Nan laid her cheek against Charity’s and said nothing for a moment as the two girls just focused on being, touching, loving. Finally, Nan said, “When you love someone, you want them to be happy, do you not?”
“I don’t know,” Charity said slowly.
She thought about Isobelle, of how hurt Charity had felt, seeing Isobelle in Lydia’s arms. She had not cared what was best for Isobelle in that moment; she had fallen apart under the weight of her own grief, her own sense of betrayal. Had that not been love, then: was adoration so very far apart? What did Charity actually know of love, after all? Then she thought of Rebecca, and the world righted itself again. She loved Rebecca, and yes—yes, Nan was right. What mattered most was that Rebecca should be happy, not that she should be happy in the way ordained by Charity.
Rebecca was content—no, something better than content. She was rejoicing in her role as mother to the twins. Charity liked her niece and nephew well enough, but she knew that babies held little interest to her on a deeper level. She would never yearn for motherhood, nor would she have found herself so completed by it. It did not matter. Rebecca’s happiness mattered. Then she thought of Nan. Dear, very much beloved Nan. She had not been sure, she had been anything but sure, that Nan cared for her in that particular way. Charity had known Nan valued her as a friend, but anything deeper than that? It had seemed impossible, somehow, that she should. But she had had to ask. Nevertheless, if Nan had turned her down, then however Charity felt about it, it would not have changed her feeling for Nan. Nor would it have prevented her wanting Nan’s life to be perfect—as perfect as possible.
“Yes, though, I do,” she corrected herself. “Though it would have hurt, Nan.”
Nan gave a little laugh. “It did hurt, Harry. Couldn’t you see it? I thought I hid my feelings very badly.”
Charity drew away a little so that she could look at her love once more. “It was certainly very bad of you, dearest,” she said, smiling. “I thought…I thought you wanted me for Isobelle. And for yourself, just as a friend.”
“I am not that selfless,” Nan murmured. She touched Charity’s cheek. Neither of them could prevent themselves from this reaching out, these countless tiny gestures. “I wanted you for myself. All of you for myself, Harry. I still cannot believe that you have said such things to me. I fear waking up alone, or that you are teasing me as punishment for daring to care for you, daring to want you. I know too much I don’t deserve you.”
Charity kissed her. “If I teased like that, I would not deserve you.” Her arms suddenly tightened around Nan. “And don’t say that about yourself. You deserve much better. I know that much, if nothing else.”
“And I…” But Nan broke off, giving a sudden joyful laugh, so different from when she had spoken of hurt. “And I am the luckiest woman alive, and I will not let you, nor anyone else, say otherwise. Oh, Harry!” She got to her feet, tugging Charity with her. “Look, here, out of the window. All these people going past on their own concerns, and none of them knowing that the world has changed, that everything has changed—because you love me! How can they be so silly, so blind to it all?”
Perhaps a small part of Charity had, even until now, kept something back. Perhaps a little element of doubt, of caution, had been in her mind. The thought that Nan, being who she was, had said that she loved Charity not because she did but because she liked her enough—perhaps loved her in a way—not to wish to hurt her. But this Nan—this joyful, alive, disbelieving Nan Musgrove, lit up from inside with happiness and love…Charity could not even have the smallest lingering doubt. She looked at Nan and saw not only the lady she loved, but a lady who loved her equally, beyond everything she could ever possibly have imagined.
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” she said unsteadily.
“I do, though,” Nan returned, turning to face her. “How can I be anything but rejoicing in a moment like this?”
They held each other, kissed and held some more. Charity felt Nan’s warm breath on her neck. “I love you,” Nan whispered. “I didn’t want to, but I do. Harry. Darling, darling, Harry. I love you so much.”
“I love you. Nan,” Charity said urgently. “Never think you are second best. Promise?”
“I promise,” Nan said, holding Charity closer still. “I pushed you at Isobelle, even when my senses were screaming at me not to. I did everything, Harry dear, and yet you’re here. Yet I have you in my arms. My darling, my love, how could I doubt you?”
