Her Own Rules

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  So far love had proved elusive. After Annick his life had stopped. He had been numb. But eventually he had tried to start over, God knows he had, to start life anew, to have a worthwhile relationship. But there had been no success. Only abundant failure.

  It was true he had known a couple of women in the last few years, and they had been perfectly nice human beings, but neither of them had ignited a spark in him. He had begun to wonder if the spark had left him forever, had quite recently decided that it had, convinced himself of it, really Until Meredith. But she had so enthralled him, without even trying, he had actually been startled at himself. So rare was this feeling, so strong this desire, this need to become part of another person, part of her life, he felt bound to pursue her.

  How often did a man feel like that? Once in a lifetime perhaps. Instantly he corrected himself. It was twice in his case; he had felt the same way about Annick.

  Meredith Stratton, he said under his breath, and wrote her name on the notepad in front of him, stared down at it.

  Who are you, Meredith Stratton? And why are you so troubled? Where does that deep well of sadness inside you spring from? Who was it that hurt you so badly they’ve scarred your soul? Who broke your heart? Instinctively, Luc knew Meredith had her sexually attractive, and more so than any woman he had met in some years. He realized on Wednesday night, after their first business meeting, that he desired her. If a man didn’t know that after the first encounter, then when would he ever know? Luc suddenly wondered. And he felt certain it was the same way for a woman.

  Almost against his own volition, he had confided in Agnes, but only to a degree. He had merely told her of his interest in Meredith, his wish to know her better. These confidences had been passed on Thursday evening, when he had called her at home. He had not been able to help himself. Then he had invited the D’Aubervilles and Meredith to Talcy for the weekend, but Agnes had been obliged to decline because Alain and Chloe were ill with the flu.

  Agnes had said he should issue the invitation to Meredith anyway. “Don’t worry,” Agnes had promised, “I’ll suggest we all have lunch after our Friday morning meeting, and you’ll find a way to invite her to the château. I’ll lead you into it quite naturally.”

  When he had demurred, Agnes had exclaimed, with a laugh, “Don’t be so fainthearted, such a coward, Luc. Meredith has absolutely nothing to do this weekend, and she has no friends in Paris other than us. I happen to know she likes you, so she’ll accept the invitation. And you’re going to enjoy being with her. She’s wonderful. Everyone loves her.”

  Love, he thought to himself. Will I ever find love again? He wanted to, and very seriously so. He experienced great unhappiness. He saw pain mirrored in those smoky eyes, saw infinite sadness dwelling there. He wanted to ease the pain, chase away the sadness if he could; he was sure he could, given the chance.

  Luc had not wished to ask Agnes questions about Meredith, although he longed to do so. He had felt awkward about prying, which went against the grain. In certain ways, he felt that he did know Meredith, knew what she was truly like, the kind of person she was inside. A good woman.

  What was that phrase his lovely Irish grandmother had always used? “True blue,” Rosie de Montboucher would say to him, “Your grandfather is true blue, Luc.”

  And so was Meredith.

  The small black clock on the drawing table told him it was almost twelve-thirty. Throwing down the pencil, suddenly impatient, he stood up, stretching his long legs. He was tired of sitting, and he felt cramped after the drive from Paris that morning.

  Leaving the office, he ran up the back staircase and down the corridor to his bedroom. Shrugging out of his blazer, he went into the bathroom, where he splashed his face with cold water, dried it, and combed his hair.

  Luc peered at himself in the mirror. There were a few silver strands in his black hair these days; he stared harder, thinking he seemed drawn, fatigued. There were lines around his eyes. He decided he looked older than forty-three.

  Meredith was also in her early forties, he was certain of that. It was something Agnes had said about her age, before Meredith had arrived from London. He wondered if that was too old to have a child, then supposed it depended on the woman. He had always wanted a child. To carry on the line. But if he didn’t have one, it wouldn’t matter in the long run. Life was such a struggle, and Luc suddenly understood that he wanted to reach out, grab life, grab happiness. Loving someone was not about progeny.

