Her Own Rules (23 page)

Meredith took it from her, sipped the water, and said after a moment, “I’m sorry for my outburst.”

“I’m not, and you shouldn’t be either. You should be glad. It’s done you good, I’m sure of that. And it is the first step toward your recovery. Whenever you are ready to start talking again, I am here to listen.

Don’t rush…the rest of the day is for you. The evening too, if that is necessary, Meredith.”

“Thank you. Yes…yes…I must tell you…” Meredith now took a deep breath and began:

“I grew up in an orphanage in Sydney. I was eight years old when Gerald and Merle Stratton adopted me. She didn’t like my name, so she called me Meredith. They weren’t very nice. Cold, hard-hearted people. They treated me like a maid. I did all the housework early in the morning and after school at night. I was only eight. They didn’t really mistreat me, but he thought nothing of hitting me. She was mean, too, and stingy—with food especially. I grew to hate them. I wanted to go back to the orphanage. Then they were killed in a car crash when I was ten. His sister Mercedes didn’t want me. She sent me back to the orphanage. I was there until I was fifteen. I saw Mercedes only once again, when she helped me get my passport. She was glad I was leaving with the Paulsons.”

238 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

Meredith stopped, leaned against the sofa cushions, and closed her eyes. She took several deep breaths to steady herself. After a short time she opened her eyes and looked directly at Hilary. She began to tremble.

The psychiatrist took hold of her hand, asked softly in a gentle voice, “Was there any sexual abuse when you were living with the Strattons? Did either of them abuse you?”

“No, there was never anything like that. They didn’t sexually molest me. There was just this awful coldness and indifference, as if I weren’t there. I was there only to be their maid, that’s what I thought then. I still think it. I was relieved when they were killed. They never showed me one iota of affection. I had always thought that when I got adopted, somebody was going to love me at last. But no one did.”

A bleak look crossed her face, hurt shadowed her eyes, and when she spoke, pain echoed in her voice.

“I can never begin to explain to you the horror of being in an orphanage. Nobody cares a thing about you…never to be touched, or held, or shown any love.

I never knew why I was there. I worried a lot about that. I thought I’d been put there by my parents because I’d been bad. I didn’t understand. All I wanted was to find out who my parents were. I never did.

Nobody told me anything, they never answered my questions….”

“What is your earliest memory, Meredith? Close your eyes, relax, try to go back in time, try to focus Her Own Rules / 239

on your youngest years. What do you see? What do you remember?”

After a while Meredith spoke. She said in a quiet voice, “I see a river. But that’s all.” She opened her eyes. “Perhaps that’s why I like living near water.”

“How old were you when you went to the orphanage?”

“I don’t know, Dr. Benson, I was always there.”

“From being a baby?”

“Yes. No. No, I don’t think so. In my nightmare last night there was the ship. When I was a very little girl I used to remember being on a ship.”

“Do you mean a ship or a boat? There’s a difference.”

Meredith closed her eyes again, pushing her memory back to her childhood. She saw herself in her mind’s eye; she saw boys and girls going up a gangplank. She was one of them. She saw sailors, seamen, docks. She saw a flagpole. The Union Jack flying atop it.

Meredith sat up straighter, opened her eyes, and looked at Hilary intently. “I do mean a ship and not a boat. And an oceangoing ship, too. A British ship, flying a British flag. I
must
have been on a ship, perhaps with other children. Maybe that explains the children who are always in the dream.”

“It’s possible. Please try and think harder, think back.

Could you have been born in England and taken to Australia when very young?”

“Maybe I was. But why don’t I remember anything about it? Why don’t I remember those years?”

240 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

“It’s called repressed memory, Meredith. I believe something terrible happened to you when you were a small child, causing deep trauma that resulted in repressed memory. In fact, I’m pretty positive that’s what you’re suffering from, and I believe it’s the reason for your attacks of fatigue.
Psychogenic fatigue
.”

“But why now? Why haven’t I had the attacks in the past? Why not years ago?”

