Her Own Rules (2 page)

God bless me and keep me safe. And make me a good girl.”

Opening her eyes, Mari looked at Kate intently. “I am a good girl, aren’t I, Mam?”

“Of course you are, darling,” Kate answered.

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“The best girl I know. My girl.” Leaning forward, Kate put her arms around her small daughter and hugged her close.

Mari’s arms went around Kate’s neck and the two of them clung together. But after a moment or two of this intimacy and closeness, Kate released her grip and settled Mari down against the pillows.

Bending over the child, she kissed her cheek and murmured, “God bless. Sweet dreams. I love you, Mari.”

“I love you, Mam.”

Wide rafts of sunlight slanted through the window, filling the small bedroom with radiance. The constant sunshine flooding across Mari’s face awakened her.

Opening her eyes, blinking and adjusting herself to the morning light, she sat up.

Mari had recently learned to tell the time, and so she glanced over at the clock on the bedside stand. It was nearly nine. This surprised the child; her mother was usually up and about long before this time every morning, calling her to come down for breakfast well before eight o’clock.

Slipping out of bed, thinking that her mother had overslept, Mari trotted across the upstairs hall to her mother’s bedroom. The bed was empty. Holding on to the banister, the way she had been taught, she went down the stairs carefully.

Much to Mari’s further surprise, her mother was nowhere to be seen in the kitchen either. At least, Her Own Rules / 13

not at first glance. But as she peered around the room, she suddenly saw her mother on the floor near the stove.

“Mam! Mam!” she shouted, ran around the table, and came to a standstill in front of her mother. Kate was lying in a crumpled heap; her eyes were closed and her face was deathly white.

Mari saw that there was blood on her mother’s nightgown, and she was so frightened she could not move for a moment. Then she hunkered down and took hold of her mother’s hand. It was cold. Cold as ice.

“Mam, Mam,” she wailed in a tremulous voice, the fear intensifying. “What’s the matter, Mam?”

Kate did not answer; she simply lay there.

Mari touched her cheek. It was as cold as her hand.

The child remained with her mother for a few minutes, patting her hand, touching her face, endeavoring to rouse her, but to no avail. Tears welled in Mari’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. A mixture of panic and worry assailed her; she did not know what to do.

Eventually it came to her. She remembered what her mother had always told her: “If there’s ever anything wrong, an emergency, and I’m not here, go and find Constable O’Shea. He’ll know what’s to be done. He’ll help you.”

Reluctant though she was to leave her mother, Mari now realized that this was exactly what she must do.

She must go to the police box on the main 14 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

road, where Constable O’Shea could be found when he was on his beat.

Letting go of her mother’s hand, Mari headed upstairs. She went to the bathroom, washed her face and hands, cleaned her teeth, and got dressed in the cotton shorts and top she had worn the day before. After buckling on her sandals, she returned to the kitchen.

Mari stood over Kate, staring down at her for a moment or two, her alarm and concern flaring up in her more than ever. And then, turning on her heel, decisively, she hurried outside into the sunny morning air.

Mari raced down the garden path and out onto the tree-lined lane, her feet flying as she ran all the way to the main road. It was there that the police box was located. Painted dark blue and large enough to accommodate two policemen if necessary, the box was a great convenience for the bobby on the beat. Fitted out with a telephone, running water, and a gas burner, it was there that a policeman could make a cup of tea, eat a sandwich, write up a report, and phone the main police station when he had to report in or request help. These police boxes were strategically placed in cities and towns all over England, and were indispensable to the bobbies on the beat, especially when they were on night duty and when the weather was bad.

By the time Mari reached the police box she was panting and out of breath. But much to her relief Constable O’Shea was there. He’ll help me, I know Her Own Rules / 15

he will, she thought as she came to a stop in front of him.

The policeman was standing in the doorway of the box, smoking a cigarette. He threw it down and stubbed his toe on it when he saw Mari.

