Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “I had hoped to go next Wednesday. Now I’m not so sure. Agnes and I are supposed to visit Montfort-L’Amaury on Thursday so that I can see the progress they’ve made with the remodeling. And then I was going to Talcy with Luc. For the weekend. However, now that we’re looking for my mother, I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Let’s just take it day by day,” Patsy suggested.

  That afternoon, after they had eaten a delicious lunch prepared by the male chef, Lloyd Bricker, Meredith and Patsy did a tour of Skell Garth House.

  Each of them made copious notes, and once they had reviewed every room in the inn they found a corner in the empty dining room and went over their punch lists together.

  “There’re still a lot of things missing in many of the rooms,” Patsy said. “Claudia’s only partially understood me, I think. I explained to her several times that we’re upgrading the inn, creating much higher standards, both in accommodation and service. She seems to have missed the point that real comfort and luxury are absolutely mandatory.” She glanced at her pad, and added, “I’m sure you’ve listed the same things as I, Meredith. Hot water bottles in covers, oodles of towels in every room, bowls of potpourri and scented candles, wool throws, hair dryers, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Yes, I’ve noted all those things, Patsy, and they’re easy items to add. We just have to ship them up from London.”

  “They’ve already been shipped,” Patsy replied, making a moue with her mouth. “Well, perhaps she just didn’t put them out yet. I’ll talk to her about it. What do you think about the refurbishment in general?”

  “It’s good, Patsy, we picked some lovely fabrics and carpets. I noticed the draperies and bedcovers have been extremely well made, and the sofas and chairs beautifully reupholstered. Thanks to you. And the wallpapering and painting is excellent. But I am going to have to rearrange all of the furniture—and in most of the rooms.”

  “I knew you’d say that. When I came up two weeks ago to oversee the installation of the carpets and the draperies, I gave them your floor plans for the furniture arrangements. They seem to have ignored them completely.”

  Meredith nodded. “They certainly did.” A faint smile flickered. “The Millers simply put everything back where it was before, and those old groupings were not the best. Or the most comfortable.”

  “I hope we haven’t made a mistake, keeping them on,” Patsy murmured, throwing her an apprehensive glance. “Do you think they’re too set in their ways?”

  “Perhaps. But I’m sure we can overcome that. I’ll have a long talk with them over the weekend. They’ve simply got to understand that we’re raising our prices. Therefore our standards have to be higher, too. They’re both bright, so I’m sure we can re-educate them, help them to operate the inn the Havens way.”

  Patsy grinned. “I’m glad you’re such an optimist, Meredith. I was getting really concerned about them when we were upstairs.”

  “If I hadn’t been an optimist, I don’t think I would have survived that orphanage in Sydney.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Patsy glanced down at her pad, and went on, “The rest of the stuff on the punch list is all minor, to do with electrical outlets, the wattage of the lightbulbs and such, so we don’t have to worry now. It can wait.”

  “I don’t have a lot of other things either,” Meredith said, and pushing back her chair, she stood up. “I’m going to take that walk, Patsy”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you to Fountains Abbey?”

  “No, thanks anyway for offering. I really do want to walk, I need the exercise and the fresh air. See you later.”

  Patsy smiled at her and nodded.

  Returning the smile, Meredith left the dining room, crossed the foyer, and headed out of Skell Garth House.

  It was a fine afternoon, not too cold even though it was still April. The sky was clear, a soft pale blue filled with scudding white clouds. Wherever she looked, Meredith saw that spring was truly here. The trees were in bud, the grass already thick and verdant, and, here and there, patches of wildflowers grew in the hedges. She noticed primroses and irises, and then, as she came to the avenue of limes leading to Studley Church, she caught her breath. Daffodils were blooming everywhere, on the banks by the side of the road and under the limes.

  As she walked past them, the Wordsworth poem Patsy had recited to her in January ran through her mind. It had seemed familiar then, and now she realized that she knew the last verse:

  For oft when on my couch I lie

  in vacant or in pensive mood,

  they flash upon that inward eye

  which is the bliss of solitude;

  And then my heart with pleasure fills,

  and dances with the daffodils.

