, Harry. Spotless spirits or none, I’m glad we’ve talked about it and got everything out in the open. It’s so much more comfortable that way, do you not think?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes, of course it will be. I like your way of looking at things.”
“I think we in the Sisterhood,” Nan began thoughtfully, “tend to be a bit inclined that way. Having hidden a part of ourselves, sometimes for years, now that we have the freedom to be who we truly are in one sense, there’s an inclination towards honesty in all things, at least to our Sisters. Or that’s how I feel, anyway.”
“That does make sense. Goodness, if you knew how scared I was of you to begin with. Lady Caroline in particular.”
“Cara?” Nan said. “Oh, she’s just a pussycat. You surely know that by now. Gruff on the outside, but soft inside.”
“I know someone else a little like that.” Charity propped her head on her hands and looked thoughtfully at Nan.
“Me?” Nan asked in some surprise. She laughed. “No, I’m more of a dog. Running eagerly around, wanting to help and only succeeding in bringing back the stick that her owner had wanted to throw away!”
Charity giggled. “What an image! So what animal would you compare me to?”
“Hmm.” Nan looked at her consideringly. “Are you sure you really want me to answer that? After all the misunderstandings we’ve had in the past, I’m loath to risk another.”
“Why? Is the creature which came to mind so terribly fearsome?” Charity asked. “It’s no use, Nan. Having gone so far, you will have to continue, or I’ll believe forever that you wished to compare me to a cockroach!”
“That was not the animal I had in mind,” Nan assured her seriously. “No, really, I just don’t want to say the wrong thing, and it is so easy to get offended, even if a statement is not meant that way.”
“Stop, stop!” cried Charity. “An easily offended cockroach!”
“Well, I shall stop digging myself into an ever deeper hole. You were, perhaps, prickly to start with, but I don’t see you as a hedgehog either! No. I wonder if I can explain…” She was looking Charity up and down, as if sizing her up—not just considering her length, but the quality of what was inside her as well. “There is something…When I first saw you, last season, you seemed…how can I say it? As if you were in a cage. A polite, velvet, smart cage, but one you hated. Somewhere you could not feel at home. Now, seeing you with the Sisterhood, it is as if you have been freed. A wild bird, caught and kept in a cage for others’ amusement, now flying again. Or perhaps learning to fly for the first time.”
“Oh.” Charity looked at Nan with startled eyes. “That’s beautiful. Poetic.”
“Poetic nonsense.” Nan blushed a little.
“Of course, you probably mean a goose,” Charity added, trying to lighten the atmosphere, and succeeding as she saw Nan grin. “But still, you have something there. I think of late, this is the first time I have felt I have belonged anywhere. And whilst we were still at odds—all right, I will not speak of that any more,” she promised hastily, seeing Nan open her mouth to protest. “But it made it harder to feel at home. Now…Well, now it is all different. I feel as if I have found a friend. At least, I hope so?” she finished, an inquiring note in her voice.
“A friend in me? Of course,” Nan said, too heartily to be doubted.
And so the friendship was cemented.
Chapter Eighteen
Even though she had said that she felt like she belonged, it took time for Charity really to get used to being part of the Sisterhood, with all the benefits and challenges it involved. After making up the quarrel with Nan Musgrove, she was now spending time with the lady and liking her even more than she had on that first occasion. She was as familiar to Nan’s parents as she was to Lady Greenaway, having visited so often. Sometimes Charity mourned for all the time she had lost with her mistrust of Nan, but she was so happy in other ways that she could not be too regretful.
The moment she realised that she was completely comfortable with the Sisterhood was when she noticed that she could start a conversation with Lady Caroline without thinking twice about the differences in their age and status. It seemed a peculiar way to discover you were at home, but then, Charity thought idly, they were a peculiar bunch of ladies, all in all. She mentioned this to Cara, tentatively.
“I was just thinking,” she said, “about how different we all are, in our situations and selves and…well, everything.”
“Most people are,” Cara said.
“Yes, of course. It was silly of me to be so surprised, but…So many different ladies, so many backgrounds, and yet we are all invisible, secret, unable to be whom we truly are.”
“I think you’ll find many ladies, even within the normal ones, who feel the same way. But I know what you mean. It is not a total secret, our type of deviancy. There have always been ladies who have either been public about their love for one another, or who have been found out. Common understanding is that such ladies attract each other because they are incapable of attracting a man. But that’s clearly not so. You see Lydia and Charlotte Wentworth with their husbands. Then there is Isobelle, who has had more offers of marriage than the rest of us added together, no doubt. And even I…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I was engaged once,” Lady Caroline said. “Nice feller. Loved him like a brother.”
“But you never married?” Charity asked, with interest.
“He died. Horse-riding accident. A few too many brandies, and”—Lady Caroline made a wide gesture with one arm—“whoomph. They said it was immediate. Not sure how true that was. I cried for days. Often wonder how life might have been.”
