Cat Carlisle Book 2

‘Thank you for agreeing to leave. I’ll sleep better because of it.’ Thomas stood. ‘Can you and Annie see yourselves to the train? I’ve things to tend to here, but hope to leave within a few days. I’ll send the lorry for your belongings the day after tomorrow and send word when I arrive in Rivenby.’

‘Of course.’ She capped her fountain pen and stood up. ‘I’ll show you out.’

They walked upstairs together, talking of Cat’s childhood in the country. When they reached the door, she turned to him, rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. It took every ounce of discipline not to wrap his arms around her.

‘Thank you, Thomas. I should have known you would save the day.’

‘Glad to be of service.’ Thomas tipped his hat. ‘Safe travels.’

‘To you as well,’ Cat said. ‘See you in a few days.’

Thomas waited while Cat shut the door behind him and slid the bolts in place. Once he knew she was locked in the house, he headed towards the square where – if providence smiled on him – he would find a taxi. His heart swelled. He had seen the promise in Cat’s green eyes. His question had been answered.

* * *

Cat leaned against the front door, weak-kneed, surprised at the physical reaction to seeing Thomas again. One look at him had opened the flood gates. The emotion she had so successfully been hiding rushed over her. She loved him. After her failed attempt at working with Sir Reginald, Thomas had championed her photographs and had used them in his books, ultimately lettering her serve as art director for the last book they had worked on together. Thomas’s support had galvanized the bond between them. Their creative work had become a partnership. The sum of their whole – the books they produced – a marriage of Thomas’s keen prose and Cat’s pictures. One critic had said that the photos in the book had their own personality and evinced an emotional response. Cat would never forget Thomas’s supportive friendship while she had dealt with the fallout of her husband’s murder and his massive estate. She liked the work. She liked her independence. She loved Thomas. And that had been the problem.

Thomas loved her. She knew it. By all methods of logic, they should be married right now. But they weren’t. And it was all because of Cat, and the internal war that raged within her. If there had been any questions about her feelings for him, they were answered these past few months while he had been away. Her heart ached with longing for him, while her mind worried for his wellbeing. And yet – wasn’t there always an ‘and yet’ – whenever Cat let the fantasy run its course, whenever she envisioned herself married to Thomas, sharing his house, his life, his bed, she was overcome with a sense of panic so strong it knocked her to her knees. Her heart loved Thomas Charles. Her mind was scared to death of committing to him. She simply wasn’t ready to share a house with anyone – except Annie, of course.

Lydia – who could see the conflict of emotions and anxiety in her niece – suggested that Cat see a psychiatrist. But Cat resisted, trusting that her troubles would sort themselves out. And then she and Thomas had nearly kissed. For a brief moment, Cat had let herself go. One moment she had been swept away, weak-kneed as a school girl. Seconds later, she tasted bile. She had pulled away – ran away – like an adolescent. The next day, Thomas left without a word.

And now he’s come home, so it’s time to repair things between us. In truth, moving to Cumberland was the answer to everything. It would be best for Annie, and Cat could only hope it would provide an opportunity for her to make things right with Thomas. She had to manage this relationship somehow. Thomas deserved that.

With fresh resolve, Cat spent the entire afternoon calling the members of her various committees, handing off her responsibilities to any able-bodied soul who would take them. She explained her decision to take Annie to the country, as the child was nervous and on edge. Most of her fellow members were supportive. Those who responded with irritation changed their ways when Cat promised a generous cheque in lieu of her hands-on efforts. With each call the idea of the move became more agreeable. How perfect it would be to return home, where the summers weren’t so sweltering, where Hitler’s bombs would be less likely to fall. How lovely of Thomas to arrange it all.

When the last call had been made and the papers filed away, Cat sat at the kitchen table for a moment, thinking of Rivenby, the place she had called home until her parents had been so tragically taken from her nearly twenty-two years ago.

