The Sisterhood

by Penelope Friday

  “And yet look at him now,” Nan pointed out. “We must take this as a good omen.”

  The good omen was certainly needed. At first, Isobelle was barely conscious; she did not know who was with her, and Charity wondered whether her presence was a waste of time. But then she realised it was not: whatever Isobelle’s level of awareness, her mother was fully aware of what was happening and was comforted by Charity’s presence by her daughter’s bedside. For that alone, it was worthwhile.

  Sometimes, too, Isobelle would stir from her heavy, drugged sleep and say a few words, or smile up at Charity before her lashes fell and she slumbered again. Charity would hold her hand and say comforting phrases, even after Isobelle seemed to have fallen asleep, just in case she could still hear and was in need of reassurance. One day, perhaps a week into her bedside vigil, she saw Isobelle open her eyes with a little more recognition than had previously been so.

  “Harry? My Harry?” Isobelle’s voice quavered with uncertainty.

  Charity leaned over the bed so that Isobelle could see her. She took her hand. “I’m here, Isobelle. Harry’s here.”

  In an absent sort of way, Charity realised that this was the first time she’d referred to herself as “Harry”. All the Sisterhood did, of course—it was how Isobelle had introduced her, and Charity had never been able to contradict Isobelle. She liked the nickname well enough, but it was not her, not really. Her name had always been Charity. Her very existence was bound up within that word, for so many reasons. Charity sometimes thought she would have liked to be Harry, but she wasn’t. Harry was the Sisterhood’s construct, not the actual person.

  Though, she thought (absent-mindedly smiling down at Isobelle and wiping her brow with the cool flannelette cloth), it might equally be said that “Charity” was her parents’ construction. Could one really delineate one’s own self from those who surrounded one? The ‘me’ and the ‘not me’ were perhaps not so very different.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Harry,” Isobelle whispered. For that moment alone, Charity knew it had been worth it.

  Before she went home, she made an effort to go and see Lady Greenaway, to tell her of the progress. She knew that one of the nurses had done so already, but she also knew that Lady Greenaway would like to hear it from Charity herself. To Charity’s pleasure, Nan was still sitting there. She shared the information with them both and saw both faces lose the worst of their worry lines.

  “She’s improving. She’s definitely improving,” Charity said eagerly. “I do think that she will be all right, in time.”

  “That’s such a relief off my mind,” Lady Greenaway said, surreptitiously wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Thank you, my dear.”

  “I’ve done nothing, just sat there,” Charity disclaimed.

  “That is precisely what Nan says about what she’s doing here. But I see things rather differently,” Lady Greenaway said quietly. “Nan has been a tower of strength.”

  Nan looked uncomfortable at the comment. “More like a crumbling wall,” she said brusquely.

  For some reason, Charity was annoyed by this. She knew Nan didn’t like compliments—no more did Charity herself—but in this particular case, it was too true to be glossed over like this.

  “Shh!” she said, leaning over and placing a finger against Nan’s lips. “Much more like a tower.”

  “I am grateful to you, too, though, Charity,” Lady Greenaway said quietly. “Isobelle is more important to me than anyone or anything else. What you have done for her, you have done for us both.”

  Charity reddened. “I like Isobelle,” she said, almost apologetically.

  Lady Greenaway smiled. “I will embarrass neither of you any further with my gratitude. Now, Nan, I gather your brother is currently in town?” Nan nodded. “As you know, I am not entertaining at present. I entertain little enough at the best of times, but currently I could not consider it. But please note that family, whether old or newly created,” she added, casting a twinkling glance at Charity, “are very welcome. I would be glad to see Captain Musgrove at any occasion.”

  “I know he will be glad to visit.” Nan finished her drink and set it down on the table. “Now, ma’am, please excuse me. I promised to take John to a concert this evening, and I must have a chance to change first.”

  “I must go too.” Charity rose. “Nan, I believe the carriage will be here. May I drop you home?”

