The Sisterhood

by Penelope Friday

  It was a difficult situation for Mrs Bellingham. She and the girls clearly did not have the same resources behind them as did their more wealthy and tonnish acquaintances. It would have been impossible to hold a ball in their lodgings, even had they the money to do so. Charity had wondered whether Mrs Bellingham would hold an evening party, but it seemed that her mother was too canny to attempt something to which she would not be able to live up to. Instead, Mrs Bellingham chose to have much lower-key but more regular at-home events—a move that not only saved her from having to spend above her means, but also challenged the rhetoric suggesting that she was too forward and laying claims to a higher degree of gentility than was actually true. It was, though Charity did not realise it to begin with, a clever approach to take. Nevertheless, although her mother worked very hard on giving the appearance of simplicity, the events were anything but simple to those most deeply involved, despite being prefaced always by the same five words: “It’s just an informal affair.”

  Charity winced as she heard her mother say the words to a new victim. They were too familiar by now, and whilst Mrs Bellingham claimed to treat everyone the same way, Charity could not help but notice that the only people she did invite to the ‘informal’ at-home were either rich gentlemen or ladies with well-known links to the former. That wasn’t entirely true, of course: there were a few other ladies invited because they would add prestige to any of the at-homes they chose to attend. But it was true enough—and obvious enough—that the very words Mrs Bellingham spoke were a reminder of what was actually meant.

  The at-homes themselves were some species of nightmare. If Mrs Bellingham had wanted to torture her younger daughter, these events would have been an excellent choice of punishment. The misery started a couple of hours before the at-home was to take place. Both Rebecca and Charity were prinked and prodded into the most elegant clothes in their wardrobe—though only, for Mrs Bellingham had an eye to the main chance, in dresses that were suitable for such an affair. Indeed, the deliberate attempt to make the choice of clothes and hair look entirely ‘natural’ and unstudied was one of the things that took the most time. A flower pinned to the dress? Mrs Bellingham might fasten it on and take it off five times before deciding whether it could be considered appropriate. During which time, Charity, feeling much as she had as a small girl, had to try not only not to squirm with impatience, but also to compose her features into a semblance of acquiescence. For the only thing worse than these sessions was when they were accompanied by Mrs Bellingham’s worn refrain about how she was only doing what was best for her children and about what an ungrateful child Charity had always been.

  Because of the informality of the gatherings, no one knew in advance how many people might attend, which added another layer of anxiety to proceedings. Would today be the day when only one person turned up, leaving the Bellinghams to converse awkwardly, whilst pretending not to be on the lookout for any further invitees? Or on the other hand, would there be enough people that the mean proportions of the room, in comparison with the drawing rooms of richer and more well-connected acquaintances, would become obvious enough to be a source of embarrassment? These worries made Mrs Bellingham even more strict and particular in advance. She never had liked things over which she had little control, and Charity could only be bewildered as to why her mother had chosen this particular method of introducing her daughters to a range of possible suitors and friends.

  It was not until Charity mentioned her bewilderment to Rebecca that she found the explanation. Unexpectedly cynical for once, Rebecca had said simply, “It is cheaper. By stressing the informal nature of the event, Mother ensures that no one is expecting high entertainment, and therefore there is no need to buy all the trimmings which might go with something more definite. It allows her to pay off her debts in terms of invitations, whilst also costing as little as is possible. It is really quite clever of her.”

  “Yes,” said Charity, much surprised at her sister’s perception. “It is.”

  “And of course,” Rebecca said, reverting much more to type, “it is so kind of her, for she does it all for us, you know.”

  But to that, Charity had no response.