Taking a closer look at the panting child, Patrick O’Shea immediately detected the fear in her eyes and saw that she was in a state of great agitation. Recognizing at once that something was terribly wrong, he bent over her, took hold of her hand, and looked into her small, tear-stained face. “What’s the matter, Mari love?” he asked gently.

“It’s me mam,” Mari cried, her voice rising shrilly.

“She’s lying on the kitchen floor. I can’t make her wake up.” Mari began to cry even though she was trying hard to be brave. “There’s blood. On her nightgown.”

Constable O’Shea had known Mari all of her young life, and he was well aware that she was a good little girl, well brought up and certainly not one for playing tricks or prone to exaggeration. And in any case her spiraling anxiety was enough to convince him that something had gone wrong at Hawthorne Cottage.

“Just give me a minute, Mari,” he said, stepping inside the police box. “Then we’ll go home and see what’s to be done.” He phoned the police station, asked for an ambulance to be sent to Hawthorne Cottage at once, closed the door, and locked it behind him.

Reaching down, he swung the child up into his 16 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

arms, making soothing noises and hushing sounds as he did so.

“Now then, love, let’s be on our way back to your house to see how your mam is, and I’m sure we can soon put everything right.”

“But she’s dead,” Mari sobbed. “Me mam’s dead.”

PART ONE

TIME PRESENT

CHAPTER ONE

M
eredith Stratton stood at the large plate-glass window in her private office which looked downtown, marveling at the gleaming spires rising up in front of her. The panoramic vista of the Manhattan skyline was always eye-catching, but tonight it looked more spectacular than ever.

It was a January evening at the beginning of 1995, and the sky was ink black and clear, littered with stars.

There was even a full moon. Not even a Hollywood set designer could have done it better, Meredith thought, there’s no improving on nature. And then she had to admit that it was the soaring skyscrapers and the overall architecture of the city that stunned the eye.

The Empire State Building still wore its gaudy Christmas colors of vivid red and green; to one side of it, slightly to the left, was the more sedate 20 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

Chrysler Building with its slender art deco spire illuminated with pure white lights.

Those two famous landmarks dominated the scene, as they always did, but that evening the entire skyline seemed to have acquired more glittering aspects than ever, seemed more pristinely etched against the dark night sky.

“There’s nowhere in the world quite like New York,”

Meredith said out loud.

“I agree.”

Meredith swung around to see her assistant, Amy Brandt, standing in the doorway of her office.

“You gave me a start, creeping in on me like that,”

Meredith exclaimed with a grin, and then turned back to the window. “Amy, come and look. The city takes my breath away.”

Amy closed the door behind her and walked across the room. She was petite and dark-haired in contrast to Meredith, who was tall and blonde. Amy felt slightly dwarfed by her boss, who stood five feet seven in her stocking feet. But since Meredith always wore high heels, she generally towered over most people, and this gave Amy some consolation, made her feel less like a munchkin.

Gazing out of the window, Amy said, “You’re right, Meredith, Manhattan’s looking sensational, almost unreal.”

“There’s a certain clarity about the sky tonight, even though it’s dark,” Meredith pointed out. “There’re no clouds at all, and the lights of the city are creating a wonderful glow….”

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The two women stood looking out the window for a few seconds longer, and then, turning away, moving toward her desk, Meredith said, “I just need to go over a couple of things with you, Amy, and then you can go.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s seven already. Sorry to have kept you so late.”

“It’s not a problem. And you’ll be away for a week, so I’ll be able to take it easy while you’re gone.”

Meredith laughed and raised a perfectly shaped blonde brow. “You taking it easy would be the miracle of the century. You’re a workaholic.”

“Oh no, not me, that’s you, lady boss. You take first prize in that category.”

Meredith’s deep green eyes crinkled at the corners as she laughed again, and then, pulling a pile of manila files toward her, she opened the top one, glanced down at the sheet of figures, and studied them for a split second.

Finally, she looked up and said, “I’ll be gone for longer than a week, Amy. I think it will be two at least.

