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

by Carole Williams

  Fifteen minutes later she alighted the taxi, almost threw a five-pound note at him and watched him drive away, still smirking. As soon as he was out of sight she hurried down the road, turned a corner and nearly cried with relief when she saw the street she wanted was empty of reporters and she could sidle into the block of flats undetected, praying there would be no-one in at Amelia’s so she wouldn’t have to give explanations of her sudden presence. She really wasn’t up to it.

  Amelia and all her chums were abroad at the moment so Margaret was lucky. The flat was empty, although the phone was ringing. She lit a cigarette. That bloody phone. It was driving her mad and now she was headline news it was going to get worse, far worse. It might even be Charles. He might have been in touch with Amelia and she might have given him the number. Oh God, whatever was he going to say? She was in shock. She had to think but the noise kept on and on. Unable to stand it any longer she marched into the hall and picked up the receiver, bracing herself in case it was Charles.

  It wasn’t. It was some female wanting to talk to a Charlene. The tension drained from her body for a second as she said firmly she didn’t know who Charlene was and replaced the receiver.

  Helping herself to a shot of brandy from Amelia’s decanter, she smoked two cigarettes down to the butt, frequently checking the windows for signs of journalists gathering outside. She felt utterly trapped. She couldn’t go back to Canleigh House, she daren’t go on the train back to Canleigh Hall, and she certainly couldn’t go to Simon’s. She could stay here. Amelia wouldn’t mind and probably would find it highly amusing in the circumstances. But what would Charles do? Oh, God, she really had made a mess of it this time. She had to talk to someone and there was only one person.

  Simon answered the phone almost as soon as it had started to ring. “Have you seen the papers?” she asked quickly.

  “Yes, Mrs. Cooper had a copy and gave it to me with a distinct look of disapproval on her face … and I now have bloody photographers outside. Mother is going to be furious and as for my damned step-father, he will see red. Blast that bloody journalist … he should be strung up. I am so very sorry, Margaret. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Charles is going to be furious too. He’ll insist I go back I expect and I’ll be placed in never-ending seclusion in that damned awful old house in darkest, deepest Yorkshire for the rest of my life. God knows if I will ever be allowed back into civilisation again.”

  “Christ, Margaret. I am so sorry. It’s my entire fault. If only I hadn’t taken you to the park.”

  “That nasty little man would have got me some time. Don’t blame yourself,” she said, rubbing her forehead. Suddenly she had a massive headache and felt quite sick. Whether it was from a hangover or the situation she was now in or a mixture of both, she had no idea. She just wanted to take a few aspirins, crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and blot out the world.

  Simon drew in a breath. Things had moved much quicker than he had imagined. He had anticipated having a few more days to play with to fully ensnare the beautiful Duchess but the situation was now out of his control. He had to act swiftly before she went back to Yorkshire and she was out of his reach forever.

  “If it’s so bad and your husband doesn’t make you happy, you should leave him,” he said with determination. “Life’s too short to be miserable and we would both be in the depths of despair if you disappear again. Margaret … why don’t we go away together, now? There’s simply no need for you to return to Canleigh … ever … and I certainly don’t want to remain here either, never knowing if I will see you again. Imagine it, just us, alone, with the time and freedom to enjoy each other. Don’t you think that’s a wonderful idea? Surely you can’t want to return to a life where you will wither and die. It would be such a dreadful waste … you, pining for me in the wilds of Yorkshire … and me, pining for you in London, which will become even darker and more dismal than it was last week. Think about it, darling Duchess. We’d have such fun.”

  Margaret gave a soft laugh. “Don’t tempt me.”

  It was an enticing thought but not remotely possible. She was in enough hot water already and didn’t want to make it worse. She liked being a Duchess, liked the money that went with it and even though she hated Canleigh Hall, she liked society knowing she was mistress of it. No, she didn’t really want to give it up. In time, if she kept her head, this would all blow over and she and Charles would reach some kind of compromise again. She didn’t want a divorce and was pretty positive Charles didn’t either. Perhaps once the scandal had died down and she had pacified him, an amicable official separation could be arranged. If she promised to be discreet in future she might be able to persuade Charles to let her live permanently in London, although she doubted it would be at Canleigh House, unfortunately. She loved it now that it was all to her taste. Yes, she ought to be able to talk him round, use a few feminine wiles and then she could have the best of both worlds. An affair with Simon would definitely be amusing but would probably peter out in the not too distant future. He was young and would move on but there would be others. Margaret’s eyes sparkled for a second.

  He was urging her to listen to him. “Think about it. That’s all I ask,” he said. “In the meantime, what are you going to do?”

  She sighed miserably. “I shall have to go back to Yorkshire … face the music … and as soon as possible really. The longer I leave it the worse it will be.”

  “Let me take you,” he said quickly, not wanting to let her disappear, keen for another opportunity to work on her. “You can’t go on the train. You’ll be besieged by reporters. I can sneak out of here and be with you in an hour.”

  Knowing there was no alternative but to agree, Margaret relented. “Okay. I’m not at Canleigh House though.”

