Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (9 page)

C
HAPTER
N
INE

T
he morning was clear and cold, the kind of crisp, bright day that Meredith liked. The sky was a dazzling blue, without a cloud, and the sun was shining; while this offered little warmth, it added radiance to the day.

Just as the clock turned nine on Tuesday morning, Meredith was bundled up in boots and a sheepskin coat, walking through Studley Park. The stately avenue of lime trees down which she hurried led to Studley Church, just visible on top of the hill at the end of the avenue. She knew, from Mrs. Miller's directions, that within a few minutes she would be at the abbey.

Yesterday afternoon, when she and Patsy had arrived in Ripon, they had gone directly to Skell Garth House. Situated between the tiny villages of Studley Royal and Aldfield, the house stood on the banks of the little River Skell, as did Fountains Abbey on the opposite bank.

After the Millers had been introduced to her, Patsy had explained to the couple that they would like to stay the night at Skell Garth. Since it was midweek in winter, this had not presented a problem. There were plenty of available rooms and Claudia Miller had given them a choice.

“I think we'd like those two that adjoin each other on the top floor,” Patsy had said as they had followed the owners up the wide main staircase. “You know, the two that face Fountains.”

The minute they walked into the first of the rooms, Patsy dragged Meredith to the window. “Now, isn't that the most spectacular sight!” she cried. “Behold Fountains Abbey! One of the two most beautiful ruined abbeys in the whole of England.”

Meredith stared out across the sloping lawns and gardens of Skell Garth House, now obliterated by a covering of snow, her eyes fastening on the abbey. It rose up out of glistening white fields, huge, dark, monolithic, silhouetted against the fading greenish sky, an ancient tribute to God. And she caught her breath, struck by its beauty. She agreed that it
was
magnificent. That was the only word to describe it, she thought.

“And it's one of the best preserved abbeys in the country,” Bill Miller had pointed out. “There are stonemasons working on it all the time, trying to keep it from crumbling away. It's a national treasure, you know.”

At that moment, and for a reason she could not fathom, Meredith had made up her mind to take a closer look, feeling oddly drawn to those ruins.

After they had taken tea with the Millers, the rest of the afternoon had been devoted to a complete guided tour of Skell Garth House, which dated back to the nineteenth century. By the time they finished talking with the owners, going over all aspects of the inn and the pros and cons, it had grown dark outside. I'll go tomorrow, before we leave, Meredith resolved, filled with determination to visit the ruins, a determination she did not quite understand.

This morning, when she was finishing her breakfast, Claudia Miller had come into the dining room to see if Meredith needed anything else. She seized the moment and asked her how to get to the abbey from the inn.

“You'll have to approach it on foot, that's the best way. Wear a pair of wellies, if you've got them with you, or boots. There's still a bit of snow out there by Studley way.” Claudia then gave her explicit directions.

And I'm almost there, Meredith told herself as she finally reached the top of the hill at the end of the avenue of limes. She glanced over at Studley Church, so picturesque in the snow, and at the obelisk nearby; she then directed her gaze to the lake below, glittering in the sunlight. The river Skell flowed beyond it, and there, just a short distance upstream, was the abbey.

Meredith stood for a moment longer on top of the hill, shading her eyes against the sun with one hand, thinking that Fountains looked more imposing than it had the previous afternoon. But of course it would, she told herself. She was, after all, much closer to it now, viewing it with the naked eye, not through a glass window from a distant house.

Unexpectedly, Meredith shivered. She felt as though a cold wind had blown around her, through her. But there was no wind that morning. Someone walked over my grave, she muttered under her breath, and then wondered why she had thought this, wondered how she knew such an odd phrase. She had never used it in her life before.

A strange sensation came over her. She stood very still, all of her senses alert. Instantly, she knew what it was . . . a curious feeling that she had been there before, that she had stood in this very spot, on this very hill, gazing down at those medieval ruins. It seemed to her that the landscape below her was familiar, known to her. She shivered again. Déjà vu, the French call it,
already seen,
she reminded herself. But she had not been there before; she had never even been to Yorkshire.

Yet this ancient place stirred something in her. The ruins beckoned, seemed to pull her forward urgently; she set off, began to hurry down the hill, her boots crunching on the frozen snow. She was almost running, slipping and sliding in her haste to get there. Several times she almost fell but managed to recover her balance and go on running.

At last, somewhat out of breath, she was hurrying into the center of the ruined Cistercian monastery.

It was roofless, open to the vast arc of sky floating above it like a great canopy of blue, and the glassless windows were giant arches flung against that empty sky Meredith stood there, turning slowly, her head thrown back as she gazed up at the soaring stone walls, jagged and broken off at the top . . . the immense columns only partially intact . . . the cracked flagstones covered now in pure white snow A sense of timelessness enveloped her.

