To Charity’s relief, it had not occurred to Rebecca any more than it had originally occurred to Charity herself that there might be any link between the place to which Fotheringay was travelling and the slave trade. Although she knew he was visiting an island, Rebecca continued in the fond belief that she and Charity had once shared that it was an island off India. Tortola was not mentioned by name in any of the slavery literature either Charity or Rebecca had seen, being small compared to islands such as Jamaica and Antigua, so it was easy to be ignorant of the link. Until the twins were very much bigger, and Rebecca herself recovered fully from the birthing of them, Charity hoped to keep her in ignorance.
By the time the children were three weeks old, Fotheringay had left—“And good riddance!” Charity had commented to Nan, a trace of bitterness in her tones. Rebecca was so bound up in her children that Charity suspected that she barely noticed her husband’s absence. Charity did, however, and revelled in it. With the household just consisting of two babies, Rebecca, Charity and the servants, there was an air of contentment that was almost tangible. Charity herself, in love and happy beyond anything she had ever experienced before, was in a constant state of rejoicing. Although she knew that Rebecca did not approve of her relationship with Isobelle, she also knew that Rebecca would not criticise her, nor do anything to make her uncomfortable.
As for Isobelle, Charity marvelled every time she saw her that she could be so lucky. In Charity’s eyes, there had never been someone more beautiful, more wonderful, in every conceivable fashion. When Isobelle kissed her, she felt as if the world was complete. The one trouble had been in finding times, of late, to make love. Isobelle was ever popular, and could have been out every minute of every day if she so wished. It was difficult to spare the time for the two girls to lie together alone, without any fear of interruptions. But then, Charity told herself firmly, it made the few occasions on which they did manage that much more special. No, she had nothing to complain about.
And neither did Rebecca. Charity could see her sister growing more and more confident in her role as mistress of the house, but also in that of mother. It was often said that a woman’s true purpose in life was to nurture her babies; that was certainly not true for Charity, but in Rebecca’s case it seemed undeniable. When she saw her sister with the two babes, it just looked so natural, so right.
Charity trotted up to Rebecca’s room that evening. Her sister looked up at Charity, her face full of a joy and yes, serenity, that Charity had not seen in Rebecca before. One baby lay cradled in its mother’s arms—Charity still could not tell which was Mary and which Pat—and the other was asleep in the double rocker.
“She’s just dozing off,” the mother said quietly, looking down at the baby she held. “Pat has been sleeping for some while now, but this little miss had a touch of wind, poor lamb. But you’re better now,” she crooned to the child. “Aren’t you, lovely?”
“You’re so good with them.”
“Of course. I’m their mother. Wait.” Rebecca stood up and gently laid Mary next to her brother. “She’s sleepy enough now.”
“Shouldn’t nurse be looking after them?” Charity asked. Rebecca, after all, was only a month post her lying-in and the nurse was being paid a small fortune to look after the twins. Rebecca had refused a wet nurse—the first time Charity had ever known her to rebel—but she admitted that she had been grateful to have nurse’s help.
Rebecca laughed. “She should, I know. She regularly tells me so. But I find I do not care to part with them. Oh, Charity, aren’t they such angels?”
“They’re lovely,” Charity said awkwardly. “They’re very small still.” She hung over the cradle, looking at her nephew and niece.
“That’s because there’s two of them. But they’re growing. I’m sure Patrick’s put on a pound or more this last sennight.”
“You seem to know just what to do.”
“Yes.” Rebecca looked at Charity. “It is strange, you know. Mother always told me that I would not be able to cope alone. That I needed someone, a gentleman, to look after me. I believed her too. That is partly why I agreed to marry Fotheringay, for I had not the confidence to refuse. Yet now, with my husband hundreds or thousands of miles away, and I with more responsibilities than ever. Better responsibilities,” she added, smiling. “I feel happier and more confident than ever before. Isn’t that strange?”
