Delia jumped out of the car and dashed up to her grandmother, quickly patting each dog in turn on the head, who all wagged their tails in greeting. She planted a kiss on Anne’s cheek and glanced at the horses. “Oh, Granny. They look in pretty poor shape,” staring at the desperately thin animals. Their ribs were prominent and they were covered in sores and scabs.
Anne sighed, put an arm around Delia’s shoulders and kissed her back. “Yes, darling. I am afraid they are but give them a few weeks here, with decent food and veterinary care and they will be fine. We won’t recognise them then.”
Delia smiled. Granny was right. There were many similar instances Delia could remember. So many poor dejected creatures turned up but with Anne’s careful care they looked healthy and bonny within a few weeks and were then ready to be moved on to new and carefully selected homes. Anne worked tirelessly to help any creature in distress and Delia would do anything to help, also possessing a deep love for animals and could never begin to understand the neglect or abuse some of them had suffered. It made Delia very angry when she saw the sorry state of many of those rescued from appalling conditions but Granny had taught her that to feel such fury was all very well but emotions were better channelled into educating people and campaigning for improved animal welfare legislation.
“Are you okay, Granny?” Delia asked, looking at Anne. She was unusually pale this morning and looked very tired.
“Yes, darling. Just a bit weary. Don’t fuss. The meeting with the RSPCA and the Rescued Horse Trust last night went on far longer than we intended. I shall wander up to the Hall with the dogs and have coffee with your father in a minute and that will revive me.”
“Well, take it easy today, Granny. Put your feet up for once,” Delia urged, worried that the older woman was doing too much. Granny had suffered a couple of mini-strokes recently, one just after New Year’s Eve and then another just a month ago but her indomitable spirit wouldn’t let anything, let alone ill health, prevent her doing anything she wanted to do.
“Good heavens, child. I have no time to sit around doing nothing. There’s too much to be done.”
“Oh, Granny, you are incorrigible,” sighed Delia, planting another kiss on Anne’s cheek, seeing Hardy waving at her and pointing at his watch.
“I shall have to go or I shall be late.”
“Yes, you better. Hardy is going to explode in a minute if you don’t get a move on,” replied Anne with a weary smile. She raised a hand to the butler in acknowledgement.
Delia dashed back to the car and leapt inside. Hardy started the engine and they moved off, Delia waving at Anne, who waved back before turning up the lane towards the Hall, all three dogs trotting quietly at her side.
“Is Father in a good mood today, Hardy?” asked Delia suddenly, settling back into her seat. She rarely met her father at breakfast as he was usually swimming when she was rushing through her toilette and eating the cornflakes sent up to her room. No amount of cajoling or persuasion could make her sit down in the dining room for a formal meal at that time of day.
“Reasonable, I would say, Milady. Reasonable.”
“Good. I hope it stays that way. I want to ask him if I could stay at home for the summer holidays this year.”
“And not go to Blairness?” said Hardy with surprise.
“Well, I do love it up there but Velvet’s foal is due in August. Remember … it’s that pregnant mare Colonel Kershaw discovered dumped in one of his fields a while ago. She’s absolutely gorgeous, ever so soft and gentle and I really don’t want to miss her foal being born. Philip wants to be there too so it would be far better if we could both stay here this year … or maybe go up to Blairness once the foal arrives.”
“I should imagine His Grace will be reluctant to leave you at Canleigh, Milady. You know how he likes all the family together in the holidays,” Hardy warned.
“I know but I’m sure he’ll understand. I’ve mentioned it to the Kershaws and they are willing to put me up at Tangles. It’ll be brilliant. Philip and I can ride all day every day and help out at the stables. It will be perfect,” she said her eyes shining in anticipation. “Surely Father can’t have any real objections.”
“You can only ask, Milady. You can only ask.”
As the car entered the Harrogate suburbs Delia spoke again, wistfully.
