Cat Carlisle Book 2

‘Serves you right,’ one of the women said.

He stared at the lot of them. ‘Show’s over, ladies.’

So much for his miracle.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_45db51e5-e840-5b96-b9d9-8a6c1fa7172c)

Carmona Broadbent was no beauty. She knew this, just as she knew the sun would rise in the morning. A thick-ankled, thick-waisted girl, who had grown tall at an early age, Carmona lived her life with the awareness that no prince loomed on the horizon, waiting to ask her to the ball. This should have bothered Carmona, especially since her best friend in the world, Edythe Hargreaves, was blessed with the stunning good looks of a film star. But Carmona’s lack of physical attributes did not bother her, for she had something even better than porcelain skin, a tiny waist, and long supple legs. Carmona Broadbent had brains.

She had spent her entire life watching the side effects of Edythe’s beauty. Mothers stared, goggle-eyed, taken aback by Edythe’s beauty as a child. As she got older and blossomed into womanhood, wives would stare, before they would search out their husbands, as if worrying Edythe would somehow lure the men away from their families. And poor Mrs Hargreaves worried and fretted, as though she were the custodian of a hothouse flower in need of continual tending. Carmona thought it all ridiculous. She knew, with that certain wisdom of hers, Edythe’s beauty wouldn’t last forever. Edythe would one day grow old, as that poet – Carmona could never recall his name, as she had little time for romantic notions – said, the proverbial bloom would eventually come off the rose. Carmona didn’t wish her friend any ill will, she simply had seen into the future and knew what Edythe’s life would be: she would meet someone of wealth and influence. Likely, he would see her dance and fall in love. They would properly court – or not, Carmona didn’t care – marry, have many children, and live happily ever after in some big country house. By the time Edythe’s looks had faded, she would be happily ensconced in her life on some anonymous manor somewhere. Her influential husband would have a mistress in a luxury flat in London. Carmona, on the other hand, would be using her fine mind to save humanity, one injured brain at a time. She was going to be a doctor, so busy saving people’s lives, she wouldn’t even miss the husband and children she would not have.

Carmona and Edythe were as opposite as night and day. Edythe, kind-hearted and good-natured, had done a fine job of balancing Carmona’s irreverent sarcasm. Like only best friends can do, they had supported each other through the tragedies and upsets children experience on the road to adulthood. Carmona didn’t resent Edythe’s beauty. She believed each person had their own gifts to bring to the world.

Edythe’s father was a farmer, who was lucky enough to own the land he used to grow vegetables and graze a sizable herd of sheep. Although they were financially comfortable, Edythe’s family didn’t have the wealth and influence – and all its accompanying responsibility – Carmona’s family enjoyed. As a result of this, Edythe had developed a strong sense of purpose. When Carmona and Edythe were 10 years old, Carmona’s mother had dressed them up in their fancy best and had taken them to London to see The Nutcracker. The girls enjoyed the train ride in the first-class car, staying in a hotel, and eating in the hotel restaurant without adult supervision. When Carmona’s mother, Claris, had come down with a banging headache and had sent the girls to dinner unsupervised in the safety of the hotel dining room, the two girls had spent a happy hour watching all the well-dressed men and women, who moved so glamorously in this affluent world.

They had seen a matinee, and given Claris’s influence, sat in the best seats. When the dancing started Edythe was mesmerized. She had not moved during the performance, rather she watched the show, her eyes riveted to the stage. Carmona had never seen such rapture on a human being’s face. After the performance, Edythe asked question after question about the story, the dancers, how the dancers trained. She kept her programme with her on the train. After she had read it for the fourth time – Carmona had kept track – she poked Edythe’s side and said, ‘Why are you reading that over and over?’

Edythe had looked at her with bright eyes and said, ‘I’m going to dance, Carm. Going to ask my mum for lessons. I’m going to be a ballerina.’