  Meredith. She could make me happy. I know it in my bones. Bones don’t lie, Luc, Grandma Rosie used to tell him when he was a boy growing up. You can tell a lot by the bones, child, she would add. Breeding’s in the bone, Luc. Look at horses. Even when the stamina’s there, it’s not enough. Got to have breeding in a racehorse. I know my horseflesh, Luc, I’m a good judge. Oui, Grand-mère, he’d answer dutifully. Luc, please speak English today. Yes, Grandmother. Always trust your bones, she would repeat. They never lie, Luc, never. Oh Grandma Rosie, he thought, smiling inwardly at this lovely memory of her, you were a genuine original.

  Turning away from the mirror, Luc hurried into his bedroom, took a gray tweed jacket out of the armoire, put it on over his black sweater and dark gray slacks, and left the room.

  He ran down the front stairs at a rapid pace, crossed the front entrance hall and strode into the library, glancing around as he did.

  The fire crackled in the hearth, the drinks tray was well stocked, and there was a bottle of Dom in the silver ice bucket, just as he had instructed Vincent. There was nothing to do but wait for Meredith to appear.

  Walking over to one of the French windows, he stood looking out at the garden, thinking how arresting the parterres looked; the clipped, dark-green hedges were covered with a light frosting of snow that highlighted their intricate geometric shapes. He thought how lucky it was that his sisters had decided not to come to Talcy this weekend. He loved them dearly and liked their husbands, but he was relieved, and glad to have the house to himself. He had no great seduction plans, that was not his style; he liked everything to happen naturally. But he did want Meredith to feel relaxed, at ease, not on display for his family.

  There was a slight noise, the sound of a step.

  Swinging away from the window, he looked toward the adjoining living room expectantly Meredith was walking toward him, and he felt that same jolt of pleasure at the sight of her, the rush of excitement inside.

  Moving forward, he exclaimed, “There you are! Come in, Meredith, come to the fire, where it’s warmer. Now, would you care for a glass of champagne?”

  “That would be lovely, Luc,” she answered, gliding across the floor.

  He went to open the bottle of Dom Pérignon, but could not resist looking at her surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. She was wearing a beige checked jacket over a cream cashmere sweater and pants, and he thought she looked stunning. He bit back a smile. Of course she did. There was no question in his mind that he was quite prejudiced when it came to Meredith Stratton.

  After bringing their flutes of champagne to the fireside, Luc sat down on the sofa opposite Meredith and said, “1 hope you have everything you need, that you’re comfortable in Grandma Rosie’s rooms?”

  “Oh yes, I am, thank you very much. I love them, and that bathroom. My goodness, a fireplace, no less.” She laughed and added, “What a luxury. I feel thoroughly spoiled.”

  He laughed with her. “All of the bedroom suites on that floor have fireplaces in the bathrooms, but we don’t often use them, only for guests really, and only when it’s cold weather. It’s such a lot of work, keeping all the fires going. In my great-grandfather’s day, even Grandfather’s, they had armies of servants to do that, to look after everything. Nowadays it’s hard to get staff, and expensive, so I keep such things as fires down to a minimum.”

  “I can’t say I blame you.” She looked across at him, smiling warmly. She liked him a lot, wanted to know more about him. “Did you grow up here?” she asked, filled with c
uriosity.

  “Yes, I did. With my sisters Isabelle and Natalie. They’re younger than I, but we had great times together, and an estate such as this is a wonderful place for young children.”

  “It must have been an idyllic childhood.”

  “I suppose it was, although it didn’t always seem so at the time. My father was rather strict. And rightly so.”

  He observed her over the rim of the flute for a brief moment. “You’re looking rather wistful. Is something wrong?”

  “Oh no, not at all,” she replied swiftly. “I was just thinking how different my childhood was—” Meredith stopped abruptly, wondering what had induced her to say this. She rarely confided details about her childhood to anyone.