“I’m sorry.” Charity leaned towards her. “That must have been…I don’t have the words.”
Lady Caroline lifted one of Charity’s hands to her lips and kissed it. The gesture was quite matter-of-fact—unemotional, even. “Bless you, child. No need to fret on my behalf. It didn’t turn me to women, y’know.” She smiled. “Knew at the time it wasn’t love, but then marriage ain’t supposed to be. I liked him well enough. Sad to see him die. But I don’t know whether to be amused or sad when people presume—for they do, you know—that I never married for the sake of Duncan. As I say, nice man. But he never interested me that way.”
Charity could feel herself blushing and was irritated by her own body’s betrayal. “I didn’t…”
Lady Caroline looked at her thoughtfully. “You knew about yourself, didn’t you?”
“I…�
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Lady Caroline gave her characteristic nod. “That it ain’t men. Fact. You know it.”
Charity thought of all the gentlemen she had met. There had been not one tenth of the emotion, the attraction, she felt for Isobelle.
“I suppose that’s true,” she acknowledged. “I didn’t always, though. I suppose I just thought…that I wasn’t old enough to feel the emotion, or hadn’t met the right gentleman. That there was a reason which I hadn’t quite discovered yet.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Lady Caroline said briskly. “Not here, at any rate. Neither in loving ladies nor in taking your time to realise it is so.” She smiled at Charity. “Still, young Harry, I believe you are beginning to feel at home in our company, are you not? Not just when we are discussing matters you know about, or wish to know about. But in general. Perhaps you wondered why we felt the need to have these meetings. Like Emily, who finds it hard to grasp the concept of a meeting without a point at stake, without a purpose. Bless her,” she added tolerantly. “But you’re beginning to understand, I think.”
“I think so too. Just to be somewhere…” Charity grasped for words, “where we can be all of ourselves. No one expects Emily to partake in gossip, nor Mrs S—Lydia—to care about the Ancient Greeks. They do not have to pretend.”
“Not on any level. Quite right.” Cara nodded. “If Jane wants to hold Emmy’s hand as they talk about Plato; if Lydia wants to give out kisses to any lady who welcomes them; if I want to look appreciatively at you young, attractive girls…why, we may do so. We ain’t together to talk about the love of women for women, not unless we want to. We come that we might be whoever we please, and say whatever we please, with neither fear nor favour.”
Charity smiled. “Yes, that.”
“So you’ll forgive me if I say what I think, I take it?”
“Of course,” Charity said, much surprised that Lady Caroline might even consider her feelings before speaking.
“Can’t help noticing, you see,” Cara said. “The way you look at her, it’s clear.”
“At whom?” Charity said, but the words were hollow. She knew what Cara meant, even if she pretended for the moment that she didn’t.
Lady Caroline looked across the room, to where Isobelle was sipping her tea and chatting eagerly to a group of other ladies.
“You’re in love with Isobelle.” Lady Caroline gave a sharp, decisive nod. “Not a surprise, really. Wouldn’t usually mention it. After all, think all of us are, to some extent. Not counting Emmy and Jane, of course, but they’re a class apart. But the rest of us, just like all the gentlemen who ask for her hand in marriage. We’re no better. We all look at her a little like that. Apart from Nan, perhaps. Good girl, Nan.”
Charity looked up, and her eyes met Nan’s across the room. She could tell from Nan’s ironically amused expression that Lady Caroline’s words had carried. Charity bit back a grin as she turned back to Lady Caroline.
“Yes, I suppose I am.” She was still unused to being able to speak about these things. She thought of her childhood pining over a pretty dark-haired girl she had passed occasionally in the village street. If anyone had asked her, Charity would have said that she wanted to be that girl—Emma, her name had been, she recalled. Emma Ponsonby. But in fact, she had wanted more desperately to be the boy her parents never ceased to remind her she was not. She felt like a boy. She had thought that maybe, had she been like Emma—like Rebecca—her parents would have forgiven her the sin of being born female. Instead, she was born a boy in a girl’s body, and the body was the only part that mattered. Her feelings towards Emma, however unwittingly, had been of a very different ilk.
Lady Caroline threw a faggot on the fire. “Never get a chance to do this at home. The servants do it before I get a moment to myself. Always liked tending a fire. M’father and I used to light the big bonfire in November, outside. The smell of wood smoke, and the feeling of dead wood against my palm takes me back there, even now.” She picked up the poker and prodded it experimentally into the flames several times. “There. That’s better. But yes, about Isobelle. Wonderful lady, but be cautious, Harry. No one will ever pin her down, not even you.”
“I don’t want…” Charity caught herself up. Why not admit it? She wanted Isobelle to herself; wanted Isobelle to lie in her arms and think of no one else. Wanted to touch Isobelle’s beautiful, creamy skin.
Lady Caroline glanced at her. “No, you couldn’t finish that sentence, could you?” she asked gruffly. “Never mind. We won’t speak of it any more. Go and chat to Nan. Now there’s a forever girl, if you want one.”
