“You see?” Isobelle said. “Like so.”
“Yes.” Charity could say no more. She ached with desire, actually ached.
Isobelle’s fingers lay on the fastenings of Charity’s dress.
“May I?”
Charity nodded dumbly, and Isobelle undid fastening after fastening with the same deliberate slowness she had used on her own.
“Please,” Charity begged.
In response, Isobelle leaned over and kissed the top of Charity’s breast.
“There is no hurry.”
But there was! Charity wanted… She did not quite know what she wanted, but she knew she needed it now. Finally, Isobelle slipped the dress down. They were just two girls sitting in their petticoats, Charity told herself fiercely. She had done this before, so many times, but it had not felt like this. She had not felt as if her bones were melting; had not had this curious desire to push a friend back so that they lay together, limbs entwined, across the bed’s perfect white sheets. Gently, Isobelle helped her to her feet and divested her of her dress and petticoat almost together, tugging on the strings of Charity’s corset so that she was left wearing the light shift alone.
“Oh, Harry. So tall. So handsome,” Isobelle murmured.
Charity blushed. Could Isobelle really be using such words to describe her? Isobelle, so perfect in her beauty: curved, and soft, and white and inviting, where Charity herself was so angular and awkward.
“Don’t tease me.”
“I am not,” Isobelle said, standing up and onto tiptoe to kiss Charity. “Do I seem as if I am teasing?”
“I don’t…I’m not…You’re so…” Charity stumbled through the beginning of sentences she could not finish.
Isobelle slid out of her petticoats and turned to allow Charity access to the stay laces.
“I’m so what?” she asked lightly. Then, gently, she said, “No, I promise I will not tease you, Harry.”
If Charity’s fingers had fumbled before, this time her hands shook too much to untie the knot. Isobelle laughed a little.
“I can’t,” Charity said in an agony of humiliation.
“Yes, you can. Just a little bit more, dearest,” Isobelle encouraged.
Finally, she managed and saw Isobelle for the first time unfettered, dressed only in the light shift.
“Oh!” Charity was drawn by the need to touch, to hold, to taste. “May I?”
“I rather hoped you would,” Isobelle murmured.
Charity, breath catching in her chest at her own daring, put her hands underneath Isobelle’s large, full breasts, as if weighing them. They were heavy and firm and wonderful. If Isobelle had been beautiful while dressed, now she was exquisite. And somehow there was something just right about what was happening. Charity still shook a little with nerves, but touching Isobelle…it was as if she had been born to do so. Isobelle’s smooth, warm skin felt perfect to her touch, and the look of blissful encouragement on Isobelle’s face as Charity laid hands upon her took away the worst of Charity’s fears.
“Let me take this ridiculous shift off.” Isobelle shrugged her way out of the garment, and Charity could hardly bear to look. That she should see Isobelle, like that. “Now, dearest,” Isobelle said, “where were we? I believe your hands were…” She took Charity’s hands and placed them on her breasts, humming with pleasure at the touch.
“I want…I don’t know.”
“I will teach you, Harry. That’s right, touch me there. Hold me close to you.”
Isobelle guided Charity through each movement in turn, murmuring encouragement and sweet words. She reached behind herself to pull the pins from her hair, so that golden curls fell down around her shoulders.
“Now,” she said at last, “let me touch you.”
Isobelle slid Charity’s shift up around her waist, slipping her hands underneath it and running her fingertips across Charity’s belly. The fingers tickled and heated where they touched. There was warmth and wetness and throbbing between Charity’s legs. She found it hard to lie still as Isobelle, having removed Charity’s shift also, moved her hands from place to place, caressing the sharp shoulder bones, the small, high breasts, running down over the flat plains of Charity’s stomach to the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. Then lower still, sliding between Charity’s legs with a rubbing, repetitive motion that made Charity cry out.
“You like that?” Isobelle asked softly.
