The Sisterhood

by Penelope Friday

  “Oh, Nan thought of that too,” Charity said, choosing to ignore Isobelle’s raised eyebrows. She gave a grimace. “I feel sure I should not have agreed to the next part, but I find it hard to feel very much compunction. It was my mother, you know.”

  “What was? Harry, I can hardly get your story straight!” Isobelle protested with a laugh.

  “The reason for your previous coldness towards me. You would not, it seems, recognise my mother, who is not related to you, incidentally. I do not like to suggest any reason for this, but you may possibly be able to think of some for yourself! However, once she was safely ensconced in Bath, you felt it possible to acknowledge me—us,” Charity corrected herself, “for you cannot have me without Rebecca, you know…”

  “If that makes me related to Fotheringay,” Isobelle protested weakly, “I will have no part of it!”

  Charity grinned at the return of the Isobelle she still loved, in her own way. “You can hardly deny it now your mother has acknowledged it as true,” she said. “However, the existence of Fotheringay also explains quite nicely why you and I are closer than you and Rebecca! So, to pick up where I left off, you felt finally at liberty to acknowledge our relationship and invite me to become one of your chosen acquaintances. For which,” she added, “I am extremely grateful, no matter what the truth behind it may be.”

  Isobelle laughed, and the conversation dropped.

  Charity and Nan managed, serendipitously, to meet once again on their way out of the Greenaways’ house. Of course, Charity’s carriage had known when to pick her up, and Charity suggested that they return to her—or rather Rebecca’s—house.

  “I want to speak to you alone, you know,” she said seriously. “And Rebecca will understand that. I know it means keeping you from Captain Musgrove, but I hope he can accept your absence for another hour or so.”

  Nan grinned. “I expect he’ll be glad of it! Well,” she added, seeing Charity’s disbelieving glance, “I don’t think he will mind. Are you sure your sister would not object? It seems so terribly rude. And if I am going to tell you about her bravery last night, it seems outrageous to speak about her in her own house, but behind her back, but—”

  “Trust me,” Charity said mischievously, “Rebecca and I have been speaking secretly about Fotheringay almost since the moment I moved in with them.”

  “Charity Bellingham,” Nan said severely, using her full name for perhaps the first time ever, “if ever I want to put you in bad grace with Rebecca, I shall tell her that you compared her to Fotheringay. How you could do any such thing!”

  “You know what I mean.” And Charity knew exactly how seriously to take Nan at such a moment.

  The carriage deposited them at the Fotheringays’ house ten minutes later. Charity darted inside.

  “Becca? Where are you?” she called.

  Rebecca appeared from the nursery, one of the babies in her arms. “Shh, dear, please. Patrick seems to have colic, or something. But he is crying without cease. Oh,” she added, seeing Nan, “I am so sorry. I did not realise you had a guest. Would you both forgive me if I stayed with the babies? Nurse says I should do no such thing, but it is impossible for her to mind both children at once, and if Patrick is crying, who better to look after Mary than her mother?”

  “Of course,” Nan said promptly. “Goodness, has Mary grown again?”

  Charity felt sure that her friend could not see any change in the baby from that distance, but she blessed Nan’s tact. Rebecca smiled.

  “A bit, I think. Pray excuse me.”

  She disappeared back into the nursery, and Charity grimaced at Nan.

  “’Has she grown?’ I see no difference in either of them!”

  “You wouldn’t. You are around them all the time! But the baby has certainly grown, I think. But come now,” Nan said reprovingly, “you offered me tea, and I confess I am thirsting for a cup!”

  “Are you indeed?” But Charity took pity on her friend, and led her into the drawing room. “I ordered tea when you were sweet-talking my sister. It will be here shortly. Now, whilst we wait, tell me about last night’s meeting.”

  “Your sister was right to say that things were moving forward with the gentlemen,” Nan said, once the tea and cake had been placed on the table between them. “It is said that there will be a second reading in the House of the Slave Trade Act. Of course, there was the earlier legislation last year, which banned the trade with colonies, but all a slave trader needed to do in such circumstances was claim his cargo was headed elsewhere. It did nothing, nothing, to stop the trade. A sop to public conscience, perhaps. That is all.”