But Charity didn’t want a forever girl just for the sake of having one. She wanted Isobelle. Still, there was no point in saying that to Lady Caroline, so instead she got up obediently and walked over to Nan, hoping that the other lady hadn’t heard Lady Caroline’s final words. Nan looked busy over her crochet, but then Nan never did give very much away. She glanced up as Charity came near.
“Oh, good. Now, do you think I should complete the next square in red, or choose a darker colour?”
It was the sort of question that Charity had never been able to answer sensibly. Crochet, like most handicrafts, was a sealed book to her. But she suspected Nan didn’t really want a response, at least not about that. It was a kindness, a chance for Charity to recover her senses. It was one thing to adore Isobelle—another to have it noticed and commented on, even in the calm, practical tones of Lady Caroline. Cara was right, of course: it was foolish—more than foolish, it was arrogant—to hope to keep Isobelle to herself. She was no Emily, and Isobelle was certainly no Jane. Keepsake necklaces and commitments of love were not Charity’s lot. She looked once more, wistfully, at Isobelle, and reminded herself to be grateful for what she did have: Isobelle’s friendship, entry into this wonderful world of the Sisterhood, with the privileges in terms of invitations and status allotted to those who counted themselves in its number. She had never anticipated even feeling at home in London, let alone a welcomed visitor at some of the best known events and occasions. She would be, if it killed her, grateful.
“Oh, red,” she said randomly, hardly knowing what she replied.
It was funny, then, that soon after this conversation Lady Caroline was proved wrong. Charity and Isobelle were sitting together on the sofa in Isobelle’s little white sitting room, and Isobelle had her head on Charity’s shoulder when she spoke.
“Have you ever been with a woman?” she asked delicately.
Charity shook her head, knowing what Isobelle meant. “No.”
She felt suddenly shy—uncomfortable, almost, as if the sofa had lost its cushion. Isobelle seemed to divine this.
“It is all right, Harry. It’s easy. There’s nothing difficult about it.”
Nothing difficult, except that Charity was sitting next to her idol. Nothing difficult, except the fact that even breathing seemed to be difficult with Isobelle’s hand on Charity’s leg, Isobelle’s mouth just centimetres from her own. Charity reached out a tentative hand and stroked Isobelle’s hair. Her fingers felt clumsy and sausage-like, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. It was silly: she had touched Isobelle like this many times, yet somehow the promise of intimacy Isobelle had made turned the same gesture laden with importance. Isobelle leant in and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Don’t be afraid, Harry.”
“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.” Charity looked away, too embarrassed to meet Isobelle’s eyes.
“You won’t,” Isobelle promised. “Come into my bedchamber. We can be private there. No servants enter unless I give explicit permission. It is understood.”
Obediently, Charity stood up, reaching out a hand to assist her more feminine friend to her feet. Isobelle’s hand lingered in hers for a few seconds before she withdrew it.
“After you, Harry,” she said.
“No, after you,” Charity said firmly. It was Isobelle’s right to go first and Charity’s job to hold the door open for her, as a gen
tleman might do.
“Very well,” said Isobelle, looking up at Charity knowingly.
She led Charity through the door into the beautiful bedroom beyond, and when they were, indeed, private—and Isobelle had locked both doors—Isobelle looked over at Charity and smiled.
“Now, it is not too bad here, is it?”
“No.” Charity’s words were as awkward as her movements had been. She could not think of anything to say.
The feeling continued as Isobelle slowly but deliberately began to undress, each motion drawn out. There was a half-smile on her face as she did so; she was watching Charity closely, noting every emotion that played out across the other girl’s face. Charity knew it, and was made embarrassed by it, but she could not remove her eyes from Isobelle.
“Won’t you help me with the fastenings?” Isobelle asked demurely, smiling up at Charity.
“I…yes.” Charity cursed her clumsy fingers as she fought the buttons and laces, but Isobelle seemed to notice nothing wrong.
“Thank you, Harry.” Isobelle slid out of the dress, her gaze locked with Charity’s. Charity’s heart beat faster as she looked at Isobelle with awe. “Sit on the bed next to me, dear one,” Isobelle invited, sitting down and casting a look up at Charity through lowered lashes.
She was beautiful—beautiful! With the dress discarded (neatly, for Isobelle was always neat; she made Charity ashamed of her own haphazard ways), sitting on the bed in her flowing petticoat, she took Charity’s breath away. It was difficult, too, to believe that a goddess like Isobelle could possibly condescend to speak to Charity, let alone go further. Charity felt that far from being asked to sit beside her, Isobelle should have ordered Charity to kneel at her feet and worship.
She sat down at Isobelle’s side, and Isobelle touched her hand to Charity’s face, gently drawing her in for a kiss. Whereas before Isobelle’s kisses had been gentle, almost platonic, this time the moment was lengthened, deepened, until Charity’s head was spinning and her body was throbbing for more.
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