Cat Carlisle Book 2. Terry Thomas Lynn

nodded. ‘I read the account in the papers. At least he didn’t abdicate.’

      ‘He refused. He felt horrible about leaving his people. He’s a good chap, really, unassuming and fair minded. Good qualities in a king. He’s going to do his part from here.’

      ‘We were worried about you,’ Cat said. She picked at her cuticle on her ring finger, caught herself doing so, and tucked her hands under the table, out of sight.

      ‘The wound got infected. I stayed in hospital until it was resolved.’

      She wrapped her hands around her untouched glass of lemonade. ‘Better now?’

      ‘Much, actually. It still aches at night, but I am officially on the mend.’

      ‘Reginald must be pleased.’ Cat got up and busied herself with the tea things on the counter. Without thinking, Thomas got up and went to her, stopping himself before he got too close.

      ‘I am sorry things didn’t work out with you and Reginald,’ Thomas said.

      ‘There’s no need to explain.’ She busied herself with the stack of cups in the sink.

      ‘I think it was rather rotten of him,’ Thomas said. ‘This is a brutal business, Cat. Consider it a blessing you are no longer involved in it.’

      ‘Admittedly, I feel a bit used,’ Cat said. She didn’t meet Thomas’s eyes. ‘He expected me to do things without proper training, promised me a job. It’s not about the money. I wanted to do something useful, something I was good at. I don’t understand what happened.’

      ‘Me neither,’ Thomas lied. He knew full well that Cat had made a mess of things. Undercover operatives – at least those who report to Sir Reginald Wright – never end up in the newspapers.

      ‘I’ve found other ways to be useful. And I don’t blame you, Thomas. Honestly.’ She tossed the tea towel on the counter and refilled Thomas’s lemonade. They sat back down at the table.

      ‘What’ve you been up to?’ He glanced at the two stacks of papers, which sat next to Cat’s leather notebook and a fancy fountain pen with a gold nib. An inkwell rested on a small plate, small drops of blue ink spattered here and there. He smiled as he thought of all the times Cat had filled her pen and spilled ink everywhere. It had become a joke between them.

      ‘I’m on some committees, trying to get people with no soil around their house access to garden space to grow vegetables. We’re hoping to plant a garden in the square. I’m also working on a fundraiser for three new fire trucks. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve nearly got enough money for one of them.’ She flipped through the stack of papers, set them down, and folded her hands on top of them, as though in repose. Thomas’s heart beat faster. He waited. She looked up at him with soft eyes and a trusting look which made Thomas lose his reason. God, he loved her. When she spoke her voice was soft and full of worry.

      ‘We never talked about what happened before I left.’

      He nearly groaned. The near kiss. The hint of a promise. The one thing that had kept Thomas going during his convalescence. He continued. ‘We don’t have to talk about it. It’s in the past. If it makes you uncomfortable, and you don’t want to work with me anymore—’

      ‘Of course I want to work with you! Why would you think otherwise?’ She put her hand on Thomas’s arm. ‘I owe you an explanation. I am afraid I was sending mixed signals.’

      ‘You owe me nothing. Really. I came here with a plan to get you and Annie – and Lydia, if we can convince her – out of the city.’

      She cocked her head. ‘Out of the city?’

      ‘It’s not safe here. The bombs will come. I’m sure of it. And I would rest much easier if you weren’t here when they did.’ Thomas met her eyes, careful not to show his feelings. He knew Cat had yet to recover from the brutality of her marriage to Benton Carlisle. He understood her reluctance to open her heart. This small show of affection would have to do. For now.

      She didn’t look away. Instead, she took a deep breath, as if savouring the heat between them. They sat like that for a few moments, neither of them speaking. A small frisson of hope bloomed in Thomas’s chest. Cat smiled as she leaned back in her chair and shook her head. ‘I hadn’t thought of actually leaving. It seems as though we’re running away.’

      Thomas shook his head. ‘We’re at war. London will come under fire. Why stay when there’s no reason for you to? And I’ve got a commission, if you’re still wanting to work with me.’

      ‘I do! Let’s hear your plan.’

      Thomas resisted – for what seemed like the hundredth time today – the physical pull he felt towards Cat.

      ‘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