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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Synopsis

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Other Books by Penelope Friday

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Bella Books

  Synopsis

  When Charity Bellingham visits London for the Season, she has no idea what adventures lie ahead. But a chance meeting with the beautiful Isobelle Greenaway will have long term consequences as Charity discovers things about London society, about slavery, and most of all about herself.

  But it’s the introduction to The Sisterhood—a secret society of ladies—that will impact and change her life forever.

  Penelope Friday’s romantic tale of women and life in early 19th century London is one that readers won’t want to miss.

  Copyright © 2016 by Penelope Friday

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  First Bella Books Edition 2016

  eBook released 2016

  Editor: Amanda Jean

  Cover Designer: Sandy Knowles

  ISBN: 978-1-59493-508-4

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Other Books by Penelope Friday

  Petticoats and Promises

  Dedication

  To Nikki and Debby, the sisters I was fortunate enough to have from birth, and to the Sisters I have found in my life since.

  Acknowledgments

  Many grateful thanks to JL Merrow and to Amanda Jean for their help and support at various points of the editing process of The Sisterhood. It would not be half the book it is now without their help, and I know it. You are both brilliant. Particular acknowledgements also need to go to Elizabeth, who could be described as my very own ‘big little sister’ and on whom Charity’s physical looks were based. Please note that Charity is, therefore, very good looking! And, of course, much love to the rest of my family and friends for their support. My parents are wonderful, and my boys more wonderful still. James and Cameron, I love you.

  Prologue

  “One more push, Madam.”

  “I can’t.”

  The lady’s face was red with exertion and tears stood out in her eyes. A maid patted her head with a damp cloth as the midwife took care of things further down her body. She knew her husband would be waiting downstairs, smoking a cigar as he paced the library, anticipating the news they both so desperately wanted. It was perhaps the only thing the couple had ever agreed upon.

  “Just one more push and baby will be here,” the midwife said again. It might have been encouraging if she had not spent the last thirty minutes repeating this comforting phrase.

  “Aaaah,” the lady screamed as the baby finally, finally, entered the world.

  “Goodness, what a size. No wonder the baby took time coming.” The midwife carefully cleaned the worst of the blood and mucus off the baby.

  “Well?” the lady asked urgently.

  “Congratulations, Mrs Bellingham. A beautiful baby girl. Rebecca has a sister.”

  Mrs Bellingham turned her head away from the child and cried.

  Chapter One

  The simple fact was that Charity Bellingham should have been born a boy.

  Charity, not for the first time, was pondering this as she practiced her scales on the piano. C major. C minor harmonic. C minor melodic. She had played these enough times that her fingers knew the positions by rote, leaving her able to mull things over as she played. If she had been a boy, perhaps her parents would have loved her. No baby was born knowing they were unwelcome. Charity could never say when the knowledge had come to her that her parents resented her very existence, but she had lived with it long enough to know it for the truth. (C sharp major; all the sharps.) Charity should have been born a boy. Her parents had agreed on very little, but that had been the exception. Indeed, they had only tried for a second child in order to birth a boy, the entail of Charity’s father’s property being reliant on that one thing. Instead, they had been given Charity—a lanky, active girl, who had all the drawbacks of boyishness without the one thing which would make her acceptable. (D minor harmonic—easy.)

  If she had been born a boy, they wouldn’t have been thrown out of Forsbury, their old, beautiful house. The entail would have gone to her. If she had been a boy, perhaps her father wouldn’t even be dead. She might have been with him just over a year ago, as he had toured their estate, and been able to fetch help immediately when he was thrown from his horse. He wouldn’t have lain there alone so many hours, wouldn’t have caught that awful chill that had led two days later to his death.

  If she had been a boy… (E flat melodic minor.) Charity thumped the notes down, trying to drown out the voice in her head. Her mother looked up from the chair in which she sat sewing, her lips pursed.

  “Charity! There can hardly be a need for that volume. It is unladylike.”

  “Sorry, Mother.”

  Ah yes, there it was. The fact was that, in all ways save the only one that mattered, Charity was a boy—or at any rate was boyish. Having been born a girl, she had not even had the courtesy to act like one and to pursue girlish interests with the same enthusiasm as her sister. Rebecca, source of this comparison, looked up from her place at her mother’s side and gave Charity a sympathetic smile. Becca, like their mother, was sewing a neat line of stitches to embroider a dress. The best that could be said about Charity’s sewing was that it was serviceable: two edges she sewed together would stay sewn, but they would win no merit for beauty. She preferred reading to sewin
g, and outdoor exercise to either.

