“Oh! Yes, that’s fine. I’ll talk with you later, Charity?” her sister asked.
“Yes, of course.”
Charity left the room, her mind still running over the news that Fotheringay had dropped on them and trying to think of all of the ramifications. A year! A whole year without him. She hoped that in her concern about the future, Rebecca would not attempt to persuade Fotheringay against the trip, for Rebecca’s sake as much as Charity’s own. Rebecca was forever frightened of new experiences and had been encouraged in her tendency to be guided by older minds, first by her parents and then by Fotheringay himself. Rebecca would feel anchorless, Charity knew, at least initially. But surely it was worth it, when the prize was Fotheringay’s absence?
It was not until Charity was being readied for bed by her maid that Rebecca sought her out. With a quick word of thanks and dismissal, the maid was let go to her own room, and Rebecca carried on with the task of brushing out Charity’s long, dark mane of hair.
“Well?” Charity asked, catching her sister’s eye in the mirror.
“He insists on going,” Rebecca said, separating out a chunk of hair to brush more thoroughly.
“Good!” said Charity robustly. “We don’t need him here, and we certainly don’t want him here.”
“Charity, how can you?”
“I’m only saying what you’re thinking, certainly about the ‘want’,” Charity retorted. “You are just worried about coping alone, but you will still have me. And other families seem to manage quite convincingly without a gentleman in the house. The Greenaways, for example.”
Rebecca laughed softly, taking up a new section of hair. “I hardly think we can really compare ourselves with the Greenaways, dearest. The situation is very different.”
“Yes. Lady Greenaway is crippled,” Charity said. “And they still manage. Becca, it will be fine. No, it won’t be fine, it will be delightful! Can’t you hurry up and bring your baby into the world so that we can get rid of him the quicker?”
“The baby will come when he, or she, chooses. And hasn’t anyone told you that it’s impolite to speak about such matters?” But Rebecca was not cross.
“You know I would not do so to anyone but you,” Charity said. “Come, dear, smile. Think of our freedom! I’m having tea with Nan tomorrow, and can hardly wait to tell her!”
“Just be careful what you say, Charity, please? For my sake if not for your own, or Fotheringay’s. You can be very outspoken, and sometimes it is better that things are kept private.” Rebecca put the hairbrush down on the dressing table. “There. Your hair is beautifully brushed. Do you want to plait it before bed?”
“Not tonight. And I will be careful, Becca, I promise. Sleep well. Dream of a future with no Fotheringay.”
Rebecca laughed, kissed her and left.
Chapter Twenty-One
Charity visited Nan full of news and excitement the next morning. She would have preferred to go straight to Isobelle and tell her everything, but the arrangement with Nan was long standing and she could not let her down. She had written a brief note to Isobelle, telling her that there was exciting news. Charity knew she must content her heart with that until the evening, when both ladies were to attend the same ball. Nonetheless, if Nan was second best, she was a very good second best, and Charity could hardly wait to talk over everything with her friend.
But the conversation was not to go as planned. Charity spilled the news about Fotheringay: his manager, his business and his desire to see the plantation for himself and discover what was happening there. She looked up to find Nan staring into the distance, a crease between her eyebrows.
“What is it?” she asked. “Surely you, like Rebecca, do not think that we are incapable of coping alone?”
“No, of course not. But…you said plantation?”
Charity looked at her friend in perplexity. “Why, yes. I confess I thought he merely transported things, but it seems not. Nan, I thought you’d be pleased. Can’t you understand that I’m thrilled to have Fotheringay out of the country, especially after—”
“I am. Of course I am. It’s just…” Nan put a hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers hard against the creases of her frown. “Harry, you said India. Fotheringay’s money is from tea, is it not? He trades with China, or that is what I always believed you meant.”
“As far as I know, that is true,” Charity said. “He has links with an island out there. Is it important?”
“India, not…not Jamaica?”
“No, India. Western India, I believe he said, which makes sense. It would be the closest side of the country to England, after all.”
