Her Own Rules

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “Do you mean a ship or a boat? There’s a difference.”

  Meredith closed her eyes again, pushing her memory back to her childhood. She saw herself in her mind’s eye; she saw boys and girls going up a gangplank. She was one of them. She saw sailors, seamen, docks. She saw a flagpole. The Union Jack flying atop it.

  Meredith sat up straighter, opened her eyes, and looked at Hilary intently. “I do mean a ship and not a boat. And an oceangoing ship, too. A British ship, flying a British flag. I must have been on a ship, perhaps with other children. Maybe that explains the children who are always in the dream.”

  “It’s possible. Please try and think harder, think back. Could you have been born in England and taken to Australia when very young?”

  “Maybe I was. But why don’t I remember anything about it? Why don’t I remember those years?”

  “It’s called repressed memory, Meredith. I believe something terrible happened to you when you were a small child, causing deep trauma that resulted in repressed memory. In fact, I’m pretty positive that’s what you’re suffering from, and I believe it’s the reason for your attacks of fatigue. Psychogenic fatigue.”

  “But why now? Why haven’t I had the attacks in the past? Why not years ago?”

  “Because the memory stayed deeply buried. That was the way you wanted it. So that you could function. Now something has triggered it. The repressed memory is trying to surface.”

  “What do you think triggered it?”

  “I can’t be absolutely certain, but I believe it was your visit to Fountains Abbey.”

  “You do think I was there before?”

  “Possibly. Most probably. It would certainly explain a great deal.”

  “Is there any other way you can trigger my repressed memory, Dr. Benson?”

  “Only you can do it really, by endeavoring to go back in time to your earliest childhood years. You’re going to England next week. Something else might give your memory a good jolt while you are there. In the meantime, let us talk a little longer about your years in the orphanage.”

  Meredith shivered violently and threw Hilary a look of horror. “No child should ever have to live like that,” she exclaimed, anger surfacing. “But I’ll tell you more about it if you want me to.”

  “I do. I realize how painful it is for you, but it may well give me more clues, something else to go on, Meredith.”

  Later that night she rang Luc. She could no longer bear to keep the secret of her past from him. Also, she felt the need to confide, share, and in turn receive comfort from him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Catherine Stratton sat back and studied the illustration on her drawing board, her head held on one side, her eyes narrowed slightly as she assessed her work.

  The watercolor in front of her was of a small boy curled up in a crib, sleeping, with one hand tucked under his cheek. She smiled to herself, liking its innocence, its charm. It was perfect for the last poem in the children’s book of verse she had been illustrating for the past few weeks. Now, at last, it was finished and ready to go to the publishers.

  Work well done, she thought, taking up a fine-nibbed pen, signing Cat with a flourish. She had always used her diminutive on her work, and it was a signature that was becoming well-known these days.

  Sliding down off the tall stool, she lifted her arms above her head, did a few stretching exercises, and then walked across her studio and out into the main loft space, heading for the kitchen.

  This was a good size, decorated in a crisp blue and white color scheme, and it was equipped with all the latest appliances. It was the perfect kitchen for a dedicated chef, which Catherine was. She had loved cooking since childhood, had been encouraged and taught by her mother and Blanche O’Brien, at Silver Lake, who had always been like a favorite cuddly aunt.

  Catherine stood washing her hands at the sink under the window that looked uptown. It offered a unique view of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings. That afternoon those towering skyscrapers sparkled against the blue April sky, and she thought they had never looked better than on this lovely spring day. Except perhaps at night when they were fully illuminated, their glittering spires etched against the dark sky. To Catherine they would always typify Manhattan.

  Reaching for the kettle, she filled it and put it on the cooktop to boil. Then she busied herself with cups and saucers, took out various items from the refrigerator, and started to make a selection of small tea sandwiches.

  Catherine and her mother had designed her SoHo loft. Her studio was at one end, with big windows and a skylight in the sloping roof; the dining area flowed off the kitchen, and beyond there was a large living room decorated like a library. Two bedrooms were situated to the right of the living room, and each had its own bathroom.

  It was a vast loft, cleverly divided to maximize the space and the light and it had a pristine, airy feeling. This was not due only to its grand size and many windows but to the pale color schemes used throughout.

  The loft had been Catherine’s twenty-first birthday present four years earlier. “But it’s not from me, you know,” her mother had told her. “It’s from Jack and Amelia in a sense, even though they’re dead. I bought it for you with money from their estate.”

  It was then that Meredith had fully explained about Amelia’s will, the vast inheritance that was now hers along with Silver Lake Inn, the house she had grown up in, and all of the Silver land: one hundred and fifty acres. All of this had been held in trust for her by her mother ever since Amelia’s death; Meredith had effectively increased its value through clever investing of the money Amelia had left. Catherine had suddenly understood that day four years ago that she was an heiress, and a very lucky young woman.

  Catherine had always known that Jack Silver was her father. Her mother had told her the truth when she was old enough to understand. She barely remembered him and even Amelia was a shadowy figure in her mind. Her mother had always been the dominant person in her life, and she adored Meredith.