I’ve quite a lot to do in London and Paris. Agnes is very set on buying that old manor house in Montfort-L’Amaury, and you know she’s like a dog with a bone when she gets her teeth into something. However, I’m going to have to work very closely with her on this one.”

“From the photographs she sent it looks like a beautiful property, and it’s perfect for us,” Amy volunteered, and then asked, “You’re not suddenly against it, are you?”

“No, I’m not. And what you say is true, it is ideal 22 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

for Havens. My only worry is how much do we have to spend in order to turn that old house into a comfortable inn with all the modern conveniences required by the seasoned, indeed pampered, traveler? That’s the key question. Agnes gets rather vague when it comes to money, you know that. The cost of new plumbing is not something that concerns her particularly, or even interests her. I’m afraid practicalities have always eluded Agnes.”

“She’s very creative, though, especially when it comes to marketing the inns.”

“True. And I’m usually stuck with the plumbing.”

“And the decorating. Let’s not forget that, Meredith.

You know you love designing the inns, putting your own personal stamp on them, not to mention everything in them.”

“I do enjoy that part of it, yes. On the other hand, I must consider the costs, and more than ever, this time around. Agnes can’t put up any more of her own money, so she won’t be involved in the purchase of the manor or the cost of its remodeling. And the same applies to Patsy in England, she can’t offer any financial help either. I have to raise the money myself. And I will. Agnes and Patsy are somewhat relieved that I’ll be taking care of the financing, but, more so than ever, I will have to keep a tight rein on the two of them when it comes to the remodeling.”

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with the new inns in Europe?” Amy asked. Until that moment she had not realized that Meredith would be doing all the financing, and she detected a degree of worry in her voice.

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“Oh yes, I do want to buy them. We have to acquire additional inns in order to expand properly. Not that I want the company to become too big. I think six hotels is enough, Amy, certainly that number’s just about right for me, easy to manage, as long as Agnes is running the French end and Patsy the English.”

“Six,” Amy repeated, eyeing Meredith quizzically.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Meredith looked baffled. “I’m not following you.”

“You said six inns are easy to manage, but with the two new ones in Europe you’ll actually own seven, if you count the three here. Are you thinking of selling off one of the American hostelries?”

“I have been toying with the idea,” Meredith admit-ted.

“Silver Lake Inn would bring in the most money,”

Amy remarked. “After all, it’s the most successful of the three.”

Meredith stared at Amy.

Suddenly she felt the same tight pain in her chest that she had the week before, when Henry Raphaelson, her friendly private banker, had uttered the same words over lunch at ‘21’.

“I could never sell Silver Lake,” Meredith answered at last, repeating what she had said to Henry.

“I know what you mean.”

No, you don’t, Meredith thought, but she remained silent. She simply inclined her head, lowered her eyes, stared at the financial breakdown, the costs of remodeling the manor in Montfort-L’Amaury, but not really concentrating on the figures.

24 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

She was thinking of Silver Lake Inn. No one really knew what it meant to her, not even her daughter and her son, who had both been born there. Silver Lake had always been her haven, the first safe haven she had known, and the first real home she had ever had.

And Jack and Amelia Silver, the owners, had been the first people who had ever shown her any kindness in her entire life. They had loved and cherished her like a younger sister, nurtured her, brought out her potential—encouraged her talent, helped her to hone her business acumen, applauded her style. And from them she had learned about decency and kindness, dignity and courage.

Jack and Amelia
. The only family she had ever had.

For a moment she saw them both very clearly in her mind’s eye. They were the first human beings she had ever loved. There had been no one to love before them.

Except Spin, the little dog, and even she had been taken away from her just when they had become attached to each other.

Silver Lake was part of her very being, part of her soul. She knew she could never, would never, sell it whatever the circumstances.

Meredith took a deep breath and eventually the pain in her chest began to subside. Lifting her eyes, focusing on Amy, she remarked almost casually, “I might have a buyer for Hilltops. That’s why I’ve decided to go up to Connecticut tonight.”