As she looked around, absorbing everything, her heart clenched, and she felt a strange sense of loss. So acute, so strong, so overwhelming was this feeling, tears came into her eyes. Her throat closed with such a rush of emotion she was further startled at herself.

Something was taken from me here . . . something of immense value to me.
I have been here before.
I know this ancient place . . . somehow it's part of me. What was it I lost here? Oh God, what was it? Something dearer than life. Part of my soul . . . part of my heart. Why do I feel this way? What do these ruins mean to me? She had no ready answers for herself.

Meredith stood perfectly still in the middle of the ruined abbey. Unexpected tears ran down her face, warm against her cold cheeks. She closed her eyes, not understanding what was happening to her; it was as though her heart were breaking. Something had been taken from her.
Or someone.
Someone she loved. Was that it? She was not sure. The only thing she really knew at that moment was that she was experiencing an immense sense of deprivation.

Opening her eyes, moving slowly, she went and stood near one of the walls of the monastery, resting her head against its timeworn stones. There was a stillness here, a quietness that was infinite; it calmed her.

Far away, in the distance, she heard the call of a lone bird high on the wing. There was a sudden rush of wind through the ruins, a moaning, sighing wind, and then everything was still, silent again.

She began to walk toward the cloisters, moving like a somnambulist. She knew the way. Once inside, she was protected from the wind. And there was no sound at all. Just perfect silence in these great vaulted halls of the cloisters.

Pain, she thought. Why do I feel pain and hurt and despair? What is it about this place that makes me feel like this? What does Fountains mean to me? She did not know. It was a mystery.

 

When Meredith returned to Skell Garth House an hour later, Patsy was waiting for her in the sitting room.

“My God, you look frozen to death!” her partner cried as she walked in. “Come and sit by the fire and have a hot drink before we leave for the airport.”

“I'm all right.” Meredith took off her coat and walked across to the fireplace, warming her hands in front of the flames for a moment.

“I couldn't believe it when Claudia told me you'd gone to Fountains Abbey. And in this weather. If you'd waited for me to come down for breakfast, I would have driven you there. At least, I would have driven you as close to the abbey as I could get.”

“I enjoyed the walk.” Meredith sat down on a chair, turned her head, gazed into the flames burning so fiercely.

“I'll go and order a pot of tea,” Patsy said, jumping up. “Would you like something to eat? Pikelets, maybe? I know you enjoy them as much as I do.”

“No thanks, not now. The tea would be nice though.”

When Patsy came back, she threw Meredith a curious glance. “This may be a strange thing to say, but you look quite white, as if you've seen a ghost.” Then she grinned and added, “A couple of Cistercian monks perhaps, walking around the abbey's ruins with you?”

When Meredith did not respond with a gale of laughter, as she usually did, but looked at her oddly and remained silent, Patsy stared at her harder.

“
Is
there something the matter, Meredith?” she probed.

At first Meredith was silent, then said, “No, there's nothing wrong. But I did have a funny experience at Fountains.”

“What happened?”

“I was drawn to the ruins. It was as though a
magnet
were pulling me forward. I practically ran there from Studley Church. I almost fell a couple of times. The thing was, Patsy, I couldn't wait to get there, to be in the middle of those ruins. And once I was standing in the center of them, I felt as if I knew that place so well. It was curiously familiar. And then something happened to me . . . I had this immense sense of loss. It was so overwhelming, I was shaken. I can't explain it, I really can't.” Meredith stared at Patsy. “You probably think I'm crazy . . . Anyway Fountains Abbey
does
mean something to me, of that I'm sure. Something special. And yet I can't tell you why that is so. I'd never heard of it until the other day. And I've never been there in my life.”

For a moment there was no response from Patsy, then she said, “No, you never have. Not in this life, at any rate. However, maybe you were there in another. In the past . . . in a past life. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“I don't know.” Meredith shook her head. “To say I don't believe sounds so arrogant. . .” She shrugged, looking suddenly baffled. “Who knows anything really about this strange world we live in.”

“Perhaps you saw a movie—a documentary about Yorkshire that featured the abbey. Perhaps that's why it's so familiar to you,” Patsy suggested.

“I don't think so. And how do you explain that peculiar sense of loss I experienced?”

Patsy said, “I can't.”

A young waitress came in with the tray of tea; the two women fell silent.

Once they were alone again, Patsy remarked quietly, staring closely at Meredith, “You were pretty excited last night . . . I mean about buying Skell Garth House. I hope your odd experience this morning hasn't made you change your mind.”

“No, it hasn't, Patsy. Quite the contrary. It's obvious that Fountains Abbey is meaningful, although I don't quite understand why. Still, I see that as a good omen for the future. Anyway, I like the inn. You were right about it.” She gave her partner a warm smile. “It's a little gem in its own way, and certainly it's got a lot more going for it than Heronside. Too many cushions
indeed.
Skell Garth is quaint and charming, and it has a great atmosphere, is loaded with comfort. Of course, it's a bit shabby, but it doesn't need any big money spent on it.”