  She gave him the address of the flat and before he rolled up an hour later in his cracking brand new MGB GT sports car, she had rifled through the wardrobe in the bedroom to see if there was anything which would fit her. She could hardly turn up at Canleigh in the same dress she had worn last night. Luckily, someone, possibly Amelia, had left a pair of beige trousers and a white lace blouse and both fitted her reasonably well. The blouse was a little big but, tucked into the trousers, no-one would know. There were no shoes so she would have to wear her own, which being gold strappy sandals, did look a little silly with the outfit but hopefully no-one would notice.

  In a short space of time they were heading for Yorkshire, a copy of the offending paper Simon had brought with him on Margaret’s lap. It was worse than she thought. The whole front page of the seedy rag was taken up with a shot of them standing under the trees, devoid of all clothing with their private parts blocked out. Their faces were hidden from view by foliage. It could have been any couple. There was nothing to reveal who they were, until she turned the page where there was a whole series of smaller shots. Their faces could be seen as they cavorted on the rug and later, to cool off, splashing in the lake. One particular photograph showed their features clearly. Margaret was standing in front of Simon, a head taller than she. His arms were around her waist and her head was tilted back on his neck as they both gazed up into the night sky. They were facing the camera and there could be no mistaking their identities.

  Margaret groaned and put her head in her hands. Charles would have every reason to be incandescent with rage and she couldn’t blame him. It was going to take a hell of a lot of tact and ingenuity to pull herself out of this one. She gritted her teeth and pondered on just what she was going to say to her husband.

  CHAPTER 6

  YORKSHIRE – JUNE 1964

  Happily unaware of the catastrophic events of the day ahead, Lady Delia Canleigh bounded down the wide stone steps of Canleigh Hall dressed in her vermilion school uniform.

  “What a beautiful morning,” she announced, eyeing the clear blue sky and her surroundings with appreciation.

  The Canleigh lawns stretched out in front of the gravelled drive, the enormous old trees
in the far off woods, full to bursting with leaves, majestic in the background. Birds circled overhead and pigeons could be heard calling to each other. Delia’s heart sang with joy. She had just spent a fabulous hour riding, tore home to shower and change for school and now there was English literature to look forward to this morning and then history and music later. She wasn’t crazy about school but to have all three of her favourite subjects in one day was going to make it very bearable indeed and then, when she arrived home, she was riding with Philip and now the nights were warmer and lighter she was allowed to stay out until nine o’clock. Heaven!

  Hardy, who was to drive Delia the five miles to school held open the rear door of the Rolls Royce and smiled in agreement. The Yorkshire weather had been appalling for most of May, with lots of rain and thunderstorms. However, it had brightened up and been incredibly hot for the May half-term holiday with June beginning as May had ended and the sun was already high in the sky this morning, promising another warm and fine day.

  “Haven’t you forgotten something, Lady Delia?” he asked.

  Delia, her long thick dark hair, which was supposed to be tied back for school but was now flowing loose, turned her dark brown eyes questioningly on the butler with his crooked nose, which he professed had been broken when trying to separate two soldiers in a drunken brawl during the war. He was dressed, as usual, in his impeccable butler’s uniform complemented by the sparkling black leather shoes, which he religiously polished every night, a habit from his army days.

  “Your books,” he said helpfully.

  “Oh!” Delia laughed, dashing back up the steps.

  Hardy smiled. No doubt Lady Delia’s head was full of horses again. She was competing with Star in yet another show on Saturday and had talked about nothing else for days.

  A short time later Delia re-appeared carrying a heavy bag which slowed her progress. She was an attractive girl; slim, tall for her age, with good bone structure, as they would say in the modelling world and masses of beautiful hair. Another few years and she would be stunning. Men would come running and Master Philip Kershaw would really have to look to his laurels if he had any serious designs on her, thought Hardy.

  Delia smiled at the butler with gratitude. She would have been in serious trouble if she had arrived at school without the completed homework, finished just before midnight last night. It should have been done earlier in the evening but the draw of joining Philip earlier than usual because he hadn’t any homework for once, had been too great. Anyhow, what did it matter if she didn’t get top marks for her work, it was only maths and geography and she hated both. What was the point of learning more than how to add up, subtract, divide and multiply? As for learning about other parts of the world, she had all she wanted here at Canleigh and little desire to find out how others lived or what their countries looked like.

  Apart from Scotland … Delia loved Scotland … stunningly beautiful with few people to get under one’s feet and the wonderful historic Blairness, the second best place in the world, Canleigh naturally being the first. It was delightfully exciting, living in a medieval castle for a few weeks every year, having mock battles with Richard and his friend … and Philip, of course … pretending they were fending off marauding English soldiers. Vicky and her friend never joined in. They were too lady-like for such behaviour but Delia and Richard, along with their invited guests, were allowed to ride horses borrowed from a nearby riding school which was great fun, taking picnics and exploring the surrounding countryside for hours on end.

