“I hardly know,” stammered Charity. Her headlong rush after escaping the house had taken her down roads and paths she remembered little about.
“You poor dear.” Miss Greenaway came over to her and put an arm around her waist. “Goodness, aren’t you tall?” she said. “Anyway, you can just give your address to Victor. He will know where to go.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Charity said, looking down into Miss Greenaway’s guileless blue eyes.
“Nonsense,” her acquaintance replied. “I should be thanking you, you know. Your company saved me from the worst sort of ennui this afternoon. I am very grateful.”
Charity looked away. She could not think how to reply to the laughing remarks from Miss Greenaway. She had been in the worst position, unsure what to do or where to go, and Miss Greenaway had done so much for her that it was difficult to hear it glossed over so lightly.
“Come,” said Miss Greenaway. “We can take you home, and you can come tomorrow to tell me how the evening unfolded.”
She led Charity down the stairs to the front door, where the carriage was already waiting. The coachman helped Miss Greenaway in, and then did the same for Charity with equal solemnity.
“Where to, ma’am?”
Charity gave the address, and he gave a dignified nod before climbing up behind the horses. Charity could not tell from his expression whether he was shocked or sanguine about the location to which she had directed him, but she had little time to worry, for Miss Greenaway livened the journey up with her stream of artless chatter. Nonetheless, Charity felt a strong sense of nervousness as the carriage approached the house.
“Now,” Miss Greenaway said, “we must make sure that the gentleman of the establishment, if we can call him such, is aware of our presence. It would be a pity to have planned this all for naught.”
“Yes.” Charity tapped her fingers together over and over, until Miss Greenaway placed her hand over Charity’s to stop the jerky gesture. “Sorry.”
“You will be fine. Note,” she added laughingly, “that I still ask no more questions. You should be impressed, you know. I am not known for my patience. Come, now, let me walk you to the door. And use my first name,” she added in an undertone. “I am Isobelle. Call me that, and your brother can hardly think that we are not well acquainted. Remember, Isobelle.” The coachman came around and assisted the two ladies out of the carriage, and then preceded them up the step to the door. The footman opened the door a second or two before they reached it. “And I shall see you again tomorrow, my dear? Lady Greenaway’s house. I’m sure your driver will know the direction.”
“I shall.” Charity glanced into the hall and saw Mr Fotheringay hovering at the bottom of the stairs. She was grimly pleased to notice the discomfort on his face. He must be wondering how well Charity knew this cream of the elite world; why she had not mentioned it previously; what she might or might not have told Miss Greenaway.
“Until then.” Miss Greenaway took Charity’s hands in hers. “It was such a pleasure to have your company this afternoon. Goodbye, my dear. Or rather, as the French say, au revoir!”
“Goodbye…Isobelle,” Charity said, her heart fluttering at this use of Miss Greenaway’s Christian name for more reasons than one.
“Sweet dreams. Dream of me!” Isabelle threw back as she left.
Charity stepped into the hall, and the footman shut the door behind her. She looked coolly at Mr Fotheringay, whose face was pale. Walking over to where he stood, she said, “If you will excuse me, I must go to my room to change. My dress has got sadly crumpled and stained in the course of the day. I will see you at dinner?”
“I—Yes, of course.” He glanced anxiously at the footman. “Perhaps we could…could have a private word at some point later?”
Charity swept past him, wondering how she had ever been terrified of this pathetic little man, amazed at the difference a few hours had made. “I do not think there will be any need for that. Please excuse me. I would not like to delay my sister’s evening meal.”
If Charity did not, as Miss Greenaway had instructed, dream of her new friend that night, she did at least spare many thoughts for her during the course of the evening. Rebecca commented at dinner, “Why, Charity, you look so happy.”
Charity smiled, as much for the continued concern on her brother-in-law’s face as for Rebecca’s comment. “I am,” she agreed. “I met an old acquaintance today.”
“Really?” Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Who is it?”
Charity considered for a moment before speaking. Rebecca knew, even if her husband did not, that Charity had no previous friendship with Isobelle Greenaway. It would not do for Mr Fotheringay to discover the slightness of their acquaintance. She looked hard at Rebecca as she replied, trying to send an unspoken message.
