“You can’t. No one can.” Charity felt the tears threaten her eyes again, and she blinked them back.
“I know,” Rebecca said softly.
“I’m sorry. I am being unkind.”
“No, dearest, you are upset. There, your hair is brushed out. Let me help you into a new dress.”
The unexpectedly practical solutions Rebecca offered were surprisingly helpful. Nothing could mend a broken heart, but when, thirty minutes later, Charity looked once more at herself in the mirror, she could see the difference. Her face was still a little blotchy, but she no longer looked crumpled and broken. Physically, too, she felt better: not so sick and uncomfortable, and the worst of the headache had passed. She gave Rebecca a wobbly smile.
“If nothing else, I at least look a bit more human.”
“Come and have breakfast,” Rebecca urged.
Rebecca stayed almost by Charity’s side for the whole morning. She did not press or worry her sister for details, but Charity could feel the wordless sympathy enveloping her, even as they sat together in the drawing room some hours later, involved in their different pursuits. The quiet mood was ended, however, by the entrance of the footman.
“Miss Greenaway,” he announced. The sisters exchanged looks.
“I’ll be upstairs,” Rebecca said hastily, gathering up her embroidery. She hesitated. “Unless…?”
Charity knew what she meant. “No. It is kind of you, but no. I must face her myself.”
Rebecca left, and a minute later Isobelle arrived, beautiful in palest blue, her gloves immaculate white.
“Harry, darling,” she fluted, her hands held out to Charity in her usual appealing gesture. Strangely, the gesture meant so little—now. Charity flinched.
“Hello Isobelle,” she said gravely. “Please, take a seat.”
“You are so stern, Harry! Tell me you are not upset about yesterday? It was nothing, you know. Lydia was there, and one thing led to another…” She gave a helpless shrug.
“I see. I thought…but never mind what I thought.”
Isobelle’s words, her carelessness, hurt more than anything. It was not true love that had made her do it, impelled her to make love with Lydia, just a morning’s entertainment. Charity knew, too, that Lydia would have treated it just the same. It was nothing important to either lady. They had flirted a little, both socialite butterflies who cared only for the moment, nothing deeper. Charity had thought that Isobelle was different, but she had been wrong. It was her own mistake, Charity thought. No one else’s.
“Harry, darling, you’re not angry with your Isobelle?” Isobelle’s voice had a slight quaver; her eyes were big and appealing. “You know what I am. I can’t help it.”
Charity swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the metaphorical stone stuck in her gullet. Isobelle was right. It was just what she was like. If Charity had taken her own image of Isobelle and put her on a pedestal, that was hardly Isobelle’s fault. And Charity had been warned—gently, lovingly warned—by some of the Sisterhood that Isobelle was…as Isobelle was. Charity hadn’t wanted to believe it; she had wanted to keep her idealised lover perfect in every way. Even when she had discovered something of Isobelle’s feet of clay, when she had gone to her in distress about Fotheringay’s slaves, she had pushed the knowledge from her, still determined to keep Isobelle as a goddess who could not be wrong. How could she now feel betrayed when the betrayer was her own mind, not Isobelle?
“I know.”
“You forgive me?”
Taking a deep breath, Charity looked straight into Isobelle’s eyes. “Of course.”
She watched the smile dawn slowly on Isobelle’s lips. “Of course you do. I knew you would. You understand me.”
I didn’t, Charity wanted to say. But I do now. All too well. She knew it would never be the same for her now; could never be. The adoration had lost its shine. But Charity kept the words to herself, just as she kept the hurt tucked closely to her soul. Isobelle should never know how much she had hurt Charity.
“Yes,” she said, amazed to hear how steady, how normal, her voice sounded. “Isobelle, you must go. I have to get ready for a picnic this afternoon. I’ll see you soon.”
She turned to go upstairs, but Isobelle grasped her sleeve. “Without a kiss? Harry, how can I believe you forgive me if you leave without a kiss?”