“Oh…oh, yes.” Charity’s arms, somehow, had found their way around Isobelle. She wanted to close her legs, too, trapping Isobelle’s hand in that magical place. “Please,” she begged, not knowing for what she asked.
“I will,” Isobelle promised.
Her hands grew firmer, her movements stronger. Unexpectedly, Charity felt a finger dive inside her. She could not stop her hips from bucking up against Isobelle, who had somehow, with her other hand, found a magical place a little further forward that ached in a way almost too wonderful to bear. Charity’s breath came out in little gasps, which grew faster and faster as Isobelle rubbed, until the whole world exploded around her. For several moments, she did not understand what had happened—then she was breathing more normally again, tears in her eyes, Isobelle smiling down at her.
“Didn’t that feel good?” Charity’s lover asked her.
Charity nodded dumbly, pulling Isobelle close down on top of her, tangling arms and legs around her as if she would never let go. She had no words; all she could do was try to show Isobelle how much she meant to her by gestures alone. She had known she wanted something from Isobelle. She had not realised it was this.
“Thank you,” she whispered at last.
“My pleasure,” Isobelle assured her, tossing dishevelled curls behind her shoulders.
It would not be the only time they spent making love. Charity learned ways to pleasure Isobelle, in turn. Indeed, they found new ways of pleasing each other, and Charity looked forward with almost painful desire to the moments they found to spend in bed. It could not be very often: Isobelle had so many engagements to attend, and even when she was at home, there were regular visitors—not to mention the fact that she spent a great deal of time with her mother.
There, too, Charity found something to cherish. The love between mother and daughter in the Greenaway household was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Lady Greenaway clearly thought her daughter the most wonderful being in the world—Charity wholeheartedly agreed—and Isobelle returned her affection with interest, always ready to give up plans at a minute’s notice if her mother wanted her. Charity loved to watch the two of them together: their playful teasing, the physical displays of affection (gently given, for Lady Greenaway’s rheumatism meant that she was often in a great deal of pain, though she rarely seemed to complain) and the whole feeling of joy that ran throughout the house. Visiting Isobelle, whether they made love or not, was always a wonderful experience.
This did not mean that Charity did nothing save spend time with Isobelle. There were various events to attend, both with the Sisterhood and with Rebecca. Isobelle’s love of concerts meant that Charity had a chance to see good musicians perform without the guilt of having dragged her sister along to something that she was not very interested in. There were also the soirees and events run by friends of Fotheringay’s, to which Rebecca must always go, and Charity must on occasion. She felt rather as if she had been invited by default, as it were, for her attendance often threw the numbers in a gathering right out. However, whether it was in politeness to Fotheringay or because they knew of Charity’s links with the cream of the ton and hoped to gain favour themselves through her, she had at least one occasion in every week where she must dress up and do her best to make polite conversation with a group of people with whom she had precious little in common.
These events always made her think of Emily Summercourt: this, presumably, was how she felt most of the time in polite society, where people gossiped and flirted and spent so little time talking about the things which were important
in Emily’s world. The idea of comparing herself to Emily amused Charity enough that she got through the occasions with a good grace. She even heard Fotheringay say on one occasion to Rebecca (when he thought Charity was out of ear shot) that: “That sister of yours has improved in society of late. Noticed it meself, and Bulstead mentioned it the other day”.
When it came to the time for the next Abolitionist meeting, Charity was appreciative to note that Cara had sent the invitation to Rebecca as well as Charity. It was good of her, Charity thought, to have remembered after all this time. Rebecca and she were sat in the drawing room, sorting through their invitations. Fotheringay had disclaimed all interest in any of them, and, aside from telling Rebecca of the engagements he expected her to fulfil with him or on his behalf, had left them to get on with it. Fotheringay had a deep lack of interest in feminine matters. It was perhaps why it had taken him so long to marry. Ladies, and the concerns of ladies, seemed so entirely irrelevant to a gentleman whose business interests, even now when he could easily afford to have little input, were his first concern. When not working, he preferred the company of other men—probably drinking, smoking and gambling, Charity thought disparagingly. Possibly he had a mistress or two to his name; however, he did not intrude them upon his wife’s life, and Charity could only think that Rebecca would be grateful for the respite. With the knowledge which had come to her through her joy in her own physical relationship with Isobelle, she could see that although Rebecca (she was sure) performed all wifely duties without complaint, she had little interest in them. Charity shuddered. She could hardly blame her sister for that.
