Cat Carlisle Book 2. Terry Thomas Lynn

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      * * *

      Carmona was used to taking late-night strolls. She liked the feeling of solitude under the stars. The night noises – nocturnal birds and animals – were a symphony to her. She landed on the loamy grass outside her window and headed by rote to the high street, which would lead her towards her grandfather’s house. If she hurried, she could make it there in fifteen minutes. Grandfather may be asleep already, but she would wake him. She needed to tell him of her plans, confirm that she had his blessing. If Grandfather supported her decision, she wouldn’t need anything from her parents. She wouldn’t need their money and she wouldn’t need permission. She’d wait until January – when Edythe was leaving – and move to London with her. The wind clipped at her cheeks. Carmona liked the feeling of the cold night air against her skin almost as much as she liked being alone under the bright stars.

      Occupied with thoughts of the new life that awaited her in London, Carmona walked along the high street, making a mental inventory of all the things she would have to do to prepare for her trip without her mother being aware, enjoying the solitude of the quiet village. A man lay curled up in the foetal position on the walkway. He groaned.

      ‘Phillip? What are you doing there?’ Without thinking she hurried over to him. When he rolled over on his back, she took off her sweater and placed it under his head. ‘What’s happened to you?’

      ‘Got mugged. Wind knocked out of me.’

      Without thinking, Carmona smoothed back Phillip’s hair. ‘Just take a second and get your breath.’ She tried to remember what she had read about people that couldn’t breathe. ‘Just stay calm. Don’t force it.’ His breath was heavy and laboured. While Phillip collected himself, Carmona did a visual inventory of his injuries. His lip had been bleeding. Trails of red clotted on his chin, with accompanying splatters down the front of his shirt. His arms and legs didn’t look like they had been broken, but Carmona gently ran her hands over them, just to make sure. ‘Can you bend your knees?’

      ‘No broken bones,’ he said. ‘Just a split lip and a punch in the gut that knocked the wind out of me.’

      ‘Can you sit up?’ Carmona helped Phillip sit up. After a moment, he rose to his feet. Once standing, he wobbled. ‘Put your arm around me. I’ll try and hold you up.’

      ‘You’re a good girl, Carmona.’ He reached into his pocket and handed Carmona a key. ‘Let’s go to my cottage.’

      When Carmona was 10 years old, Harry Brewster had tried to look up her skirt. Carmona had given him a black eye for his trouble. That had been the only time that Carmona had been physical with a man. Her father hugged her on occasion, but Carmona had never felt the hard muscles of a male before. They stumbled up the steps to the cottage. Phillip unlocked the door with a shaking hand.

      ‘Light switch is by the door,’ Phillip mumbled. Carmona’s suspicions that Phillip had been drinking were confirmed when he put his head on her shoulder and she got a whiff of his breath. Carmona turned on the light. The kitchen was old, clean, and utterly bare save a kettle, a tin of tea, a tin of biscuits, half a loaf of bread, and an unopened jar of Bede Turner’s raspberry preserves. Two plates, two chipped mugs, and one bowl were the only dishes on the shelf.

      ‘Where are the rest of your dishes and things?’ Carmona asked.

      ‘Don’t have any. Not yet, at least. Just moved in today.’ While Phillip sat at the kitchen table, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, Carmona took a quick tour of the house. Two comfortable chairs and a table were in the small living room. The tiny bedroom at the back of the house had a single bed and a dresser, a utilitarian grey blanket folded at its foot. She opened the wardrobe and saw two shirts and a pullover sweater folded on the shelf. She took the sweater and brought it back to Phillip. ‘Here, put this on.’

      The bathroom was clean, but tiny, and – thankfully – stocked with towels. Carmona grabbed three of them, soaked one with hot water, one with cold water, and left one dry. Back in the kitchen, she found Phillip trying to stand.

      ‘I need tea. And maybe something stronger.’ He rose to his feet but sat back down. ‘My head. Good God. Hurts.’

      ‘Don’t be an idiot, Phillip. Sit down and let me clean you up. After that, we’ll give you some tea.’ Carmona pulled the chair next to him. ‘Tip your head back.’ She folded the cold cloth into a square and placed it on his forehead.

      ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Phillip said. He remained still while Carmona wiped the blood off his face.

      ‘I’m afraid your shirt is ruined, unless your laundress is a miracle worker.’

      ‘I don’t have a laundress,’ Phillip said.

      Carmona stopped, embarrassed. Of course he didn’t. Everyone in the village knew Phillip Billings was a ne’er do well, always in financial difficulties. ‘I’m so sorry, Phillip. I didn’t mean anything by it.’ When her eyes met his, she was startled by the warmth she saw there, warmth that was directed at her.

      ‘You’re a good girl, Carmona.’ He stood, reached out, and ran a gentle finger over her cheek.

      Unable to stop herself, Carmona moved closer to him. He smelled of lemon and cedar and cigarettes. She stared at his full lips, taken aback by her body’s physical response to him.

      ‘You’re very beautiful. It’s a different sort of beauty, one of good bones and character. I hope you know that.’ He stood now, stable on his feet, moved to the stove, and put the kettle on. ‘Forgive me for being forward.’

      Emotions swirled in Carmona’s mind, while newfound sensations awakened in her body. She wanted to press herself against Phillip Billings and feel the heat of his body again. She stared at her feet, as if her brown outdoor shoes and her father’s corduroy trousers could bring her back to reality. They didn’t. Something had come to life in Carmona, something physical and frighteningly wonderful. She met Phillip’s gaze, caught his eyes and didn’t look away. ‘I should go.’

      He stared at her for a moment, his eyes saying one thing, his words another. ‘I understand. Thank you for you ministering to me tonight. You’re like an angel.’ When he smiled, Carmona’s heart sang. ‘Come back and see me?’

      Carmona nodded. ‘I’ll come and check on you tomorrow.’

      ‘Good night, Carmona Broadbent.’ Phillip started to bow but stopped midway. ‘Oh, my head. Not ready for that yet.’

      ‘Get some rest.’ Carmona stepped out in the night air, not caring that it was now too late to go to her grandfather’s.

       Chapter 4

      The sun shone on Cat and Annie as they stood on the path before St Monica’s. A gust of wind whipped around them. Annie’s hat flew off. She grabbed it before it hit the ground, and tucked it under her arm. Cat saw the smile in her eyes and remembered when Annie had first come to her to work for the Carlisle family. She had been 13 at the time, and had lied her way into a job to escape an abusive stepfather. As far as Cat could remember, she hadn’t heard Annie laugh since September of 1939. Now, with her cheeks red from the wind, and her hair loose from its pins, Annie looked like a carefree young girl. Her eyes still had the dark СКАЧАТЬ