Charity regarded her sister thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure it is,” she said. “It was always there, inside you. You just didn’t believe it. Such mothering as I had came from you, you know.”
“My big little sister,” Rebecca said, looking at her.
“Precisely. And now you have your own children to mother. And Becca, you deserve your happiness more than anyone I know.” And Charity gave her sister a clumsy hug.
The next morning, Charity had an arrangement to walk with Nan. She was just sitting with Rebecca, who was beginning to tire of keeping to the house, and was beginning to speak of inviting a few visitors round in the near future, when a note was delivered to her. Upon breaking it open, she scanned through it. Nan sent her apologies, but was unable to make it that morning; a family situation had come up. Charity remembered the way she’d felt when Rebecca was taken suddenly ill. She hoped Nan was not facing any similar circumstances, though certainly a birth was out of the question. Nan’s parents were elderly and past the age of childbearing, and her only sibling was her brother, currently at sea.
“Bother,” Charity exclaimed, reading the letter aloud to Rebecca. “I hope it’s nothing serious, I must send Nan a quick response to check. But I can’t imagine it is anything too disastrous. Nevertheless, that leaves me with no plans for today.” She hesitated, looking at her sister. “Do you want me to stay in with you?”
Rebecca shook her head. “Not if, as seems likely by the look on your face, you have other ideas. What are you thinking: to devote yourself to the piano, or to go shopping? If it’s the second, do you think you could buy me some more embroidery silks? I seem to be running short.”
Charity blushed. “I wasn’t intending to go to the shops,” she said evasively.
In fact, the notion that had occurred to her was that she might take this opportunity of visiting Isobelle—perhaps, even, spending a happy hour or more in bed with her. They hadn’t managed this of late, and Charity missed it desperately. The stolen kisses, the moments at the Sisterhood meetings where they could touch if they wanted to… These were nice, but they weren’t enough. Charity ached to have her body pressed against Isobelle’s, to rub her palm against Isobelle’s private place and watch her lover convulse with ecstasy. Kisses were good—they were lovely—but they weren’t enough. None of this, however, could she say to Rebecca.
“Then do not bother on my account,” Rebecca said, cheerfully enough. “I think I must have done more than enough of it in the last month! I need a new hobby, I think. Perhaps I too shall learn the piano!”
“You hated it,” Charity pointed out, remembering their childhood when the one time that Rebecca had not pleased her parents was in her quietly spoken but determined objection to learning music.
“Not as much as I hate being alone. No, dear,” Rebecca added, “that was not a veiled request for you to stay. I think I will spend this morning organising my first few outings. If you could bring me paper and pen, that is all I need.”
Charity obliged. “You’re sure you don’t mind my going out?” She hesitated in the doorway.
“Oh, go away!” Rebecca laughed. “I see more than enough of you. Go and enjoy yourself.”
“Then I will.”
The carriage was brought round, and before another half-hour had passed, Charity had arrived on the Greenaways’ doorstep.
“There is no need to announce me,” she said, smiling at the footman as he opened the door. “I know my way, and Iso—Miss Greenaway will not be shocked.”
James gave a ponderous nod. “Very well, ma’am. I believe…”
But
what the footman believed, Charity did not wait to find up. She was halfway up the stairs before he began his sentence, and fully up and out of earshot before he got any further. She knocked lightly on the door of Isobelle’s pretty sitting room and then opened it. The sun was shining through the windowpanes, lighting a path across the room. Charity took a second to admire the décor: the beautiful mix of books and ornaments, and the neatly laid fire in the grate. But it was Isobelle herself she wanted, not her room. The door to Isobelle’s bedroom was slightly ajar, and Charity went towards it.
“Isobelle?” She pushed the door further open. “Are you—oh!”