  “Of course.” Nan rose as well. “I don’t suppose you feel like attending the concert with us?” she added as they walked downstairs together. “I would be glad of your company, and I know John would too.”

  “I don’t know,” Charity demurred, suspecting that brother and sister would prefer to spend some time together alone.

  “Please? They’re playing Mozart,” Nan tempted, knowing that his work was Charity’s favourite.

  Charity laughed. “How can I resist? I’ll be delighted to come.”

  The evening’s concert, though beautiful, was only a small comfort. Charity realised in the course of the evening that never had she felt so at home with people as she did with Nan and her brother. Of course, she adored Rebecca, but their interactions had so much to do with the childhood that Charity had hated and with the shared experiences they had been through, that there was always a hint of memories. The past bled through into the present. Somehow, with Nan, it was possible for Charity to be herself—the person she was, not the person she wanted to be, or (more perniciously still) thought that she ought to be. She could make the jokes that occurred to her, without fear of disapproval or incomprehension; she could become absorbed in the music without fearing that she was offending the people she was with; she could find an understanding friend when she needed one.

  Captain Musgrove was of a similar ilk to his sister. It was a pity, thought Charity regretfully, that she really had no interest in gentlemen. It would have been so convenient, so happy, to marry him and know that she belonged to the family—that at last she had a place where she belonged. She could be with Nan every day that way. She would truly be her sister. But it was not to be, and to be fair to him, Captain Musgrove had not shown any such interest in her, either—though as he knew where her preferences lay, it was not so surprising. Once more, Charity rued the mistake which had made her take so long to realise the sort of person that Nan truly was. But she could not change the past, and the present was making itself. As long as Isobelle needed her, Charity would be there.

  Chapter Thirty

  “It’s the Abolitionist meeting this evening,” Charity said, four days later. She was wan, tired by the hours with Isobelle, who had gone from strength to strength since that first moment of knowing her. The doctor had pronounced her out of danger, but she and Lady Greenaway both begged Charity to stay. It was a troublesome task, since now she was conscious, Isobelle was tetchy and difficult.

  “Yes. What time does it start?” asked Rebecca.

  “Seven. But I can’t go, Becca. I’m so sorry to let you down.”

  “Of course you can’t,” Rebecca said maternally. “You need a quiet evening, perhaps with a novel, and then a warm bed to jump into. But I think I might go.”

  “Alone?”

  Rebecca smiled. “I do not have much of a choice in the circumstances. I admit,” she added, “that I will be a little frightened, perhaps, but I think it is important. And anyway, I know some of your friends so much better now. I need not be afraid, I think, even though I still am.”

  “Contradictory,” Charity commented lazily.

  “Not at all,” said Rebecca with great dignity. “It is one thing to know that one should not be nervous, but another to feel it. You rest, Charity, and you’ll feel fitter in the morning for it.”

  “Rebecca says you looked after her beautifully last night,” Charity greeted Nan when they met at the Greenaways’ house the next morning. “Wasn’t it brave of her to go alone?”

  “Mm. Easy person to underrate, your sister. Did she tell you about the evening?” />
  “A little. Thank you,” she added to the footman, who took her cloak. “It sounded as if things were starting to move in terms of the gentlemen’s push for legislation.”

  “Hmm,” Nan said sceptically. “We’ve been here before. I’m counting no chickens yet. But I meant Mrs Fotheringay’s own part in proceedings.”

  “I know she’s said you should call her Rebecca,” Charity said absently. “Becca’s part? No. Why? What did she do?”

  “Only asked me to take her to Cara, where she insisted on discussing her husband’s situation as regards the trade.”

  “She did that? But she’s terrified of Cara!”

  “She shouldn’t be, but people so often are,” Nan said regretfully. “I tell Cara that it’s her own fault for being so large and imposing; we little folk feel even tinier by comparison. But it’s the first meeting since you told her about Fotheringay’s business and where he was, and she’s clearly been thinking it over in her head all this time. She’d come to the conclusion, it seems, that the best thing would be, if she dared, to lay it all out before Cara and ask what she should do next. It must have taken a good deal of courage for her to follow through.”