“Because the memory stayed deeply buried. That was the way you wanted it. So that you could function.

Now something has triggered it. The repressed memory is trying to surface.”

“What do you think triggered it?”

“I can’t be absolutely certain, but I believe it was your visit to Fountains Abbey.”

“You
do
think I was there before?”

“Possibly. Most probably. It would certainly explain a great deal.”

“Is there any other way you can trigger my repressed memory, Dr. Benson?”

“Only you can do it really, by endeavoring to go back in time to your earliest childhood years. You’re going to England next week. Something else might give your memory a good jolt while you are there. In the meantime, let us talk a little longer about your years in the orphanage.”

Meredith shivered violently and threw Hilary a look of horror. “No child should ever have to live like that,”

she exclaimed, anger surfacing. “But I’ll tell you more about it if you want me to.”

Her Own Rules / 241

“I do. I realize how painful it is for you, but it may well give me more clues, something else to go on, Meredith.”

Later that night she rang Luc. She could no longer bear to keep the secret of her past from him. Also, she felt the need to confide, share, and in turn receive comfort from him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

C
atherine Stratton sat back and studied the illustration on her drawing board, her head held on one side, her eyes narrowed slightly as she assessed her work.

The watercolor in front of her was of a small boy curled up in a crib, sleeping, with one hand tucked under his cheek. She smiled to herself, liking its inno-cence, its charm. It was perfect for the last poem in the children’s book of verse she had been illustrating for the past few weeks. Now, at last, it was finished and ready to go to the publishers.

Work well done, she thought, taking up a fine-nibbed pen, signing
Cat
with a flourish. She had always used her diminutive on her work, and it was a signature that was becoming well-known these days.

Sliding down off the tall stool, she lifted her arms above her head, did a few stretching exercises, and Her Own Rules / 243

then walked across her studio and out into the main loft space, heading for the kitchen.

This was a good size, decorated in a crisp blue and white color scheme, and it was equipped with all the latest appliances. It was the perfect kitchen for a dedic-ated chef, which Catherine was. She had loved cooking since childhood, had been encouraged and taught by her mother and Blanche O’Brien, at Silver Lake, who had always been like a favorite cuddly aunt.

Catherine stood washing her hands at the sink under the window that looked uptown. It offered a unique view of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings. That afternoon those towering skyscrapers sparkled against the blue April sky, and she thought they had never looked better than on this lovely spring day. Except perhaps at night when they were fully illuminated, their glittering spires etched against the dark sky. To Catherine they would always typify Manhattan.

Reaching for the kettle, she filled it and put it on the cooktop to boil. Then she busied herself with cups and saucers, took out various items from the refrigerator, and started to make a selection of small tea sandwiches.

Catherine and her mother had designed her SoHo loft. Her studio was at one end, with big windows and a skylight in the sloping roof; the dining area flowed off the kitchen, and beyond there was a large living room decorated like a library. Two bedrooms were situated to the right of the living room, and each had its own bathroom.

244 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

It was a vast loft, cleverly divided to maximize the space and the light and it had a pristine, airy feeling.

This was not due only to its grand size and many windows but to the pale color schemes used throughout.

The loft had been Catherine’s twenty-first birthday present four years earlier. “But it’s not from me, you know,” her mother had told her. “It’s from Jack and Amelia in a sense, even though they’re dead. I bought it for you with money from their estate.”

It was then that Meredith had fully explained about Amelia’s will, the vast inheritance that was now hers along with Silver Lake Inn, the house she had grown up in, and all of the Silver land: one hundred and fifty acres. All of this had been held in trust for her by her mother ever since Amelia’s death; Meredith had effectively increased its value through clever investing of the money Amelia had left. Catherine had suddenly understood that day four years ago that she was an heiress, and a very lucky young woman.

Catherine had always known that Jack Silver was her father. Her mother had told her the truth when she was old enough to understand. She barely remembered him and even Amelia was a shadowy figure in her mind. Her mother had always been the domin-ant person in her life, and she adored Meredith.

