The Sisterhood by Penelope Friday

Author:Penelope Friday [Friday, Penelope]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781594935084
Publisher: Bella Books
Published: 2016-07-25T04:00:00+00:00

In fact, as Charity had known, Rebecca showed no concern over the length of time her sister had been absent. She did, however, have another subject that she wanted to raise with Charity. The conversation came up as they were sitting together, Rebecca with her sewing and Charity reading a book in the window seat. It was companionable being in the same room, even when the girls were not chatting to each other. But as Charity finished her chapter and put the book down with a sigh, Rebecca looked up at her suddenly.

“Charity…” She sounded shy, and Charity looked at her with surprise.

“Yes?”

“Miss Greenaway…she calls you Harry.”

“I’d noticed.”

“But don’t you mind?”

“Mind what?” Charity leaned back against the deep window seat and eyed her sister quizzically.

“Well, it’s a boy’s name.”

“And hasn’t everyone always said I’m half a boy?” Charity asked. “The wrong half,” she added, and a note of bitterness would creep into her voice, no matter how much she tried to conceal it.

“I’ve never said that.” Rebecca walked over to her and put a hand on her arm. “My big little sister,” she said, smiling. Her conversation turned back to Isobelle. “You like her a lot, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Charity put her own hand over Rebecca’s. “So no, I don’t mind if she calls me Harry. Are your fears quenched, my dear?”

Rebecca nodded. “You didn’t mind my asking?”

“Not at all.”

But Charity’s mind went back to this conversation later, when she was alone. Rebecca, of course, did not know about the relationship between Charity and Isobelle; it would certainly never have occurred to her. And although Charity did not consider herself a man, she always had had boyish tastes in so many ways. ‘Harry’ suited her far more than ‘Charity’ ever had, she thought. And the other ladies in the Sisterhood had followed Isobelle’s lead: Charity was probably, she thought with amusement, called Harry more often than Charity these days.

She had never thought to find a home in London. She had not even realised who and what she was. But she was happy—happier than she had been in her life. Happy to be Harry, to be accepted for who and what she was. It had seemed, growing up, as if Rebecca had it all: the love of her parents (in as much as they were capable of such an emotion); a delight in the feminine pursuits which society considered suitable for a girl of the Bellinghams’ class. But where had it got her, in the end? A circumscribed life, married to a man who was no gentleman—not because of his birth but his behaviour—and forced to pander to his every whim. No, Rebecca was not so lucky after all.

But I am, Charity thought, her happiness flowing through her veins, more intoxicating than champagne. I have Isobelle, I have the Sisterhood. However did it come to this?

However had it come to this?

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