“Philip’s so lucky. He has grandparents who idolise him and he’ll eventually inherit lovely old Tangles with all the land and all the horses. It will all be his with no disputes. It must be so nice, to be so secure, to know exactly where your future lies.”
Knowing of Delia’s tantrums when she was younger because Lord Richard was going to own Canleigh rather than her, Hardy felt a wave of sympathy.
“I suppose it must … but count your blessings, Lady Delia. You have your parents. Unlike poor Master Philip who lost both his in that dreadful motorbike accident when he was still a baby.”
Hardy remembered the shock and horror of that dreadful time well. The Kershaws were well known far and wide and although the weather was bad and made travel difficult, the funeral held at the St. Mary’s for their precious son and daughter in law had standing room only. As there were too many people in attendance for Tangles to cater for, Charles had also offered the ballroom in the Hall for the wake. Hardy had been on duty that day and the sorrow felt for the family had been paramount although it was heart-warming to see the support and warmth surrounding the Kershaws and their tiny grandson, who thankfully was too young at the time to be aware of the tragic circumstances. The village had been in mourning for weeks; the churchyard where the young popular couple were buried was smothered with flowers and it wasn’t until that following spring when the weather improved, the lambs kicked up their heels in the fields and the daffodils shone brightly in the sunshine that the mood began to lift.
“Yes, I know, Hardy,” Delia sighed. “And I do feel sorry for Philip but he never really knew his parents and Ralph and Constance are simply super … really homely and so interested in anything he does. They are a real family. Not like us … Richard and Vicky away at school most of the time, Father’s always busy and Mother is hardly ever here … look how she came back for the half-term and then disappeared again within a matter of days. We never know where we are with her. Anyway, neither of them are remotely interested in horses. I know Father turns up at competitions with Granny but he’s not that keen and as for Mother … I really do wish she would just make an effort,” she said sorrowfully, thinking how envious she was when she saw her competitor’s mothers encouraging and hugging their children at the events they attended.
Hardy was silent, having no idea how to respond to the anguish in Delia’s voice. He knew that more often than not, the girl pretended she didn’t care but she did really. She hankered after her mother’s love and was thrilled for days if she did manage to attract the Duchess’s attention but there was little chance the selfish, egotistical woman would return to Canleigh if she could avoid it, especially to watch her daughter compete in a horse show. Hardy had heard her comment more than once that she hated the creatures as both ends were dangerous with their teeth and their heels and the further she was away from them the better. Hardy felt so sorry for Delia. She idolised her mother with a reverence which would never be reciprocated. She hid it well most of the time, not one to wear her heart on her sleeve, but over the past year on their journeys back and forth to school, she had given herself away more than once as to her true feelings towards her mother and Hardy could cheerfully have rung the Duchess’s neck on more than one occasion … and this was one of them.
Solemnly he steered the car into the grounds of Thistledown School, carefully avoiding the young girls dressed in the same red uniform as Delia’s, alighting from smart, gleaming cars; either with chauffeurs or parents in smart suits. He stopped the Rolls, got out, and opened Delia’s door.
“Remember, Milady, even if Her Grace can’t make it to the show, the Dowager will definitely be there and myself, of course
, and I think one or two of the staff are very keen to have a peek at you and Master Philip bagging all those rosettes.”
Delia threw him a grateful look. Of course her wonderful Granny would be there, cheering her on as always, and it was pleasing to know how much the staff were interested in her achievements.
“Have a nice day, Milady.”
“And you, Hardy,” she smiled broadly, struggling to carry her bag with one hand while deftly throwing a band around her flowing dark hair, whisking it up into a tidy ponytail with the other.
Hardy watched her enter the school, chatting to Lady Linda Terrington and the Honourable Felicity Havers, who both shared her passion for horses and were also competing on Saturday. It didn’t take two guesses to wonder what they were talking about. He got back into the Rolls and drove quickly out of Harrogate and back to Canleigh on the main road. Time was getting on and he had a busy day ahead. Within minutes he was entering the outskirts of Canleigh village.