  Today’s guests trickled in. Mrs Carbory and her daughter arrived early on. Mrs Bellingham, Charity knew, was torn between pleasure that a lady who was invited to the very best parties would deign to attend such a small affair and annoyance that Miss Carbory was so very attractive. Rebecca was pretty, of course, but Miss Carbory was beautiful and put everyone else in the shade by comparison. Mrs Earl, a plain but smiling dowager, arrived almost on their coattails. Mrs Hollings, a non-descript lady of few talents with whom Rebecca had struck up a half-hearted friendship, arrived twenty minutes later, full of pleasantries and gossip and very little else. She was followed by Mr Lane, a serious-minded young man who, when he could, pontificated on the evils of most modern entertainments and the joy of having a small gathering such as the Bellinghams’ own. Charity found him well-meaning but dull. Still, she welcomed him, preferring his conversation to the tedious small talk of the ladies. Charity was not deceived, however: although Mr Lane spoke predominantly to her, she was perceptive enough to note that his gaze lay always on Rebecca. The question was, when—and it was when, and not if—he proposed, would Mrs Bellingham consider it a suitable match? He would certainly be seen by her mother as a good enough husband for Charity, for whom any offer would do, but for Rebecca? Charity was not sure. It was evident that the hope of a brilliant marriage rested solely on Rebecca’s shoulders. Would a proposal from a man with but a moderate income, and a position in society very similar to the Bellinghams’ own, be considered good enough? Charity did not like to raise the subject with Rebecca, whom she knew had no such expectations from Mr Lane. She would not, of course, speak to her mother about it. But she couldn’t help watching, waiting and wondering.

  For now, though, Charity’s mind lay on a purely practical matter. Mr Lane’s presence, she decided with relief, made the number of visitors large enough not to fill Mrs Bellingham with fury for the rest of the evening, but not so many that she and Rebecca would have to stand to make certain there were enough seats. It was not that Charity objected to standing per se, but she was painfully aware of her height at the best of times, and in a crowded room she felt as if she loomed larger than ever. Mr Edmund Scorton also attended today. He had indeed kept some interest in Rebecca, and Mrs Bellingham was hopeful of an offer. Charity, who had been shocked to the core after seeing him kiss an unwilling housemaid at a luncheon engagement when he thought no one was looking, trusted vehemently that no offer would be forthcoming.

  However, the guests were not at an end yet. Just as Mrs Bellingham was giving up on all hope of seeing any more visitors, her man announced the arrival of two more.

  “Lord Bulstead. Mr Fotheringay.”

  Mrs Bellingham turned with a slight frown towards the door. Whilst Lord Bulstead was a welcome guest, Charity—and by the look on her mother’s face, her mother also—had never heard of Mr Fotheringay. They entered together, and Lord Bulstead went straight over to Mrs Bellingham with the new gentleman.

  “This is my friend, Mr Fotheringay,” he said. “Knew you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, if I brought him along with me.”

  Charity watched as her mother tried to compose her features into an expression of welcome. Lord Bulstead’s title made him acceptable, even though his age and monetary status meant that he was not a possible suitor for the Bellingham girls. Mr Fotheringay, however, was just a plain old man—quite literally. He looked to be approximately a decade older than Mrs Bellingham, though Charity knew that her mother looked young for her age. Even the fashionable nature of Mr Fotheringay’s clothing could not take away from the fact that he was not in the slightest good looking. He was a few inches shorter than Charity herself, with a face which was all jowls and bulging eyes, making him look rather like an ancient and grumpy bullfrog. Worst of all, in Charity’s mother’s eyes, he had no title. Lord Bulstead wa
s renowned for having friends of all ages and ranks—hence, Charity thought ironically, his willingness to visit the Bellinghams—and Mr Fotheringay did not look as if he were one of the gentleman’s more respectable friends. When Fotheringay took a seat near her, Charity discovered that he had also clearly been drinking previously to their meeting: his beery breath was enough to make her feel slightly light-headed. She had never been so grateful to her mother as when Mrs Bellingham called her across to welcome another guest to the room.

  Later on, chatting with determined politeness to Mrs Earl—“Two eligible sons,” her mother had told Charity and Rebecca on the occasion of the lady’s first visit—Charity noticed that Rebecca was unfortunate enough to have become caught in Fotheringay’s coils. Rebecca looked shy, but Charity was as usual in admiration of her sister’s ability to talk even to the least congenial guest. Whilst Charity had not been able to think of a word to say in response to the gentleman’s monologue about carriages, Rebecca was not only nodding at appropriate moments but, judging by the fondness with which the gentleman was regarding her, making the right sort of comments as well.

