Cat Carlisle Book 2. Terry Thomas Lynn

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.