“Never doubt me,” Charity whispered, covering Nan in kisses. “Never, never doubt me.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The first person Charity told was Rebecca. Seeking her sister out in the nursery, with the twins, she picked up Patrick and held him close. Suddenly, having someone to cuddle, no matter how tiny, had an importance she had never realised before. Her nephew, rudely awakened from his sleep, screamed indignantly for a moment. Then, as Charity rocked him in a way which seemed (to her bewilderment) to come naturally, he turned to a minute of crying before falling asleep in her arms. Charity looked across at Rebecca—alone in the nursery, as she often tried to be.
“I’ve something to tell you.”
“I think I can guess what it is.” Rebecca lifted Mary carefully from the crib, managing not to disturb her slumber.
“You do that so well,” Charity said, half-jealous.
Rebecca smiled. “They are my children. When you love someone, somehow the knowledge comes.” She paused. “Which, I think, is what you want to speak to me about.”
Charity looked over her sleeping baby to her sister. “Rebecca, are you psychic?” she demanded, in the soft tones her burden required.
“I got the wrong sibling, didn’t I?” Rebecca said.
Charity looked down at Patrick reflexively. “What do you mean?”
“Nan, not Captain Musgrove,” Rebecca said simply. “Am I right?”
Charity realised her mouth had fallen open. For a second or two, she could not speak. She reverted to her usual pacing, Patrick still in her arms.
“Do you know,” Rebecca said, her eyes mischievous, “that that is precisely the way to soothe a colicky baby? I did not, until recently.”
“Rebecca,” Charity said warningly. Then she gave up on this fencing and melted. “Yes, it is Nan. Rebecca, how did you know? And do you really mean that you do not mind?”
“Love is love.” Rebecca looked down at the little body in her arms. “The twins have taught me that, alongside so many other lessons. Would I reject Mary, if she loved another woman? Patrick, if he loved a man? They are my children. They are as they are.” Her eyes met Charity. “I love you. Not in the same way, but I love you. And I love you just as you are, not as I might want you to be. And Nan—”
“Nan is wonderful,” Charity said quickly, determined to cut off any criticism of her love.
“Of course.” Rebecca looked surprised that Charity should have doubted it. “You must love whom you love, dearest,” she said. “But forgive me. If—if it cannot be a gentleman, which is seems is true—I can only be glad it is Nan. I do not think…” she said slowly. “I do not think that she will hurt you. And that, my dear sister, is a wonderful thing. And if you love her—”
“I do.”
Rebecca laughed at the vehemence of Charity’s reply. “Well, then, God bless you. And whatever the Bible says, I believe He will.”
“Becca,” Charity said gratefully, “you will never cease to amaze me.”
“And I’ll tell you what I’ll also never cease to do,” Rebecca said, kissing Mary’s forehead unconsciously, “and that is love you. We might…” She hesitated, holding Mary closer still to her body until the baby mewled a protest. “We might not have had the best parenting. I hope the twins will have better, if that is not too conceited of me, but I had the best sister, and no matter what she does, or whom she loves, I always shall.”
Charity felt her eyes fill with tears; she clutched Patrick closer to her breast. “Becca, you…I d
o not have words.”
“Then don’t speak.” Rebecca placed Mary back in the crib, took Patrick and placed him beside her. She put her arms around Charity. “Just be happy, dearest sister. Just be happy.”
The Abolitionist meeting was called unexpectedly. Charity, still loyally nursing Isobelle—who looked better every day, and was now sitting up and taking an interest in the world—was otherwise bound up in Nan. Captain Musgrove had met her, and shaken her (left) hand with great fervour, saying: “I knew you were intelligent enough to see Nan for who she was. I told her so. Bless you, Harry, bless you.”
Charity had told Nan that Rebecca had given her blessing, and, when Nan had looked unconvinced, made Rebecca tell her also. The Sisterhood had heard via the grapevine. Isobelle had, of course, been the first to know, and although she had looked a little sad, she had kissed Charity and wished her nothing but the best. Now she was less ill, some of the others had visited her, and news had spread, as both Charity and Nan had known it would. It was preferable: it saved them telling the same news over and over.