  “It would.” Charity was still standing in the hallway, temporarily forgetting the servants who might be listening in. “And then not even to tell me! What did Cara say?”

  “Oh, everything that was reassuring and good. She pointed out that Mrs Foth—that Rebecca could do nothing about her husband’s trade interests. Even had it been a love match, even were he in this country, she’d be unlikely to persuade him to sell out. As it is, there is no chance, which is not Rebecca’s fault in the slightest.”

  “Oh, she will be glad to have heard that. I have been telling her much the same, but she has been worrying about it. To think that she decided to face it head on and speak to Cara about it!”

  “Still waters run deep,” Nan said thoughtfully. “Was she always like this, I wonder, or has it come upon her since her marriage?”

  They ascended the stairs together.

  “No, not the marriage. Since the twins were born. One always thinks of mothers as grown-up personages. I never thought to see it happen so evidently in Rebecca, though.”

  “That’s interesting,” Nan said. “I’d like to talk to you about it more. Perhaps we can arrange to go for a walk later? I’m sure the fresh air would do us both good. But I did wonder if Rebecca had told you. It surprises me not in the least that she had not.”

  “You can tell me more about that, in return,” said Charity. “A walk sounds wonderful. It will give me something to look forward to.”

  “I also.”

  It was to be a long morning for Charity however. Isobelle had woken fretting, and the nurse said privately to Charity that, “I couldn’t do nothing with her, this morning, ma’am. All she wants is to talk to you. It’s been ‘Nurse, when is she coming?’ for the past two hours and more.”

  Charity repressed a sigh. “Thank you. If you would care to have a rest, I will look after her for a little now. See if I can calm her down.”

  “Well, if you’re quite sure…”

  “Harry!” Isobelle’s voice cut across their conversation. “Oh, Harry, I have wanted you.”

  “Well, I’m here now. Nurse said you wanted to talk to me, so I’ve just told her she must go and have a rest. You don’t need nurse as well as me, not now you’re getting better.”

  “I don’t need nurse at all. I don’t want nurse at all. Just you, Harry.”

  Charity nodded a dismissal to the kindly woman who had been caring for Isobelle and came and sat beside her.

  “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere for the next few hours, so you can calm down and rest now. All right?”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.” Isobelle paused, and then the words burst out as if she was physically hurt by having kept them in so long. “Harry, I hurt you, didn’t I?” Isobelle’s face was white and woebegone. “With Lydia. I didn’t think about it then. It seemed so little. But now…you have been so kind, even though I know I made you sad. I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”

  “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

  Almost to her surprise, Charity realised that it was true. It really did not matter—not any more. Isobelle had…well, had turned out not to be the person Charity had imagined her to be. But that had hardly been Isobelle’s fault. Certainly, she had taken Charity’s adoration as her due. Everyone always had adored her, more or less, so why should Charity have been any different? Isobelle was what she was: a spoilt society beauty who nonetheless had a generosity of impulse which, whilst it might sometimes be fleeting, was still genuine while it lasted. When she had met Charity, dishevelled and distressed on her doorstep, it had been a sincere wish to help that had encouraged her to offer assistance. And help she had. Charity still now shuddered when she thought of how the day might have panned out without Isobelle’s input.

  “But it does.” Unusually, Isobelle’s eyes filled with tears. If Charity had not known for herself how very unwell Isobelle still was, that would have told her. “And even so, you came to look after me when I needed you. Can you really have been so kind after the way I let you down?”

  Charity felt uncomfortable. She had not anticipated this mood of self-reproach in Isobelle. Levity or superficial gratefulness she could have dealt with, but this was beyond her.

  “You helped me when I needed it,” she pointed out gruffly.

  “That! I did nothing.”

