Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama)

by Carole Williams

  “So, you managed to drag yourself away from the metropolis and your dubious friends … at last,” he said, turning down the volume on the music cabinet beside him and watching his wife sashay over to the drinks tray to shoot a goodly amount of gin into a glass. He shuddered and grimaced as she drank it quickly. If she was intending to get intoxicated, it would inevitably lead to a scene and he really wasn’t in the mood as he had reached a particular sticky chapter in his latest historical novel centered on the Battle of Towton, which took place in March 1461 during the War of the Roses. Towton was just a few miles from Canleigh and Charles had spent many interesting hours wandering the land where it had occurred, pacing around the area and taking advice from the local historical group who were keen to tell him all they knew about such an important time in English history. He just wanted to get all he had learned down on paper while it was still fresh in his mind and didn’t want the distraction of a row with his wife.

  Margaret looked around the room. It was like Charles. It never changed. Two dreary old brown leather sofas were positioned either side of the marble fireplace with rows and rows of centuries old books lining three walls, along with Charles’s reference books. The only thing she liked was the enormous oil painting hung above the fireplace, painted in the heady days of their engagement. She stood alone, dazzling and resplendent in a strapless vermilion evening gown, her black glossy hair swept into a chignon, a dazzling necklace of diamonds and rubies around her long elegant neck. Her left hand, touching the necklace, was adorned with her engagement ring, a cluster of identical stones.

  “Well, I didn’t have much choice, did I?” she snapped, remembering his curt telephone call last night, informing her that she had to return to Canleigh immediately. “I honestly don’t know what the fuss is about and why you insisted I had to come back here before I intended to.”

  Charles drew in his breath and let it out slowly, trying to keep his composure. “We have an agreement, Margaret, and in the last few weeks you have been bordering on breaking it and I simply can’t risk it. You promised faithfully that you would be discreet so the children should never have to hear anything untoward about you and I warned you that if you ever created a scandal in any shape or form, there will be a divorce, and the generous allowance I provide every month will be cancelled immediately.”

  Margaret turned to stare at him with a puzzled frown on her face. “But I have been discreet … all my dalliances have been with married men … who are also quite happy to keep everything under wraps in case their precious wives find out, and in public, I’ve always made sure to be in a large group … and I drink very little when socialising and certainly don’t touch drugs.” She purposefully put what had occurred last year with Jimmy, who had been single ... and then the subsequent demise of her maid … to the back of her mind. She had been on pins for a few months afterwards but no-one had ever found out about what happened on that cruise ship and she sincerely hoped it would stay that way … and then there was her present infatuation … he wasn’t married either. “So, Charles, darling” she blithely continued, “I really don’t understand what the problem is.”

  Charles swallowed. He hated confrontation in any shape or form, was sometimes at a loss to know how to deal with his wayward wife, and certainly didn’t want to know about her affairs.

  “Just lately, your comings and goings appear to be in the tabloids more and more frequently, junketing about from one party or nightclub and always with a group of idle people who have nothing else they want to do but have a good time. It doesn’t look good, Margaret, and the children are becoming aware of it. Delia was in the village shop last week and saw you on the front of some newspaper or other, in a revealing dress, leaving a club with a crowd of rowdy drunks. She was upset and embarrassed and I simply won’t have it, Margaret. It’s not fair on the children and it’s not fair on me … and we also agreed you would have to be home for all the school holidays. The children have been here for three days now with no sign of you and as it’s half term, it won’t be long before they resume their education.”

  Margaret pulled a face. “Yes, okay. It was a bit unfortunate we were seen that night and I promise it won’t happen again but please don’t threaten me, Charles. Now, while I am here,” she went on quickly, changing the subject. “I want to talk about the long summer holiday. I was going to ask if I could give Blairness a miss this year. Francis Devere has invited a few of us to spend some time on his yacht in the Med and you know how Scotland affects me,” she shuddered at the thought of her mother-in-law’s chilly old castle where they all had to spend most of every August. Then there were the endless days of rain. It always seemed to pour when they ventured up to the Highlands.

  Charles started shaking his head and the tone of his voice was firm. “Have you listened to anything I have said? No, Margaret. You know what the agreement between us is. If you wish to enjoy your freedom for the remainder of the year, you have to join us during school holidays and that includes Blairness. You rarely spend any time with the children as it is and they do need to remember what you look like,” he added disdainfully.

  “Oh, don’t be so difficult, Charles,” she said impatiently. “The children don’t enjoy my company any more than I enjoy theirs. Let’s be honest. No-one will miss me if I don’t come. In fact, I would imagine they … and your mother … will be pretty much relieved.”

  “That’s beside the point, Margaret, and you know it. We need to keep up some pretence that we are a family.”

  “Come on, darling. Please,” she wheedled, with a pout. “Or, if you’re worried that we’re never seen together, why don’t you send the children to Scotland with your mother as they all love it so much and you could join us on the yacht. It would be such fun,” she drooled, running long red immaculately manicured nails along his shoulders as she moved to the open French windows and looked out over the parterre, breathing in the fragrance drifting up from the recently clipped box hedges. “Just think of all those lovely warm nights under the stars … and the fun we could have. All that hot sun, swimming … and sex.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he uttered. “Why on earth would I want to do that? Blairness it is and that is my final word on the subject … and until then I want you to remain here.”