That morning, she had gone walking on the moors. On her way back home, she had seen Beth kissing the boy who Cat thought was the love of her life. She hadn’t confronted them. Instead, she had run home to her mum, hot tears running down her cheek. In her mind’s eye, she conjured the kitchen of her childhood, with the flagstone floor, the warm Aga, and the curtains billowing in the afternoon breeze. How desperate she had been for her mother’s comfort. But her mum wasn’t there. Her Aunt Lydia sat at the table, crying into a handkerchief, a cold cup of tea before her on the table. ‘It’s your parents, pet …’

Cat shook her head, tamping down the memories that threatened. Lydia had swept her away to London and had done her best to help Cat forge a new life.

Reaching for another piece of the thick linen paper she favoured, Cat started a new list of the things she had to do before she and Annie moved. Tomorrow she would start getting things sorted. She and Annie would need new coats, sweaters, Wellies, and other necessities for life in the country. By the time Annie and Lydia returned home, Cat had a plan in place.

Annie and Lydia found her in the darkened front room, the curtains drawn against the sun, drinking a large cup of tea. Lydia took one look at her and raised an eyebrow. She sent Annie off to wash up.

‘So you’ve talked to him? Told him how you feel? Annie’s been talking about the two of you all day. She’s fantasized the wedding, the dress, and she hopes to be in the wedding party.’

‘Whatever gave her that idea?’ Cat set her cup down.

Her aunt gave her a knowing look. Cat ignored it. She patted the spot next to her on the sofa. ‘Before Annie comes down, I need to talk to you.’

Lydia sat.

‘Thomas has offered me my job back. He’s been commissioned to write a series of books on monastic houses in Cumberland. I’ve decided to go with him. Annie will be safe there. The research should be interesting.’

Lydia snorted. Cat pushed on.

‘You can come with us, if you’d like. I’d feel better if you were out of the city.’

‘No. I’ll stick it out. I’ll have my cage in the basement to keep me safe from the bombs. I’ve lived in this house for over thirty years. I’ll not be pushed out by the likes of Adolf Hitler.’ Lydia put a cigarette in her mouth. ‘The child is on edge. A motor-car backfired today. Annie dropped her paint brush and promptly burst into tears. She needs to get out of London. How perfect of Thomas to ride in on his white horse and save the day.’

‘I’ll pretend that I don’t hear the undertone of sarcasm, darling,’ Cat said. ‘What about Annie’s lessons? She won’t be happy there without her art work.’

‘I’ll give her a list of projects that will take years. I’ll come for a good long stay at Christmas. How about that?’ Lydia said.

‘Perfect. We’ll have an old-fashioned country Christmas, like we used to do when my parents were alive. Maybe you’ll like it so much, you’ll stay.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ Lydia smiled to take the sting out of her words. ‘Revisiting the past leads to inevitable disappointment.’

‘Thanks, Lydia.’

She looked at Cat in surprise. ‘For what?’

‘For letting Annie and me stay here these past few years, for standing by me.’ Cat would miss her aunt, their artsy friends, the hours of intellectual conversation with people who didn’t judge her. She would miss London, but she had Annie to think about. ‘I wish you’d come with us.’

Lydia patted Cat’s hand. ‘Don’t be afraid of him. Thomas Charles is not Benton Carlisle. The man loves you. Take a chance, love. Follow your heart.’

‘I can’t,’ she said.

‘Why? Just tell me. I’ve watched you mope around this house since April. You love him. Why won’t you let yourself be happy?’

‘Because we’ll go along fine for a while. Then, slowly but surely, he’ll be telling me what I can and cannot do. Or he won’t, and he’ll ask me to marry him. Then what? I’ll have to say no. I’ve grown accustomed to my freedom, Lydia. Do you realize that I have yet to live in my own house, with furniture and paint and curtains that I pick out for myself?’ Cat shook her head. ‘Surely you of all people can understand that.’

‘That’s not it, and you know it. What are you afraid of? He’s a decent man, Cat. He’s foolish over you.’

‘What happens if he changes?’

‘Thomas? Don’t be absurd. He’s solid as a rock, that one.’