Nan turned away, striding across the room as if trying to move as far away from Charity as possible.
“You don’t understand.” There was still the sharp note in Nan’s voice. “Not Western India. At least, I do not believe so. The West Indies. Harry, have you not realised that your brother-in-law’s money comes from sugar, the plantations? From slavery?”
For a moment, Charity thought that she must have misheard. Either that or have misunderstood. Those two Abolitionist meetings… She had heard ladies talk about islands such as Jamaica, and a place called the Caribbean, which appeared to have the largest amount of African slaves. India itself was not entirely free of slavery, but the problem there was less vicious. She could half-believe that Fotheringay had servants out there whom he barely paid, but nothing more sinister than that. But now—Nan surely could not mean what Charity had thought she did? Fotheringay’s fortune… Could it really be built on the back of slave labour?
“No.” Her lips framed the word, but no sound came out, and Nan’s back was turned. Charity took a few deep breaths and tried again. “You cannot mean that,” she said, attempting to keep her voice steady.
“You must have heard us speak of Tobago, Jamaica, Trinidad.” Nan turned to face her.
“Yes, of course.”
“They’re known as the West Indies. Not Western India, Harry. The West Indies.”
“But it’s none of those. It’s a little place, I believe. Tortola. And Mother said…” Charity had never expected to quote her mother’s words in her own defence. But what precisely had her mother said?
It is to be hoped that this modern desire for hot beverages continues. Why, Rebecca, in a few years he may be worth even more money!
Was that truly what Mrs Bellingham had said? Surely she had mentioned tea?
“What did she say?”
Charity winced. She felt as if she were on trial. Nan’s voice was so harsh, almost accusing.
“I…I hardly know,” she stammered. Then, suddenly angry, she said, “Of what are you accusing me? Do you call me a liar?”
Nan softened, almost visibly. “I’m sorry. It is quite a shock.”
You think it’s a shock to you? But Charity did not say the words aloud. She felt shaky, fighting to stop herself from trembling. Something must have shown on her face, for Nan came to her side quickly.
“Come, sit down.” Nan guided her to a chair. “I did not mean to hurt you, Harry. But…West India, plantations. It must be so, yet you seemed so sure when you said tea.”
“I feel so stupid,” Charity said, clinging to Nan’s hand. “I did not lie, Nan.”
“I know,” Nan replied quickly. “I should not have said what I did.”
“Mother…she spoke about hot drinks, and our modern society’s desire for them. I thought she said tea, but now I am not so sure. My mind would have leapt to tea, that being my mother’s drink of choice. I thought…I assumed…” She dragged her hand away from Nan and clasped her hands together in front of her. “Why would she say that about sugar? Sugar is not a drink.”
“No.” Nan sighed. “But everyone takes sugar in their tea. You did, until recently. Also, there is the new beverage, chocolate. Warm chocolate is taking the ton almost by storm. When I was a young girl, no one ever considered drinking sweetened chocolate. Of late, though, it seems that if you do not start or end your
day with a warming cup of chocolate, you are almost beyond the pale. And one of the main components is sugar. The only people who do not drink it are people like the Sisterhood—we who oppose slavery and choose to make it known by boycotting sugar.”
“I never thought of it that way. And Isobelle drinks chocolate, still.”
“And takes sugar in her tea. I know.” Nan did not say more, but Charity could sense the unspoken criticism.
“I’m sure she has her reasons,” she said, defending her love.
Nan turned away from her again. “I’m sure she does.”
But Charity had bigger concerns than Isobelle’s choice of beverage. “What can I tell Rebecca?” she asked. “She has been so moved by what I’ve told her about slavery, so keen to promote the abolition.”
“Can she really not know from what her husband’s money comes?”