  She knew it by heart because her mother had taught it to her all those years earlier. And it had stayed in her mind, dormant perhaps, but nevertheless there.

  Her mind focused on Kate Sanderson. The shock of discovering that her mother was not dead had partially receded, but she was still upset, troubled that Kate had apparently abandoned her, and so callously, when she was a little girl.

  Meredith knew herself extremely well, and she had begun to realize earlier in the day, as they had driven from Leeds to Ripon, that anger and resentment were beginning to simmer deep down inside her. As she walked on, heading up to the church on the hill, she resolved yet again to find Kate, no matter what it took.

  Upon reaching the top of the hill she stood looking down at Fountains Abbey, and just as it had in January, it seemed to beckon to her, pull her forward.

  A magnet, she thought, it’s like a magnet for me. She hurried down the steep path, almost running, and within a few minutes she was entering the ancient ruins.

  On this clear bright April day she was more stunned than before by the dramatic beauty of the soaring ruined monolith.

  Dark and imposing, it was silhouetted against the pale sky as if flung there by a mighty hand. But, the blackened stones were softened by the greenness of the trees surrounding them. Just a few feet away from where she stood the Skell flowed toward Ripon. Yet another river, Meredith thought, no wonder I love to live near water. I grew up with it.

  Seating herself on a piece of ruined wall, she cast her mind back in time, trying to envision herself visiting this place with Kate Sanderson, but no memory came to her, even though she sat there for half an hour. Her mind was totally blank. Still, again she had the strongest sense that she knew Fountains, had been here before, and that something momentous, and tragic, had happened to her in this ancient spot. But what?

  Only her mother had the answer.

  Always, in the past, Meredith had used work to subjugate heartache, bring it to heel. Working hard until she dropped had enabled her to keep her mind off her troubles, to function properly.

  And so for the rest of the weekend she threw herself wholeheartedly into creating a new look, her look, in most of the rooms in the hotel. It kept worry about her mother at bay.

  With the help of Patsy, Bill and Claudia Miller and three handymen, she had furniture moved around until every arrangement pleased her, and each room had the look she was striving for. Beds, chairs, sofas, antique tables, and chests were repositioned under her direction; once this had been accomplished, she set about rearranging lamps and accessories and rehanging pictures.

  The Millers were astounded by her, taken aback. As Bill put it to Patsy: “We couldn’t believe it when she took off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and got down to it herself.”

  Claudia Miller was particularly impressed with Meredith’s energy, stamina, and sheer doggedness. At one point, late on Sunday afternoon, a weary and exhausted Claudia said to Patsy, “I’ve never seen anyone work like this before. She doesn’t stop, she’s a whirlwind.”

  “I know. Meredith’s never ceased to amaze me. She’s a real workhorse. And also very talented,” Patsy pointed out. “She has terrific style.”

  Claudia merely nodded.
/>   Patsy added, “Meredith has really fine taste in decorating. She was born with it. And she has a great eye.”

  “So I’ve noticed. The rooms do look better the way she has arranged everything. I suppose Bill and I were a bit slow on the uptake. We really should have followed the plans you gave us more precisely.” Claudia’s expression was suddenly worried as she asked, “Are you and Meredith upset with us?”

  “No, of course not. It’s all right, don’t worry,” Patsy reassured her. “But do try and follow our instructions exactly in the future, Claudia, please. It’ll save a lot of heartache for everyone. Tomorrow I’ll help you to unpack all of the items I shipped from London last week, and Meredith will finish the public rooms down here. She expects to be done by lunchtime.”

  “You will interview the chefs tomorrow, won’t you?” Claudia said. “Monday is the deadline.”

  “That doesn’t present a problem. By the way, I enjoyed lunch today. Mrs. Morgan cooked it, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. She also is going to make dinner tonight.”

  “Not Mrs. Jones?”

  “I’m afraid not. She burned her hand cooking dinner for us last night and she begged off today.”