The meeting, therefore, had taken Charity by surprise. She cared about the slave trade—of course she did—but she had to acknowledge that it had taken a poor second place to her love affair. Rebecca had picked up the invitation first, looking at it with surprise.
“Why, Lady Caroline has invited us to a special meeting of the Abolitionists! Do you know anything about it, Charity?”
“No.” Charity was equally bewildered. “You attended one only a few weeks ago, did you not?”
“Yes. Oh.” Rebecca’s face clouded. “I wonder if they know something about the Act.”
“The what?”
“The Slave Trade Act. It was bound to go in front of the House this week.”
“Oh.” Charity still could not get used to Rebecca knowing about such things. “I didn’t realise.”
Rebecca smiled. “You have been otherwise occupied, have you not?”
Charity blushed. “Becca! But Cara does not say why the meeting has been held?”
“Read it for yourself.”
Rebecca passed it to her sister, and Charity glanced through it. It was a simple enough document, stating that an extraordinary general meeting had been called and requesting all who could make it to attend that very evening.
“I see.”
It seemed a long time until the evening. Rebecca busied herself with the children, but with Isobelle being so much better, Charity had little to do, and the time passed slowly. Finally, however, the time had passed and the two ladies had arrayed themselves in appropriate garments (not too special, not such that they might be accused of failing to make an effort) and been handed one by one into the carriage.
The meeting was well attended. Rebecca and Charity had to wait patiently for their carriage to reach the front of the queue.They disembarked in front of Lady Caroline’s door. In the entrance hall, there was a buzz of chatter from the ladies; as far as Charity could hear, no one was certain why they had been summoned hence, but the hopes were high that the Act might have been passed.
“But we mustn’t hope. Not too much,” she said, as much for her own benefit as Rebecca’s. “We’ve been here before.”
“But the world moves on,” Rebecca said, her eyes bright with optimism. “Oh, Charity, imagine! What if—”
“Don’t!” Charity said sharply. “Don’t. I can hardly bear it as it is,” she explained. She caught sight of Nan, who looked almost like death. “I fear it is not good news,” she murmured to Rebecca, before leaving her unceremoniously to dash to her love. “Nan,” she said urgently, “do you know anything?”
“Nothing.” Nan looked desolate. “I know the vote was to take place this morning, but I do not know how it went. Cara called the meeting before it happened. I’ve asked around, but nobody seems to know. Nobody! Oh, Harry, if this should pass…”
“I know,” Charity said. The urge to put her arms around Nan was strong, but she knew she must not do so.
“I can’t help but think we would have heard were it good news,” Nan said. “John was waiting to hear, but he knew no more than we do when I left.”
They entered Lady Caroline’s large front room. Chairs—Charity could not think where Cara could possibly have acquired so many chairs—stood in rows. It seemed as if quite half of the female population of London was present. But the mood was tense. No one, it seemed, knew what had happened. When the last person was seated, there was a breathless pause. Finally, Cara herself appeared at the front. But it was possible to see from her face what had happened, before she even spoke.
“Ladies,” she said—and even gruff Cara sounded emotional, Charity thought. “Ladies, today the news we have been waiting for has happened. Today—today the House of Lords has confirmed the wishes of the House of Commons. Today, not two hours ago, the results came in. The Slave Trade Act is passed. Next year, in 1807, it will become law. No British trader, no matter his market, will be allowed to work in the sale of human flesh. My friends, today a great step for Britain, for the world, was taken. Slave trading was ruled illegal.” Her voice broke at that point, and she turned away for a second. But Cara was made of stern stuff, and she had herself under control in seconds.
“Ladies,” she said, lifting her chin high, “when remembrance is made in the years to come, we will not be mentioned. Praise, and rightly so, will be given to the Honourable William Wilberforce for his determination in the House to bring slave trading to an end. We women will barely merit a footnote in history. All of this does not matter. The result is what matters. But ladies, remember, we were there. We were there, fighting on the side of all which is right, fighting on the side of God, to whom all humankind is important. Never forget, my friends, never forget: we helped to fight for this law and we saw it made!” Her voice rang out in triumph, her moment of emotion put far behind her. “We can be proud today, and Britain can be proud. Slavery is wrong, and our representatives in both of the Houses have acknowledged it.”