  They would have liked to spend Easter holidays at Blairness too but Father insisted on dragging them all around Italy, France and Switzerland on various cultural holidays to broaden their horizons. Although Delia could appreciate the art in the Louvre in Paris and the Uffizi in Florence, loved the gondola rides in Venice, found the Vatican fascinating and adored their rambles in the Swiss mountains, there was only one place she really wanted to be and that was Canleigh and she could never stop the grin spreading all over her place when on the return journey, the plane landed on English soil. Desperate to get back to Canleigh as soon as possible, it was so frustrating when occasionally Father insisted they stay in London for a night as he had business to attend to with Rathbones, the family solicitors, before journeying back to Yorkshire although having a night or two at the Ritz did help to soften Delia’s impatience. Father always booked a four-bedroom suite and the sheer luxury of their surroundings with the huge beds, marble bathrooms, comfortable sitting rooms, fabulous English food and, of course, the famous afternoon tea, which was a firm favourite, certainly helped to ease her restlessness.

  However, as splendid and glamorous as the Ritz was, when the time came to leave it, Delia couldn’t get home fast enough. On arriving at Kings Cross and boarding the train to travel first class back to Yorkshire, her excitement would grow by the minute and when they reached Leeds and Hardy and Perkins met them with the Rolls and the shooting brake for their luggage, she could easily have thrown her arms around them and kissed them. She often giggled at what their faces might have looked like if she had dared. Then, of course, there were the final few miles to Canleigh and she would settle back in the big, comfy car, ignoring her parents who were normally silent, and the chatter from Richard and Victoria, usually complaining about being home with school having to be faced in the immediate future. Delia would stare out of the window, watching the village come into view with an overwhelming feeling of warmth and joy and when there was a brief glimpse of the Hall in the distance, before it disappeared back behind the trees, she almost burst with pleasure and a huge feeling of contentment would wash over her. Just as it did now. She gazed up at the beautiful old building, her heart filled with pride and love and she silently thanked Richard for bequeathing it to her. She still couldn’t believe what he had done and knowing that the piece of paper that meant so much to her was safely tucked up in the stables, gave her tremendous joy. She had never felt so happy in her life.

  She smiled broadly at the butler. “Thank you so much, Hardy. Mrs. Jenkins would have been livid if I didn’t hand in my maths homework and as for Miss Bradshaw … she thinks there is no other subject of any importance bar geography,” she sang, virtually dancing down the stone steps towards the butler, who was holding open the rear door of the Rolls for her. She threw the bag inside and climbed in after it.

  “Thank you, Hardy. What on earth would we do without you?”

  He smiled back. “I’ve no idea, Milady? No idea at all.”

  He shut the door behind her and with the dignity of long service to a valued member of the aristocracy, walked around the highly polished vehicle and slid into the driver’s seat. Perkins was always busy with the horses early in the morning so once Hardy had laid out the Duke’s attire for the day and seen that breakfast was prepared in the dining room, it had become one of his duties to drive Lady Delia to school, a task he enjoyed immensely.

  “Please, Hardy, can we go the back way this morning?” asked Delia. “I just want to see the new ponies Granny has rescued. Just to look. Please, Hardy. It will only take a few extra minutes.”

  “Very well, Lady Delia,” he said, happy to go along with her request. On such a lovely morning it was a pleasure to be able to enjoy the warm breeze from the open windows as he steered the car carefully through the estate via the winding country lanes, past the pretty cottages for the estate workers and then the Dower House where the Dowager had resided for the last fourteen years.

  Delia was always quiet on the journey home, concentrating on her homework so she could get as much done as possible to allow for more time outside in the evening but in the mornings, she liked to chat. Sometimes it was about school, sometimes about Canleigh, sometimes about the Dowager, sometimes about Master Philip but more often than not about her horse-riding activities. Today was no exception.

  “I do hope the weather holds for the show on Saturday,” she said. “It’s ghastly trying to steer Star round a ring when the going’s slippery. He
hates it.”

  “The weather forecast for the weekend is good … and I’m sure you and young Master Philip will do very well.”

  “Philip definitely will. He’s so steady … thinks about what he’s doing … he’s more cautious and careful … doesn’t like to take risks … unlike me,” Delia pulled a face at Hardy in the rear-view mirror and laughed. “Impulsive and reckless … that’s what the Kershaws and my headmistress think of me. They say I’ll come to a bad end. Do you think they are right, Hardy?” she asked teasingly.

  “I sincerely hope not, Milady,” replied Hardy firmly, although on reflection there had been many an occasion during Lady Delia’s childhood when her behaviour had created more than a little cause for concern, no doubt through the lack of a mother’s proper guiding hand. The Duke did his best and Lady Delia idolised and looked up to the Dowager, who was a brilliant role model for the youngster. Ralph and Constance Kershaw also had a steadying influence on Delia and Master Philip was a really good lad, two years Delia’s senior and her constant companion since they were young but there was no doubt about it, Lady Delia certainly had a mind of her own and could be very stubborn and wilful at times.

  As they neared the paddock opposite the Dower House where the Dowager had instructed her new arrivals were to graze, he and Delia could see her leaning on the gate, her three dogs sitting patiently at her feet. Gypsies had abandoned the two young piebalds in an appalling state when they had moved on from Yorkshire. The RSPCA, one of the charities Anne supported wholeheartedly, had become involved and contacted the Dowager to see if she could offer them temporary sanctuary until they could re-home them permanently.