  Catherine had never judged Meredith and Jack. She was far too intelligent to do that, and mature enough to realize that no one else ever knew exactly what went on between two people. Three in this case, for obviously Amelia had acquiesced, or had perhaps turned a blind eye to their relationship.

  Once, when she had questioned Blanche O’Brien, Blanche had said that she shouldn’t waste time dwelling on that old situation. “Nobody got hurt, everybody was happy, they all three loved each other, and you were the crowning point in their lives. They adored you, and Amelia behaved like a second mother to you.”

  Sometimes she wondered about her mother’s past; she understood many things about it, even though Meredith had always been somewhat secretive about her early years in Australia. It seemed to her that her mother started to live her life only when she came to Connecticut.

  From odd things her mother had said over the years, Catherine knew that her childhood had been terrible—bleak, without love, or even the merest hint of affection.

  Meredith had loved Jon and her with a sort of terrible fury, single-mindedly, with total devotion, and to the exclusion of anyone else.

  Perhaps this was because of the deprivation Meredith had endured as a child. Certainly it had always seemed to Catherine that her mother had set out to give them all of the things she herself had never had, and much, much more.

  Meredith had always been the most wonderful mother, and probably to the detriment of her relationship with David Layton, Jon’s father. She and her brother had always come first with Meredith, and perhaps he had grown tired and resentful of taking second place in her life and her affections.

  That marriage had foundered after four years, and within no time at all, David, the country lawyer, had moved to the West Coast. Much to their amazement, he had turned himself into a hot-shot show business lawyer with a string of famous movie star clients. They had never seen him again, heard only infrequently, and not at all after the first year or so. Not that her brother or she
cared. Jon had always loved his mother the most, and anyway, David Layton had not been much of a father, or stepfather, for that matter.

  Meredith was her best friend. She had not only given her a great deal of love and been supportive, she had encouraged her to chase her dreams and fulfill her ambitions. In fact, she had been instrumental in helping her to do this. And she had been exactly the same with Jon, always there for him, advising him when he asked, rooting for him, cheering him on. Meredith had been mother and father to them both.

  She and her brother were delighted that their mother had met Luc de Montboucher. They had taken to him immediately, and had encouraged their mother in this relationship.

  They thought he was the perfect mate for her, and Jon was convinced they would get married. She hoped her brother was correct in this conviction. Nothing would please her more than to see Meredith in a happy relationship, especially now that she herself was getting married. She hated to think of her mother alone. It was about time she had some personal happiness in her life.

  Luc had been to New York a number of times, and her mother was virtually commuting to Paris, and this seemed to bode well for the future. Also, she had put the Vermont inn up for sale, and had confided only the other day that she was not looking to make a big profit. “I just want to get out unscathed financially,” Meredith had said. “Fortunately, I’ve several potential buyers.”

  When Catherine had told Jon about this conversation he had grinned and said, “See, I told you so! Mom’s going to marry Luc and move to France, or at least spend most of her time there. Just you wait and see, Cat.”

  Her mother was leaving for Europe that night, first stop London. She had business with Patsy, but she was planning to spend time in France.

  Catherine covered the plate of tea sandwiches with a dampened linen napkin, the way Blanche had taught her as a child, and pushed the plate to a corner of the countertop; then she rinsed the strawberries and hulled them.

  Her mind was still on her mother. She had been seeing a psychiatrist for the past few weeks, trying to discover why she had these peculiar attacks of fatigue. During the weekend, they had talked on the phone, and Meredith had said that Dr. Benson was helping her to unearth repressed memories of her childhood. Finally she believed she was getting somewhere, making headway.

  Catherine hoped so. All she wanted was for her mother to come to terms with her past, gain peace of mind, as well as a bit of happiness for once. After all, she was going to be forty-five years old next month.

  “Everything looks beautiful, darling,” Meredith said an hour later as she walked into the loft, glancing around. “You’ve added a few things since I was here last. That painting over there, the lamp, the sculpture in the corner.” Meredith nodded approvingly “You’ve given it a wonderful look, your many new touches have really worked.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Like mother like daughter, I guess. I take after you, you know, always fiddling with rooms, adding accessories and stuff. I’m a real ‘nester’ just as you are.”

  “Am I really?” Meredith said, sounding surprised, giving her daughter a quick glance. “I hadn’t realized.”

  Bursting into laughter, Catherine exclaimed, “Oh Mom, honestly, how can you say that! You can walk into the dreariest room, anywhere in the world, and transform it in a couple of hours, just by adding flowers, a bowl of fruit, a few cushions and photographs, magazines and books. Other bits and pieces. You’ve got a real talent that way. To coin a phrase, you make wonderful havens, Mom.”

  Meredith had the good grace to laugh.

  “Your company is aptly named, I’ve always thought.”

  “I suppose it is.” Meredith sat down on the sofa and continued. “I’m glad I can spend a couple of hours with you before I catch the night flight to London; we don’t see enough of each other these days. And perhaps we can talk about the wedding a little, come to a few decisions.”

  “Yes, we can, Mom. Keith and I batted a few dates around this past weekend, and I think we’d like to have the wedding in the fall, as you suggested.”