Carmona had watched Edythe set out to do that very thing. She had insisted on dance lessons. Her parents had given in. After a year or two, a room in her parents’ home was converted to a small studio. Edythe practised, read every ballet book she could get her hands on, and practised some more. She dragged Carmona to every performance she could afford to attend. If a major company came through on tour and Edythe couldn’t afford the tickets, Carmona would treat her to the cheap seats at the matinee. Ballet became the centre of Edythe’s life. Driven by passion, Edythe was not afraid to work hard to get what she wanted. Carmona admired this trait in her friend. She wasn’t afraid of hard work either. All Carmona needed was to find her passion. Luckily, things got much easier for Carmona when she discovered what her particular talent was.

She tried painting, writing, and dress designing. For a brief moment she entertained the idea of being an architect, motivated to some extent by her father’s passion for Heart’s Desire, the historically significant country house that her grandfather had purchased after Carmona’s grandmother died. But buildings bored her. She had all but given up the ghost and resolved herself to spending her adult life bored and unremarkable, when she stumbled across an ancient copy of Gray’s Anatomy in her father’s library. It was a rainy afternoon. Edythe was home practising. Tired of the murder mysteries she usually read and not in the mood for an historical biography, Carmona had picked up the book and thumbed through it, captivated by the drawings of body parts. With nothing better to do, she had taken the book to her room and spent the rest of the day lost in the interior workings of the human body and the diagrams which accompanied the writings. She read until her neck ached, surprised when she stood up to stretch that four hours had passed. Carmona had found her bestowed mission.

Carmona’s mother, Claris Broadbent, had a very specific plan for her only child: Marriage, children, death. End of story. Carmona wasn’t having it. Of her own volition, she stole a piece of her mother’s stationery and wrote to the London School of Medicine for Women. She used Edythe’s address – with permission of course – knowing her mother would not be happy with Carmona’s newfound interest. The school wrote back, sending a packet of information setting out the type of course work a young woman could do to prepare herself for medical school, along with an application for admittance.

Carmona had always been a diligent student. Her grades were exemplary. She had a flair for maths and science. Since her studies kept her out of trouble, her parents arranged extra tutoring on the subjects she loved. By the time she turned 18, she had a firm grasp on anatomy, physiology, and all the other subjects required for medical school. Now that Edythe’s mother had inherited money – the whole village knew of Phillip Billings’ crushed expectations and the very public altercation on the high street – Carmona realized it was time to act. Edythe would be able to leave for London in January. Carmona intended on going with her. The time had come for her to speak to her parents of her plan.

Carmona and Edythe met for a night at the cinema, but Edythe was so excited about her upcoming move, the two had forgone the movie, choosing instead to spend the evening at Edythe’s making plans. The girls reckoned their parents would rest easier knowing they were together. They would find a flat together. They would look out for each other as they made their way in the big city. It seemed so easy when Carmona discussed the move with Edythe. Now all she had to do was tell her mother and father of their plans and convince them to let her go.

Making a point to be home promptly at a quarter to ten, fifteen minutes before her curfew, Carmona found her parents in the drawing room, sitting before the fire as they often did of an evening. Her father wrote something on a legal pad, while her mother thumbed through a magazine, turning the pages too quickly to read the words on the page.

‘Hello, dear one.’ Her father had smiled when she walked in the room. Her mother smiled at her before she went back to her magazine.

She stood before the fire and faced her parents. ‘Mum, Dad, I want to speak to you about my future.’

Her mother looked up, surprised. Carmona had never allowed her mum and dad to see her serious side. She had kept that part of her psyche protected, secluded in her room with her medical books and studies. Her mother closed her magazine and tossed it in the basket at her feet. Her father put the cap on his pen while Carmona pulled up a vacant footstool, and sat before her parents, eager and expectant.

‘I want to go to medical school.’

She remembered her father’s eyebrows had flown upward and her mother had gasped.

After a moment’s pause, her mother spoke first, taking command of the situation, like she always did. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Carmona. Do you know what you’re saying? Do you have any idea what medical school entails?’