  “I see.”

  The conversation turned first on the change in attitude in the Houses of Parliament. Slowly, the abolitionist movement seemed to be gaining ground.

  “…But then,” Nan said sadly, “such was the case in the late 1780s, but the French Revolution drew so much of the country’s attention that it has been a mere cypher for more than a decade.”

  “But perhaps now is the time for change,” Charity urged.

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. But about your sister…” Nan told Charity how Rebecca had waited until the end of the meeting before catching Lady Caroline alone. “I had seen that Mrs Fotheringay was anxious about something. I thought it was just your absence, and her awareness of being alone, but then she asked Cara if she might have a word.” An explanation, and then: “It was the bravest thing, Harry, truly. She fully expected Cara to turn upon her, and rend her limb from limb. Of course, I knew, and you would have known, that no such thing would happen, but Rebecca didn’t.”

  Charity noticed the change from the formal “Mrs Fotheringay” at the beginning of the description to the personal “Rebecca” at the end, but she said nothing. She was so proud of her sister, and also knew—which Rebecca would not have done—that Nan knew all this not from prurient curiosity, but from a determination to stay close to Rebecca, and make sure she was not distressed. She knew better than to mention it however.

  “I have something to tell you too,” she said abruptly. “Isobelle talked to me today, a little. I told her of our—your—scheme, to inform the world that I was some relation.”

  “Really? And how did she take that?”

  Charity smiled. “As you might expect Isobelle to. We talked about some other things too,” she added quickly, before Nan could say anything. “About the past, and what occurred between us.”

  “I see.” Nan’s tone was guarded.

  “I put her on a pedestal,” Charity confessed, remembering the feeling when she had suddenly realised that she didn’t blame Isobelle any more; that the hurt was now truly in the past. “It was unfair.”

  “Yes,” agreed Nan, simply.

  “I knew—almost at once when she hurt me—I knew it wasn’t reasonable to feel so betrayed. She broke no promises after all. But I still felt she let me down. I didn’t quite realise until now how unkind it had been to resent her for not living up to my dreams.”

  “Very uncomfortable things, pedestals,” Nan said drily. “Gravity means that if you make any move at all, you’re liable to fall off.”

  Taken aback by this unexpected point of view, Charity’s gasp turned into a giggle.

  “Nan, you are ridiculous! I don’t think anyone else I know would have phrased it quite like that.”

  “Isn’t it true? And,” Nan added, more seriously, “in more than one way. I don’t think any human being could stand up to the requirements of being thought without faults.”

  “I know. You’re right,” Charity sighed.

  “I know that most of the Sisterhood think I’m unkind to Isobelle, for I don’t pet her in the same way the others do. But I don’t see it that way. I appreciate her for who she is. And I think that although it may be nice to be so adored, it’s perhaps a little terrifying also. You told me that Isobelle knows she let you down and feels bad about it. How must it feel to be put in a position where you know, or suspect, that other people’s impress
ions of you can only go down?”

  “Yes, I see,” Charity said slowly.

  “Isobelle knows what I think of her. She knows I love her, in my own way. And she knows above all that if she needs me, I’ll be there. Shh,” she said, as Charity tried to interrupt. “I haven’t finished. You were going to say that any of the others are not only willing but anxious to do what they can for her. But think on this: if Isobelle does something wrong, to whom do you think she can go? Someone whose perfect ideal of her would be shattered if she told them, or someone whom she knows loves her despite her faults?”

  “Nan, you’re brutal.”

  “Am I? I don’t see why.”

  “Because you see too clearly. To see myself reflected back at me hurts.”

  Nan was silent, putting a hand across the table to place it on top of Charity’s. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I was unkind then.”

  Charity sighed, annoyed by the feeling of tears prickling at the back of her eyes. “No, you weren’t.” She turned her hand over and grasped Nan’s. “I can go back to Isobelle tomorrow remembering that what happened between us was as much my own fault as hers. I shouldn’t have looked for a goddess to adore. I should have looked for a woman to love.”

