“I am so very sorry but I have something to tell you,” she said, stroking Delia’s hair with her free hand. “Your Granny … she died this afternoon.”
The blood drained from Delia’s face and she couldn’t speak for a moment or two. Her brain seemed to be frozen. She couldn’t understand what Constance was saying. Granny. Dead. She couldn’t be. Constance had it all wrong.
Delia stared back at her, waiting for Constance to apologise. Tell her it was all a dreadful mistake and that Granny was alive and well. But she didn’t. She remained quite still, her eyes full of sympathy and then she nodded her head gently, confirming her words.
“No! No, Constance,” Delia cried, shaking her head in denial. “You don’t mean it. Why are you saying that? Granny is fine. She’s just been a bit off colour lately. She wasn’t feeling well earlier. That’s why Daddy said she was staying at the Hall for a bit. But she was okay when I … when I ….”
Delia dissolved into tears remembering how Anne had clutched on to Betty Hardy at the top of the front steps, watching horrified at Delia’s outburst over Parfitt’s car.
“Oh, Constance.” Delia looked up beseechingly, tears pouring down her cheeks once more and dropping onto their gripped hands. Her eyes widened in horror. “Don’t … oh, no, please … please, Constance … don’t tell me I’ve killed my Granny!”
CHAPTER 10
YORKSHIRE – JUNE 1964
Delia refused to speak for days. She remained in the enormous four poster bed in her bedroom at Tangles, either dozing fitfully at night, or sitting propped up by feather filled pillows by day, staring into space. According to Dr. Arnold, Delia had suffered a nervous breakdown. He patted her hand on one of his visits and told her so and that with rest and time she would feel better but for the time being, she should remain where she was and not worry about anything.
Delia doubted his words and didn’t think she would ever feel any different. She lay staring at the Jacobean plasterwork ceiling, desperately guilty and wanting to die of shame. Her reckless actions had caused Granny’s death. Darling, darling Granny, who was her rock. While Delia had been sitting beside the lake, Granny had been dying up at the Hall and Delia would never, never forgive herself for what had occurred. She was convinced the screaming between herself and her mother, which must have been heard all over the Hall, was the catalyst but it was that dreadful outburst of temper on her part which had probably dealt the fatal blow. Delia knew Granny had already been unwell and fragile so there was absolutely no excuse for her behaviour which must have upset Granny so badly. It had hardly been dignified and ladylike and Granny would have been appalled. Delia had let her down incredibly badly.
Although, strangely, no-one seemed to blame her or admonish her for her actions, if the cards, flowers and kind messages she received daily were anything to go by.
“Reverend Saunders is asking the congregation to pray for your recovery at his Sunday services. He also expressed a wish to come and see you,” said Constance when she returned from church one Sunday morning.
Delia shook her head determinedly so Constance told the Reverend that Delia still wasn’t well enough for visitors outside of the family. He sent a lovely card instead, indicating God would always look after her and she should put her trust in him.
Susan Armitage asked one of the Canleigh Hall gardeners to cut Delia a beautiful bunch of flowers and whisked in one day, bearing a highly perfumed mixed bunch of gaily coloured blooms, along with a book on show jumping technique she had discovered in a Leeds bookshop and knew Delia would like. Hardy, missing the twice daily chats on the school run, brought one of Betty’s fruitcakes he knew Delia loved so much and left it with Constance to give to her, his sadness for the family he served apparent in his demeanour. Perkins sent a basket of fruit and a card displaying four gorgeous horses galloping over a field with a message to say Star was missing her. Richard and Vicky wrote long letters from school with cheery messages. They had visited her briefly when they came home for Granny’s funeral, a week after her demise, but Delia had been unresponsive due to the sedation given her by Dr. Arnold and they didn’t stay long. Delia had been unable to attend due to her state of health and at the time was only vaguely aware that it had actually occurred, and when a few days afterwards she realised she had missed it, her misery and regret increased tenfold.