“What on earth!” he exclaimed, puzzled to see the usually quiet street besieged by people and cars. The shop and petrol station were crowded, cars were parked haphazardly and illegally, and men and women were brandishing notebooks and cameras under the noses of villagers leaving the safety of their homes. The local policeman, a hot and harassed looking Gerry Brownlow, was in attendance, trying to persuade those parking their vehicles to move on and out of the village.
Hardy grew even more alarmed when he discovered a similar crowd of people gathered outside the fifteen-foot-high black wrought iron gates to the Hall. Dick Joyce, the tall, grey-haired estate manager, holding his pipe in one hand, stood the other side of the gates, shaking his head at a babbling reporter. Having seen Hardy and the Rolls, he popped the pipe into his mouth and opened the gates for him as the crowd pushed and jostled around the car.
“It’s the Duke’s butler,” cried a woman in a red blouse, throwing herself across the bonnet of the car, taking photographs through the windscreen. Other faces peered through the windows and copies of a newspaper were held up in front of him, although he was so busy trying not to knock anyone over, he couldn’t see what was of such fascination.
“Has the Duchess arrived home yet?” yelled a man with gold-framed glasses.
“What is His Grace going to do? Will he divorce her?” shouted a man in a grubby white shirt and no tie.
Hardy looked questioningly at Dick Joyce but he was struggling to pull the gates shut again so Hardy waited until he had done so, heart plummeting. Was this it? Was this what they had all been dreading for so long? Had the Duchess finally disgraced herself?
“Whatever’s going on?” he asked as Dick, red-faced with exertion, came around to the driver’s window.
“You’ve probably gathered … it’s the Duchess. She’s all over the News Today, that horrid little rag which likes to dish up the dirt. The crazy woman has been cavorting in a park in London with some young whippersnapper … with no clothes on.”
“Good grief!” exclaimed Hardy, his eyes widening with shock.
“What His Grace will do now is anybody’s guess,” said Dick. “He sounded furious when he rang me. He asked me to stop this little lot entering the estate but didn’t say why. It wasn’t until one of this jolly bunch pushed a paper under my nose that I found out.”
“I better get back down to the house. Goodness knows what’s going on there.”
“Best of luck. I think today is going to be a pretty grim one … and it started off so well,” Dick said firmly, re-lighting his pipe and looking up at the beautiful clear blue sky.
Hardy grimaced. “Good luck with that lot,” he nodded at the crowd outside the gates. “I hope you have the back entrance covered too.”
“I’ve sent Griffiths and Brown down there. I don’t think anyone will want to tangle with them,” he grinned.
Hardy grinned back. “I think you’re right there.” Both gardeners were well over six feet tall with broad shoulders and together would look pretty intimidating.
He started the car and drove swiftly down the drive. This had to be the end for the Duchess. His Grace couldn’t possibly carry on as if nothing had happened and she would surely receive her marching orders. If she did, Hardy certainly wouldn’t be sorry. He had never taken to her, not from the moment she stepped over the threshold of Canleigh Hall all those years ago and looked him up and down as if he was something nasty she might step in. Over the years, her manner hadn’t improved. None of the staff liked her. She found fault with everything, was arrogant and bad mannered and Hardy could never understand why the Duke had ever married such a woman. He deserved far better. The Lady Dulcia Fitzhaven, for instance, would have made a grand Duchess of Canleigh. When they were younger, she and His Grace had been quite friendly and Hardy knew the Dowager would have been very happy to see Lady Dulcia follow in her footsteps. Unfortunately, she met a French Marquis, married him within weeks and was now the chatelaine of a rather grand looking chateau in the Loire Valley.
Then Charles met Margaret and brought her home to Canleigh. Not many had taken to her, Hardy being one of them, hoping fervently that Charles wouldn’t regret his decision to marry her. He rubbed his brow in anguish. Without doubt that time had come. He felt so angry, so disappointed and so sad for his employer, the children and the Dowager. This was going to affect the whole family very badly. Damn the woman! At that moment, Hardy could cheerfully have murdered her.