“You know my ‘lady in blue’?” she asked. Rebecca had teased her gently about the mysterious lady who had fascinated Charity so much.
“Charity! You surely have not…” Rebecca broke off, finally realising the warning in Charity’s eyes. “You met her again?” she asked. “Now, what was her name, dearest?”
Charity gave her a little smile. “It’s not like you to forget a name, Becca. Miss Greenaway.”
“Oh!” Rebecca tried to temper her surprise. “I mean, how could I have forgotten?”
“But enough of this,” Charity said hastily. “I will tell you later, no doubt. How has your day been? Are your friends all in good health?”
Rebecca, reliable as always, took this hint to change the subject, and the rest of the mealtime passed peacefully. Charity was grateful for a chance to sit quietly and listen to her sister’s mundane account of her day. It meant that Fotheringay also began to relax, but Charity had not the energy to concern herself much with him. Surely Miss Greenaway had been right? Surely on this occasion, Mrs Bellingham would do something?
As soon as the meal was over, far from sitting down with Rebecca and explaining about her meeting with Miss Greenaway, Charity sat down in her own room to write to her mother. Miss Greenaway’s words still echoed in her mind: Even the coldest mother must help when you are in so much distress. She was right. This particular time, Mrs Bellingham must come to the rescue—if not for Charity’s sake, for Rebecca’s. It could not be right for Charity to stay in a situation where she risked undermining her sister’s marriage.
She picked up the quill pen and began to write.
Dear Mother,
Forgive me for writing, but I am in desperate need of your help. I hope that it may be possible for you to allow me to come to you in Bath—if not forever, then for a long visit.
She bit at the top of the quill, wondering what to say of her situation, and how to say it. She must convince her mother of the need for her to stay, yet at the same time she baulked at putting in writing—nay, even saying or thinking about—what precisely had occurred between herself and Mr Fotheringay.
I am experiencing difficulties living here with Mr Fotheringay. He has…
She crossed out the last two words. She could not bring herself to finish the sentence.
I have concerns that my presence here is affecting Rebecca’s marriage for the worse, she wrote at last. That was undoubtedly true. But it did not convey the urgency, the desperation, Charity felt.
I need to get away. I cannot live under the same roof as Mr Fotheringay. Please, Mother, I beg you. If not for my sake, for Rebecca’s. Let me come and live with you.
Your loving daughter,
Charity
For a moment, she looked hopelessly down at the letter. Her handwriting had never been good, but the scrawl she had produced on this occasion made her look almost illiterate. She considered writing it out again, more neatly, but she could not bear to go through it again. Equally, somewhere inside her she hoped that her mother might see the scribbled note for what it was: sheer desperation. Tears had come to her eyes as she had been writing, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand before they could fall and s
mudge the letter even more. It was written now. She must just send it and await her mother’s reply.
Chapter Ten
The next day, Charity woke with a start. There were so many things she needed to do. She must post the letter to her mother, and she must also visit Miss Greenaway again, as she had promised to do the day before. The morning passed slowly; breakfast with Rebecca and Mr Fotheringay seemed interminable. She knew that Rebecca wanted to catch her, to ask more searching questions about her meeting with the lady in blue, but Charity herself was anxious to avoid any such questioning. How could she explain what it had been that had led her to Miss Greenaway’s door? And without that explanation, she must seem crazed, perhaps half-witted, wandering the streets of London on her own.
“May I borrow the carriage later, please?” she asked, trying to sound natural.
“Why?” Rebecca began, but unusually she was beaten to a response by Mr Fotheringay.
“To visit Miss Whatever-Her-Name-Was?” he asked gruffly.
Charity was certain that Fotheringay knew precisely what Miss Greenaway’s name was; her new friend had made it quite clear that she was Lady Greenaway’s daughter. She looked straight across the table at him.
“Miss Greenaway, and her mother, Lady Greenaway. Yes, that’s correct,” she said coldly.
