Cat Carlisle Book 2. Terry Thomas Lynn

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      ‘I’ve been commissioned to write a series of books about monastic houses in Cumberland. I’d like you to take the pictures and help with layout, like you did last time. I’m going to move to Rivenby. There’s a church nearby whose vicar apparently has a canon of research – his life’s work actually – that he’s offered to share with us. Do you want your job back? You’d spend the bulk of your time tromping around old churches taking pictures. I hope you don’t think me forward for suggesting you leave, Cat. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But I think you, Annie, and Lydia would be better off in the country.’

      ‘I can’t believe you’re going to Rivenby. I grew up there.’ She gazed dreamily over his shoulder. ‘It’s been years since I thought about home. I wonder if the house where I grew up is still standing. This is a wonderful idea, Thomas. Annie will be pleased. I’ve missed working with you.’

      When she reached for a fresh piece of paper and her fountain pen – the sure sign that soon she would start making lists – he knew she was in agreement.

      ‘I know of a house you could rent. But you’ll have to call the agent today. Evacuees are going north in droves. Housing will be difficult to find.’ He didn’t tell her the house had already been arranged, and the phone call requirement was just a ruse to lend authenticity to Reginald’s scheme to get Cat to move. Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. ‘The house is called St Monica’s. It’s got five bedrooms, four baths, and a big kitchen with lots of light. There’s five acres attached to it, so you can grow all the vegetables you want.’

      ‘How ever did you stumble across St Monica’s? I used to love that place as a child.’ Her eyes danced. ‘I used to daydream about living there. Beth – my childhood friend – and I would sit outside the property and gaze at the house, making up stories about our pretend husbands and servants.’ She shook her head. ‘I hadn’t thought about Rivenby in a long time. I’m rather looking forward to going home.’

      ‘I was looking for a place for myself, and the agent mentioned the house. I’ll be staying at the inn.’

      ‘The family who owned it back then had a daughter who used to hitch her goat up to a cart and ride through town. What was her name? Gwendolyn? They used to throw a Christmas do every year, with carolling and an old-fashioned Christmas tree with candles.’ She shook her head. ‘I know Lydia won’t come with me. She’s ordered a Morrison shelter for the basement. She wanted to get one for me, but I couldn’t bear the thought of getting into it. It’s nothing more than a small cage. This will do well for Annie. I wasn’t sure what to do about her. We’re so close to the police station, the sirens keep us up at night. Annie hasn’t slept in ages. The poor thing’s scared to death, and she feels guilty for it.’ Her eyes took on that familiar softness that reduced him to adolescent longing. ‘And in you come, with the perfect solution to this mess. Thank you, Thomas.’ A look of worry passed over her face.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘What about Annie’s studies? Lydia has been giving her art lessons. The child’s been working herself to the bone. And she’s sold a few paintings. She’s got talent, Thomas. I mean she’s really good. I’ve never seen anyone work so hard. It seems cruel to take something she loves so much away from her.’

      ‘There’s a day school for her there. Surely Lydia can give her projects to do. They could communicate via the post.’

      They made arrangements. Thomas waited while Cat called the agent and agreed to lease the house. He sipped his lemonade as Cat took notes about furnishings, linens, and other mundane household items. She hung up the phone, excited, focused, and busily making lists.

      ‘I’ll have to give away most of my clothes. I don’t see how I can possibly take them all on the train.’

      Thomas shook his head. ‘Clothes will be rationed at some point.’

      ‘Clothes? Surely not.’

      ‘It’s bad, Cat. All of the extra leather and fabric will go for shoes, uniforms, parachutes, you name it. Save your clothing. All of it.’

      Their eyes met as the gravity of the situation sunk in.

      ‘How will I get there? Surely I can’t take all the trunks on the train.’

      ‘I’ll see to it. Pack all your clothes, linens and the like. I’ll arrange a lorry. Can you be ready the day after tomorrow?’

      ‘Yes,’ Cat said, serious now.

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