Charity looked down at Isobelle, and for a second she thought her grief would overwhelm her. Isobelle might never have been the wonderful, trustable character Charity had envisioned, and therefore Charity had not lost a real person. But she had lost her belief in that person, in the Isobelle she had thought she’d known. She leaned down and kissed Isobelle gently on the lips.
“Goodbye Isobelle.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was hard, at first, spending time with others of the Sisterhood. Charity knew that they all had some idea of what had happened. Even if Isobelle had not told, Lydia would have done, giving one of her expressive shrugs and asking, “How should I have known that Harry would take things so badly?” Charity had done her best not to add grist to the rumour mill, but she knew she did not seem quite as joyful as she had once done. Even when she acknowledged that she had no logical reason to be upset, it did little to stop the real emotional hurt. Isobelle was sweet to her, and Charity did not want to lose her friendship on top of everything else, so she responded, albeit with a touch of reserve. Their tête-à-têtes still occurred occasionally, when Charity could find no excuse to avoid them, but she shied away from Isobelle’s kisses even then. To begin with, Isobelle had attempted to treat her just as she had done previously, but no matter how much Charity wanted to keep her former lover as a friend, she could not go back to those halcyon days of before.
Cara was gruff as always, but Charity could feel the understanding behind her matter-of-fact phrases. She had tried to tell Charity once how such a passion for Isobelle was liable to end. Charity wondered whether Cara had been in a similar situation once in her own life—perhaps not with Isobelle herself, but with another bright, vivacious, unreliable lover. Cara had no partner now, and seemed not to wish for one—as if she had been there herself and learned the hard way to stay safe. Or maybe that was just Charity projecting her own feelings onto the older lady. Would Charity end up like Cara one day, childless and loveless, but without the riches and title which must ease Cara’s path, at least a little? She tried to stifle such morbid wonderings but could not altogether shift them.
Jane was friendly, in her way, but it was plain to see that her whole life was bound up in Emily. Since Emily had little interest in social gatherings, it followed that Jane too was rarely to be seen at them. Emily herself was—just Emily, Charity thought with a reluctant smile. She had never met anyone quite like the diminutive, pretty blonde, with her fascination with academic study. Emily was as friendly to Charity as she was to anyone bar Jane, but the normal ideas of friendship meant little to her.
Charity’s one anchor in the Sisterhood was really Nan—an idea which would have been unthinkable when she first met the group. Nan was neither outstandingly beautiful nor fearsomely intelligent, though she was both pretty and clever in her own way. Nor did she have the immediate charisma that Isobelle undoubtedly held. She was no one to fall in love with, despite Cara’s suggestion, but she was a good and loyal friend, and Charity valued her support above all. Most importantly of all, whilst Nan did not bring up the subject of Isobelle’s past relationship with Charity, she did not make it obvious that she was avoiding the issue. If Charity spoke of it, Nan responded honestly but without embarrassment. Charity suspected it was a tactful lie but was grateful.
Sitting together with Nan one afternoon, Charity decided to bring up the subject of Isobelle. Sometimes she felt the need to speak of it, to explain to an understanding friend how she felt. Rebecca had been sympathetic, but she could not understand, no matter how hard she tried.
“I’m not…in love with Isobelle,” Charity said. “Not any more. But I love h
er, as a friend. As…well, as Isobelle. I know what she is like, and asking her to be different would take away part of what makes her who she is. But however fond I may be of her, she is not for me. Not as a love.” She looked up at Nan, a wistful expression on her face. “I suppose I am just too boring. I can’t live with extremes of emotion as Isobelle can. I want to come back to someone and know they’ll be there for me, no matter what. Perhaps I want too much.”
“No,” said Nan. “That doesn’t sound unreasonable.” She smiled suddenly, and Charity thought unexpectedly how pretty Nan was when she smiled. “But nor does it sound like Isobelle.”
Charity laughed. “Hardly.” She sobered up. “I would not want to change her, but I cannot have her as she is. And that is a contradiction I will just have to work out for myself.”