“All Skell Garth House needs, in my opinion, is a good decorating job. And you're the best person to do it, Meredith.”

Meredith nodded, but made no comment.

Patsy lifted her cup of tea. “Here's to our new inn, then. May it be ever prosperous.”

“To Skell Garth House.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

L
uc de Montboucher looked from Agnes D'Auberville to Meredith and said, “You must allow six months at least for the remodeling. To cut the time down to four months will only mean disaster.”

Agnes said, “We'd hoped to have the inn open by the summer—”

“That is not possible!” he exclaimed, cutting in swiftly. “There's too much to do, and some of the work is major, such as the architectural changes you want. And which are necessary I might add. Then there's new wiring, plumbing, windows, and floors. Most of the walls have to be replastered and sanded.” He lifted his hands in a typically Gallic gesture, and finished, “To be honest, Agnes . . . Meredith . . . six months is going to be a tough schedule for the contractor, please let me alert you to that fact right now. I sincerely hope he can keep to it.”

“But the Manoir de la Closière is not such a large house,” Agnes remarked, and turned to Meredith. “You've now been there twice this week, what's your opinion?”

It was Friday. The three of them were having lunch in the Relais Plaza of the Plaza Athénée hotel in Paris, having spent the morning going over ideas for the transformation of the old house.

Now Meredith put down her fork and returned her French partner's penetrating look. “You're right, Agnes, inasmuch as it's not a huge house, but it is in terrible disrepair, in much worse shape than the château was. I happen to think Luc is correct. And I doubt very much that we can get the remodeling finished in less time than he suggests. In fact, I believe it's a bit foolhardy to allow only six months.” Glancing at Luc, she asked, “Don't you think it would be wiser to settle for eight?”

Before he had a chance to answer, Agnes exclaimed somewhat heatedly, “But we remodeled and redecorated Château de Cormeron in a year! And that's a much bigger place.”

“I know. However, the manor house at Montfort-L'Amaury hasn't been so well cared for,” Meredith pointed out. “I think it's unfair of us to expect Luc to work with unrealistic time schedules. He's right, we're only going to end up with a disaster.”

Agnes was silent.

Luc nodded, gave Meredith the benefit of a warm smile. “Thank you for understanding my problems.”

Meredith liked him. He was an attractive man, with a great deal of continental charm, yet sincere.

“When
would
we open the inn then?” Agnes asked.

“I think it will have to be next spring . . . the spring of 1996. I don't believe we have any other alternative. Luc's pretty clear in his mind about what we want, and he will soon know what's feasible. I suppose he could start the work in a month from now. Am I correct, Luc?”

“You are. I will complete my plans for your approval as quickly as possible. If you like them and give me the go-ahead, I can have the contractor in there by the end of January. He can start demolition of some of the interiors. And if there are no unforeseen problems, we should be able to finish by June. I will endeavor to complete the job in six months, not eight, as you suggested. Thank you for offering those extra two months; however, I don't think we'll be needing them.”

Meredith said, “That's good to know.” Addressing Agnes, she continued. “As soon as the contractor is finished, we can bring in the other trades . . . the painters, paperhangers, et cetera, and they will be finished in four months quite easily. Starting next week, you and I can begin to create the decorative schemes.”

“Well, all right,” Agnes murmured, “If you think it's going to take a whole year, then it will.” She laughed, suddenly relaxing, and shrugged. “I must admit, you're rarely wrong when it comes to a remodeling job.” Digging her fork into a piece of fish, she concluded, “The problem with me is that I'm overanxious. I can't wait to get the new inn running properly and open to the public.”

“There's nothing wrong with that,” Meredith responded. “But if we try to do it at breakneck speed, it's asking for trouble.”

“I'm glad we're all agreed,” Luc said. “And let me just add that the manor is charming, and has endless possibilities, especially since the grounds are also so pleasant. I think you've made a good choice.”

“Thanks to you, Agnes,” Meredith said. “You spotted the house.”

Looking pleased, her nervousness about the schedule now abating completely, Agnes took a long swallow of white wine. “Then it's settled. Luc will get the plans done quickly and once they're ready he can send them on an overnight to New York. Now—” She paused, reached out, and squeezed Meredith's arm. “What are
your
plans for the weekend?”

“Nothing special, really. I thought I'd take it easy, do a little shopping, and maybe go to the Marché aux Puces on Sunday. But please don't worry about me, Agnes, I know you've got your hands full.”

Agnes grimaced. “I'm afraid I do, with Alain and Chloe both down with the flu. Thank God I haven't caught it from them.”

