Barbara Taylor Bradford - Her Own Rules

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

HER OWN RULES. Copyright © 1996 by Barbara Taylor Bradford. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © MAY 2009 ISBN: 9780007330843

Version: 2017-10-25

The right of Barbara Taylor Bradford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

“She’s the envy of all of us who put pen to paper. Don’t miss her.”

Greensboro News & Record

And for Her Own Rules

“An emotional journey.”

Denver Rocky Mountain News

“Barbara Taylor Bradford can always be relied on to tell a good story, and she does just that in Her Own Rules.”

Chattanooga Times

“Compelling…Certain to join the ranks of Bradford’s other bestsellers, this novel skillfully blends mystery and romance.”

Library Journal

“One can’t help cheering the heroine on as she presses toward self-awareness. The family and friends who support her are particularly likable for their encouragement.”

Christian Science Monitor

“Barbara Taylor Bradford’s Her Own Rules won’t disappoint.”

Dayton Daily News

For Bob, with love

Title Page Barbara Taylor Bradford Her Own Rules

Copyright

Praise

Dedication For Bob, with love

Prologue Time Past

Part One Time Present

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Part Two Time Present, Time Past

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Ninteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue Time Future

About the Author

Other Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About the Publisher

The child sat on a rock perched high up on the river’s bank. Elbows on knees, chin cupped in hands, she sat perfectly still, her eyes trained on the family of ducks circling around on the surface of the dark water.

Her eyes were large, set wide apart, grayish-green in color and solemn, and her small face was serious. But from time to time a smile would tug at her mouth as she watched the antics of the ducklings.

It was a bright day in August.

The sky was a piercingly blue arc unblemished by cloud, the golden sun a perfect sphere, and on this balmy summer’s afternoon nothing stirred. Not a blade of grass or a leaf moved; the only sounds were the faint buzzing of a bee hovering above roses rambling along a crumbling brick wall, the splash of water rushing down the dappled stones of the river’s bed.

The child remained fascinated by the wildlife on the river, and so intent was she in her concentration, she barely moved. It was only when she heard her name being called that she bestirred herself and glanced quickly over her shoulder.

Instantly she scrambled to her feet, waving at the young woman who stood near the door of the cottage set back from the river.

“Mari! Come on! Come in!” the woman called, beckoning to the child as she spoke.

It took Mari only a moment to open the iron gate in the brick wall, and then she was racing along the dirt path, her plump little legs running as fast as they could.

“Mam! Mam! You’re back!” she cried, rushing straight into the woman’s outstretched arms, almost staggering in her haste to get to her.

The young woman caught her daughter, held her close, and nuzzled her neck. She murmured, “I’ve a special treat for tea,” and then she looked down into the child’s bright young face, her own suddenly serious. “I thought I told you not to go down to the river alone, Mari, it’s dangerous,” she chastised the girl, but she did so softly and her expression was as loving as it always was.

“I only sit on the rock, Mam, I don’t go near the edge,” Mari answered, lifting her eyes to her mother’s. “Eunice said I could go and watch the baby ducks.”

The woman sighed under her breath. Straightening, she took hold of the child’s hand and led her into the cottage. Once they were inside, she addressed the girl who was sitting in a chair at the far end of the kitchen, reading a book.

“Eunice, I don’t want Mari going to the river alone, she might easily slip and fall in, and then where would you be? Why, you wouldn’t even know it had happened. And I’ve told you this so many times before. Eunice, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Sanderson. And I’m sorry, I won’t let her go there by herself again.”

“You’d better not,” Kate Sanderson said evenly, but despite her neutral tone there was no doubt from the look in her eyes that she was annoyed.

Turning away abruptly, Kate went and filled the teakettle, put it on the gas stove, and struck a match.

The girl slapped her book shut and rose. “I’ll get off then, Mrs. Sanderson, now that you’re home.”

Kate nodded. “Thanks for baby-sitting.”

“Shall I come tomorrow?” the teenager asked in a surly voice as she crossed the kitchen floor. “Or can you manage?”

“I think so. But please come on Friday morning for a few hours. That would help me.”

“I’ll be here. Is nine all right?”

“That’s fine,” Kate responded, and forced a smile despite her lingering irritation with the teenager.

“Ta’rar, Mari,” Eunice said, grinning at the child.

“Ta’rar, Eunice,” Mari answered, and fluttered her small, chubby fingers in a wave.

When they were alone, Kate said to her five-year-old daughter, “Go and wash your hands, Mari, that’s a good girl, and then we’ll have our tea.”

The child did as she was bidden, and went upstairs to the bathroom, where she washed her hands and dried them. A few seconds later, she returned to the kitchen; this was the hub of the house and the room they used the most. It was good sized and rustic. There was a big stone fireplace with an old-fashioned oven built next to it, lattice windows over the sink, wooden beams on the ceiling and brightly colored rag rugs covered the stone floor.

Aside from being warm and welcoming, even cozy, it was a neat and tidy room. Everything was in its proper place; pots and pans gleamed, and the two windows behind the freshly laundered lace curtains sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. Kate took pride in her home, and this showed in the care and attention she gave it.