‘Ben changed.’ Cat met Lydia’s eyes. ‘Ben seemed solid, too. Ben loved me. He was kind, and tender, and utterly devoted.’

‘For how long, three years?’ Lydia gave her head a tiny shake. ‘He didn’t change, love. I knew what he was made of when I first laid eyes on him. Tom isn’t like Ben. I wish you’d just take my word for it. You’re about to turn 40. You’re lonely. I don’t want you to look back on your life with regret of a chance not taken. Of course, you could always take him as a lover. Just think, you could sneak around some quaint country village, spending the night in each other’s beds and creeping to your own house in the gloaming.’ Lydia spoke before Cat reacted. ‘Never mind. I know that’s not your style.’

Cat giggled.

‘In the end, you’ll do what’s best. Just keep your mind open. A solid relationship with a good man shouldn’t feel like a prison sentence.’ Lydia stood. She put her hands on her lower back and stretched. ‘We’ll leave it for now. At least he’s back and that cloak of doom that’s been hanging over you has lifted. You’re working together again. That’ll have to do for now.’

Chapter 2 (#ulink_821b17e4-7b64-51b6-911a-ecfabc5efeca)

Phillip Billings sat in his solicitor’s office, waiting for his mother’s will to be read, thinking of Lady Penelope Blythedale, the bitch who tried so hard to ruin his life. After today, he would be a man of independent means. Oh, how he wished he could travel to Edinburgh and flaunt his newfound wealth. He could just imagine the look on Lady Blythedale’s face, as he drove by in a brand-new fancy car. He sighed out loud, not realizing that his cousin and her daughter – who also sat in the chairs opposite the solicitor’s desk – looked at him strangely.

About time my luck has changed. Lady Fortune will now be sitting on my shoulder!

The past two years had been difficult. Granted, he did play a small role in the collapse of the life he had so carefully created. So what if he had taken his boss’s wife as a lover? Lady Penelope had made the first move, after all. These were modern times. And women – especially women of means – took lovers just as frequently as men. In addition to being married to Phillip’s employer, Lady Penelope Blythedale, a blond socialite with money and connections, had a voracious sexual appetite that nearly wore Phillip out. Nearly. Had Martha, Penelope’s young maid, not been so eager, he would have been faithful to Penelope. Sleeping with Martha – in his own bed, no less – had been a mistake. Phillip realized that. He would never forget the look on Penelope’s face when she caught them in flagrante delicto.

Lady Blythedale – Phillip was only allowed to call her Penelope when they were in bed together – shopped and lunched with her lady friends on Wednesdays. In a natural series of circumstances, Martha and Phillip had started having their weekly trysts during this time. Soon the affair escalated, fuelled by delicious secrecy. Wednesday afternoon soon became a standing date. They would spend their afternoons in Phillip’s opulent bedroom, tangled in the sheets, drinking expensive champagne – all paid for by Lady Blythedale. Someone must have told her about the affair. Why else would she have come home early and burst into the room? He cringed at the thought of the ensuing row, the crystal glasses thrown against the wall. Martha scarpering away, grabbing her clothes as she ran. Phillip spent about three seconds wondering what would become of poor Martha, sure in the knowledge that a reference would not be forthcoming.

After Martha had fled, Lady Blythedale had tossed a beautiful chair, covered in sky-blue silk, at a closed window. It crashed through and fell two storeys to the courtyard below. She surveyed the wreckage and cast a knowing glance at Phillip. The look in her eyes had chilled him to the bone. Without a word, she turned and walked out of the house. He thought about going after her, but changed his mind. She would come around. They always did. He would go to her house with champagne and a token of his affection – charged to her account, of course. Phillip had no money of his own and had become accustomed to the lifestyle that Lady Blythedale had provided him. She really had been very generous. He lived in the gatehouse on her vast property, had access to any number of her automobiles, and enjoyed a generous allowance which she deposited into his bank account every week like clockwork. They had too much invested in their affair to let it go. Surely this one indiscretion would be forgiven. He’d talk her around. Once he told her how things stood, Phillip felt certain she would forgive him.