  The room the three ladies sat in was the only ‘entertaining’ room in the house. Large enough to hold a grand piano, a small selection of books and a comfortable array of chairs, it was small enough that the piano loomed darkly over the space, making it feel cramped and out of proportion. The piano itself was a beautiful object—a dark hardwood grand that took up half of the space in their sitting room. In Forsbury, the piano had had a room to itself, where Charity could spend time alone, unwatched by the critical eye (and ear) of Mrs Bellingham. Another fault to be laid at Charity’s door: her mother clearly did not enjoy hearing her play, but as it was her younger daughter’s only feminine talent, she felt obliged to nurture it. (G minor harmonic; nearing the end of the morning’s exercises. Charity had to practise in the morning. During gloomy November, it became too dark to see the keys by mid-afternoon.) Charity sighed. The relationship her mother had with her was just that—an obligation. Her name said it all. Charity. It was merely charity that gave her a place in the family.

  Charity finished B minor melodic and shut the piano lid with a sigh. She would have liked to practise her pieces, but her mother had made it clear that there was only so much of Charity’s playing that she could take at one time. Maybe tomorrow she could work on the Purcell. Mrs Bellingham disliked that one less than most of the others, and the silent wave of disapproval was consequently less strong. And the bombastic nature of the music gave Charity a chance to play out the worst of her frustrations without criticism.

  “May I go for a walk, please, Mother?” She tried to modulate her voice to the gentle, subdued style Mrs Bellingham preferred.

  “No.” Mrs Bellingham paused, unusually. “I have something I wish to speak to you girls about.”

  Charity sat down next to Rebecca, who finished her stitch with great care before putting her embroidery to the side.

  “What is it?” The question came from both girls simultaneously.

  “It’s about the future. Your future.” Mrs Bellingham paused, but this time in a deliberately dramatic fashion. “We are going to London.”

  “We’re what?” Charity gasped.

  Rebecca simply looked at her mother, dumbstruck.

  “It’s what your dear father would have wanted.” Mrs Bellingham, still dressed in the black mourning clothes she had been wearing for the last year, made the pronouncement with an air of finality. A handkerchief was balled up ostentatiously in one hand, and she dabbed at dry eyes with it. “He would say it was my duty.”

  “But London, Mother?” Rebecca asked.

  Mrs Bellingham’s gaze fell fondly on her Rebecca, who was delicate, eager to please and unassumingly pretty. The perfect daughter. “‘Give Rebecca her Season’, he would have said.” Her gaze moved on to Charity. “And Charity, of course,” she added, the afterthought clear in her mind.

  Charity always was the afterthought. It was so common as not to be worth worrying about.

  “When are we going?” Charity asked.

  Mrs Bellingham’s lips twitched in disapproval, as if she had noticed a worm slithering and sliding in front of her. “Must you be so blunt, Charity?” She paused for a second, in order to make Charity fully aware of her fault. “Next but one Friday, as it happens.”

  “That soon?” Rebecca’s face filled with dismay. “But Mother, how will be ever get everything sorted by then?”

  “It already has been sorted,” Mrs Bellingham said magisterially. “Our lodgings are arranged. Those of our belongings which we do not choose to accompany us will go into storage. This is no sudden plan. It was always my intention, when the first period of mourning your poor dear father was over, to introduce you into polite society. And I have no doubt at all, Rebecca, that you will be a huge success.”

  The girls looked at each other. There was no point arguing with their mother; she would do whatever she chose. Perhaps Charity would have challenged her, but a quick shake of the head from Rebecca prevented her. The sisters were dissimilar in almost every way, but they lived cordially side by side in the same house. Indeed, Charity often thought it was impossible for anyone to dislike Becca. Her sister was too gentle, too willing to please, too unassumingly feminine, for dislike. It would be like kicking a kitten.

  “Yes Mother,” Rebecca said obediently.

  “Yes Mother,” Charity echoed, unable to keep cynicism out of her voice. She did her best with Mrs Bellingham, she truly did, but it was too much to ask that she take her mother’s words as gospel. Mrs Bellingham would do what was best for Mrs Bellingham. It was as simple as that.

  Chapter Two

  It took a surprisingly short period of time to decide what possessions they should take to London with them. Mrs Bellingham took those black dresses in which she looked most imposing, but refused to allow the girls to take any of theirs.

  “Your father, God rest his soul, has moved to a higher plane,” she said. “And you can hardly go to balls and rout parties in black. Lilac, yes, and white, certainly. And grey, perhaps. An elegant reminder of our terrible loss might be appropriate on some occasions. But black, on you girls, no. I think it is time that you moved back to colours.”

