Barbara Taylor Bradford - Her Own Rules

Once more Patsy launched into the poem:

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.

“It’s really beautiful,” Meredith said, smiling at her. “It’s very peaceful…serene.”

“That’s how I feel about it.”

“I think I’ve heard that last verse before. Somewhere. But I’m not sure where,” Meredith murmured. “Not at school, though.” For a moment or two she racked her brain, but try though she did, she could not remember. And yet the poem had struck a chord in her memory, but she was unable to isolate it. The fleeting memory remained elusive.

Patsy remarked, “Unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of the inn near Ripon. The Millers, who own it, did have a few photos, and they were very good, too. Yet somehow they didn’t quite capture the spirit of the place, its soul. So I decided not to take them. You’ll have to judge it cold when we get to the site.”

“That’s no problem.” Meredith looked at her closely. “But you do like Skell Garth, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, Meredith, very much, otherwise I wouldn’t be dragging you there,” Patsy quickly reassured her partner. “The setting is superb, the surrounding landscape awe-inspiring, picturesque actually. And from the inn there’s a most fabulous view of Fountains Abbey, one of the most beautiful ruins in all of England. Yes, Skell Garth is a unique place.”

“Skell Garth,” Meredith repeated. “You know, when you first mentioned it, I thought it was such an odd name.”

“I suppose it is. Let me explain. The Skell is a river that flows through Ripon and through the land on which both the inn and the abbey stand. Garth is the ancient Yorkshire word for field, and many of the local farmers still refer to their fields as garths.”

“So the name actually means the field of the river Skell. Am I correct?”

Patsy laughed, delighted with Meredith’s astuteness. “You’re absolutely correct! I’ll make a Yorkshirewoman of you yet.”

The two friends and partners sat talking about the inns for a while as they sipped their white wine, and then they moved on, became involved in a long and involved discussion about their business in general.

It was Patsy who brought this to a sudden halt when she jumped up, exclaiming, “Oh my God! I smell something awful. I hope that’s not our lunch getting burnt to a cinder.”

She flew out of the sitting room and ran downstairs to the kitchen.

Meredith charged after her.

Patsy was crouching in front of the oven, looking at the roast, poking around in the pan with a long-handled spoon.

“Is it spoiled?” Meredith asked in concern as she walked in.

“Fortunately not,” Patsy said, straightening. She closed the oven door and swung to face Meredith, grinning. “A couple of potatoes are singed around the edges, but the lamb’s okay. It’s the onions that are a bit scorched. They’re black, actually. Anyway, everything’s ready, well, almost. I hope you’re hungry, because I’ve cooked up a storm.”

“I’m starving. But you didn’t have to go to all this trouble, you know, I was quite happy to take you out to lunch. Or have you come to the hotel.”

“I enjoy doing this occasionally,” Patsy assured her. “It reminds me of my childhood growing up in Yorkshire. And anyway, Meredith, it’s not often you get a traditional English Sunday lunch, now, is it?”

Meredith chuckled. “No, and I’m looking forward to it.”

It was a windy afternoon.

A few stray leaves danced around her feet, and her full-length cream tweed cape billowed occasionally as she walked briskly through Green Park.

Meredith did not mind the wind. It was sunny, and this counteracted the sudden gusts, the nip in the air, and she was glad to stretch her legs after sitting so long over lunch with Patsy.

But it had been fun to visit with her old friend and partner, and to catch up on everything, both business and personal. Also, Meredith always enjoyed going to Patsy’s little doll’s house, which is the way she thought of it. Situated in a mews in Belgravia, the house had four floors; it was charmingly decorated, very much in the style they used in the inns. This was a lush country look, which was built around good antique wood pieces, a melange of interesting fabrics skillfully mixed and matched, vibrant colors carefully coordinated to each other plus a selection of unusual accessories.

As Meredith walked on, her thoughts settled on Patsy, of whom she was extremely fond. It was her New York banker, Henry Raphaelson, who had introduced them in 1984. Henry had known Patsy from her teenage days, since he had been for many years a close friend and business associate of her father’s, until his death a merchant banker in the City.

Patsy and she had taken to each other at once, and, after several constructive meetings, they had decided to go into business together, opening a London office of Havens Incorporated.

In the ensuing years Patsy had been good for the company, a great asset. She was as solid as a rock, hardworking, dependable, devoted, and loyal. While she was not as visionary or as imaginative as Agnes D’Auberville, Patsy more than made up for these minor shortcomings because she was loaded with common sense. Also, her talent for public relations had worked well for Havens. There wasn’t a hotel in England that received as much publicity and press attention as Haddon Fields in the Cotswolds, and all of it was positive. In fact, they had never had a negative write-up in the entire ten years the inn had been open.

When Meredith had expressed an interest in opening a hotel in France, Patsy had taken her to Paris to meet Agnes D’Auberville. The two young women had attended the Sorbonne at the same time, which was when they first met, and they had been good friends since those youthful days in Paris.

Agnes, like Patsy two years earlier, had been looking to invest inherited money in a business she could be involved in on a full-time basis. And so she had jumped at the chance to open a Paris branch of Havens Incorporated, and had plunged enthusiastically into the creation of the inn situated in the Loire Valley.

Meredith and Agnes had found the Château de Cormeron, which stood on the banks of the beautiful Indre River and was in the center of the Loire Valley. After purchasing the château, they had spent almost a year getting it into proper shape and turning it into an inn. Many of the rooms had needed new floors, some new ceilings; they had had to install central heating and air-conditioning; almost all the plumbing had to be replaced, as had the wiring. Once this had been done, they had set about decorating it in the appropriate style, mostly using French country furniture, wonderful old tapestries, luxurious traditional fabrics, and unique accessories culled from local antique shops.

They had put a tremendous amount of energy, effort, talent, and money into its remodeling and redecoration, but the transformation was so stunning, they both knew it had been well worth it.

And much to their gratification, it had proved to be a tremendous success as a small hotel. Château de Cormeron was close to many of the great châteaux of the Loire, such as Chinon, Chenonceaux, Azay-le-Rideau, Loches, and Mont-poupon, all open to the public and especially popular with foreign visitors.