He looked angry, and Charity looked away quickly, frustrated by the fear she felt. How could she be so scared of him? But then again, how could she not?
“That is perfectly satisfactory,” he said. Charity realised, with a lightening of her heart, that what Miss Greenaway had said was true. He was, if not scared, then overawed by Charity’s powerful friends. “I’ll tell our man to put himself at your service.”
“Thank you.” Charity rose and left the room before any further conversation could be had.
Nonetheless, a few hours later, when she was standing on Miss Greenaway’s doorstep, Charity felt suddenly anxious all over again. It was all very well to intimidate Fotheringay with her talk of Miss and Lady Greenaway, but in truth she was as much daunted by their position in society as he could be. And suddenly the doubts she had pushed down came flooding back to her. Had Miss Greenaway truly meant for her to return today, or had she merely said so to be polite? She fidgeted with her gloves, pulling them straighter on her fingers. The footman opened the door just as she had her hands together, making her look like a supplicant on the point of a desperate request. Which wasn’t, she thought bleakly, so far from the truth.
“Is Miss Greenaway in?” she asked.
“May I ask your name, ma’am?” he asked. For an awful moment, Charity thought that she was going to be refused entrance.
“Miss Charity Bellingham.”
“Thank you, Miss. Miss Greenaway is indeed in, and Lady Greenaway also.” The footman moved aside to allow Charity entrance to the house, but she hesitated.
“Oh, in that case I’m not sure…”
“Miss Greenaway has given explicit instructions that you should be shown into the drawing room, ma’am. Please follow me.” He moved away, not even bothering to check whether Charity was following him, and she scuttled after him like an errant schoolboy. Opening the drawing room door, he announced “Miss Bellingham.”
Charity entered the room. It was as pretty as Miss Greenaway’s little study, though on very different lines. But she had little time to look around: her attention was drawn to Miss Greenaway and her mother. Miss Greenaway stood up to greet her and walked across the room with her hands held out.
“Oh, it is so good to see you again,” she said. “May I introduce my mama?”
Charity nodded, struck dumb with shyness. She bobbed an ungainly curtsey to Lady Greenaway. Lady Greenaway was clearly frail. She had lines of pain etched onto her face, and her hands were misshapen and twisted with arthritis. Despite this, she had a beautifully youthful appearance, bearing a great similarity to her daughter. She lay along a chaise longue, set in an alcove underneath the window. But although she was to the side of the room, she somehow still drew immediate attention.
“Forgive me for not standing to greet you,” Lady Greenaway said, smiling. Her voice, too, had the same pretty cadence as Miss Greenaway’s. “Even with the cane”—she gestured to a dark wooden walking stick leaning against the side of the chaise—“it is not easy for me. But I am delighted to meet you. Belle has been telling me about you. Did your evening go well after you left her?”
“Oh, y-yes.” Charity berated herself for her tongue-tiedness. It was not a complaint she often suffered from, but Lady Greenaway’s genuinely warm welcome had unnerved her. “Forgive me, my lady, I am not usually so silent,” she said, choosing to name the elephant in the room rather than ignore its presence.
Her hostess laughed. “It happens to us all. Won’t you sit down and chat with Belle and me? We were getting quite sick of each other before your entrance.”
“Mama!” Miss Greenaway chided, but she did not look annoyed. “Please, come. Do sit down.”
“It is very kind of you.”
“Nonsense! As Mama so impolitely put it, we are glad of the extra company.”
She stroked her mother’s hand lovingly as she turned to sit back down. Charity took a seat, and the three ladies spoke for a while on general matters. Charity found herself unexpectedly grateful for the hours of interminable boredom she had spent with Rebecca, having just such conversations in house after similar house. It was fascinating to discover that even in the houses of the rich and aristocratic, the same subjects were discussed. Or was it that the Greenaways were being kind, trying to put her at her ease by speaking of things that she might understand? She found she was not certain. Nevertheless, after half an hour of such conversation, Miss Greenaway stopped suddenly.
“Now, Mama,” she said firmly, “we have worn you out enough with our idle gossip. Allow me to take Miss Bellingham to my sitting room so that you may have a rest and feel better.”