Rebecca was surprised by and not a little apprehensive about Lady Caroline’s invitation. She was fearful both that she would be out of place and that she knew so little that she would be despised for it. Charity reassured her on both points, telling her that all sorts of people attended the meetings and that there was no need for her to say anything, so she could just sit and listen. Rebecca relaxed a little bit.
“You are sure?” she asked. “I confess, I would like to come.”
“Would you?” Charity was much surprised. She had known that Rebecca would be willing to come as a chaperone, but had hardly anticipated her sister taking any pleasure in the occasion.
“I know so little about the matter,” Rebecca explained, “and don’t know where to start to learn more. So if you are certain Lady Caroline would not object…”
“Why, that is exactly how I felt myself!” exclaimed Charity. She gave a mocking grin. “Anyone would think we were related, Becca. But as far as attending, of course you must. Lady Caroline has explicitly asked you.”
“Then I shall,” Rebecca said with relief.
Chapter Nineteen
By the time of the meeting itself, however, Rebecca’s nerves had returned. Charity had watched her get visibly more nervous as the evening wore on, and by the time they entered Lady Caroline’s house, she was literally shaking with fear.
“Are you sure I should be here?” she whispered anxiously to Charity.
“Certainly sure,” Charity said, all the more robustly to cover her own agitation. She had only attended that one meeting herself, and in truth was also feeling a sense of alarm. She was determined not to let Rebecca see that, though, but her eyes were searching busily for Cara or at least someone she knew from the Sisterhood. “Oh, Nan!” she said thankfully, seeing a familiar plump figure.
There was no possibility that Nan could have heard her, but somehow she looked up at that moment, catching Charity’s glance. She hurried over to the two girls.
“Oh, Harry, nice to see you. Is this your sister?” She turned interested eyes on Rebecca and gave her an encouraging smile.
“Yes. Rebecca, this is Miss Musgrove. Nan, my sister, Mrs Fotheringay.”
Nan curtsied to Rebecca, who blushed a little as she returned the courtesy.
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” Nan said cheerfully. “Harry has talked about you a lot.”
“Thank you.” Rebecca barely spoke above a whisper.
Nan, a practical person, saw her anxiety. “Can I find you a seat?” She looked around, assessing the room, and then moved purposefully towards a row of chairs set to one side of the room. “Here. You’re a bit out of the way here, but you looked as if you might prefer that. Everyone attending is very nice, but in bulk perhaps a little alarming.”
“Thanks Nan. It’s good of you.” Charity remembered how she had misjudged the other lady and felt guilty all over again. Nan was one of those rare people who really was as nice as she first seemed.
“Everyone is new sometimes,” Nan said. “Goodness, I must go over and speak to Lady Caroline. It has been lovely to meet you, Mrs Fotheringay. You’re very like your sister.”
“Hardly,” protested Charity with a laugh. “Nan, you’re terrible. You’ve only just met her and already you are insulting her.”
“Charity!” exclaimed Rebecca, mortified. “You mustn’t say things like that!”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Fotheringay, I know just how seriously to take her,” Nan responded. “Pray excuse me.” She bustled off.
“Charity, she’s nice.” There was a wondering tone in Rebecca’s voice.
“Why, did you expect me to have dreadful friends?” Charity teased. “Is Isobelle so terrible?
“No, of course not! But they’re all so very much above us in society. I don’t know why they should be so kind to us.”
