Her Own Rules

Barbara Taylor Bradford

Her Own Rules

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 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.

Praise for New York Times

bestselling author

Barbara Taylor Bradford

“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

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

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

PROLOGUE

TIME PAST

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.

Mari ran across to the table in the center of the floor, which her mother had covered with a white tablecloth and set for tea, and scrambled up onto one of the straight wooden chairs.

She sat waiting patiently, watching Kate moving with swiftness, bringing plates of sandwiches and scones to the table, turning off the whistling kettle, pouring hot water onto the tea leaves in the brown teapot, which Kate always said made the tea taste all that much better.

The child loved her mother, and this adoration shone on her face as her eyes followed Kate everywhere. She was content now that her mother had come home. Kate had been out for most of the day. Mari missed her when she was gone, even if this was for only a short while. Her mother was her entire world. To the five-year-old, Kate was the perfect being, with her gentle face, her shimmering red-gold hair, clear blue eyes and loving nature. They were always together, inseparable really, for the feeling was mutual. Kate loved her child to the exclusion of all else.

Kate moved between the gas oven and the countertop next to the sink, bringing things to the table, and when finally she sat down opposite Mari, she said, “I bought your favorite sausage rolls at the bakery in town, Mari. Eat one now, lovey, while it’s still warm from the oven.”

Mari beamed at her. “Oooh, Mam, I do love ’em.”

“Them,” Kate corrected her softly. “Always say them, Mari, not ’em.”

The child nodded her understanding and reached for a sausage roll, eating it slowly but with great relish. Once she had finished, she eyed the plates of sandwiches hungrily. There were various kinds—cucumber, polony, tomato, and egg salad. Mari’s mouth watered, but because her mother had taught her manners, had told her never to grab for food greedily, she waited for a second or two, sipped the glass of milk her mother had placed next to her plate.

Presently, when she thought enough time had elapsed, she reached for a cucumber sandwich and bit into it, savoring its moist crispiness.

Mother and child exchanged a few desultory words as they munched on the small tea sandwiches Kate had made, but mostly they ate in silence, enjoying the food thoroughly. Both of them were ravenous.

Mari had not had a proper lunch that day because Eunice had ruined the cottage pie her mother had left for them, and which had needed only to be reheated. The baby-sitter had left it in the oven far too long, and it had burned to a crisp. They had had to make do with bread and jam and an apple each.

Kate was starving because she had skipped lunch altogether. She had been tramping the streets of the nearby town, trying to find a job, and she had not had the time or the inclination to stop at one of the local cafes for a snack.

Kate’s hopes had been raised at her last interview earlier that afternoon just before she had returned home. There was a strong possibility that she would get a job at the town’s most fashionable dress shop, Paris Modes. There was a vacancy for a salesperson and the manager had seemed to like her, had told her to come back on Friday morning to meet the owner of the shop. This she fully intended to do. Until then she was keeping her fingers crossed, praying that her luck was finally about to change for the better.

Once Kate had assuaged her hunger, she got up and went to the pantry. The thought of the job filled her with newfound hope and her step was lighter than usual as she brought out the bowl of strawberries and jug of cream.

Carrying them back to the table, she smiled with pleasure when she saw the look of delight on her child’s face.

“Oh Mam, strawberries,” Mari said, and her eyes shone.

“I told you I had a treat for you!” Kate exclaimed, giving Mari a generous portion of the berries, adding a dollop of cream and then serving herself.

“But we have treats only on special days, Mam. Is today special?” the child asked.

“It might turn out to be,” Kate said enigmatically. And then seeing the look of puzzlement on Mari’s face, she added, “Anyway, it’s nice to have a treat on days that aren’t particularly special. That way, the treat’s a bigger surprise, isn’t it?”

Mari laughed and nodded.

As so often happens in England, the warm August afternoon turned into a chilly evening.

A fine rain had been falling steadily since six o’clock and there was a dank mist on the river; this had slowly crept across the low-lying meadows and fields surrounding the cottage, obscuring almost everything. Trees and bushes had taken on strange new shapes, looked like inchoate monsters and illusory beings out there beyond the windows of the cottage.

For once Mari was glad to be tucked up in her bed. “Tell me a story, Mam,” she begged, slipping farther down under the warm covers.

Kate sat on the bed and straightened the top of the sheet, saying as she did, “What about a poem instead? You’re always telling me you like poetry.”

“Tell me the one about the magic wizard.”