  Meredith’s face lit up. “That’s wonderful, Cat, the perfect time. I suppose you’re thinking of early October, just as the foliage begins to turn?”

  Catherine nodded. “The second Saturday in October, that would be the fourteenth. Originally, Keith and I toyed with the first Saturday in the month, the seventh. But we weren’t sure whether the foliage would have changed by then. What do you think?”

  “Better go for the second Saturday, Catherine. The leaves will be in full color, and they don’t drop that quickly, remember. I’m assuming you’re going to have the ceremony at Silver Lake?”

  “Yes. Briefly, and only briefly, Keith and I had talked about the little church in Cornwall, but in the end we came to the conclusion that it’s too small.” Catherine grinned at her mother. “All those Pearsons, you know.”

  Meredith smiled. “From the sound of it, I’m going to be giving you a very big wedding.”

  “Do you mind, Mom?”

  “Oh darling, of course not! I’m thrilled. That’s what I’ve always wanted for you, a big white wedding with all the trimmings. Anyway, getting back to the details, I think you’d better call the minister of the church in Cornwall to make sure he will be able to officiate at the marriage, that he’s available that day.”

  “Yes, I’ll do it tomorrow.” Catherine rose. “Mom, I want to show you the sketches of my wedding gown. Let me get them, they’re in the studio.”

  A moment later she was back, sitting down next to Meredith on the sofa. The two of them pored over the series of drawings Cat had done; all were beautifully rendered and showed the gown from different angles.

  “What do you think, Mom?” Catherine asked, eyeing her mother worriedly “You’re not saying anything. Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s absolutely beautiful, Cat. Very . . . medieval, wouldn’t you say?”

  “In a way. But perhaps a bit more Tudor in feeling, Elizabethan. I’ve spent a lot of time on the design, Mother, and on the details in particular.”

  “I can see it’s quite elaborate.” Meredith stared at the sketch she was holding, which was a front view of the dress, and nodded her head. “Yes, I see what you mean about it being Elizabethan . . . the squared-off neck cut very near the edge of the shoulders, the long puffed-up sleeves, tight bodice, and bouffant skirt. Very stylish, Cat, all you need is a white ruff.”

  “Don’t think I hadn’t thought of it,” Cat laughed. “Because I have, but I decided that might be going a bit too far. The veil will be held by a Tudor-style headdress, and this will fall into a train. I’ve yet to design the headdress. So, what do you think? Can I get away with it?”

  “Of course you can, Cat, you will carry it off very well. I think you’ll look stunning. Have you decided who’s going to make it?”

  “I thought I’d go to Edetta; she’s created some lovely evening gowns for us in the past few years.”

  “Yes, she has, and I’m sure she’ll be able to find the right kind of white silk for you. Now, to move on to a few other details, do you know what time of day you want to have the marriage ceremony?”

  “Keith and I thought it would be nice to have it at noon. Drinks first, then the ceremony, and a luncheon afterward. With dancing.” Cat lifted a dark brow “Would that be all right?”

  “Yes, I think that’s a lovely idea, Cat. If I’m going to give you a big wedding, we might as well do it in style. Do you know how many guests you’ll be inviting?”

  “I think the total will be around a hundred and thirty, or thereabouts. Keith and I counted about eighty, maybe ninety, from the Pearson side, and I figured around fifty from our side.”

  Meredith laughed. “I’m not sure that we can even rustle up that number, honey.”

  “Oh we can, Mom, really we can. There are all my girlfriends and their husbands or boyfriends. Blanche and Pete. Some of the new friends I’ve made in the publishing world, the people from Havens, and Patsy will come fr
om London, I’m certain of that.”

  “She’s already said she’s coming. And there will be Agnes and Alain D’Auberville from Paris. Yes, I think you’re right, we probably will be about fifty.”

  “Luc will come, won’t he, Mother?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Keith and I like him. So does Jon.”

  “Oh I know. Your brother’s made that only too clear.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Luc loves you.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you love him?

  “Yes, Cat, I do.”

  “So what’s going to happen?”

  “Are you and your brother in collusion?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was asking me the same thing after your engagement party a few weeks ago. And to answer your question, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Being in love is one thing, getting married another. And there’s so much to consider in my case.”

  “I know, but you will work it out. You’re both smart.” Catherine jumped up. “I’m glad you came to see me at this time of day. I’ve made us a lovely tea . . . like you used to do when we were little. A nursery tea, you called it. I’ve prepared all sorts of tiny sandwiches, cakes, the works, actually. I’ll just go and boil the water again. Be back in a jiffy . . .” Cat winked at her mother, laughed, and added, “Before you can even say Jack Robinson,” and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Meredith smiled and leaned back against the sofa, thinking about Luc. She would be seeing him soon, once she had completed her business in England. There were certain matters at the London office of Havens to attend to, and she and Patsy had to make a trip to Ripon. The refurbishing of Skell Garth House was almost finished. They had various things to do before the inn reopened in May. She would then fly to Paris and base herself there, since she had much work to complete on the manor in Montfort-L’Amaury. Good progress was being made there, thanks to Luc and Agnes. Once she was in France she would spend weekends at Talcy with Luc, and they were both looking forward to this.