Charles, dressed casually in navy blue cord trousers and an open neck blue shirt, stood up and crossed the room to sit beside his mother. He took her right hand in his. “I know, Mother, I know. It’s unfortunate you don’t get along.”
Anne shot him a withering glance, which he chose to ignore. “Where is she now? I thought she had returned home but Hardy informed me yesterday that she has shot off again.”
Charles sighed deeply. “And without even waiting to tell me where she was going … she left a message to say it was something about a friend in need.”
“You are daft, my boy. Plain daft! God knows what she is getting up to and one day … one day, something is going to explode around your ears. I just know it … and deep down so do you. The woman is a trollop. I am sorry, Charles, but you know full well how I felt about her before the twins were born but after that … that confession, after just delivering your children … and I sometimes wonder if you are their father as neither of the twins look much like you … unlike our little Victoria, who is yours without question.”
“Mother!” Charles exclaimed, feeling slightly ashamed that he had thought the same himself but to hear it actually stated, especially by his mother, was quite shocking.
“Yes, well. That’s neither here nor there now. The way I see it is that the twins and Victoria were the only good things to come out of your marriage and we can mould them to our way of thinking, especially young Richard as he is the heir and doesn’t need any bad influences to affect his behaviour. Victoria is a poppet and I am sure will marry well and wisely … and then there is Delia.”
“Yes, Delia,” Charles sighed.”
Anne smiled. She loved all her grandchildren deeply but Delia … with her streak of stubbornness and fearlessness was a force to be reckoned with when she either wanted or didn’t want to do something. Anne had secretly admired the child when she had debunked from Roedean, hitched a ride all the way back to Yorkshire and stood in her father’s library, announcing she would never go back and if she did, would only run away again. Anne remembered the scene well as she had been in the garden when Delia had arrived in a battered white Cortina driven by a scruffy looking young man who had smiled gaily as he drove away down the drive. Anne had hurried into the Hall to see why her granddaughter had appeared so unexpectedly and was witness to Delia’s firm statement. The girl had guts and intended sticking to her guns. Anne had been impressed and somewhat amused.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of Betty with the tea tray, which she placed on the coffee table beside Anne with a smile and quietly left the room. Anne poured two cups, passing Charles his with her left hand.
As she drew it away, he looked down at the thin gold wedding band, the diamond eternity and even larger engagement rings, his father had given her all those years ago. He wished his own marriage had been as happy as theirs, even though it had been so cruelly cut short by his father’s accident in the hunting field when Charles was ten years old.
His father had been fearless in the saddle and Master of the local hunt for a number of years. He was obsessed by horses and rode for hours every day and insisted that Charles learnt to ride as soon as he could walk. Unfortunately, Charles hadn’t taken to it and although disappointed that his son didn’t share his passion, his father had finally allowed the torturous lessons on Noddy, the little black Shetland pony bought especially for Charles, to cease. At least his wife, who was a competent rider, was willing to accompany him as often as she was able. Anne hated the killing but found the actual ride exhilarating, although she much preferred the long summer evenings when they would leisurely explore the Yorkshire country lanes on Janus and Juno, their favourite mounts, occasionally stopping for a bite to eat at a local hostelry. Anne had often mentioned those magical evenings to Charles, her eyes wistful as she remembered the joy of having William all to herself, ambling along, chatting about this and that, listening to the birds settling down for the night and watching the sun going down.
It had been the most dreadful shock when the Duke died so dramatically on the hunting field. Charles could remember that day clearly. There were a number of children on the hunt, one being his best friend at the time, Viscount Richard Landas. Although Richard wasn’t a particularly good rider, he badly wanted to try his hand at hunting so Charles, even though he didn’t enjoy the experience, reluctantly offered to accompany him so they could follow at the rear.
Even so, Charles had seen the accident. It had happened very quickly and took everyone by surprise. Janus, a superbly handsome black beast, had taken fright at a snarling Alsatian dog which appeared out of nowhere, snapping at the heels of the horse, with its young female owner charging behind it, shouting its name and waving her arms frantically in the air. Janus, on approaching the hedge he was about to jump, had veered sharply to the right to avoid the dog but William was distracted, lost his seat and fell heavily, breaking his neck on the hard ground which had seen no rain for a few weeks. He died instantly. Anne, riding not far behind, had seen everything. She galloped Juno recklessly to the side of her husband who was surrounded by other members of the hunt who reached him before her. They included a surgeon from Leeds Infirmary who was examining William and then looked up at Anne, sorrowfully shaking his head. Anne almost fell from the saddle and knelt down by her husband, her cries of anguish heard clearly by everyone on the hunting field and leaving Charles stricken by the sheer horror of the scene; the loss of his father and the grief of his mother. He had never known such pain in his short life, and would never forget that day as long as he lived.
