The Sisterhood

by Penelope Friday

  Rebecca laughed, as Charity had hoped she would.

  But it was Charity, and not Rebecca, for whom the ball was an unhappy experience. Even had her dress been a perfect fit, and even if she had been personally introduced to every single reveller at the ball, Charity would not have enjoyed the evening. It was not that she did not like to dance, nor that she baulked at conversation. It was simply that it was evident from the moment she entered the room that she did not fit in. Her height was the most noticeable problem: she was taller than every other lady present and the majority of the gentlemen also. Gentlemen, she had discovered from the local revelries she had previously attended, were uncomfortable looking up to meet the gaze of their partner.

  Equally, the number of people she recognised and might have been able to speak to were few. Most of the other ladies had friends and acquaintances enough that a tall country cousin with an unflattering dress and a serious expression barely impinged on their notice. The gentlemen followed the all-too-familiar pattern of her previous experiences at balls back home and were disinclined to dance with her thanks to her height, though Rebecca had invitations enough. Charity saw Mrs Bellingham keeping a maternal eye on Rebecca, making sure that her elder daughter did not commit any social solecisms, and ready to introduce her to other matrons when Rebecca stood alone. On the rare occasions her gaze fixed on Charity, she had a steely glare that did not add anything positive to her daughter’s evening.

  But that was not all. The majority of the chattering was about the ton itself: who had met whom, and what they had said; the scandal of Lady X, whose reticule had not matched her dress; the rumours about Mr Y, said to be on the point of an advantageous betrothal.

  “I heard,” said the lady next to Charity to her friend, “that she might have a fortune of forty-thousand pounds! Fancy that, when he has gambling debts to pay.”

  “Do you think she realises that he sees her as a pigeon ripe for the plucking?” The other lady giggled.

  “With her airs and graces, I don’t think she has time to realise anything,” the first lady replied.

  None of it made any sense to Charity, and even had it done so, it was not the sort of conversation she enjoyed. She moved away, trying to slip through the crowded room to find Rebecca. Mrs Bellingham was seated a little further down with several other dowagers, her usual expression of discontent on her face. Charity halted, unwilling to push her wallflower status upon her mother. Rebecca, she realised as she looked over the heads of the crowd, was dancing. Charity smiled at the seriousness with which Becca was taking the steps. If her partner had hoped to chat, he would be disappointed. Rebecca’s entire attention was on the dance.

  Further down, there was a lady dressed in blue, who was clearly keeping up a stream of chatter with her partner. The blue dress suited her, Charity thought. She would have been beautiful anyway, but the dress showed off her best features: large blue eyes and the smallest of waists. Charity could have spent a happy time watching her, except as a debutante the expectations were different. All girls were expected to want to dance non-stop. Not dancing was as clear as sign as any that you did not belong.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  The soft voice made Charity jump, and she turned to look for the speaker.

  The new lady was short and on the plump side. She was a few years older than Charity herself but not yet of an age to be considered an old maid. Her dress was pretty but practical: there was no possibility that she would catch a ruffle on a gentleman’s cuff, nor did she need a large space to allow her dress the room it wished for.

  “Not really,” Charity admitted. She realised her mistake immediately. Whilst girls were not supposed to act like country bumpkins, gasping in awe at each new sight, they were expected to show some interest, even if it was couched as languid boredom. “I mean, it’s an awful crush, isn’t it?” she added, trying to retrieve her position.

  Her new acquaintance smiled. “It’s not obligatory to keep to the rule book of conversation, you know.”

  “No,” Charity said ruefully, “but it is often so much more comfortable!”

  “Do you not dance?”

  Charity felt herself blushing. “I do. When I am asked.”

  The lady’s eyes flicked up and then down her, as if assessing her. “Why do you not get asked?”

  The question was so simply put that Charity responded with the truthfulness that came most naturally to her. “I think I’m too tall. Oh, sorry,” she added, as another debutante tried to squeeze past her.