Charity looked at the crowd. All around her, women were crying. Some of them were cheering as raucously as if they had been men at a sporting event. Others were nodding their agreement, or talking excitedly to their neighbours. Near the front, Miss Leigh was standing, tears running down her face in joy. She, and others like her, would still face discrimination based on the colour of her skin, but at least no one would be enslaved by Miss Leigh’s own countrymen. Charity looked at Nan, who had taken her hand and was squeezing it so tightly as to be painful. She squeezed back, knowing what this meant to her love. On the other side of her, Rebecca had both hands to her mouth, staring at Lady Caroline intensely, as if were she to take her eyes away, the news might change. Charity just felt numb with disbelief. She could hear what Cara had said, but could not process it. It was as if the other woman was speaking in a foreign tongue.
The meeting broke up. Lady Caroline had said what needed to be said; there was nothing more for the ladies to discuss. Nothing—and everything. The chatter of voices was almost deafening. Rebecca stood, to make for home, and Charity grabbed Nan’s arm.
“Come with us.”
“You don’t want me,” Nan said.
“I always want you,” Charity said, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “Please?”
Nan looked at Rebecca, who nodded. “I would be glad to have your company.”
“Thank you.”
Nan had dropped Charity’s hand and was stern enough of face that anyone who had not heard the news would have thought her distraught. And so, perhaps, Charity thought, she was—but not with sadness. Good news brought its own confusion.
When they got home, Rebecca excused herself to go and see to the twins. Charity and Nan, together alone at last, looked silently at each other.
“Oh, Nan!” Charity said, looking at her love.
For practical, pragmatic Nan was in tears at the news she had wanted so desperately. Charity wrapped her arms around Nan, pulling her close against her chest.
&nb
sp; “Is it truly…has it truly been passed?” Nan whispered, her tears dampening the front of Charity’s dress. “Tell me it’s true, Harry. Tell me I won’t wake up and find it all a dream.”
“It’s true, darling.”
Nan’s warm body against her own. Charity felt fiercely protective, so happy…so very much in love. What she had felt for Isobelle had been adoration. Isobelle had been a goddess whom Charity had been allowed to worship. She would always care for Isobelle, even if she no longer felt that awestricken emotion. And after all, Isobelle had never asked to be placed on a pedestal. But the emotion Charity felt for Nan was different. Nan was no goddess, though Charity sometimes thought that she might be a true to life heroine. Nan was real—kind, honest and true. Someone to care for, and care about, and know yourself cared for in return. Nan might do many things, and would certainly surprise Charity over and again. She was not the simple soul so many people (Charity included, at first) took her for. She was more than that. So very much more, sang Charity’s heart. To love, honour and cherish.
“The slave trade is illegal. No more people torn bodily from their homes to be sold as commodities,” Nan said, her voice filled with wonder. “No more human beings being seen as mere flesh.”
“No more,” agreed Charity. Nan made to move away, but Charity held on tight. “Let me hold you,” she begged. “I like to feel you in my arms.”
“I like it too.” Nan nuzzled her cheek against Charity’s shoulder, looking up into her dearest friend’s face. “Of course,” she said at last, “it is not over. The law makes it illegal to buy or sell slaves, not to own them. For all the thousands of men, women and children who are already slaves, this makes no difference.”
“It is not a perfect solution,” Charity acknowledged. “But it is a start, Nan.”
“Yes.” Nan stood on tiptoe and kissed Charity. “I began to think it would never be so.” She smiled. “I thought many things would never be so,” she said quietly. “I never thought love would find me either. Today, standing here, in your arms, is it awful of me that in so many ways that means more, even, than the Act of Parliament I craved so deeply? And to have that too! I never thought this day would come.”
The Sisterhood Page 29