The Duke was brought home and Charles heard the sound of his mother crying hysterically in her bedroom later that night. It was the only time he had heard her cry, never before that day and not since. She was utterly grief-stricken but with great fortitude had taken over the duties of her husband with stoicism and a deep determination to keep the estate running well until it was time for Charles to take over. She did a sterling job, even with the trauma of having to raise funds to pay the death duties from her husband’s demise and then during the war years when the house had been used as a hospital. She kept everything going to the best of her ability, gaining deep respect from all the staff, villagers, her friends and acquaintances. The patients and staff from the hospital years when she had worked tirelessly to make sure all the injured servicemen were as comfortable and well cared for as they possibly could be, all loved her and even to this day, she kept in a touch with a number of them and invited them to tea if they were in the area.
However, after losing her husband so suddenly and tragically, she gave up riding and didn’t mount a horse again. Janus and Juno were kept in luxury for the remainder of their lives, along with little Noddy as Charles decided he would never get on the back of a horse again either. The animals were occasionally ridden by guests but Anne was never tempted back into the saddle. It wasn’t that she had lost her nerve but the pleasure of roaming the countryside with her husband was no more and she found the idea of doing it without him too distressing to contemplate. It was after the war that she then turned her full attention to helping various animal charities with rescuing horses and sometimes cats and dogs, providing her with a much-needed focus and fulfilling a need to be of more use than just fundraising.
Charles watched his mother sipping her Darjeeling tea. The colour was gradually returning to her cheeks and her breathing was normal. Charles’s tension subsided and he settled back to listen to her account of how and why the two piebalds had been placed in her care. Then the telephone on his desk buzzed, indicating his secretary, Susan Armitage, who was in her office in the ante-room next to the library, required his attention.
“I’m really sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but I have a reporter from the Daily Mail on the telephone. He wants to talk to you urgently and is insistent that it is private and refuses to advise me what it is about. Did you want to take the call or should I get rid of him?”
“Very intriguing Susan,” Charles repl
ied, smiling. It wasn’t often a member of the press wanted to talk to him. “Put him through. I expect it’s something and nothing … you know how these people like to make a drama out of very little.”
Anne looked up enquiringly, wondering if it was anything to do with the two new horses. The RSPCA were looking for the gypsies who had dumped them and were publicising their plight.
“Good morning, Mr. Wright,” said Charles when Susan had told him the caller’s name and put him through. “What can I do for you?”
Watching her son’s face gradually tighten with anger, Anne felt a rising sense of alarm, realising quite quickly that this conversation was nothing to do with horses. It was obviously far more serious.
Charles listened to the reporter who was eagerly requesting the Duke of Canleigh’s reaction to the Duchess’s impropriety with a young man in a London park. Tight-lipped, Charles said nothing, just listened as he was informed which paper was running the story and what it contained.
Anne jumped when Charles ended the call abruptly and slammed the telephone back into its receiver.
“I don’t believe that woman,” he exclaimed, angrily pacing the room and pushing his fingers through his hair. “I told her to be discreet. I told her what would happen if she made an exhibition of herself … and what does she do? Gets herself all over the front page of the dirtiest, filthiest newspaper … no, that’s the wrong word … far too grand for that … that seedy rag, Oh, my God! The children. I will have to get to them. Get them home.”
I presume you are talking about Margaret,” said Anne with more than a hint of rancour in her voice. “What has she done?”
Charles pressed the buzzer on the telephone and waited impatiently for Susan to answer. “Been making a real exhibition of herself with some young yob … pictures of them … with no clothes on … in a damned park … for all to see and some creature is now making a mint out of selling his filthy pictures to the tabloids. My God, if she was here now. In fact, she better be soon before she does even more damage.”
With Dick Joyce and the gardeners informed to man the gates, Susan told to contact the Heads of Roedean and Eton as a matter of urgency so that Charles could alert them, a call put through to Canleigh House to see if his errant wife would answer it and instructions for Hardy to be sent to the library as soon as he returned from Harrogate, Charles felt the situation was a little more under his control.
“Dick says the damned press are apparently swarming around the village already, no doubt trying to rake up as much dirt as they can,” he said through gritted teeth. He had never been as angry in his life as he was now and he was trying to keep it in check so as not to upset his mother more than necessary. She looked stricken and really didn’t need this.
The calls to the schools proved embarrassing. Both Heads were already aware of the situation and had taken steps to prevent reporters entering their establishments and gaining access to Richard and Victoria. Charles advised them that he would journey down that day to speak to both children. He would dash down to Eton first and then go on to Roedean.
A tap on the library door just as Charles replaced the telephone receiver made him turn. Hardy entered the room with a copy of the offending newspaper in his hand. He walked up to Charles and handed it to him.
“I wasn’t sure if you would want to see this or not, Your Grace”, he said quietly and looked at Anne in acknowledgement. “Your Grace.”
Charles took the paper and looked at it disbelievingly.
“What’s it like out there, Hardy?” asked Anne, twirling the rings on her fingers anxiously.
“The village is awash with reporters and photographers, Your Grace. It was pretty difficult getting through the main gate.”
“Oh God!” exclaimed Charles, throwing the paper into the bin beside his desk. “Hardy, we need to get Delia home so can you go back to Harrogate please and collect her? I’ll ring Thistledown and explain the situation. The predators will be expecting her to leave this afternoon so it will take them by surprise if they are intending to target her. You might well be able to get her away without any aggravation … and bring her in the back entrance. Don’t go via the village.”