  Mr Fotheringay outstayed the rest of the guests. Mr Edmund Scorton, not bothering to conceal a yawn, had left early, and Mr Lane and several of the ladies had followed not long after. However, Mr Fotheringay was only dislodged after a couple of exceedingly broad hints from Mrs Bellingham. She managed to control the worst of her rage until he had left the house, but as soon as the front door closed, her temper broke.

  “Lord Bulstead! Really, the cheek of the man,” Mrs Bellingham raged. “Turning up here with the scaff and raff of society. Someone he picked up off the street, no doubt, and decided to bring along. As for his friend, Featherleigh, or whatever his name was”—Charity was aware that Mrs Bellingham knew perfectly well Fotheringay’s name; it was a matter of principle to appear to forget it—“he should know better, no matter his place in society. Indeed, and so I shall tell both him and Bulstead, Lord or no, when I next see him!”

  Chapter Five

  Mrs Bellingham did not carry out her threat to complain to Lord Bulstead of his behaviour. In truth, neither Charity nor Rebecca had ever thought she would: a Lord was a Lord, after all. What they had not anticipated, however, was the mood of sheer delight in which she came home after a visit to Mrs Carbory two days later.

  “Well!” she said, settling herself down on the sofa, and fanning herself vigorously. “Well! What a thing!”

  Charity rolled her eyes. Rebecca gave her a quick warning glance before saying, “What, Mother?”

  “Goodness gracious me, the conversation I have just had with Mrs Carbory,” their mother said, her voice full of excitement. “I don’t know whether you remember that charming gentleman who came to our last open afternoon the day before yesterday? Mr Fotheringay. Such a distinguished man.”

  For a second, Charity wondered whether her mother had lost her mind. Charming? Distinguished? Was this really the same gentleman about whom Mrs Bellingham had ranted and raved not two days earlier?

  “What about him?” Rebecca asked.

  “Mrs Carbory told me that he is…well, flush in the pockets.” Mrs Bellingham looked slightly ashamed of herself for the vulgarity. “That is, he is a rich man. An extremely rich man, girls. What a thing!”

  “Money.” Charity could not keep the distaste out of her voice, and her mother glared at her.

  “Yes, Miss, money. Do you really think you can manage so well without it? I would like to see you try!”

  “Tell us about Mr Fotheringay, though, Mother, please?” Rebecca implored. Charity knew better than to think that her sister was particularly interested in wealth; her question was intended to distract Mrs Bellingham’s attention from Charity.

  Their mother put down her fan and leaned forwards, as if imparting a great secret. “Twenty thousand pounds a year!” Her voice was awestruck. “To think of it, girls! Twenty thousand pounds a year, and he at our little soiree!”

  Charity thought back to the bitter words that Mrs Bellingham had spoken on the evening after she met Fotheringay. One should really admire her mother for her ability to forget her strictures so thoroughly so quickly.

  “Perhaps you should marry him,” she suggested drily.

  Mrs Bellingham glared sternly at her errant daughter. “No one,” she said loftily, “was speaking of marriage. I was merely demonstrating an interest in Lord Bulstead’s friend.”

  “That’s more than I was able to do,” Charity admitted.

  “It was kind of him to visit,” Rebecca said hastily. “He did not seem to look down upon us either.”

  “I should think not!” Mrs Bellingham said, changing her tune a little. She hesitated. “I believe that he gained a good deal of his money from…” her voice sank to a whisper, “trade. But perhaps that is not so important as it was when I was young. Anyway, he should have no reason to despise you girls. You are elegant and well-bred. If we perhaps do not have quite as deep pockets as Mr Fotheringay”—Charity muffled a splutter at this masterful understatement—“then that is no reason for anyone to put themselves above us.” She looked sternly at the girls. “Now, if he comes again, dears, I wish you both to make the greatest effort to make him feel welcome.”

  Indeed, it was not the only occasion the Bellinghams were to cross paths with Mr Fotheringay. Mrs Bellingham always made a point of speaking to him when they attended events, and Mr Fotheringay came to several more of the Bellingham soirees. It was noticeable, however, that the gentleman was never an attendee at the few elite gatherings that the Bellinghams went to: even with Lord Bulstead as a patron, it seemed that there were some doors not open to him. In other circumstances, Mrs Bellingham’s snobbery would have led her to eschew any type of contact with a man of such rank. It was amazing the latitude she was prepared to give a gentleman with the wealth of Mr Fotheringay.