“If I did not know…” Charity hesitated, not knowing how to explain Rebecca to Nan, such a different character to Charity’s gentle, innocent sister. “Nan, Rebecca…I do not think that it would occur to her to ask. Fotheringay’s business is his own. Rebecca contents herself with house and home. She…” Charity felt her face flushing as she stumbled on. “She is expecting, you know. I do not think she concerns herself with his financial status, only with getting the house ready for the child.” She felt suddenly defensive of her sister. “It is not that she does not care. It is just that her priorities are not the same as ours. And why should they be?”
“I did not criticise her,” Nan said softly. “Perhaps it was unfair or unkind of me to ask the question, though. I am sorry, if so.”
Charity sighed. “I can’t forgive my own idiocy, in truth. It would not occur to Rebecca to consider the source of Fotheringay’s wealth. Enough for our mother that he had it. And Rebecca just did as she was told, as she always does. And you are not to criticise her for that,” she added defiantly. “She is a wonderful person. Kind, loving. A million times better than I.”
“Do not accuse me of sins I have not committed,” Nan said. “I am no one to judge her. And she is with child, you say?”
“Yes. We are expecting the baby in a few scant weeks’ time.”
“Then you must not tell her any of this now,” Nan said firmly. “You cannot upset her when her life must be so upturned anyway. A baby on the way, a husband about to leave her…No, Harry, it would be unkind indeed to tell her any of this now.”
“That’s what I thought,” admitted Charity. “But I wasn’t sure whether I was just trying to deny myself a difficult task. Besides,” she added honestly, “I do not think that Fotheringay’s departure will distress her much more than it distresses me.”
“But with the child…no.”
“He won’t leave until the baby is born, anyway,” Charity said. “He wants to make sure of an heir, of course. Don’t they always?”
Nan smiled. “By the time I was born, my parents already had a son. I did not have to live with that particular concern, and I did not ever feel that I was resented or judged for being a mere female.”
“Then you were lucky.” But Charity said no more on the subject. It was a matter on which she was too sensitive to discuss right now. “I hope for a girl,” she said instead. “I like to think that it is not just to spite Fotheringay, though I fear that may be part of it.”
Nan laughed reluctantly. “Unkind but irresistible. Though it is like you to own up to it, Harry.”
“If I had known about—” Charity started, but Nan interrupted.
“I know. I do know, I promise. Please do not hold me forever in anger for my immediate reaction.”
“As if I could,” Charity said. Then, “Oh, Nan, what should I do? I just never thought anything like this could happen.”
“I don’t think there is anything you can do,” Nan said, with her usual practicality. “Fotheringay is breaking no law. Although we have no slaves on English soil by law, most people in England would say he is well within his rights to own them abroad. It is we who are unreasonable.”
“But…”
“I know,” Nan said grimly. “The thought appals. All we can do, though, is to campaign, to support, to hope that things will change. Will we have slavery in fifty years’ time? In a hundred? Perhaps we will. We cannot affect what has already happened. We can only fight for things to change in the future. In the hope that one day, all people will be free.”
If Charity had wanted to see Isobelle before, that was nothing to her need now. A ball was hardly the best place to have any sort of private conversation, but Charity’s desire to speak to Isobelle was too strong to be denied. She could think of nothing else. The ballroom was crowded with ladies in bright dresses and suave gentlemen with costumes varying from the gaudy to an almost sternly sober black. At first, Charity had thought she preferred the colourfully dressed men, but after such a riot of colours, the quiet black began to have a distinct appeal.
However, this evening’s clothes were the least of her concerns. She was hunting for Isobelle, looking out for her lover’s trademark blue. It was not that Isobelle wore nothing but blue, but it was certainly her first colour of choice. Seeing the way it matched and drew attention to Isobelle’s glorious eyes, Charity could not criticise her choice. But in an overcrowded ballroom, searching for one specific lady was no easy task. Mentally, Charity blessed her height: she could at least see over the heads of most of the ladies present. She glanced across at where her sister sat quietly in a corner. Charity had not been certain whether it was appropriate for Rebecca to come out in her state of health, but she would not have been able to come without her, and Rebecca had said in her quiet way that an hour or two’s jollity would not hurt.