Charity grasped for the door frame, feeling dizzy. Isobelle was indeed in her bedchamber, but she was not alone. Lydia—Mrs Seacombe—was sat on the heavy-backed chair Isobelle loved so much, Isobelle on her lap. The white undergarments, which were all that the pair was wearing, showed brightly in the darkened room. Isobelle’s stay laces hung down, her corset attached only because of Lydia’s grasp around her. They were lips to lips, kissing and giggling. The scene was so familiar—so painfully familiar. Charity had been there, had been the lady that Isobelle was embracing with such unrestrained pleasure.
She stood, stricken, in the doorway, unable to look away, unable to move. Isobelle glanced up and saw her, and the dreamy expression in her eyes faded.
“Harry…” she faltered.
Lydia looked round also. “Oh,” she said merrily, seeming unaware of the tension in the room, “have you come to join us?”
Charity looked at her for a second, then back at Isobelle. “No,” she said quietly, trying not to embarrass herself, to fall to the floor in tears. “No, I am not. I…” She took a sudden breath, realising that she had forgotten to breathe since seeing the two ladies together. “I have…I have other plans. Pray excuse me.”
She stumbled from the room, taking a second or two to compose herself in the sitting room. It seemed less beautiful now, as if what she had just witnessed had tainted the room itself. There was the painful prick of tears at the back of her eyes, but she would not shed them. Not here, not publicly. Alone, perhaps, when she got home. She needed to be home. She heard a rustling from the bedroom, footsteps on the floor.
“Harry, wait,” Isobelle begged. “Please.”
Charity ignored her, flitting to the door and then shutting it firmly behind her. She would not make a scene; she couldn’t do anything to hurt Isobelle, no matter how much Isobelle might have hurt her. So she walked, outwardly calm, down the stairs, even managing to smile at James as she passed him in the hall.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I just wanted to see Miss Greenaway for a second. Please excuse me.” James opened the door, and Charity walked through it. Half-dazed, she clambered back into the carriage. “Home please.”
The coachman clicked his tongue, and the carriage set off. Charity had made this journey so many times, but never had it seemed as long as on this occasion. Longing for home, for privacy, every second stretched out beyond its normal due. It hurt. It hurt so much. Isobelle and Lydia. She kept remembering the way they had looked, clinging to each other. Isobelle’s face had been flushed a pretty pink; strands of her hair had whispered down around her shoulders. She looked beautiful and desirable, as always. Beautiful, desirable and in the arms of another lady.
The carriage pulled up, and Charity stepped out, almost falling over in her hurry to retreat to the safety of her own house. As she entered, Rebecca came out of the drawing room, a neatly inscribed list in one hand.
“Why, Charity!” she said. “I thought you were visiting Miss Greenaway.”
“She was…otherwise engaged.” Charity swallowed down a sob. “Becca, please, don’t ask questions. I just need…”
“Charity!” Rebecca exclaimed again, going over to her sister and looking up into her face. “What is wrong, dear?”
“Please.” It was all Charity said as she pulled away from her sister.
Rebecca was silent for a moment. Then, just before Charity moved out of sight, she called, “Charity.” Charity turned to look down at her, and Rebecca said softly, “I love you. I’m here if you need me.”
Charity produced a watery smile. “I know.” Then she bolted for the safety of her room.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The rest of the day and the night passed slowly. Charity sent her sister a little note, still unable to speak of what had gone on, begging that she should be left alone for a while, that she was unwell. It was true enough. Charity rarely cried, and the storm of tears which had burst from her when she reached the privacy of her bedchamber had left her shaken and worn out. Isobelle—how could Isobelle have done such a thing? How could she?
Then the pernicious thoughts started. How often had Isobelle been making love with other women? Charity had not thought that there was any particularly fond relationship between Isobelle and Lydia: they were friends, of course, but not close. Not close enough to be lovers. Surely not that. What had Charity missed? How could she have been quite so wrong? The tears came again, but slower. The exhaustion of despair had claimed her, and Charity could only sit on the floor, her head buried in the bedclothes and let the tears trickle down her face.