  Margaret looked at him, horrified. “What! For the whole summer? Charles, no. There’s Henley Regatta, Ascot, and a couple of balls to which I’ve been invited. I can’t possibly not be there.”

  She was panicking and hoped Charles wouldn’t realise it. She couldn’t be away from London for so long. She needed to be near the gorgeous, sexy, irresistible Simon. She had lusted after him ever since meeting him at one of his mother’s business launches a few weeks ago. He was much younger than her, and single, and her firm resolution to only have affairs with married men was blown away when she first set eyes on him. She was totally smitten and caution was being thrown to the winds. Their relationship was at the delicious, heady anticipation stage of a torrid fling and she simply had to find a way to get back to London … and as fast as possible.

  “What about the house?” she said quickly. “You know I need to be there to oversee the renovations. After all, you asked me to do it.”

  Charles sat down and shuffled some papers on his desk. “As far as I am aware, the renovations for Canleigh House are complete … so there is absolutely no need for you to remain in Mayfair any longer. I shall be informing the agents it’s ready and they can now search for some new tenants. If you do go to London again, you will have to use the Savoy, as you did before we arranged for you to be on site for the renovations, and it goes without saying that I’m grateful for your help with it.”

  Margaret moved back to the French windows and looked out, keeping her face averted from Charles while she tried to think. She didn’t see her thirteen-year old twins pass the library door and pause as they realised she was there with their father.

  “You can’t keep me a prisoner here, Charles.”

  C
harles looked at her glumly. His marriage had been the disaster his mother had predicted, right from the time of his honeymoon but even more so following Margaret’s revelation in the hospital that she had an illegitimate child, a subject he had never broached with her. He had done his best to dismiss her words that day, pretending to himself that she had only spoken because of the anaesthetic, which she had, of course, as she was obviously never going to tell him when she was lucid; but he had never forgotten it and any trust in her had died the day his twins were born. He had to admit he hadn’t tried very hard to make the marriage work after that. They simply weren’t suited and were happier living apart so unable to bear her continued presence at Canleigh where she was so depressed and miserable, which created a terrible strained atmosphere for the whole family, he had come up with a solution, which suited everyone. It had cost him a pretty penny, with the bills for the Savoy and her trips with her friends around the world but it had been worth it for peace and quiet and as long as she kept to her side of the bargain, he was relatively happy.

  Her desire to spend so much time in the capital was also useful when his agents had advised that the long-term tenants of Canleigh House, their London home, were leaving and before it was suitable to be let again, it would need modernising. Someone had to oversee the work and Margaret had offered. With trepidation, he had agreed, knowing that in the privacy of their own home she was far more likely to go completely off the rails than in a busy hotel but with the stringent rules he had placed on her freedom, had hoped she would be sensible and he wouldn’t have to step in to curb her behaviour. It had been fine at first because she was associating with people who also knew the rules but in the last few weeks, she seemed to be mixing with a younger set who always seemed to be spilling out of nightclubs in various states of intoxication. He simply had to rein her in now the children were getting wind of her shenanigans.

  “Margaret, all I have ever wanted is for you to behave with a modicum of respect for your position and this family. Just remain here until August, then we’ll go to Blairness as usual, and after that … well, if you want to disappear again, that’s up to you but I shall have to insist you don’t fraternise with the people you are presently carousing with.”

  Margaret’s heart was pounding fiercely. She would go mad if she had to remain here until September, only broken up by four miserable weeks in Scotland, but she had no choice. Charles called the shots and that was that. What was she going to do? Simon would go off the boil if she didn’t get back to London and she had never wanted a man so much. She would go crazy stuck here, not knowing what was going on and she could hardly tell Charles that she was utterly besotted by a stunning, captivating, charismatic twenty-three-year old and would go insane if she couldn’t have him. She tingled all over at the very thought of Simon’s skin touching hers, his hands on her body. She had to stop herself moaning at the very thought. She had to get out of here again. She just had to … and she had to get out of this room this minute or she might say something she would regret.

  She downed her gin, banged the glass on Charles’ desk, gave him a withering look, and stormed out of the library, just missing the twins as they hurtled down the kitchen stairs to avoid her.

  * * *

  The ponies careered up the field urged on by their young riders. As usual, thirteen- year old Lady Delia Canleigh was yards in front, long black hair flapping wildly on her back as she sped along, urging Star, her grey Welsh Mountain pony, up the steep incline to the beautiful copper beech tree, which was the marker for such races to end. This was the highest point on the Canleigh estate, a great place from which to view the Hall and its many acres disappearing into the distance.