Kate smoothed a strand of light brown hair away from Mari’s face. “You mean The Miraculous Stall, don’t you, angel?”

“That’s it,” the child answered eagerly, her glowing eyes riveted on her mother’s pretty face.

Slowly Kate began to recite the poem in her soft, mellifluous voice.

A wizard sells magical things at this stall,

Astonishing gifts you can see if you call.

He can give you a river’s bend

And moonbeam light,

Every kind of let’s pretend,

A piece of night.

Half a mile,

A leaf’s quiver,

An elephant’s smile,

A snake’s slither.

A forgotten dream,

A frog’s croaks,

Firefly gleam,

A stone that floats.

Crystal snowflakes,

Dew from flowers,

Lamb’s tail shakes,

The clock’s hours.

But—surprise!

Not needle eyes.

Those he does not sell at all,

At his most miraculous stall.

Kate smiled at her daughter when she finished, loving her so much. Yet again she smoothed the tumbling hair away from Mari’s face and kissed the tip of her nose.

Mari said, “It’s my best favorite, Mam.”

“Mmmmm, I know it is, and you’ve had a lot of your favorite things today, little girl. But now it’s time for you to go to sleep. It’s getting late, so come on, snuggle down in bed…have you said your prayers?”

The child shook her head.

“You must always remember to say them, Mari. I do. Every night. And I have since I was small as you are now.”

Mari clasped her hands together and closed her eyes.

Carefully she said: “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, bless this bed that I lay on. Four corners to my bed, four angels round my head. One to watch and one to pray and two to keep me safe all day. May the grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with us all now and forevermore. Amen. God bless Mam and keep her safe. God bless me and keep me safe. And make me a good girl.”

Opening her eyes, Mari looked at Kate intently. “I am a good girl, aren’t I, Mam?”

“Of course you are, darling,” Kate answered. “The best girl I know. My girl.” Leaning forward, Kate put her arms around her small daughter and hugged her close.

Mari’s arms went around Kate’s neck and the two of them clung together. But after a moment or two of this intimacy and closeness, Kate released her grip and settled Mari down against the pillows.

Bending over the child, she kissed her cheek and murmured, “God bless. Sweet dreams. I love you, Mari.”

“I love you, Mam.”

Wide rafts of sunlight slanted through the window, filling the small bedroom with radiance. The constant sunshine flooding across Mari’s face awakened her. Opening her eyes, blinking and adjusting herself to the morning light, she sat up.

Mari had recently learned to tell the time, and so she glanced over at the clock on the bedside stand. It was nearly nine. This surprised the child; her mother was usually up and about long before this time every morning, calling her to come down for breakfast well before eight o’clock.

Slipping out of bed, thinking that her mother had overslept, Mari trotted across the upstairs hall to her mother’s bedroom. The bed was empty. Holding on to the banister, the way she had been taught, she went down the stairs carefully.

Much to Mari’s further surprise, her mother was nowhere to be seen in the kitchen either. At least, not at first glance. But as she peered around the room, she suddenly saw her mother on the floor near the stove.

“Mam! Mam!” she shouted, ran around the table, and came to a standstill in front of her mother. Kate was lying in a crumpled heap; her eyes were closed and her face was deathly white.

Mari saw that there was blood on her mother’s nightgown, and she was so frightened she could not move for a moment. Then she hunkered down and took hold of her mother’s hand. It was cold. Cold as ice.

“Mam, Mam,” she wailed in a tremulous voice, the fear intensifying. “What’s the matter, Mam?”

Kate did not answer; she simply lay there.

Mari touched her cheek. It was as cold as her hand.

The child remained with her mother for a few minutes, patting her hand, touching her face, endeavoring to rouse her, but to no avail. Tears welled in Mari’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. A mixture of panic and worry assailed her; she did not know what to do.

Eventually it came to her. She remembered what her mother had always told her: “If there’s ever anything wrong, an emergency, and I’m not here, go and find Constable O’Shea. He’ll know what’s to be done. He’ll help you.”

Reluctant though she was to leave her mother, Mari now realized that this was exactly what she must do. She must go to the police box on the main road, where Constable O’Shea could be found when he was on his beat.

Letting go of her mother’s hand, Mari headed upstairs. She went to the bathroom, washed her face and hands, cleaned her teeth, and got dressed in the cotton shorts and top she had worn the day before. After buckling on her sandals, she returned to the kitchen.

Mari stood over Kate, staring down at her for a moment or two, her alarm and concern flaring up in her more than ever. And then, turning on her heel, decisively, she hurried outside into the sunny morning air.

