breeze.
Â
âItâs lovely,â Meredith said.
âDidnât you learn it at school?â
âNo,â Meredith murmured.
Patsy went on. âI like the last verse best of all. Would you care to hear it?â
âPlease,â Meredith replied. âYou recite poetry extremely well.â
Once more Patsy launched into the poem:
Â
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.
Â
âItâs really beautiful,â Meredith said, smiling at her. âItâs very peaceful . . . serene.â
âThatâs how I feel about it.â
âI think Iâve heard that last verse before. Somewhere. But Iâm not sure where,â Meredith murmured. âNot at school, though.â 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, âUnfortunately, I donât 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 didnât quite capture the spirit of the place, its soul. So I decided not to take them. Youâll have to judge it cold when we get to the site.â
âThatâs no problem.â Meredith looked at her closely. âBut you do like Skell Garth, donât you?â
âOh yes, Meredith, very much, otherwise I wouldnât be dragging you there,â Patsy quickly reassured her partner. âThe setting is superb, the surrounding landscape awe-inspiring, picturesque actually. And from the inn thereâs a most fabulous view of Fountains Abbey, one of the most beautiful ruins in all of England. Yes, Skell Garth is a unique place.â
âSkell Garth,â Meredith repeated. âYou know, when you first mentioned it, I thought it was such an odd name.â
âI 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.â
âSo the name actually means the field of the river Skell. Am I correct?â
Patsy laughed, delighted with Meredithâs astuteness. âYouâre absolutely correct! Iâll make a Yorkshirewoman of you yet.â
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, âOh my God! I smell something awful. I hope thatâs not our lunch getting burnt to a cinder.â
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.
âIs it spoiled?â Meredith asked in concern as she walked in.
âFortunately not,â Patsy said, straightening. She closed the oven door and swung to face Meredith, grinning. âA couple of potatoes are singed around the edges, but the lambâs okay. Itâs the onions that are a bit scorched. Theyâre black, actually. Anyway, everythingâs ready, well, almost. I hope youâre hungry, because Iâve cooked up a storm.â
âIâm starving. But you didnât 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.â
âI enjoy doing this occasionally,â Patsy assured her. âIt reminds me of my childhood growing up in Yorkshire. And anyway, Meredith,