  Fifteen-year old Philip Kershaw, the ‘lad from next door’ and who was Delia’s best friend, was close behind. Desperate to catch up and overtake Delia, his young face was grim with determination to win for once. Richard, Delia’s twin, with the grand title of Marquess of Keighton, followed at a gentler pace, wondering what on earth he was doing here when he could have been nice and cool in his bedroom reading the latest medical journals he had managed to get his hands on. He simply didn’t have the competitiveness of the other two and was quite happy to let them beat him to it. He didn’t mind riding now and again but was content to take it all much slower, just as he took everything else in his life, especially if Delia was involved. Having such an intense sister was quite exhausting at times and he found it much easier to let her have her way in virtually everything, which gave him a far more peaceful existence.

  Delia won the race. She always did. She had been born to the saddle and it was the one thing she excelled in and which gave her huge satisfaction. When riding she felt in total control of her world and totally free of mental or physical restraints.

  Star slid to a halt under the shade of the magnificent tree, its thick branches heavy with shiny brown leaves and Delia turned and laughed at Philip charging up behind her on his piebald pony, Verity, and Richard further down the field on his lazy chestnut mare, Dolly, who was doing little more than ambling up the hill. Scampering over the grass, careful to keep their distance from the ponies, were Freckles, Ellie and Pippa; Granny’s three young mongrels, a mixture of spaniel and something with exceedingly long legs. They liked this particular field and busied themselves searching for anything remotely edible in the hedgerows.

  Freckles owed her life to Granny, who had found her, heavily pregnant, tied to a tree in the woods. Granny had taken her straight home to the Dower House and summoned James Masters, the Vet, to check the poor dog was in a fit condition to deliver her puppies without specialist help. After receiving the news that all that was wrong with the dog was that she needed a good bath and a feed, Granny had lavished all the care she possibly could on her and two days later Ellie and Pippa were born. All three dogs were now as mad as hatters and needed tons of exercise but Delia was always happy to help out if Granny was otherwise engaged, which was why they were all with her today.

  Delia turned her gaze from the dogs to her twin, lagging far behind Philip. Richard really did test her patience as he was so boringly dull and had no spirit of adventure. It was incredible to think they were twins. Their natures were very different and although they looked similar, they certainly weren’t identical. Richard was dark haired, like Delia, with the same big brown eyes but whereas her face was a distinct oval, his was a little rounder and he had a dimple in the centre of his chin and then he had to wear those ghastly spectacles which he hated so much.

  “Come on, slowcoaches. I knew you wouldn’t beat me today,” she called triumphantly, glancing across the acres of land to her beloved home in the distance.

  Canleigh Hall looked even more elegant and imposing in the strong sunshine than it normally did; like a fairy tale palace in an oil painting. With love and longing, Delia gazed down at her home. It wasn’t as big as some of the stately piles she had stayed in belonging to the families of her school friends but it was the most beautiful and she loved every inch of the building and every acre of the land surrounding it intensely. It galled her to think that all of it would one day pass to Richard.

  Their father had tried to explain the stupid primogeniture thingy to her and insisted that although Delia was the first-born, Richard would inherit Canleigh just because he was male but, as there were no others in the wider family, she would be next in line. So, Richard stood in her way and there was simply nothing to be done about it. How desperately unfair was that? She remembered having the most almighty tantrum, screaming and screaming at her father that Richard didn’t love Canleigh as she did and she wanted it and was going to have it! She had been sent to her room and not allowed down again all day and then had to apologise for her behaviour at breakfast the next morning. Standing sullenly beside her father’s chair at the head of the solid mahogany table in the dining room stuffed full of Chippendale furniture and huge paintings on the walls by Titian and Rembrandt, her father’s favourite artists, shuffling her feet and trying to sound s
orry, was torment. Her apology had even sounded false to her but her father had sighed and finally sent her packing back to her room with the warning to never behave like that again and the estate would pass to Richard and she had better get used to the idea.

  It hadn’t been mentioned again in front of her father, although Delia inwardly seethed and made her fury quite plain to Richard, never missing an opportunity to reiterate on how the stupid ancient law that ruled their lives was so very wrong. She knew Richard loved their home but he hadn’t any real passion for it. His focus in life was to attend medical school and eventually become a surgeon. It was certainly not his intention to live here when he was an adult and run the estate himself. He had discussed his ambitions with her and they rarely involved Canleigh until he was too old and feeble to do anything else but retire here.

  Richard had long, lengthy talks with their father, who was fully behind his son’s decision to have a promising career, although disappointed he was not more interested in his inheritance, commenting that he hoped that would change as Richard reached maturity and if not, plans would have to be put in place for Canleigh to be run properly when he became the Duke of Canleigh.

  “I shall find an excellent estate manager and leave him to it,” Richard had told Delia. “You can stay here for as long as you wish, of course. This is your home and I would never ask you to leave it,” he stated generously, during yet another prolonged debate on the subject, desperate to avoid another row and the long uncomfortable silences that always followed. “But I don’t expect you will want to because you will get married to some Earl or other and move away and have lots of babies … and horses I expect,” he laughed, in a feeble attempt to humour her.

  Delia hadn’t been able to answer him at the time. Furious that he thought she would be happy to be a brood mare for some aristocrat she turned on her heel, headed for the stables, and rode furiously across the fields for a good hour before the fury abated.