Mari raced down the garden path and out onto the tree-lined lane, her feet flying as she ran all the way to the main road. It was there that the police box was located. Painted dark blue and large enough to accommodate two policemen if necessary, the box was a great convenience for the bobby on the beat. Fitted out with a telephone, running water, and a gas burner, it was there that a policeman could make a cup of tea, eat a sandwich, write up a report, and phone the main police station when he had to report in or request help. These police boxes were strategically placed in cities and towns all over England, and were indispensable to the bobbies on the beat, especially when they were on night duty and when the weather was bad.

By the time Mari reached the police box she was panting and out of breath. But much to her relief Constable O’Shea was there. He’ll help me, I know he will, she thought as she came to a stop in front of him.

The policeman was standing in the doorway of the box, smoking a cigarette. He threw it down and stubbed his toe on it when he saw Mari.

Taking a closer look at the panting child, Patrick O’Shea immediately detected the fear in her eyes and saw that she was in a state of great agitation. Recognizing at once that something was terribly wrong, he bent over her, took hold of her hand, and looked into her small, tear-stained face. “What’s the matter, Mari love?” he asked gently.

“It’s me mam,” Mari cried, her voice rising shrilly. “She’s lying on the kitchen floor. I can’t make her wake up.” Mari began to cry even though she was trying hard to be brave. “There’s blood. On her nightgown.”

Constable O’Shea had known Mari all of her young life, and he was well aware that she was a good little girl, well brought up and certainly not one for playing tricks or prone to exaggeration. And in any case her spiraling anxiety was enough to convince him that something had gone wrong at Hawthorne Cottage.

“Just give me a minute, Mari,” he said, stepping inside the police box. “Then we’ll go home and see what’s to be done.” He phoned the police station, asked for an ambulance to be sent to Hawthorne Cottage at once, closed the door, and locked it behind him.

Reaching down, he swung the child up into his arms, making soothing noises and hushing sounds as he did so.

“Now then, love, let’s be on our way back to your house to see how your mam is, and I’m sure we can soon put everything right.”

“But she’s dead,” Mari sobbed. “Me mam’s dead.”

PART ONE

TIME PRESENT

CHAPTER ONE

Meredith Stratton stood at the large plate-glass window in her private office which looked downtown, marveling at the gleaming spires rising up in front of her. The panoramic vista of the Manhattan skyline was always eye-catching, but tonight it looked more spectacular than ever.

It was a January evening at the beginning of 1995, and the sky was ink black and clear, littered with stars. There was even a full moon. Not even a Hollywood set designer could have done it better, Meredith thought, there’s no improving on nature. And then she had to admit that it was the soaring skyscrapers and the overall architecture of the city that stunned the eye.

The Empire State Building still wore its gaudy Christmas colors of vivid red and green; to one side of it, slightly to the left, was the more sedate Chrysler Building with its slender art deco spire illuminated with pure white lights.

Those two famous landmarks dominated the scene, as they always did, but that evening the entire skyline seemed to have acquired more glittering aspects than ever, seemed more pristinely etched against the dark night sky.

“There’s nowhere in the world quite like New York,” Meredith said out loud.

“I agree.”

Meredith swung around to see her assistant, Amy Brandt, standing in the doorway of her office.

“You gave me a start, creeping in on me like that,” Meredith exclaimed with a grin, and then turned back to the window. “Amy, come and look. The city takes my breath away.”

Amy closed the door behind her and walked across the room. She was petite and dark-haired in contrast to Meredith, who was tall and blonde. Amy felt slightly dwarfed by her boss, who stood five feet seven in her stocking feet. But since Meredith always wore high heels, she generally towered over most people, and this gave Amy some consolation, made her feel less like a munchkin.

Gazing out of the window, Amy said, “You’re right, Meredith, Manhattan’s looking sensational, almost unreal.”

“There’s a certain clarity about the sky tonight, even though it’s dark,” Meredith pointed out. “There’re no clouds at all, and the lights of the city are creating a wonderful glow….”

The two women stood looking out the window for a few seconds longer, and then, turning away, moving toward her desk, Meredith said, “I just need to go over a couple of things with you, Amy, and then you can go.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s seven already. Sorry to have kept you so late.”

“It’s not a problem. And you’ll be away for a week, so I’ll be able to take it easy while you’re gone.”

Meredith laughed and raised a perfectly shaped blonde brow. “You taking it easy would be the miracle of the century. You’re a workaholic.”