Isobelle. Oh, Isobelle.
There was a knock at her bedroom door, but Charity did not answer, and the knock was not repeated. Later, when she looked outside, she saw a tray with food on it, and a note from her sister. She brought it inside the room, but had not the stomach to touch the food, though she read the note. It was a simple enough letter, though Charity thought she might have handled criticism better than this generous sympathy.
Oh, Charity, dear, I hope you are all right. At least, I know you are not and I wish I could help. I’m here if you need me, dearest—you know that. All my love, Rebecca.
“All my love.” That was what Charity had thought she had from Isobelle: all her love. When in fact, she was sharing it with who knew how many others? But then, thought Charity, turning to maudlin self-blame, why should she have been so arrogant as to assume that? Why had she ever thought that she, Charity Bellingham, could be enough for Isobelle Greenaway? How foolish. How naïve and yes, arrogant, she had been! She had got no more than her just desserts.
But Isobelle! Why had Isobelle not just said something? Why had she let Charity believe that they were equally in love? She must have known how Charity felt. It had hardly been a secret. Why not point out to Charity that she was fond of her, of course, but that it was nothing serious? Nothing exclusive. Perhaps she had not thought that Charity would think any such thing. Charity cried, occasionally slept for a while, woke up and cried again.
When the morning came, she felt as if she were recovering from a bad illness. Perhaps she was. A fever of the brain—a few months too happy to be real. It had all been a fantasy, a silly girl’s dreams. Rebecca was right: no one got perfection in life. She had just had an earlier opportunity to discover it than Charity had. There was another knock on the door.
“Come in,” Charity called, expecting the maid. But it was Rebecca, carrying the jug of warm water for the morning’s ablutions. Charity woke up to reality again with a jolt. “Surely you shouldn’t be carrying something like that?” she asked anxiously, taking it from her sister.
“If I were a servant, I would be expected to be back at work by now,” Rebecca said. “Anyway, I preferred to come myself.” Her face was troubled. “Oh, Charity, I wish I could help you, dear.”
“You do.” Charity splashed the water into a bowl and sluiced her hands. Looking in the vanity mirror, she could see that her face was blotchy and her eyes swollen with tears. “It’s over. Between me and Isobelle, I mean. It’s over.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rebecca said quietly.
Charity made a noise that was not quite a laugh or a sob. “So am I. It was stupid. Becca, I thought she loved me.”
“And she did not? I do not want to pry, dearest, but I want to help.”
“No. She has”—Charity attempted a
wobbly smile—“someone else. Please, Becca, I can’t talk about it, even to you.”
“I know.” Rebecca put her arms round her sister and held her tightly, almost as if she were one of the twins. “I love you, Charity.”
“I love you too. It was just…oh,” she sighed. “I will be down soon, Becca.”
“There’s no hurry,” Rebecca said softly. “Let me call Sarah for some cold water as well, to splash on your face. It helps when your eyes feel so swollen.”
“Thank you.”
Rebecca went to the door and called the maid. Then, armed with a bowl of water and a napkin, she gently washed her sister’s face, still treating Charity as if she were one of her precious babes.
“You are kind,” Charity said gratefully.
She thought about what Rebecca had said. It helps when your eyes feel so swollen. The words had the ring of experience about them, and Charity wondered how many times she had left Rebecca to cry alone, never thinking to come and sit with her, or offer support. Charity’s own bleak unhappiness at home with their parents had made her selfish. She hadn’t considered that Rebecca might be miserable too. And had Charity ever asked Rebecca about her marriage, in all of the months they had been living in this house? She had a horrible feeling she had not. Yet it was clear that Rebecca felt no resentment of her sister.
“I wish I could help in other ways,” Rebecca said. “It seems so little.”
She was brushing Charity’s hair now, with a soft-bristled brush that removed tangles without tugging. Charity knew that when Rebecca had finished, her hair would shine like silk. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, save Isobelle’s betrayal.
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