CHAPTER 7
YORKSHIRE - JUNE 1964
Just after Hardy had driven Delia to school, Charles had settled at his desk in the library, intending to spend a few hours correcting some of the errors in a chapter he had written the previous evening. His whole body was relaxed after swimming forty lengths in the pool but his mind was sharp and he was eager to crack on. He didn’t expect his mother to put in an appearance as he knew she had spent the previous evening at one of her charity meetings and would probably want to rest this morning but half an hour later it was with great surprise that he looked up to see her enter the library via the French windows. He looked at her worriedly. He knew she loved the walk from the Dower House situated on the opposite side of the lake but there was a long incline up to the stables, and then the Hall, and in Anne’s present state of health it had obviously proved to be longer and more exhausting than she had anticipated.
She entered the library, leaving the dogs on the terrace to drink water from the bowls left out for them, and sat on the sofa by the fireplace, out of breath and hardly able to speak for a few moments. Charles ceased hitting the keys on his Olivetti typewriter and quickly twirled the volume knob on his stereo down to zero, instantly silencing the exquisite sound of Mozart’s 33rd symphony. He was appalled at the sight of his mother looking so physically drained and debated on whether or not to ring Dr. Arnold. Anne, guessing his intention, stalled him neatly.
“No, Charles. I do not need a doctor. Just a little brandy if you please.”
“Mother, you are incorrigible!” Charles exclaimed, echoing his daughter’s earlier words. “You know you’re not allowed any alcohol for a while. You can have tea.” He pulled the bell pull by the fireplace. “And you should never have walked up here if you’re feeling off colour. Why on earth didn’t you wait for Hardy to return from dropping Delia? He would have collected you in the car.”
“Oh, don’t fuss, Charles. I needed the air, and the rhododendrons and azaleas look so splendid and as their beauty is so short-lived I didn’t want to miss them. Hardy can drive me home if that will make you feel better.”
“It certainly will. Ah, Betty,” he exclaimed as Mrs. Hardy entered the room. “Please could we have some tea? Would you like anything to eat, Mother?”
“No, thank you,” Anne smiled at Betty. “Burgess is preparing a rather nice lunch and I don’t want to spoil my appetite. It’s poor enough these days without making it any worse.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” Betty smiled at them both and left the room, shutting the heavy mahogany door behind her quietly.<
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Charles looked at Anne. “Mother, I know Mrs. Burgess looks after you admirably but I would feel much happier if you could both move back here for a few weeks, so we can all keep an eye on you. You won’t have to do a thing. The Hardy’s and Mrs. Burgess will arrange it.”
Charles knew Hardy, and his estimable wife, Betty, would make the transition back to the house as smooth as possible. Mrs. Burgess, one of the most reliable and down to earth people Charles knew, who had been hired to housekeep for Anne when she had moved into the Dower House after his marriage to Margaret, would probably also be eager for Anne to return to the Hall temporarily and have reinforcements to watch over her determined mistress.
The only problem was Anne herself. Charles was fully aware of how stubborn his mother could be when she didn’t want to do anything. Just like Delia, he sighed inwardly. His daughter was just the same if she objected to anything, such as the time when she ran away from Roedean and refused to go back. Thankfully she was settled now. Thistledown was perfect for her and she was happy there, especially as it gave her time to ride for an hour or two with Philip after school. The pair were inseparable and unless Charles was seriously mistaken, he could see them being married in the next few years. It would be a good match as Philip was a solid influence on Delia, although she did have a tendency to boss him about and Charles wondered how that would work when they were older. Still, that was years away and a problem for the future. Now he had his mother to worry about.
“No, Charles. You know why I don’t want to move back here … not even for a few weeks. I find it such an ordeal trying to keep a civil tongue in my head when Margaret is here so it would only cause more stress.” She threw a condescending look at the portrait of her daughter-in-law above the fireplace.
Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) Page 11