Her Own Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Morrison stared at her. But he remained silent.
“I can introduce you to the right bank,” Meredith volunteered, wanting to conclude the deal.
“Do you think they would give me a mortgage on the inn?” he asked, taking the bait.
“I’m pretty certain, yes. There’s something else I’ll do. I’ll have my real estate lawyer structure a reasonable payment schedule, one that won’t cripple you.”
Elizabeth Morrison said, “That’s very decent of you.”
Meredith answered, “I want to make the deal and I don’t want to gouge you. You want to make the deal and I’m sure you don’t want to cheat me.”
“Never! We’re not people like that!” the other woman exclaimed indignantly.
“I must say, you’re making it very tempting,” Morrison muttered, directing his gaze at Meredith. “Making it hard to resist.”
“Then don’t resist, Mr. Morrison,” Meredith said, walking back to the fireplace.
He got to his feet when she drew to a stop next to his chair.
Meredith thrust out her hand. “Come on, let’s not haggle. Let’s make the deal. It’s good for us both, beneficial to us both.”
He hesitated only fractionally. Then he took her hand and shook it. “All right, Mrs. Stratton, you’ve got a deal. Three and a half million dollars it is.”
Meredith nodded and smiled at him.
He returned her smile.
Elizabeth Morrison came over and shook Meredith’s hand.
Paul Ince, who had been on pins and needles throughout this negotiation, congratulated everyone, then said, “I think this calls for a toast. Let’s go to the bar and I’ll open a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”
“What a great idea, Paul,” Meredith said, leading the way out of the library.
On the drive back to New York City, Meredith gave only fleeting thought to Hilltops. She had accomplished what she had set out to do; she had sold the inn for the amount she wanted through her shrewdness, and she was well satisfied. Three and a half million dollars would meet her expansion needs more than adequately.
Before leaving the inn, she had settled everything. Arrangements had been made for the Morrisons to meet with her real estate lawyer, who would draw up the necessary documents next week. She had also set up an appointment for them to see Henry Raphaelson. The banker had sounded amenable during the phone call, had assured her he would endeavor to work things out with the Morrisons.
And so she turned her thoughts to other matters as Jonas drove back to Manhattan. Mostly she focused her attention on her trip to England, and on the purchase of an inn there. She was confident she would like one of the two Patsy Canton had found. With luck, she would be able to bring that bit of business to a conclusion fairly quickly, so that she could go to Paris to see Agnes D’Auberville.
Patsy had invited her to lunch on Sunday so that they could go over business matters and map out a plan, and in so doing save time. The general idea was that they would travel to the north of England on Monday, going first to Cumbria. After looking at the inn located in the Lake District, they would drive down to Yorkshire to see the one in the dales.
When she had asked Patsy which of the two inns she preferred, her partner had been somewhat evasive. “The one in Keswick needs much less done to it,” she had said, and then clammed up.
When Meredith had pressed her further, Patsy had refused to make any more comments. “I want this to be your decision and yours alone,” Patsy had murmured. “If I give you my opinion now, before you’ve seen either hotel, I’ll be influencing you, setting you up in advance. So don’t press me.”
It had been Patsy’s suggestion that if she had no reason to return to London, she should fly to Paris from the Leeds-Bradford Airport. “There’re lots of flights to Paris from there and also from Manchester, which is nearby.” Meredith had agreed that this was a great idea, since it would save so much time.
Leaning back against the car seat, she closed her eyes, thinking of the packing she still had to do, trying to decide what clothes to take. Unexpectedly, she thought of Reed Jamison and the dinner date she had made with him. The mere idea of seeing him filled her with dismay, but she knew she must keep the appointment if she were to break off with him.
It was never on, she thought, sitting up, glancing out of the window. Their relationship had never really lifted off the ground, although lately he seemed to believe otherwise. In an effort to make herself feel better, she adopted a positive attitude, assured herself that it was going to be easy. He would understand. After all, he was a grown man.
Deep down Meredith knew she was wrong in this assessment of him. Instinctively, she felt he was going to be difficult. Her dismay turned into apprehension.
“I know you thought I was being stubborn the other day,” Patsy Canton said, “when I wouldn’t discuss the inns with you, but—”
“More like evasive,” Meredith interrupted.
“Not evasive, not stubborn either. Just cautious. I didn’t want you to get any preconceived ideas, especially from me, before you saw the inns. But now I can give you a sort of—preview, shall we say. The owner of the inn near Lake Windermere in the Lakes sent us a batch of photographs. They arrived yesterday. Let me get them for you.”
Patsy pushed herself out of the chair, walked across the small red sitting room of her house in London’s Belgravia, where she and Meredith were having a drink before lunch on Sunday.
In her late thirties, she was an attractive woman, in a way more handsome than pretty, almost as tall as Meredith and well built. Her hair was blonde, cut short, and it curled all over her head; her gray eyes were large and full of intelligence. But it was her flawless English complexion that everyone commented on.
Pausing at the small Georgian desk, Patsy picked up a large envelope and walked back to the sofa, where she sat down next to Meredith.
“Ian Grainger, the owner of Heronside, is rather proud of the pictures. He took them himself, last spring and summer.” So saying, she handed the envelope to Meredith, who pulled out the photographs eagerly.
After a few seconds spent looking at them, she turned to Patsy and said, “I’m not surprised he’s proud of them. The pictures are beautiful. So is Heronside, if these are anything to go by.”
“Very much so, Meredith. In a way, the photographs don’t really do the inn and the grounds justice. There’s such a sense of luxury in the rooms, you feel pampered just walking into one of them. The whole inn is very well done, lovely antiques and fabrics, and I know you’ll like the decorative schemes, the overall ambiance. As for the grounds, they’re breathtaking, don’t you think?”
Meredith nodded, shuffled through the pictures again, and picked one of them out. It was a woodland setting. The ground was carpeted with irises and rafts of sunlight slanted down through the leafy green canopies of the trees. Just beyond were brilliant yellow daffodils growing on a slope, and, far beyond this, a stretch of the lake could be seen—vast, placid, silvery, glistening in the sun.
“Look, Patsy,” Meredith said, and handed it to her partner. “Isn’t this gorgeous?”
“Yes, and most especially the slope covered in daffodils. Doesn’t it remind you of Wordsworth’s poem?”
Meredith stared at her.
“The one about the daffodils. Don’t you know it?”
Meredith shook her head.
Patsy