  Charity saw it all but was sceptical about the final outcome. The likelihood of her mother remarrying after her first unhappy marriage was surely small, even if the proposal came from a man as loaded with riches as it seemed that Mr Fotheringay was. She suspected instead that Mrs Bellingham’s fondness for Mr Fotheringay stemmed from the hope that he might know other men with equally capacious pockets—ones who smelt less of the shop and who might be of an age to be interested in Rebecca, if it so became that Mr Edmund Scorton did not come through with an offer, which seemed likely: he had been much less attentive of late. Charity knew her mother rated her, Charity’s, chances of matrimony as slim to none.

  It seemed that it was not just within the family that Charity was considered unlikely to marry however. At the next ball she attended, Charity had the misfortune to overhear another conversation. To do her justice, it was difficult not to hear parts of many different conversations between others: the bigger the ‘crush’ at an event, the better it was considered to be, but it meant that one was rarely more than a metre or two away from three or four groups of chatterers. It could be avoided, to some extent, were one to dance, but then Charity so rarely was.

  Today, she was spending her time again watching the lady whom she had admired so very much at the first ball they had attended in London, and who was wearing blue, just as she had on that other occasion. Charity had noticed her at some of the other events also; although she sometimes wore other colours, she had a clear preference for blue and had a number of dresses in different shades. Knowing a little more about the steps of the dance, Charity could now appreciate the young lady’s lightness of foot and elegance of manner even more than she had before: she danced like dandelion seeds in the wind, seeming almost to float. It was clear, too, that her sprightly and engaging air warmed those who came into contact with her. There were always smiles on the faces of those around, and she never—whether dancing or not—had any lack of friends and admirers surrounding her. Charity was not surprised. She found herself drawn instinctively to the lady, always looking for her at each event and feeling a warm glow of pleasure when she was present, e
ven though they had never so much as spoken a word to one another.

  Charity had not seen Miss Musgrove, the plump young lady of the first ball, again, which she regretted. Their meeting had been one of the few moments of kindliness that she had experienced at these events, and she had thought for a while that she might have come close to making a friend. But Charity could only presume that Miss Musgrove had been out of her usual oeuvre that evening—something which might well have explained her willingness to chat for a few moments with Charity herself.

  She was not left to regret this absence for long however. Unexpectedly, she caught her would-be-friend’s name on the lips of a debutante who was giggling happily with a few others.

  “Miss Musgrove? I believe she’s out of town for the moment.”

  Well, that would explain it, Charity thought. No wonder she hadn’t seen her again. Her mind would have drifted, except that another familiar name attracted her notice: her own.

  “Didn’t I see her talking to that Bellingham girl the other week? Not the pretty one. The other one?” another girl—a ginger-haired girl with striking green eyes—asked.

  “The peculiar one? Miss Charity Bellingham?” Charity tried not to be upset about being described as peculiar. It was no more than she had thought of herself, many times, after all. “Oh, she certainly was.”

  “But why?”

  “Who knows? But I’ll tell you something amusing about her.”

  “About Miss Musgrove?”

  “Hardly! Though the subject certainly came up in conversation with her.” The first girl took a deep breath, and said with false seriousness, “You may have noticed that Miss Charity Bellingham rarely appears to take part in festivities at balls?”

  “She—What?”

  Charity knew she should walk away, but somehow she was rooted to the spot. It seemed impossible that she should be the subject of conversation; that anyone should know who she was, let alone know much about her. But a quick glance showed her that Miss Scorton was in the tightly knit group of girls. Miss Scorton had been at many of the smaller events that Charity had attended, and had made clear her dislike and disapproval of the Bellingham family en masse. She had never forgiven Rebecca for catching her brother’s interest, though Mr Scorton had snubbed Rebecca publicly at the last ball they attended, turning his attention elsewhere in a way that made his meaning quite clear. Nonetheless, despite it having been Rebecca who had upset her, Miss Scorton disliked Charity even more than her sister, or perhaps merely saw an easier target in her. Presumably she had also disseminated her opinion of them all to her own closest friends.