  “I see. Do you have a favorite, Claudia?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Morgan. She’s the best in my opinion, and besides, she’s the most adaptable, more easy going in a way, not quite so temperamental as Lloyd.”

  “And Mrs. Jones? Aren’t you impressed with her?”

  “She’s a good cook, but I don’t think she’s right for the inn . . . at least, not the way it’s going to be in the future.”

  “Do you mean she’s not sophisticated enough?”

  “No, I don’t mean that, not really. You and Meredith said you wanted high-style English cooking, and country-type cooking to a certain extent. In my opinion Mrs. Morgan’s the winner. She’s the most all-round cook of the three of them.”

  Mrs. Morgan turned out to be a woman in her middle fifties, with rosy cheeks, bright brown eyes, and a cheerful smile.

  Meredith noticed at once that she had a pleasant demeanor, and within moments of being in her company she felt quite at ease. The woman exuded calm self-confidence, and Meredith could tell from Patsy’s expression that her partner had also taken an immediate liking to the chef.

  “I understand from Claudia Miller that you are used to cooking for relatively large numbers of people, Mrs. Morgan,” Meredith began.

  “Oh yes, I am. Until a few months ago I was chef at a hotel in the Scottish border country. It was an old house turned into an inn like this, but a bit bigger. And we also got a lot of local trade in the restaurant. So numbers don’t faze me, oh no, they don’t at all, Mrs. Stratton. Of course, I’m used to having a couple of sous chefs.”

  “Yes, I understand, Mrs. Morgan. That’s not a problem,” Patsy interjected.

  “I gave Mrs. Miller all of my references, so I expect you’ve seen them.” She looked from Patsy to Meredith.

  “We have indeed.” Meredith smiled at her. “And they’re excellent. We also enjoyed the meals you’ve cooked this weekend.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Stratton, and please call me Eunice. I prefer it. Much friendlier, isn’t it?”

  Meredith said, “Yes, it is, Eunice.” She paused for a moment, shook her head, then said, “I’ve known only one other person called Eunice. And that was my baby-sitter when I was a child.”

  Eunice laughed. “What a coincidence. You had a baby-sitter called Eunice in America, and I was a baby-sitter here in Yorkshire.”

  Meredith stared at her. After a split second she said, “Where in Yorkshire?”

  “Leeds. That’s where I come from originally. My husband’s from Ripon, and he’s been nagging me to come back here for years.”

  “Whom did you baby-sit for?” Meredith said, continuing to stare at the chef.

  “A lovely little girl. Her name was Mari.”

  “What was her last name?” Meredith asked in a strangled voice.

  “Sanderson,” Eunice answered, and threw Meredith a swift glance. “Are you all right, Mrs. Stratton? You look a bit odd.”

  “I’m the little girl, Eunice. I’m Mari Sanderson.”

  “Get away with you, then, you can’t be Mari!” Eunice exclaimed, her astonishment only too apparent.

  “But I am.”

  “Well, I’ll be blowed, this is one for the books, I can tell you that.” Eunice chuckled. “Can you imagine me, of all people, being a chef, Mari? Do you remember how I always used to burn your lunch? I drove your poor mother crazy.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about my mother,” Meredith said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “My mother and I got separated when I was little,” Meredith explained. “I don’t know how this happened, but it did.”

  “She was poorly. In hospital, I do know that,” Eunice told her.

  “Who was looking after me?”

  Eunice brought her hand up to her mouth, frowning slightly, looking thoughtful. Finally, pursing her lips, shaking her head, she murmured, “I don’t know, to be right truthful with you. I suppose at the time I thought you’d been taken in by relatives.”

  “Relatives,” Meredith said slowly, “I don’t ever remember relatives, Eunice, there was only my mother and me. Just the two of us.”

  “Yes . . .” Eunice sat back in the chair, her face troubled. Hesitatingly, she asked in a quiet voice, “So what exactly happened to you?”

  “I don’t exactly know. But I did eventually go to live abroad.”