“You’re very wise.”
Charity stared at Nan, startled. “I? Of all the things I’ve ever had said of me, that is not one!”
“Often,” Nan said slowly, “people think that they can change someone. Either the other person, or failing that, themselves. By the time they realise that this isn’t possible, they’ve torn each other apart.”
“You see, that’s just what I don’t want.” Charity traced a little pattern on her dress with her finger. “I don’t want to hate Isobelle. And she’s done so much for me. But I can’t, I just can’t…” She broke off.
Nan, ever practical, refilled Charity’s tea cup and passed it back to her.
“Of course you can’t,” she said calmly. “As I say, I think you’re wise.”
“Either that or a coward.” Charity fought to keep her tone light. She took a sip of tea.
Nan smiled, understanding that the conversation was over. “Let’s stick with wise, shall we? And now, are you and your sister attending the concert tomorrow evening? I’ve heard it’s going to be the most terrible crush.”
“Rebecca will be gladder than ever not to be attending, in that case!” Charity replied. “She doesn’t care much for music at any time, though she does her best to pretend for my sake. No, we are going to a quiet soiree with Mrs Hollings.”
“At which you,” said Nan, “will do your best to pretend for her sake! Well, I wish you luck. I don’t know when the Sisterhood are meeting again, but I feel sure we will find out in due course.” She stood. “Bless you, my dear. Remember what I said. And thank you for the tea.”
The next excitement to befall any of the Sisterhood, however, was not a meeting but the return on leave from his ship of Captain Musgrove, Nan’s brother. Charity, knowing that Nan had become passionate about the abolition of slavery after hearing his stories of slave ships he had encountered, was interested to know he was returning but privately a little concerned about meeting him. She herself was in a difficult position as regarded meetings about slavery: her knowledge about Fotheringay had shaken her badly, and she still had not found the right moment to break the news to Rebecca. The twins were still very tiny, and any shock for her sister might rebound onto them. Charity’s new-found knowledge about the origin of the wealth on which she lived made her uncomfortable; and she fought shy of Captain Musgrove, certain that he would see her guilty secret in her eyes, or have discovered it from Nan. Consequently, she found reasons to refuse Nan’s invitations to tea whilst he was around, explaining that her sister needed her; she must visit the haberdashery; her library books needed changing. Charity knew, and Nan knew, and Charity knew that Nan knew, that these were excuses, but her friend was kind enough not to push her point.
In the end, the meeting with Captain Musgrove came entirely unexpectedly. Charity, under Cara’s chaperonage, was attending the Carborys’ ball. It was a large event arranged to celebrate Miss Carbory’s newly announced betrothal to Lord Worcester, a rotund and genial lord in his early thirties whom many saw as an excellent match for the beautiful young lady. Charity had ducked away for a moment, seeing Isobelle and Lydia talking together, something that even now retained the ability to hurt—and she had walked straight into Nan, who was accompanied by a gentleman. To Charity’s surprise, he was on an eye level with her; she had no need to ask who he was, for the similarities between himself and his sister were marked. They had the same light-brown hair, the same bearing. Captain Musgrove did not have Nan’s plumpness, but a physical, sea-faring life might explain that. There was also one major difference, which drew the eye the moment Charity met him.
“Oh Harry.” Nan smiled. “This is my brother, Captain Musgrove. Forgive me if I leave you to introduce yourselves. I am supposed to be dancing with Mr Foster, and I feel sure he will start pursuing me indignantly if I do not find my place.”
Charity, who had occasionally danced with Mr Foster herself, smiled. He was a kind gentleman, in his way, but he liked everything to run in its proper order. Finding the orchestra starting their music and his dance partner nowhere to be seen, he would be quite upset.
“Of course.” She and Nan exchanged an understanding glance as Nan hurried off. Then she turned her eyes to Captain Musgrove, curtseying. “Captain Musgrove, it is delightful to meet you. Nan speaks highly of you, which says more than I need to explain.”