  Although he had no way of knowing her thoughts, Luc suspected that Meredith had said more than she had intended. He could tell from the startled expression on her face. Quickly he said, “But you grew up in the country, too, didn’t you? In Connecticut?”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I suppose Agnes told you I come from Connecticut, that I have a family home there and an inn, and that’s true, I do. But I grew up in Australia. My childhood was spent in Sydney”

  “You’re an Australian?”

  “Yes. At least, I was born there, and that’s my original nationality, but I became an American citizen when I was twenty-two.” Leaning back against the tapestry cushions, she gave him a very direct look and finished, “That was exactly twenty-three years ago.”

  “You’re forty-five? But that doesn’t seem possible. You certainly don’t look it.” Luc was genuinely surprised.

  “Thank you, I’m still forty-four, actually, Luc. I’ll be forty-five at the beginning of May.”

  “And I’m forty-three . . . I’ll be forty-four on June third.” There was a small pause, and then he said carefully, not wanting to stir up bad memories, “From the tone of your voice, I rather got the impression you didn’t have a very good childhood.”

  “I didn’t. It was terrible. Horrible, really. No child should have to go through that,” she blurted out, and then bit her lip, averted her face, stared into the fire.

  So that’s the source of the pain, he thought, at least some of it. There’s much more that she is concealing. He remained silent for a few moments, allowing her the space and time to compose herself.

  Eventually, Luc said, “I’m sorry to hear that you were unhappy Meredith. What happened to you?”

  “I was orphaned when I was young. Ten years old. My parents were killed in a car crash. I got pushed around a lot after that . . . it was rough, hard—” She cut herself off again, shrugged, forced a smile, met his direct gaze. Hers was equally as candid as she finished. “But that’s such a long time ago. I’ve forgotten about it really.”

  Not true, he commented to himself, and asked, “When did you go to America?”

  “When I was seventeen. I went to Connecticut as an au pair with an American family who’d been living in Sydney. Later I worked for Jack and Amelia Silver. They sort of . . . turned my life around.” A lovely smile spread across her face. “What I mean is, I was like a younger sister to them. You see, Luc, they weren’t much older than me, in their early thirties. Anyway, they treated me like a member of the family. Amelia and Jack made up for . . . well, for all those bad years.”

  Luc nodded, refrained from commenting. He sat staring into her smoky-green eyes. The sadness of the moment before had lifted, but he knew it still lurked at the core of her. He wondered if he could make it go away entirely; he was not sure. All he knew was that he wanted to try.

  Meredith said, “You’re staring at me, Luc. Do I have a smudge on my nose or something?”

  “No, you don’t.” His dark brown eyes suddenly twinkled. “I was just admiring you, if you want the truth. You’re a beautiful woman, Meredith.”

  She felt the color rising up from her neck to flood her face and was mortified at herself. Men had paid her compliments before; why was she blushing because Luc had? “Th-thank you,” she managed to stammer, and was relieved when the telephone began to shrill.

  Luc rose, went to answer it. “Clos-Talcy. Bonjour.” After listening for a second, he said: “Hold on for a moment, please,” and looked across at her. “It’s your daughter, Catherine.”

  Meredith’s face lit up and she jumped to her feet, stepped over to the desk, took the receiver from him, thanking him as she did.

  Luc merely nodded, walked over to the window, stood gazing out, his head full of this woman. He felt he knew her intuitively, and yet she baffled him. There was an air of mystery about her. He found her irresistible.

  “Hello, Catherine, how are you, darling?” Meredith asked, then listened attentively as her daughter’s voice floated to her across the transatlantic wire from New York. Her smile widened. “Yes, I’m happy for you, darling, I’m thrilled, actually.” She clutched the phone tightly, continued to listen, then said into the mouthpiece, “Yes, I’ll be back in Paris on Monday, and no, I won’t be home for at least another week.” There was a pause at Meredith’s end before she answered, “Yes, all right, I’ll call you on Wednesday Give Keith my love. Don’t forget to tell Jon. Have a great weekend. I love you, Cat. Bye now.”

  She replaced the receiver and smiled at Luc when he turned around to face her, an expectant look in his eyes.