Catherine had never judged Meredith and Jack. She was far too intelligent to do that, and mature enough to realize that no one else ever knew exactly what went on between two people. Three in this case, for obviously Amelia had acquiesced, or had perhaps turned a blind eye to their relationship.

Her Own Rules / 245

Once, when she had questioned Blanche O’Brien, Blanche had said that she shouldn’t waste time dwelling on that old situation. “Nobody got hurt, everybody was happy, they all three loved each other, and you were the crowning point in their lives. They adored you, and Amelia behaved like a second mother to you.”

Sometimes she wondered about her mother’s past; she understood many things about it, even though Meredith had always been somewhat secretive about her early years in Australia. It seemed to her that her mother started to live her life only when she came to Connecticut.

From odd things her mother had said over the years, Catherine knew that her childhood had been terrible—bleak, without love, or even the merest hint of affection.

Meredith had loved Jon and her with a sort of terrible fury, single-mindedly, with total devotion, and to the exclusion of anyone else.

Perhaps this was because of the deprivation Meredith had endured as a child. Certainly it had always seemed to Catherine that her mother had set out to give them all of the things she herself had never had, and much, much more.

Meredith had always been the most wonderful mother, and probably to the detriment of her relationship with David Layton, Jon’s father. She and her brother had always come first with Meredith, and perhaps he had grown tired and resentful of taking second place in her life and her affections.

246 / Barbara Taylor Bradford

That marriage had foundered after four years, and within no time at all, David, the country lawyer, had moved to the West Coast. Much to their amazement, he had turned himself into a hot-shot show business lawyer with a string of famous movie star clients. They had never seen him again, heard only infrequently, and not at all after the first year or so. Not that her brother or she cared. Jon had always loved his mother the most, and anyway, David Layton had not been much of a father, or stepfather, for that matter.

Meredith was her best friend. She had not only given her a great deal of love and been supportive, she had encouraged her to chase her dreams and fulfill her ambitions. In fact, she had been instrumental in helping her to do this. And she had been exactly the same with Jon, always there for him, advising him when he asked, rooting for him, cheering him on. Meredith had been mother and father to them both.

She and her brother were delighted that their mother had met Luc de Montboucher. They had taken to him immediately, and had encouraged their mother in this relationship.

They thought he was the perfect mate for her, and Jon was convinced they would get married. She hoped her brother was correct in this conviction. Nothing would please her more than to see Meredith in a happy relationship, especially now that she herself was getting married. She hated to think of her mother alone. It was about time she had some personal happiness in her life.

Luc had been to New York a number of times, Her Own Rules / 247

and her mother was virtually commuting to Paris, and this seemed to bode well for the future. Also, she had put the Vermont inn up for sale, and had confided only the other day that she was not looking to make a big profit. “I just want to get out unscathed financially,”

Meredith had said. “Fortunately, I’ve several potential buyers.”

When Catherine had told Jon about this conversation he had grinned and said, “See, I told you so!

Mom’s going to marry Luc and move to France, or at least spend most of her time there. Just you wait and see, Cat.”

Her mother was leaving for Europe that night, first stop London. She had business with Patsy, but she was planning to spend time in France.

Catherine covered the plate of tea sandwiches with a dampened linen napkin, the way Blanche had taught her as a child, and pushed the plate to a corner of the countertop; then she rinsed the strawberries and hulled them.

Her mind was still on her mother. She had been seeing a psychiatrist for the past few weeks, trying to discover why she had these peculiar attacks of fatigue.

During the weekend, they had talked on the phone, and Meredith had said that Dr. Benson was helping her to unearth repressed memories of her childhood.

Finally she believed she was getting somewhere, making headway.

Catherine hoped so. All she wanted was for her mother to come to terms with her past, gain peace of mind, as well as a bit of happiness for once. After 248 / Barbara Taylor Bradford