  “You did, you know. I will never forget it. But still,” Charity hurried on, changing the topic as hastily as she could, “it has been no trouble to sit with you, you know. Give yourself credit for being such excellent company. Though I may change my mind on that if you continue in this vein. Come, Isobelle, stop bringing old and forgotten skeletons to light. What matters is that you are recovering nicely. Within a few days, I imagine you will be as gay and full of life as ever!”

  For a moment, Charity thought that Isobelle was going to press the point, but to her relief the topic was not continued. In an evident attempt to bow to Charity’s wishes, Isobelle gave a weak smile.

  “Hardly a few days, Harry. Weeks, perhaps.”

  “And Lady Greenaway is quite well now, you know,” pressed on Charity. “Nan has looked after her wonderfully.”

  “Oh, Nan!” Isobelle nodded. “Of course she has. You can always rely on Nan, you know.”

  Charity wondered why this statement made her feel unnaturally angry. It was certainly true that kind, steady Nan could be relied on. Yet somehow the way Isobelle said it, it sounded…almost insulting. As if Nan’s steadiness were more of a character flaw than a virtue.

  “I know,” she said shortly.

  “I have made you cross again,” Isobelle said pathetically, and Charity gave herself a mental shake. Isobelle was very unwell still. She needed petting and looking after, not grumpiness and critical comments.

  “No, you haven’t,” she said, softening her tone. “But Nan has been so kind, you know. Indeed, it is thanks to her that I can be here to look after you.”

  “I don’t understand.” But there was a faint sign of interest on Isobelle’s face, Charity noticed with encouragement.

  “It had not occurred to me that there might be difficulties in my being here,” she said cheerfully. “You know me. Jump first and say ‘oops’ later. When I heard about…well, you know all that. But I came as soon as I could.” Isobelle nodded, taking this as her due. “I met Nan on your doorstep, and we went for a quiet walk so she could tell me how you were. She was coming out as I arrived,” she added in explanation. “Lady Greenaway was terribly worried about you. We all were, of course, but she most of all, for she was not able to nurse you herself. Certainly, she could afford whole hosts of nurses, but understandably she felt that this was not the same as having someone who knew and loved you by your side.”

  Isobelle shuddered. “I would have hated it.”

  “I thought at firs
t that it would be easy,” Charity said. “It seemed so obvious that I should be with you, when I knew I would be able to look after you, but Nan said—”

  “Said what?”

  “That people might talk. It had never occurred to me, but it seems that even before that, there had been the odd comment about the time I spent in your company. After all, you are so…so important and impressive, one of the real ton. Whereas I…” Charity shrugged.

  “But you came anyway.”

  “Oh, that was Nan’s doing—and Cara’s, and Lady Greenaway’s, but it was Nan’s idea.” She smiled. “It may appal you to know this, but I fear I must break the shocking news that you and I are related.”

  “You…What?” Isobelle looked quite bewildered, but her mood of guilt and sadness had lifted, Charity was relieved to see.

  “Oh, not really,” she explained. “But Nan said that the situation was different for her because she and you were some sort of cousin. And then she said…well, why should not I be a cousin too? Not the same side as her, of course, but she said your grandmother, I think…” Charity realised that she was still rather sketchy about the details. She would have to get Nan to teach her before she spoke to anyone else in the polite world about it. “Anyway, that a relation of yours had come from the North, and as I was Midlands born, it would seem quite convincing that I was from that branch of the family.” Isobelle, much fascinated by the story, went to sit up, and then clutched her side with a groan. “Oh, Isobelle, I’m sorry. Are you all right?” Charity asked anxiously.

  “I’m fine,” Isobelle said. “I was just taken up with the story. Fancy Nan having such a romantic imagination!”

  Again, Charity felt that same tingle of irritation, but she pushed it firmly away. “Well,” she continued, “we needed to get Lady Greenaway’s permission, of course. And Nan said that Cara would be a useful ally also. With two such leading members of the ton confirming the story, who would doubt it?”

  “But why had this not come out before? Indeed, why had I so unkindly ignored you until recently?” Isobelle asked.