Charles winced painfully and rubbed his chest. Hardy and Anne noticed the gesture with concern.
“Are you feeling unwell, Your Grace,” asked Hardy. “Would you like me to get you anything?”
“It’s just a touch of indigestion. It will go but thank you, Hardy. Please tell Betty that I shan’t need lunch. As soon as you have Delia back here, I am driving down to speak to Richard and Victoria. I can eat en-route if need be. I’ll need an overnight bag and a suit,” he looked down at his casual attire. “I can’t turn up looking scruffy.”
He turned to Anne. “I don’t know whether to bring Richard and Victoria home or not.”
“They will be quite safe where they are. But you do need to see them,” said Anne firmly. “That’s very important. They need to know you are putting them before anything else. They will need plenty of reassurance that their lives aren’t going to be disrupted and that we love them very much.”
“Yes, you’re probably right … and both schools have experience of unwanted publicity with previous pupils. The children will be shielded well.
“Mother,” he said, glancing at Anne. “What will you do? Would you like lunch here or are you going back to the Dower House? Hardy can drop you and the dogs on his way to fetch Delia.”
“I think I shall stay here, darling. Someone needs to be here with Delia and it had better be me … and we are less likely to be disturbed here than at the Dower House … the press could soon find their way across the fields if they are that determined.”
She turned to Hardy. “Would you mind asking Betty to prepare my old room, Hardy?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” nodded Hardy.
The butler left the room and Charles threw a grateful look at his departing back. He simply had no idea what he would have done without the man for the past eighteen years. His first impressions of Hardy; a slight, dapper young man, serious and polite with an honest face had proven totally accurate. Hardy was a perfectionist in his duties and treated Charles with the deepest respect and devotion. Nothing was too much trouble and Charles had never been looked after so well and since Hardy had married Betty and she had joined him as Housekeeper, the house had run like clockwork. The pair were indispensable to Charles, the family and the Hall; utterly loyal and steadfast and could be trusted implicitly.
Unlike the woman, who above all others should have possessed those traits. Margaret just made him feel so ashamed, so degraded. Charles glanced at the newspaper perched precariously on the side of the wastepaper basket where he had thrown it earlier. He felt utterly nauseous. He had been so stupid, giving her licence to do virtually as she wished. What had he been thinking of? He wondered where his wayward wife was now … whether she was still with this … yob … or on her way back to Yorkshire to crawl and beg for forgiveness. She might well have gone to ground for a while, humiliated and ashamed but he doubted it. That wasn’t her style. She was always saying it was pointless to regret anything one did as it must have seemed the right thing to do at the time of doing it; although this time she was the one who had the most to lose. It was in her interests to placate him … and do it quickly. She would be back at the Hall soon. Charles was sure of it.
CHAPTER 8
YORKSHIRE – JUNE 1964
“Hardy, will you please tell me what is going on?” fumed Delia from the rear of the car.
“His Grace will explain, Milady,” said Hardy firmly, determined to avoid any further communication during the journey back to the Hall.
Frustrated, Delia slumped in her seat and stared angrily out of the window, puzzling over the events of the last half hour. Her father was insistent his children gave their education their full attention so something pretty awful must have happened for him to have her taken out of school part way through the day. Sick with apprehension, she tried a
gain.
“You’re frightening me, Hardy. Please … can’t you give me some idea of what this is about?” she pleaded.
Hardy glanced at her face in the rear-view mirror and realised she was telling the truth. She did look scared. He had to say something.
“The Duchess has returned to Canleigh,” he said finally, having seen the woman when he had headed out of the Hall to fetch Delia. A sports car had roared down the drive and skidded to a halt on the gravel, narrowly missing the Rolls by inches. The driver, a handsome young man in his twenties, whom Hardy instantly recognised as the person pictured with Margaret in the paper, had grinned at the butler’s angry glare. Margaret had ignored Hardy, whispered something to her companion, and then had the audacity to run lightly up the steps into the Hall as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Delia’s face lit up. “Oh, brilliant. That means she will be there to see me jump on Saturday … but … even so,” she said, still puzzled. “Why on earth have I been taken out of school? That’s never happened before. What’s so special this time?”
“As I said, Milady. His Grace will explain and it’s nothing for you to fret about,” Hardy replied, trying to allay her fears, although he had an uncomfortable feeling that whatever was going on at the Hall at the moment would certainly affect them all quite badly.
Delia sighed, realising she was going to get nothing more out of the butler but she was really pleased her mother was home in time for the event on Saturday. Delia hugged herself. Star was on cracking form and she was positive that they would wipe the floor with the competition and the whole family would be so proud of her.
Happily imagining the scene when she was presented with yet another rosette for first place with her family looking on fondly, glorying in her success, Delia was astonished when, instead of remaining on the main road, Hardy turned the car towards Killington village and then headed through the country lanes towards the estate. His eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror.
Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) Page 12