“She does of you, also,” he said, bowing. “I believe it is usually the custom to shake hands at this point,” he added seriously, “only…” He looked ruefully at the pinned right sleeve of his coat where an arm must once have been.
“If you think I’m taking that for an excuse,” Charity retorted.
She held out her left hand to him, and he grinned. He put his own left hand over hers, then lifted it to his mouth.
“Miss Bellingham, you are an unusual lady, just as my sister told me.”
Charity’s smile faded, and she pulled her hand away gently. “So I am told.”
She tried to keep her tone light, but she could tell he knew better. His eyes met hers.
“That, Miss Bellingham, was a compliment,” he said.
She met his gaze openly. “Usually, it is not.”
She remembered all the gentlemen who had shied away from her honesty. All the ladies who had mocked her behind her back. The humiliation of being left at the edge of the room whilst gentlemen stood watching the dances in preference to leading her out. How could she blame them? She was different, in a world where convention was king. But he was truly Nan’s brother, in personality as well as blood.
“Do not hold me responsible for other people’s ignorance,” he said quietly. He looked away, to where his sister was standing in conversation with Lady Caroline. “Nan is unusual too. I value her for it. And yes”—he lifted his chin a centimetre higher, his bearing very much a military man’s—“I know her for who she is. She is not ashamed and nor am I.”
Charity dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and studied the floor as if it were a source of great fascination. “I am, though.”
Unexpectedly, she felt the warmth of his fingers against her skin. His hand had gone to her face, so lightly that she was hardly aware of the touch, save for the heat.
“You should not be.” His touch became firmer, persuading her to look straight at him once more. “Never apologise for who you are.” He dropped his hand, and also his serious tone. “There is dancing to be done, and I will not accept an excuse,” he said merrily. “Come, be my partner, if you dare to try and work through the difficulties of dancing with a one-armed man.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Charity said. Every word was true.
Later, she couldn’t help wondering whether he would have been as kind if he had known her background—if he had known that Mr Fotheringay’s wealth was built on the backs of slaves. Even had she wanted to, she could hardly have brought the conversation up at a ball, but she felt somehow as if she were deceiving him. He knew that she loved ladies and had not cavilled at that; this, however, Charity feared might be a bigger problem. If she had disliked him, it would have been one thing, but liking him, how could she hide something she knew would be important to him? It felt like cheating. She sighed, t
urned over in bed and tried to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I have the nicest note from Miss Musgrove, Charity,” Rebecca said next morning, looking up from her post. “She says that you mentioned I was now up to having visitors, and begs that I will allow her to visit and be introduced to the twins. She also asks that she might introduce her brother to me. I didn’t realise she had a brother, but she says you have met him?”
“Yes.” Charity’s guilty secret came to the forefront of her mind, though in truth it had hardly been far away anyway. “I met him last night at the Carborys’ ball.”
“Is he nice? But Miss Musgrove is, so I am sure he must be.”
Charity gave a wry grin. “That’s not always the way, Becca. After all, you are nice and you got saddled with me as a sister!”
“Charity, you are dreadful!”
“Precisely my point, my dear.”
Rebecca made her best attempt at a stern look. “You know that is not what I meant. But Mr Musgrove—”
“Captain Musgrove,” Charity corrected her. “He’s a sailor.”
“Captain Musgrove, then. Is he nice?”
Charity thought of the good-tempered man who had made so little of his disability. “Yes,” she said softly. “He is very nice.”
She saw the look on her sister’s face and sighed inwardly. Rebecca had not stopped hoping that Charity might find a pleasant gentleman and settle down with him. The disastrous end to her relationship with Isobelle had made her sister even more optimistic about the possibility. Charity did not have the heart to tell her that she never would—never could—find a man she was prepared to marry. But sometimes it was difficult, knowing Rebecca’s ambition and knowing also she could never fulfil it.
“I may ask them to come, then?”
“Becca,” Charity protested, laughing, “it’s your house! You may invite whomever you wish to come around.”
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