“I'm sorry they're not well, and you mustn't fuss about me, I'll be all right on my own this weekend.”

Luc lifted his glass, drank a little of his wine, and sat back in his chair, scrutinizing Meredith across the luncheon table. Eventually he said, “If you really don't have anything special to do this weekend, I would like to invite you to my house in the country. I'm leaving tomorrow morning; we could drive there together, and I would bring you back to Paris early on Monday.”

“That's so nice of you, Luc,” Meredith murmured and hesitated. “I don't know . . . I don't want to impose . . .”

“But you're not imposing, I invited you. And I would
like
you to come. It's not going to be a very fancy weekend with lots of guests, if that's what is worrying you. In fact, I must warn you, we will be there alone and you might find that boring. Although the countryside is beautiful, and perhaps you would enjoy it.”

“Well, thank you . . .” Meredith began and stopped, still uncertain.

Agnes looked from one to the other and jumped in, saying swiftly, “Luc has the most charming old house. In the Loire. It's really unique, Meredith, you'll love it. You
must
go for the weekend.”

“Yes, do please come, Meredith,” Luc insisted.

“All right, then, I will,” Meredith said, suddenly making up her mind. “And again, thank you very much for inviting me.”

 

After lunch Agnes and Meredith walked back to the Havens offices which were located in a narrow street off the Rue de Rivoli.

“I've been collecting fabrics and wallpapers for the past few weeks,” Agnes explained once they were ensconced in her cluttered private domain.

Flopping down onto a sofa, she dragged two large shopping bags toward her and said, “Come on, Meredith, sit here next to me and well go through some of these. I thought it would be a good idea to have something on hand, so we can start formulating our decorative schemes well in advance.”

“You must have scoured the whole of Paris,” Meredith laughed, joining her, plunging her hands into one of the shopping bags. “I've never seen so many samples.” She took out a blue-and-red fabric and stared at it. “1 like this . . . it looks like a Manuel Canovas . . . oh yes, so it is.”

“He's very eligible, you know,” Agnes said, also delving into one of the bags.

“Who? Manuel Canovas? I thought he was married.”

“No, not Manuel Canovas.
Luc de Montboucher.
That's who I'm talking about.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you say
oh
like that? In that surprised tone?”

“Are you trying to be a matchmaker, Agnes?”

“Not really.” Agnes laughed. “It hadn't really crossed my mind until he invited you for the weekend. Then it suddenly hit me . . . he's attractive, successful, and, most important, single.”

“Divorced?”

“No, I don't think he's been married.” Agnes frowned and bit her lip. “No, wait a moment . . . perhaps he
was
married and she died. I can't remember. He's a friend of Alain's, I'll have to double-check that.”

“How old do you think he is? About forty?”

“I think he's a bit older than that, if I remember correctly. About forty-three perhaps. I'll ask Alain when I get home tonight and I'll call you at the hotel.”

Meredith laughed, shook her head. “He's only asked me to go to his house for the weekend, he hasn't proposed marriage.”

“I know, on the other hand, my dear Meredith, I believe he's rather taken with you. I've noticed him looking at you over the past few days, and looking at you with great interest, I would like to add. In that certain way.”

“What do you mean by
certain
way?”

“With curiosity. It's perfectly obvious he wants to get to know you better. Do you like him?”

“Of course, otherwise I wouldn't have accepted his invitation to go to the Loire with him.”

“He is a very talented architect. But you know that from the examples of his work he showed you at his office yesterday. We've been lucky to get him for this job. And as I said, he's very eligible, which is most important.”

“The way you spoke, you must know his house,” Meredith murmured, changing the subject.

“Yes, Alain and I have been there a couple of times. In the summer . . . never at this time of year. But it's a lovely old place. Between Talcy and Menars.”

“Where's that in relation to our inn?”

“It's higher up, just up beyond Blois, closer to Orléans than Cormeron. Do you remember that time Alain and I took you to Chambord?”

Meredith nodded.

“Well, Chambord is in a direct line to Talcy across the river Loire.”

“I think I know where you mean. What kind of house is it?”

“Big . . . Clos-Talcy has been in his family for hundreds of years. It's been well looked after, kept in good repair. I think Luc goes there most weekends; it's only a few hours drive, closer to Paris than Cormeron.”

“I'm glad I brought some country clothes,” Meredith said, now suddenly wondering what she had let herself in for this weekend.

“Oh you don't have to worry, I think he lives quite casually,” Agnes remarked, and handed her a swatch of fabric. “Do you like this?”

Meredith examined it and nodded. “You know I love red toile de Jouy. It would work well with black furniture or black accessories.”

“Luc really was looking at you in that certain way,
chérie,”
Agnes remarked, eyeing Meredith. “I'm not inventing that.”

“I believe you,” Meredith answered, and began to laugh, amused by Agnes and her romantic notions.