“Or,” Lady Greenaway suggested, “so that you and Miss Bellingham can swap secrets that no modern girl would dream of sharing with her mother?”
Miss Greenaway laughed, but did not deny it. Charity was reassured—as she suspected Lady Greenaway had intended her to be—that her own affairs had not been the subject of gossip between the two.
“Rest,” Miss Greenaway said instead. “I shall send your maid to you.”
“Yes, Mother,” Lady Greenaway said meekly. Mother and daughter exchanged a look of such perfect love and understanding that Charity felt suddenly shy and, if truth be told, a little jealous.
Miss Greenaway bore her off determinedly to the pretty room in which they had spoken the day before, stopping only to speak in low tones to a servant. When the girls were both seated, Miss Greenaway spoke.
“It was not just a jest that Mama was tired, I fear,” she said. “You must forgive us. We go on as if it were a joke, but she is severely ill. I told her I had made a new friend yesterday—no, I did not say more than that—and she was greatly desirous to meet you. I always indulge her if I can. I hope I did not cause you any discomfort.”
“Oh no,” Charity said hastily. “She is a lovely lady, and I feel honoured to have been introduced.”
Miss Greenaway smiled. “Whether or not that is true, it is beautifully expressed,” she said lightly. “Anyway, her maid will take her medicine to her, and she will doze for a while, I hope. Whereas we…Forgive me for asking, but was our plan a success?”
Charity warmed to that “our”. The plan had been Miss Greenaway’s alone, but it was tactful of her to imply that it had been concocted between the pair of them.
“It was. My brother-in-law is quite in awe of my important friends,” she said. “And…” She found it difficult to speak of such intensely personal matters, but Miss Greenaway had earned the right to be told. “…I wrote to my mother last night. I must wait for her reply, but I think—I hope—she will be able to help me.”
“Of a certainty she will,” Miss Greenaway said.
&nb
sp; “Now, with such informalities out of the way—I hope you like my turn of phrase—let us speak of other matters. It strikes me that we have begun at the wrong end of this friendship. I hope you do not object to my calling it a friendship?” Charity blushed and disclaimed. “Let us right this topsy-turvy nature of things and go back to the beginning.” She stood and curtsied. “I,” she said formally, “am Miss Greenaway. I am delighted to meet you, Miss Bellingham.”
Charity, unsure whether she should laugh but falling into line with Miss Greenaway’s evident wishes, stood and repeated the gesture. “I am very grateful to meet you, ma’am.”
Miss Greenaway tutted as she reseated herself. “Now then, we’ll have none of that. I simply cannot be ‘ma’am’ to anyone. Especially someone whom I feel sure will be a good friend of mine. That is so, is it not?”
“I…I…” Charity stammered, not certain how to respond to this outspoken comment. When she wanted nothing more than to spend more time with Miss Greenaway, how could she possibly answer such a leading question? But surely Miss Greenaway did not, could not, feel the same way about her!
“But of course we are,” Miss Greenaway said gently. “It could hardly be otherwise. Now, Miss Bellingham, why do you not sit down? We will start from the beginning, like mere acquaintances.”
So for the rest of the visit—another fifteen minutes and no more, for Charity was determined not to overstay her welcome, and had requested the carriage to return half an hour from the moment at which she entered the house—they kept to the mundane topics of every day conversation, Miss Greenaway leading the topics and drawing Charity out on the subject of her interests. She seemed so attentive that Charity began to speak a little more freely, though in truth Charity would have been happy just to sit and listen to Miss Greenaway talk, watching the way she spoke with her hands as well as her voice; watching the array of expressions crossing the other lady’s beautiful face. She had felt like this about no one before: the intensity of the emotion was almost painful, and when Miss Greenaway was smiling at her so sweetly, she could almost wish that she wasn’t on the point of leaving London. But when, at the end of their time together, Charity got ready to go back to Fotheringay’s house, a dark shadow drew over her happiness and she knew that she could not stay where she was.
The Sisterhood Page 10