She glanced at her father, hoping for some help. ‘Of course, I do, mother. Why do you think I’ve been studying so hard these past few years? I’m ready.’ Encouraged now, she stood up before the fire. ‘I’ll go to the London School of Medicine for Women and do my clinical studies at the Royal Free Hospital. I’ll have to move, but Edythe and I can share a flat or a room, if we have to. She’s going to London as well. In January. That will give me a few months to get ready. I won’t be in the city alone, so you won’t have to worry about me. I’m 18 now. It’s time for me to do something with my life. I want to be a doctor.’

If Carmona could have seen herself, passionately persuading her parents about her future, she would have been pleasantly surprised. Her thick brown hair glimmered in the dim firelight, and her cheeks glowed with passion. She spoke in a clear and concise way that showed her intelligence, education, and breeding. A shame she was too preoccupied to notice the tale-tell glimmer of a proud smile on her father’s lips.

‘Absolutely not.’ The Broadbent family was not a democracy. Claris Churchwright Broadbent had long grown accustomed to running her family like a tight ship, handing down edicts she expected to be followed by her husband and her daughter alike.

‘Why?’ Carmona demanded. ‘Tell me what you’ve got against me moving? There’s nothing holding me here. I know you want me to marry, but all the eligible men are off fighting. Edythe’s mother is letting her go. She cried when Edythe told her she wanted to go, but Mrs Hargreaves just hugged her and promised to help in any way she could.’

Carmona’s father opened his mouth to speak, but her mother interrupted him.

‘Carmona, darling, sit down.’ When Carmona complied, her mother changed her tone. Carmona knew she was trying to sound reasonable, but to Carmona’s ears her mother sounded condescending, bossy, and authoritarian.

‘Edythe Hargreaves doesn’t have the opportunities you have, darling. She has no chance of securing a husband from a fine family. While I’m glad that she and her mother are now financially secure, the circumstances are completely different. I’ve gone along with your educational whims because you are so passionate about them. You should see yourself now, Carm, you look beautiful. But no, dear. No medical school, no London, and no college. You’ve a responsibility to this family, to your father and to me. You must marry well and settle down to domestic life. Surely you can see that?’

‘Dad?’ Carmona turned to her father for help. David Broadbent didn’t even look at his wife. He didn’t dare go against her. If he did, there would be hell to pay. Carmona would have felt sorry for him if she weren’t so angry. ‘Dad, surely you’re not going to agree with her on this one issue? This is my future we are talking about.’ Carmona turned to face her mother. ‘I won’t get married. I won’t do as you say, and I won’t be treated like chattel in a medieval fiefdom. My God, who the hell do you think you are?’ Her rage, now released, sprung forth like a gusher. ‘And don’t think you can stop me. I don’t need your permission, Mum. I am of age.’

‘You’ll not get a penny from me, Carmona. Nor your father. Not one penny. So if you want to live on the streets—’

Carmona remembered the trust fund, set up long ago by her grandfather. Surely there was enough in it to pay for her schooling. A part of Carmona, the childish part that would have cherished a moment of vengeance against the overbearing woman who had ruled the family roost with an iron fist, wanted to tout her victory. But Carmona kept quiet. The stakes were too high. Claris Broadbent would seize the knowledge and use it to sabotage Carmona’s plan. Taking the high road, she stuffed her anger aside and forced a congenial smile. The look on her father’s face shifted from surprise to curiosity. David Broadbent wasn’t used to his headstrong daughter giving in so quickly. Carmona looked down at her feet, smoothed her skirt, and forced an acquiescent smile. ‘Can’t blame me for trying.’ She kissed her father’s cheek and then her mother’s.

‘I’m tired. Good night.’ She turned and walked out of the room, leaving her parents in stunned silence. Had her parents not stared at each other in shock at Carmona’s sudden change of emotion, had they happened to turn their glance to Carmona’s reflection in the mirror over the fireplace, they would have seen the devious expression on her face. Had they seen the expression, they would have been very concerned indeed.

Carmona’s room was at the back of the house, close to the library. She had chosen it because she loved the sunlight that flooded through the large window in the afternoon and because the room was big enough for her to have a fireplace with two comfortable chairs in front of it, along with a huge desk where she studied. She and Edythe had spent hours there, playing games as children, planning their lives as they grew older. There was no fire now. Her maid, Liddy, met her at the door.