  Unexpectedly, the lady laughed. “That is not a problem I have ever been troubled with, but I take your meaning. My name is Miss Musgrove, by the way. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “And I to meet you. I am Miss Charity Bellingham. My sister, Miss Bellingham, is over there.”

  Charity pointed out Rebecca, who was dancing with a very young gentleman who was giving a similar amount of attention to his steps as Rebecca was to hers. The two ladies watched her dancing for a moment or two.

  “She is very pretty,” Miss Musgrove said seriously.

  “Yes.” Charity smiled, always happy to hear Rebecca praised. She ignored the small pang that told her that no one would ever say the same about her. “She certainly is.”

  Miss Musgrove stood by Charity for a good five minutes more, and Charity began to relax. She felt at last as if she had a friend, or at least a friendly acquaintance. Someone who was willing to stand in silence without filling every second with tedious chatter; someone who had bothered to reach out and speak to a new debutante, even without an introduction from the Master of Ceremonies. She was insensibly consoled, and when, after a little more conversation, Miss Musgrove excused herself to dance with an older gentleman whose dark hair met in a widow’s peak on his forehead, Charity missed her.

  She missed Miss Musgrove even more as the next half an hour passed without a single person even bothering to speak to her. Charity could see Mrs Bellingham on the other side of the room, nodding her head hard for emphasis as she spoke to another lady of middle age. Rebecca was rarely without a dance partner, and Charity tried hard to dampen down her wistful envy and concentrate on her pleasure for her sister. As if she had caught Charity’s thoughts, Rebecca came to join her at the end of the next dance.

  “This is fun,” Rebecca said happily. Her face was flushed a little pink from the exertion, her smile lighting up her face. “You were right. I was a goose to be so frightened.”

  Charity firmly pinned a smile on. “Didn’t I tell you so?”

  She was glad to see Rebecca so oblivious to all the negatives about the ball. It had not been just Charity’s own experiences of rejection that had subdued her. With little to do but sit and watch and listen, Charity had had time to notice that their mother had also received her fair share of apparent disapproval. Certain older ladies, with whom Mrs Bellingham did not appear to be acquainted, had nonetheless looked from their mother to her daughters with an expression of displeasure. Charity had not been certain why they looked so grim until she had happened to find herself on a chair quite close to a couple of them.

  “I see Eliza Bellingham is as she ever was,” one notable matriarch commented.

  Charity’s eyes had instinctively hunted for her mother. She was speaking to an impressive dowager Charity remembered from walks in the park as having been pointed out as one of society’s main figures. The name escaped her mind, but not the tone in her mother’s voice as she had spoken of the lady. Glancing sideways at the ladies sitting close to her, she saw that their eyes, too, rested on Mrs Bellingham.

  “Pushing, you mean?” another lady asked. She had feathers in her hat, Charity saw: not enough to be vulgar, just to add an extra element to her attire. It was the sort of thing that Rebecca might do and that Charity never thought of.

  “Indeed. The fact that it is on behalf of her daughter rather than herself does not excuse her.”

  “Ill breeding is as ill breeding does,” the second replied with a dismissiv
e sniff. “You can marry above your station, but it won’t make you any better bred.”

  “Mind you, the daughter’s a pretty thing.”

  “Insipid.” The ladies’ eyes drifted to where Rebecca was dancing, her face a study in concentration. “Parochial,” the same lady added. “Funny, though. I’m sure I heard the Bellingham woman had two daughters.”

  It was not easy to try and make yourself invisible when you were Charity’s size, but she did her best.

  “Oh, she does! The other’s a strange sort of thing. Cinderella’s ugly sister. Now, where is she…?”

  Charity kept her gaze straight ahead, as if she was fascinated by the dancing. Nevertheless, she felt the moment that the dowager spotted her. The lady gave a small cry of surprise; Charity could not be shocked by the belatedly lowered voices. Ugly sister? Well, she had been called worse. And after all, it was not entirely inaccurate. Compared to Rebecca, she was plain indeed—though if the story had run true, Charity would have been her mother’s favourite. She rolled her eyes at the thought of Mrs Bellingham’s reaction to that.