  “Should we not at least take black gloves?” Rebecca asked tentatively.

  Her mother pursed her lips. “Yes, I think that would be appropriate. I would like no one to think that you were in any way forgetful of the duty and love you owe your father. Indeed,” she added, “I have no intention of putting aside my mourning. No one knows what I suffered at his death.”

  The girls exchanged glances. In life, Mr Bellingham had been ever at loggerheads with his wife, but since his death, their mother barely went a day without bemoaning his loss. If Rebecca, like Charity, had the suspicion that a male heir—and thus continued ownership of Forsbury—would have consoled Mrs Bellingham greatly for this bereavement, she at least had the tact to keep it to herself. It fell to Rebecca, therefore, to respond to her mother’s comment.

  “I’m sure that London society will understand that, Mother.”

  “I shall make sure they do,” her mother retorted, her usual asperity back in full.

  And so it was a scant ten days before the ladies were bundled up in warm clothes against the chilly January weather to take their place in the carriage. Most of the possessions had been sent ahead, save for a number of boxes and cases for which there had not been room. Mrs Bellingham had arranged for furnished lodgings, so there was no need for the removal of any furniture. Instead, the larger pieces had been returned to a room at Forsbury. How their mother had talked Cousin Bellingham into storing them for her, Charity did not know. They had hardly been on speaking terms since her cousin had inherited the property. Perhaps, however, he felt that looking after their belongings was a small price to pay for Mrs Bellingham’s removal from the village.

  The journey was long and arduous, requiring one night’s stay in an inn. There was precious little room, and Rebecca and Charity slept together in a bed barely wide enough for one person. Their maid slept on the floor beside them, though Mrs Bellingham managed to find a room for herself alone. But it was not until early evening the following day that they reached London.

  It was soon very clear that London life—indeed, London itself—was nothing like anything Charity or Rebecca had experienced before. Charity had envisioned a big town, perhaps something like Birmingham, but nothing could have prepared her for what she found.

  As soon as the carriage reached the outskirts of the city, her senses were assailed by the sheer bustle of the place—its largeness, its fullness. It wasn’t just the sight of so many people going about their business, nor the cacophony of noise. Charity knew that if she had been blindfolded and her ears stopped, she would still have known she was somewhere new. It smelled different, and the very air seemed permeated by the atmosphere of hustle and determination. Everyone was in a hurry; nothing was ever still. Charity could feel the motion against her skin, even from within the carriage. Beside her, Rebecca looked wan
and frightened, her eyes blinking faster than usual. Charity wasn’t sure whether the cause was the dirty city air or tears. She reached over and patted her sister’s hand. Displays of affection did not come naturally to her, and Rebecca knew it. She turned and smiled waveringly at Charity.

  “I didn’t quite realise that…” Rebecca broke off after those first few words.

  “Big, isn’t it?” Charity murmured in response.

  Their mother glowered at them. “I’m doing this for your sakes, you know,” she snapped. “Heaven knows I don’t anticipate getting any pleasure out of it.”

  “We’re very grateful, Mother,” Rebecca said hastily.

  Charity couldn’t quite bring herself to repeat such an obvious untruth. She looked down at her gloved hands and said nothing. Her mother gave an indignant sniff but said no more, and the carriage continued to drive down the large, busy streets. At last, they drew up outside a dingy-looking building.

  The lodgings were drab but acceptable. The hangings were old-fashioned and somewhat worn, but the drawing room was large and spacious, and the two sofas were plump and comfortable. If the room designated to be Charity’s bedroom was perhaps more usually given up to a maidservant, Mrs Bellingham’s and Rebecca’s bedrooms were of a decent size. All three were filled with dark, solid furniture clearly chosen for practicality rather than beauty, and as the bags and cases were unloaded from the chaise, the two girls explored their new home.

  “Do you think we will like it here?” Rebecca asked.

  The quick answer, Charity thought grimly, was no—but Becca didn’t need to hear that. “When we’re used to London,” she said instead.

  She looked down from her bedroom window, surprised by the amount of noise that penetrated it. The road below was not as crowded as some of the others, but there was a continuous bustle outside and the sounds were so very different from the countryside. No birds could be heard, but horses’ hooves on the street clinked and clanked, and carriage wheels made an uneven noise as they jerked over the cobbles. Voices spoke or shouted, the accent harsh and ugly to her ears, and the constant toing and froing of people and vehicles made her feel almost dizzy. Charity turned away and saw Rebecca’s pale, anxious face.