Carmona had never wanted a maid. She didn’t like being waited on. She liked Liddy, though. Over the years, the two of them had become trusted friends, had shared their dreams and secrets.

‘I’m just leaving. How did it go? Did you talk to them?’

‘I did. My mother said no.’ Carmona stripped off her clothes and threw them on the bed. Liddy started to pick up the clothes. Carmona stopped her. ‘Just leave them. I’ll put them away when I get back.’

‘So what will you do?’

Carmona pulled on a pair of her father’s corduroy trousers and an old fisherman’s sweater. She donned a dark coat and hat, along with warm gloves. ‘I’m going out.’ She raised the sash of her window and swung one leg out. She smiled at Liddy. ‘Don’t worry. I have a plan.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of. You’re going to get me fired,’ Liddy called out just as Carmona swung her other leg out the window and disappeared into the frigid night air.

* * *

Phillip arrived at Beth’s just as she and Edythe, along with Carmona, were sitting down to dinner. He didn’t care that he was three hours late, all but ignoring Beth’s four o’clock edict. The house smelled of onions and chicken. His stomach rumbled in response to the enticing smells, but he had no inclination to sit down to a meal with Beth or Edythe, not that they would ask. Dining with those women and their surly attitudes would do nothing for his digestion. He popped his head into the kitchen.

‘You’re late,’ Beth said. The look on her face made it clear she wasn’t glad to see him.

Edythe shot him a glance and slammed a serving plate piled high with meat and potatoes down on the table. Carmona Broadbent jumped at the sudden crash, her eyes moving from Beth to Edythe and, finally, to Phillip. Phillip had always liked Carmona. Although she was a bit chunky and thick-ankled, she wasn’t half bad. The Broadbents were rolling in money, but Carmona didn’t put on airs. Phillip knew Carmona fancied him. A wink from him would cause Carmona’s pretty skin to blush a becoming shade of rose. Her eyes danced when she saw him.

‘I’ll just get down to it. Shouldn’t take long.’ He winked at Carmona and – satisfied with her response – headed towards the small room that held his mother’s desk. Once he was certain no footsteps followed, he methodically took everything out of the desk, in search for any stray envelopes of cash. His mum was known for stuffing pound notes in envelopes and hiding them all over the office. A thorough search – including looking through all the books – netted him a few coins and an unopened pack of cigarettes. He cleared the papers out of his mother’s desk – he would go through it all later – and stuffed them, along with the few clothes he had, in a carryall. He slipped out the front door without saying goodbye.

By the time he made it to the Dirty Duck, all the tables were taken and the bar was standing room only. Jem looked up when Phillip came into the pub, took one look at Phillip’s face and poured him a pint and a shot of whisky. The whisky went down too easily. Phillip accepted the second one and took his drinks to the back of the room, waiting for the couple who sat at his favourite table to leave. Timing was a funny thing. Had the pub not been crowded, had Phillip been sitting at his table, he would have seen the two men loitering in the alley that led to his cottage. But Phillip’s obsession with the unfairness of his life rendered him oblivious to the two men. When the couple who sat at his table tottered out of the pub on unsteady legs, leaning against each other for support, Phillip ordered another round and spent the next two hours drowning his sorrows and listening to the regulars sing their bawdy songs.

Rivenby was a small village, and the Dirty Duck its only pub. During the week, things got quiet around nine-thirty or ten. Most of the patrons were farmers, who had early chores in the morning. Soon Phillip was alone at his table. Jemmy came up with the bottle of whisky and two glasses, a rag hanging out of his back pocket. He poured a drink for Phillip and for himself.

‘For luck,’ Jemmy said.

‘God knows I need it,’ Phillip said, surprised that his words slurred. He sipped the drink. ‘You’ve probably heard what’s happened.’

‘Yep,’ Jemmy said. He busied himself wiping down the other tables around Phillip, polishing them to a high shine. ‘It’s a shame. But you’ve got a roof over your head and a wee bit of money. That’s something.’