  She could only be grateful when the long evening drew to a close.

  Chapter Four

  Next morning came the analysis. Mrs Bellingham wished to go over every single element of the ball: what each person had said to Rebecca, whom she had danced with. The minutiae were dissected and assessed in great detail. Charity remembered the way the lady last night had said “Pushing”. Whilst she resented deeply the slurs on Rebecca, who was neither insipid nor parochial, Charity thought indignantly, she could not help but acknowledge that the label given to her mother was not entirely unfair. It was evident—more than evident—that this London Season had one purpose for Mrs Bellingham: to find Rebecca a husband. Charity wondered if her mother had considered the fatal flaw in her scheme. Charity could hardly think that a future consisting of Mrs Bellingham and her ‘ugly’ spinster daughter setting up house together would appeal to her mother. But perhaps she felt that any gentleman who might offer would do for Charity, whereas she was clearly determined that Rebecca should find a husband of wealth or position, if not both.

  “And you danced with Mr James.” Charity could tell from the quickened interest in Mrs Bellingham’s voice that Mr James must be someone of importance. “What did he say? Come, Rebecca, I want every word.”

  Rebecca looked dismayed, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. “I hardly know, Mother. We…we did not speak much. I think I bored him.”

  “Bored him? Of course not. Did he say so? No, you need not answer that. He is too much the gentleman to have said any such thing. You were shy, no doubt, that is all. And anyway, it is bad manners to be too forward in your approach.” Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs Bellingham continued. “You must not get a bee in your bonnet, imagining slights when none were given. No, no, I feel sure you said everything appropriate.”

  Rebecca’s eyes were lowered. She continued to fiddle with the handkerchief, but she said, “I hope so.”

  “But you danced. How much of the time did you dance? More than half, I feel sure. And that when you are barely known in London! But not the waltz, I trust?”

  Their mother must have known, Charity thought, that neither girl had waltzed. Mrs Bellingham had been firm enough in her warnings (or threats) on the subject that neither of them would have considered doing so, even if any gentleman had been careless enough of their reputation to ask. Indeed, one of the few times Charity had felt her mother’s gimlet gaze had been when the strings had started up a tune in three-four time. Charity might feature low on Mrs Bellingham’s priority list, but her mother was quick enough to ascertain that Charity was doing nothing that could bring censorship on herself, her mother and her sister. Even if Charity had parental permission to take part in the waltz, however, she felt very doubtful that any gentleman would have requested the dubious pleasure of her company. They had hardly been queuing up for the other dances.

  Charity hid a smile, her imagination offering her the ridiculous image of a long line of gentlemen queuing politely to ask her to dance. Her mother’s questioning of Rebecca continued, but Charity let the sound wash over her. It was not as if she was required to take part. It was quite pleasant to sit lost in her own thoughts of the ball, which mostly centred on a beautiful lady in blue, dancing like a fairy, and take a few minutes’ precious time to herself.

  * * *

  A week later, a group of debutantes gathered to practise their dance steps at the house belonging to Mrs Scorton, a lady with one daughter and two older sons. Mrs Bellingham was always looking out for gentlemen of marriageable age, and whilst the eldest son was almost certainly out of reach, having recently become betrothed, the younger was nonetheless available. The fact that he had a string of scandals and mistresses in his past (and had been sent down from Oxford after a young lady of good birth had been compromised) was not a concern to the matchmaking mother. Mrs Bellingham insisted that her daughters attend.

  “You do realise that not only is Mr Edmund Scorton a very good catch, Lady Jarrow’s daughter is going to be at the event? How are you supposed to move in the best circles if you don’t take advantage of these opportunities?”

  “But are we invited?” Rebecca asked tentatively.

  “Of course!” her mother said. Then, “Well, I certainly spoke to Mrs Scorton about it. You know, she has the Plain Jane daughter. Unfortunate to call your daughter Jane and have her live up to all the worst association of the name. Anyway, I said that you both would also attend.”