“I’ve noticed, of course,” said Charity, still in a teasing mood, “how rude you are to those below you on the social scale, Becca.”
But her mood sobered as the meeting drew close to opening. She remembered how she had felt after the last one—the mixed feelings of guilt, shock and thankfulness for her own lot in life.
“Will I like it?” Rebecca asked suddenly.
“No.” Charity could not honestly say anything else. “No one could like hearing what we’re going to hear, Becca. I believe many people do not come because they do not want to know, because it would hurt too much, because they would feel as if they ought to do something, and that would be uncomfortable.”
“I see. I think. Sometimes it is better not to ask.” Rebecca’s face was clouded with her own thoughts.
“Better for oneself, anyway,” Charity retorted.
“Indeed.” Rebecca turned to her. “Charity, I—”
But whatever it was she had been about to say was cut off as the first speaker stood. It was not a poem on this occasion, but a short tale, written for children. Charity, glancing at her sister, saw that Rebecca was concentrating hard. But it was the second lady who drew a comment from Rebecca when she went to the front of the room.
“But she’s…”
“Black,” Charity finished for her sister, almost as surprised as Rebecca was. Although it was not uncommon to see Black or Mulatto people around the town, they were usually servants. But to have one standing up and talking… Charity looked around the room. All the ladies gathered there seemed to be of good birth and standing. Would they really listen to a servant? But then her eyes went back to the woman standing at the front, who was hardly dressed as a servant. Confused but fascinated, she waited.
“I am a woman,” the lady announced. “I am one of you. Some of you may have met me in drawing rooms or at picnics, but many of you will not have done. Because, of course, I am not one of you. I am Black.”
She paused. Charity, looking around the assembly, saw a number of different expressions on the faces of the listeners. The lady speaking was clearly well educated and spoke well, albeit with an accent which had marked differences to the one commonly heard in ballrooms and parlours. But her presence lent an air of discomfort to the room. It was all right, Charity could almost hear some of the ladies thinking, to support the end of slavery in some far-off place—but it was another thing entirely to speak on terms with a Black lady. What was Lady Caroline thinking of to invite her? But then, Charity thought, there were others like herself coming face-to-
face with prejudices they had barely known they had. Her first thought on seeing this woman, whoever she was, had been to presume her a servant. Any lady whose skin was not that unusual colour would not have drawn that response from her, and certainly not one dressed in the warm, deep-red silks this lady was wearing.
“My name is Miss Leigh,” the lady continued, having allowed them a moment to get over their shock. “I was no more born to slavery than any of you, but because of the colour of my skin I have a sense of kinship with those who were. London is my home, and my people are your people. Among you, I see friends of mine. But across the seas, I see people who might have been family of mine enslaved and treated as less than human. And I stand here today to say that this is not right.”
She paused again, as applause broke out. Charity, starting to clap, realised that her sister had beaten her to it. As she looked around the meeting, however, she was entertained and a little ashamed to note how patchy the applause was. By no means was everyone reacting quite so positively to Miss Leigh. Glancing back at the speaker, she could see that the lady was aware of this herself; there was a glint, perhaps of amusement, in her eyes. She had in two short minutes taken out the hypocrisy of the gathered ladies and waved it in front of them. Not everyone, no matter their principles and feelings towards slavery, was quite ready to accept a Black lady as one of themselves. The rest of the speech passed in a bit of a blur, and Charity barely heard a word the third and final speaker said. A minute later, it seemed, Lady Caroline was bringing the meeting to a close.
Charity looked around, a thought which had been growing within her all through the comments of the final speaker crystallising in her mind. “I wonder if I might speak with Miss Leigh,” she said. Part of her wondered whether she was foolish and, in fact, whether her suddenly felt desire would be welcomed by the lady in question. But having seen and heard not only Miss Leigh’s comments, but the reaction of the meeting, Charity could not help but wish to say something to her.
The Sisterhood Page 18