  Patsy glanced from Meredith to Eunice, and addressed the chef: “When did you last see Mrs. Sanderson? Can you remember that?”

  “Let me think. . . . Well, it must’ve been the summer she got ill. I’ve got to think back . . . yes . . . yes, it was then. The summer of 1956. I went to Hawthorne Cottage to baby-sit one day and there was no one there. So I went back home. We lived in the Greenocks, just off Town Street, in those days. Anyway, a few days later I ran into Constable O’Shea, he lived near us in the Greenocks. He told me Mrs. Sanderson was in hospital. When I asked about Mari he said she was fine, being taken care of very well. And that was that. A few weeks after this we moved away from Armley. My mother found a house near her sister in Wortley so off we all went.”

  Meredith had listened carefully; leaning forward intently, she said to Eunice, “The name Constable O’Shea rings a bell, but I can’t quite place him in my mind.”

  “Can’t you? Well, he was very fond of you, Mari. Very fond. He was the local bobby, walking the beat in Armley. He used to be stationed at that police box on Canal Road. Are you sure you don’t remember him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Patsy said, “Constable O’Shea might be able to throw some light on what happened to you.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Meredith agreed, and turned to Eunice again. “Do you think he still lives in Armley?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I mean, I lost touch donkey’s years ago. And he’ll be retired. He was about thirty in those days, so he’d be sixty-eight, thereabouts, by now. Mmmm. Now, who do I know who still lives in the Greenocks? Let me just think.”

  Patsy stood up. “I’ll go and get the Leeds telephone directory from the office.” She hurried across the dining room and out into the small foyer.

  Left alone, Meredith and Eunice looked at each other carefully without speaking. It was Eunice who finally said at last, “You’ve grown up to be a wonderful-looking woman, and you’ve certainly made a go of it, you really have. Living in America, owning all these inns.”

  Meredith half smiled, made no comment. She was looking back into the past again, trying to remember Constable O’Shea, but she was having no success at all. She couldn’t even picture his face.

  Eunice went on. “Are you married, then?”

  “I was. I’m divorced now I have two children. And what about you, Eunice, do you have children?”

  “Two, like you. Malcolm and Dawn. They’re both
married, and I have five grandchildren. Are your children married?”

  “My daughter’s engaged. My son’s still at college, he’s only twenty-one.”

  Patsy came back into the dining room carrying the Leeds telephone book. Placing it on the table in front of Eunice, she sat down next to her and said, “Now, let’s look at all the O’Sheas who live in Armley. There can’t be that many. Perhaps we’ll find one living in the Greenocks. What was Constable O’Shea’s first name, Eunice?”

  “Peter. No, wait a minute, it wasn’t Peter. It was an Irish name. Let me see . . . Patrick! Yes, it was Patrick O’Shea.”

  Patsy was running her finger down the O’Sheas listed, then she looked up and said, “There are two living in Armley and one in Bramley with the initial P. But none in the Greenocks. Well, I might as well go and phone all three numbers, that’s the only way we’ll find out anything. I’ll use the phone over there.” Carrying the directory, she hurried over to the phone on the table at the entrance to the dining room.

  Meredith got up and walked over to the window, stood looking out at the garden, her mind on her mother. Turning around, she gave Eunice a penetrating look and asked, “Did you ever run into my mother in the ensuing years?”

  “No, I didn’t.” The chef’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “She didn’t die, then?”

  “I don’t think so, Eunice. We’re trying to find her.”

  “Oh.”

  A moment later Patsy rushed across the dining room, still clutching the telephone book in her arms. She was beaming. “I’ve found him! He now lives at Hill Top. That’s near St. Mary’s Hospital, Meredith. He’s out at the moment, I didn’t actually speak to him in person. But I talked with his wife, and he’s definitely the right Patrick O’Shea. He’s a retired police sergeant, she told me, and she vaguely remembers Mari and her mother. Anyway, she said he would be home around two o’clock this afternoon. I asked if we could go and see him at that time, and she said we could.”