A flash of blue caught Charity’s eye—no, that was not Isobelle. The combination of blond hair and a blue dress had fooled Charity for a second, but this lady was much older and more… Charity struggled for the right word. She was more angular than Isobelle. Isobelle was all soft feminine curves and delicate, pink-tinged skin. Charity sighed. She had not really wished to come out tonight, her mind taken up as it was by the shock of discovering that Fotheringay’s wealth came not from tea but from sugar. But it was too hard sitting home with Rebecca and saying nothing of her new knowledge, especially when she longed to unburden herself on Isobelle, seeking the comfort and reassurance she could only get from her.
“Good evening.”
Charity started at the voice. She had been too taken up in her own concerns to have seen the lady approach.
“Oh, Lydia!” She forced a smile. It was rare that she was displeased to see one of the Sisterhood, but right now was one of those few occasions. “What a lovely dress. That green suits you.”
Lydia Seacombe pealed with laughter. “This old thing? Harry, you have seen me wear it a hundred times!”
“Oh.” Charity blinked and looked at her friend more closely. “Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
“Something, or someone?” Lydia asked archly. “Oh, I see your blush. I take it Isobelle is expected to attend this evening?”
“Have you seen her?” Charity did not bother to deny it.
“Not yet. But the evening is still young. Come, are you not going to dance?”
“No one has asked me. But no, I’m not in the mood just now.”
“You and your moods!” Lydia exclaimed. “Don’t you realise that a lady should always be in the mood to dance?” Charity mumbled something—even she did not know what—and Lydia shrugged elegant shoulders. “Well, you stand here and pine after Isobelle if you so wish. I am going to dance.”
Charity saw her walk away with a good deal of relief. Lydia rarely took anything seriously—like Isobelle, perhaps, but Isobelle had more to her, somehow. Lydia cared for nothing above her own amusement, which made her excellent company but not someone Charity would choose to confide in. Isobelle, though… Where was she? Charity returned to her self-appointed task, scanning the crowd once more. And this time her efforts were crowned with greater su
ccess. Isobelle, as if intentionally to confuse Charity, was wearing a rose-pink frock this evening. As always, she looked ravishing, but that was almost an irrelevance to Charity right now.
“Excuse me.” She wriggled and pushed her way through the throng until she reached Isobelle’s side. When she got there, she caught up Isobelle’s hand and pulled her away from the dancing she had been about to join. “Isobelle!” she said urgently.
“Harry! Such unanticipated joy to see me!” Isobelle said laughingly. Then, apologetically to her would-be partner, she said, “Pray excuse me. It seems I am needed elsewhere. But Mrs Seacombe is in need of a gentleman with which to dance. I would be forever in your debt if you would but ask her.”
The gentleman bowed stiffly, casting an unfriendly look at Charity. However, his society manners would not allow him to do anything further to express his displeasure.
“Your word, Miss Greenaway,” he said, “is my command.”
“And now,” said Isobelle, watching him stalk off before turning to Charity. “What can I do for you, my dear one?”
“I need to speak to you,” she said urgently.
“I can see that much!” Isobelle smiled gaily at her lover. “Well. You want me, and here I am. Pray tell me what the matter is!”
“We should find somewhere private.” Charity looked round the crowded room in something nearing despair. “Where can we go?”
“Follow me,” Isobelle ordered, setting briskly off towards a curtain. “Behind here. It looks as if it is just a window, does it not? But in fact it is a small, private room. You can always trust me,” she said, her lips turning up into a mischievous smile, “to know where the private rooms are.” She threaded her fingers through Charity’s and led her into the space. It was more of an alcove than a room, but it was large enough, and private enough, to suit Charity’s needs. “Now,” said Isobelle, turning to face Charity. “Do you mean to ravish me, or is that too much to hope?”
“It’s Fotheringay.”
“Indeed?” Isobelle sobered. “What has he done?”
The Sisterhood Page 20