  “And Isobelle is kind and loving and all those things you always thought her,” Nan said, drawing her hand away slowly. “She is worth loving, after all. I think she could make you happy. I know you could make her so. Already you’re doing so, by being with her every day.”

  “Oh, but…” Charity bit back the words. It was true that she no longer resented or felt any bitterness towards Isobelle. But to fall in love with her again? It was unthinkable. Not because Isobelle was unlovable, but because…because…“I must go to check on Rebecca,” she said, standing up hastily. “I will see you tomorrow, no doubt, Nan.”

  “She’ll be glad to see you,” Nan said. “Rebecca, and Isobelle. Goodbye.”

  But will you be glad to see me? Charity did not, could not, say the words aloud. But a funny thing had happened as she talked to Nan. She could never fall in love with Isobelle again, because she was in love already. With Nan. With the maddening, practical, kind and funny Nan. Charity had once misjudged Nan, too, but that was different. No one could idolise Nan: she simply would not have it. But they could, perhaps, love her; if she loved back, she was the sort of lady for a happy ever after. The “forever woman”, as Cara had described her. No goddess: a living, breathing, loving woman. But did Nan care for her? Charity was not sure.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Charity’s new understanding of her feelings towards Nan lent a different colour to everything she did. She could be never-endingly patient with Isobelle, because Isobelle did not matter—not as Nan did. Isobelle, Charity finally realised, was indeed the butterfly Nan had described her as: beautiful and charming, but transient in her emotions. Even today, Isobelle seemed to have thrown off her mood of the previous day. She was complaining that nurse would not let her sit up, nor do her hair in the intricate style she preferred. Had she loved Charity? Yes, in her way. Had Charity loved her? Certainly—but perhaps not honestly; perhaps she had not seen Isobelle as she truly was.

  Nan, though? The very thought of Nan made her smile. You could not misjudge Nan. If you loved Nan, Charity thought tenderly, you loved her for precisely what she was. You loved the sensible, honest soul of her. You fell in love with a woman who was intensely practical; who would always give you her truth—perhaps not the truth, for there so rarely was one black-or-white answer—but her truth. And Nan knew about the greys of life; the tangled threads which made living so complicated and yet in some ways so much more worthwhile. No one knew them better. Nan was not perfect, but that was what made her Nan, what made her loveable. Not perfect, but real.

  So Charity fetched and carried for Isobelle. She listened to her talk and complain and saw the way Isobelle was always looking for someone to admire her. And she was admirable, Charity thought. Not as she had first thought, but nonetheless, she was a lovely person. She could never hate Isobelle. But she could never fall in love with her, not again. And, she suspected, from the look in Isobelle’s eyes, Isobelle knew it. There was no more mention of hurt, or emotions, which Charity was grateful for.

  But there was one thing Charity needed to do.

  It seemed silly, when she knew she was in the same building as Nan, to write a note, but it was the easiest way. It said nothing much, just that Charity wanted to meet her—for tea again at the Fotheringays’ house, perhaps. Charity could think of no other thing to write. She wrote also to Rebecca, however, asking one of the Greenaways’ footmen to take it, and that note was simpler. It read: Dearest Rebecca,

  If you love me, let me speak with Nan alone. I have invited her for tea, but we need to speak in private. Forgive me? But I know you do.

  Charity.

  The morning passed slowly but surely. Charity tried not to look at the clock too often, but the passage of time seemed slow indeed when she had something so important to say. She left Isobelle comfortable and then met Nan on the stairs outside the room.

  “Tea?” Nan asked, her voice questioning.

  “Tea,” Charity said in reply. It was not the time—not the place, so very much not the place, where she had lain with Isobelle so often—to speak of what was on her mind. “Rebecca is busy today,” she added, an optimistic lie.

  “I see. Well, I don’t,” Nan admitted, “but I am willing to be guided by you.”

  The carriage ride passed in silence, and it was only when the two ladies were alone, steaming cups in front of them, that Charity spoke about what was most heavily on her mind. She felt her heart beating faster, and she still did not know precisely what she was going to say. All she knew was that say something, she must.