  “My daughter just got engaged. Last night. She’s floating on cloud nine.” Meredith blinked and looked away, pushing back sudden tears. She was so happy for Catherine, her emotions got the better of her for a moment.

  “What wonderful news! It calls for a toast and another glass of bubbly, as Grandma Rosie used to call it.”

  After filling their crystal flutes, Luc raised his and clinked it against hers. “Here’s to love . . . and happy endings,” he murmured, staring at her closely, his dark eyes riveted on hers.

  Meredith stared back, felt the warmth rising to fill her face again. “Love and happy endings, Luc,” she repeated, and took a sip of champagne. Then she went over to the sofa, where she sat down. She was very conscious of Luc de Montboucher all of a sudden.

  Luc followed her but remained standing, his back against the fire. “How old is your daughter?” he asked.

  “Twenty-five. And I have a son, Jonathan, who’s twenty-one. He’s studying law at Yale.”

  A smile flashed across his face, and he exclaimed, “I studied architecture there. Graduate school after the Sorbonne. What a coincidence! Does he like it?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “I’m glad. I did, too. Best years of my life.” He chuckled.

  “Were they really?”

  “Up to a point. I had some other good years. Before. After.” He took a swallow of his drink, a reflective look washing over his face.

  “Luc?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “Oh yes. Didn’t Agnes tell you about me?” He raised a brow questioningly.

  “No.” She frowned. “What makes you think she would?”

  “Oh no special reason,” he answered and shrugged. “I thought she might have, that’s all. And yes, I was married. My wife died six years ago. Annick was in good health one day, dying of cancer the next. It was virulent, she went very quickly. Just six months after being diagnosed. She was only thirty-seven.” He paused, cleared his throat. “We were married eight years.”

  “Luc, I’m so sorry. How tragic. What a terrible loss for you.” Meredith looked up at him worriedly, hoping she had not upset him. How stupid she had been, thoughtless, to bring up his wife.

  “We didn’t have children,” Luc volunteered.

  Meredith said nothing, gazed across the room, lost in thought.

  Luc put down his drink on the coffee table between the two sofas; he threw a couple of logs onto the fire, straightened up. Lifting his drink, he took a sip.

  The room had gone very quiet. The only sounds were the crackling logs, the ticking clock.

  At last Meredith said, “No
body’s life is ever easy, whatever we might think. There’s always pain and heartache, trouble, problems, ill health. Loss . . . of one kind or another.”

  “That is so . . . yes, it’s very true what you say. My Irish grandmother was not only beautiful but also very wise. She was forever telling us, when we were growing up, that life had always been hard, was meant to be hard, and that it would never be anything else but hard. That is the earthly lot of us poor mortals, she would say, and therefore we should grab what bit of happiness we could whenever we could. And if we found the right person we must hang on to them for dear life. Forever. That’s what she said, and I strongly suspect that Grandma Rosie spoke the truth.”

  “I’ve never met the right person,” Meredith said, surprising herself, instantly regretting these words.

  “I did. But she died.” Luc stared off into the distance for a moment, as if he could see something visible only to himself. Then he said, “I’ve never met anyone else. But I haven’t given up hope. . . .” He looked at her pointedly, but Meredith did not appear to notice his meaningful glance.

  “Catherine’s father died,” she suddenly answered, “but he was a married man anyway . . . I would never have been able to marry him. I divorced Jon’s father . . . that was all wrong . . . we weren’t right for each other at all. . . .” She let her sentence float in midair, unfinished.

  “Was that a long time ago? Your divorce?”

  “Sixteen years.” Confessions, she thought. And more confessions. What’s suddenly got into me? Why am I telling him all these private things about myself? This man is a stranger.

  Luc said, “You will meet the right person, Meredith. I know you will.” He wanted to add that perhaps she already had, but he refrained.

  Mathilde appeared in the doorway at the far end of the library. She cleared her throat.

  Luc glanced at her. “Ah, Mathilde. Is lunch ready?”

  “Oui, Monsieur. “