Her Own Rules by Barbara Taylor Bradford

Fountains Abbey, one of the most beautiful ruins in all of England.
    Yes, Skell Garth is a unique place.”
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    “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.
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    “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.”
    CHAPTER FIVE
    I t 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
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    of interesting fabrics skillfully mixed and matched, vi-brant 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