  “Nan, do you hate me?” she asked abruptly, holding her teacup rather more firmly than usual in her nerves.

  “Hate you?” Nan looked utterly perplexed. “Why on earth should I?”

  “Well, because…you know.”

  “You are surely not harping back on our early misunderstanding again, Harry!” Nan’s face took on a familiar expression of mischief. “But also, what sort of question is that? Do I ‘hate’ you? As if I might turn round and say, ‘Well, actually, now that you mention it, there are one or two things about you that I dislike, one might almost say despise, in you’!”

  Charity laughed reluctantly. “You are so good at pointing out the flaws in my comments, dearest Nan! Consider me thoroughly chastised!”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help teasing sometimes.” Nan smiled across at her friend. “Why did you choose to ask me today, of all times, though?”

  Charity fidgeted, putting down the teacup without drinking from it. “It was what you were saying yesterday. About Isobelle being worthy of love.”

  “And you fear that you are not worthy of her love?” Nan asked gently. “Even now?”

  Charity forced herself to continue. Every desperate muscle wanted to run away, but she would not do it. She would be brave.

  “Not Isobelle,” she said, looking straight at Nan. “You.”

  “I think you unworthy? Harry, you must know that is not true. I have always thought you worthy, more than worthy, of Isobelle.”

  Charity stood up so suddenly that the table jolted, the delicate china cups rattling in their saucers.

  “Are you being intentionally dim? Do you wish to try and stop me from saying it aloud?” she demanded. “Well, it is no use. I have got this far, and I will go on. Nan, I love you. I’ve loved you for a while, I think, though I would not see it. Tell me no, tell me you have never thought of me in that way. Tell me anything you wish, but please, please, tell me!” She bit her lip, regretting her outburst already. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said, more softly now.

  “You lo…You care for me?” Nan queried shakily.

  “Yes! Oh, Nan!” Charity fell on her knees beside her love’s chair, looking up into the face she had grown to care for so de
eply. Nan was pretty, it was true, though not beautiful like Isobelle. She did not have the gaiety of Lydia, either, or the deep knowledge Emily had of matters arcane. But she was Nan—wonderful, ridiculous, kind and funny Nan. “I shouldn’t have said anything, but I could not bear to have you push me any further into Isobelle’s arms. It isn’t Isobelle I want. I adored her—for something she wasn’t, poor girl—but I love you for who you are. I can’t help it. I…” She ran out of words.

  “Me?” Nan repeated again, a note of wonder in her voice.

  Charity put her hands over one of Nan’s, and lifted it to her face. “You,” she said. “Only you.”

  “But I thought…” Nan stopped.

  “I am not flighty,” Charity said defensively. “I do not skip from one lady to the next. I know it may seem like that, but—”

  “It doesn’t,” Nan interrupted her. She put her other hand on Charity’s shoulder, looking down at her as if seeing her for the first time. “I just never thought…”

  “Do you hate me now?” Charity asked, mournfully.

  “Do I look like I hate you? Do I—Oh, Harry, can this be happening?”

  “Shall I kiss you, to show what I mean?”

  Nan’s grip tightened on Charity’s shoulder. “Yes.”

  “Do you—could you care? For me?”

  And it was Nan who leaned down and pressed her lips to Charity’s. “Yes,” she said again.

  Charity felt herself tremble under that gentlest of kisses, overcome with emotion. Nan’s mouth against her own—oh, it was too good to be true. She reached for Nan again, pulling her into her arms and kissing her with more vigour. And now it was Nan who was trembling; Nan who murmured “Oh, Harry, darling,” as her hands stroked Charity’s back and her mouth sought Charity’s lips. Nan was warm and wonderful and right in Charity’s arms, as if she had always belonged there, had Charity only but known it. The feeling of Nan’s soft, womanly body against her own almost brought Charity to tears, so perfect was it.

  “You always seemed to be pushing me towards Isobelle,” Charity murmured some minutes later, her arms closely entwined around Nan.