  “So we haven’t been invited,” Charity said.

  Rebecca, standing a step behind her big little sister, gave her a warning tap on the wrist. Charity sighed inwardly. She certainly ought to know better than to challenge her mother like this. She would not change Mrs Bellingham’s mind and would only make her more determined to stick to her point.

  “An oversight,” Mrs Bellingham said, giving her daughter a dark glare. “I know Mrs Scorton must have intended to invite you girls. She is certainly expecting you.”

  Charity could believe that last. Mrs Scorton could hardly have missed Mrs Bellingham’s shameless jockeying for an invitation. Original invite or none, the Bellingham girls would be expected. Charity wondered whether her mother realised that her determination for her daughters to take part in as many entertainments as possible was more likely to end in their being ostracised from polite society than welcomed.

  Despite this, Charity and Rebecca were welcomed to Mrs Scorton’s house with cool politeness by their hostess, and even—in Rebecca’s case—greeted cheerfully by a couple of the other girls. Rebecca, whilst not being particularly intelligent or witty, had such an evident air of well-meaning that she disarmed all criticism. To put it simply, she was almost impossible to dislike. Charity knew herself to be in a different class: the girls had little interest in her, but certainly saw her as no threat, so whilst she did not make many friends, she at least did not suffer the rancour that she had feared.

  The steps were practised diligently, and for a short while the girls were joined by the famed Mr Edmund Scorton, which made several of them dissolve into embarrassed giggling, whilst he looked them over (Charity thought) as if they were pigs at market. His gaze lingered longest on Rebecca, who was not one of the gigglers, but who practiced sedately under his watchful eye. Perhaps, Charity thought, her mother’s plans might come to fruition. Mr Scorton had no time to spare for Charity, of course, but she had not expected him to, nor had she any wish to marry, whether well or badly, so she was left supremely unmoved by the experience. Mr Scorton himself held no fascination for her. He was a short gentleman with what seemed to be a permanent sneer fixed to his lips. Nonetheless, it seemed Charity was alone in her lack of interest. After half an hour or so, his sister Jane begged him to leave, for his presence disturbed the girls’ concentration. He shrugged.

  “All right, I’m going. Just wanted to look over the new batch of debs, Janie. Always good to know the pretty ones.
” Not even bothering to lower his voice, he added: “What’s that one called?” He jerked his head at Rebecca. “Wouldn’t mind saying ‘how d’ye do’ to her, know what I mean?”

  Jane’s reply was inaudible, and her brother slouched out again. The practice settled down, but it was clear that Mr Scorton’s presence had disturbed the balance. More mistakes were made, and a few squabbles broke out. Jane herself was especially cool to the Bellinghams: clearly her brother’s interest in Rebecca had piqued her.

  As the party came to an end, Rebecca caught Charity’s hand urgently.

  “Don’t tell Mother. About Mr Edmund Scorton, I mean,” she begged in a whisper.

  “What, that he spoke highly of you?” Charity asked. “We must mention that he looked in on us, for Mother is sure to find out somehow.”

  “I know, but…I do not think he was really interested. He did not seem the type to fall in love.”

  “Love?” Charity asked, startled. Then she collected herself. “Perhaps you’re right. I won’t tell.”

  “Thank you,” her sister said gratefully.

  It took more than a few weeks, nonetheless, before the Bellinghams could claim to have settled down comfortably in London. It took Rebecca and Charity, used to the peace and rural sounds of the country, some time to get used to the very different noise and the bustle surrounding them now. Where once it had been the cockerel’s crowing that might disturb their sleep, now it was the hoarse calls of the road sweepers, or the never-ending sound of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels on the cobbled roads around their new home. When the first novelty was over, however, and Mrs Bellingham had managed to make a few…not friends, for Mrs Bellingham had no time for those, but ‘useful connections’, it became evident that in return for the parties, soirees, picnics and outings they had attended, the Bellinghams would have to offer something in return.