Philip tried really hard to get through to her, spending as much time as he could by her bedside in the evenings, telling her all about his day; the ponies, the dogs, in fact, anything that would take her mind off what had happened and stir her interest in what she loved. Occasionally he might get a faint smile but no chatter which depressed him greatly. He missed the old Delly very much and felt lonely without her.
As busy as he was with arranging his mother’s funeral and her affairs, Charles visited every day, sore and bruised by his wife’s public rejection of all he stood for, shattered by the loss of his mother and deeply worried about Delia. Now, a fortnight after the funeral, he was finally getting into something of a routine, rushing through his correspondence with Susan early in the mornings, holding brief meetings with Dick Joyce about various estate matters and then driving down to Tangles to spend an hour or two with Delia, hoping every day that she would start to be more like her old self; the defiant, energetic and enthusiastic young girl who had everything to look forward to. She could drive him almost insane sometimes but he, like Philip, missed her effervescent personality. The quiet, pale young girl almost lost in the enormous bed hardly resembled his daughter and Charles would do anything to help her recover.
Constance had been so very kind and Charles had no idea how he would have coped without the Kershaws. After his visits with Delia, Constance would insist he stay for lunch.
“This is causing you so much extra work,” Charles commented, sitting in the rocking chair in the kitchen, watching Constance preparing an enormous omelette made with goose eggs into which was whisked a huge pile of grated cheddar cheese and sliced onions. A salad straight from Tangles garden was already washed and on the table, along with Constance’s homemade bread, the tantalising aroma from which was making Charles very hungry indeed. He hoped his daughter would feel the same. Although Constance prepared lovely meals for her, she only picked at them and was losing weight.
“It doesn’t matter one bit,” replied Constance, turning to the table to cut the bread, remembering how when she was preparing it earlier she had gained some satisfaction out of the kneading and pummelling, pretending it was the Duchess of Canleigh who was receiving her attentions and not a pile of flour and yeast. Constance had never liked the woman but now she detested her for the dreadful hurt she had caused with no indication of regret, shame, guilt or care. That poor child upstairs was bearing it for her and that was unforgivable.
“I feel I should take her home. You are so busy and I’m sure the Hardy’s will look after her and I could always get a nurse in.”
“No, Charles. Really. She is perfectly all right here. Philip is a huge help. He sits with her every evening and runs up and downstairs with trays … and I think it’s best she is away from Canleigh at the moment. You don’t have much time to spend with her, the Hardy’s have that huge house of yours to run, and a stranger looking after her would do Delia no good. At the moment, she needs people around her who understand her and who love her too. It’s doubtful she will go back to school this term so leave her here until the summer holidays. Once Richard and Vicky are home, I’m sure she will be much better and ready for a lovely holiday up at Blairness.”
“You are so kind, Constance and yes, you’re probably right but I do feel it is a lot to ask of you.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her mother … and if she is going to come and see Delia, have you?”
“No. Susan managed to discover which hotel in Barbados Margaret is staying in and I left a message but so far we have heard nothing. I can’t say I’m sorry. Margaret has done irreparable damage and I’m not really sure whether it w
ould be a good thing for her to see Delia or not … and if she does come, the press will probably follow and I don’t want to go through all that again. The last few weeks have been hell having to avoid them.”
“That’s true. The less they know the better. Goodness knows how they found out about Delia’s shenanigans with Parfitt’s car but they certainly made a meal out of it,” Constance said, handing the loaded tray for Delia to Charles.
Charles stood up and took the tray with its carefully arranged salad, omelette, buttered crusty bread and one of Delia’s favourite puddings; apple snow, made from fruit grown in the orchards at Tangles.
“This smells and looks delicious. I can’t imagine how Delia could refuse to eat this,” he smiled wryly, knowing that there was every likelihood she would.
Walking out of the kitchen, bearing the tray, he sighed deeply, remembering the newspaper headlines the day he had returned from seeing Richard and Vicky. Yet another couple of pages in the ‘News Today,’ along with other tabloids who had cottoned on to the story, were covered with details of Margaret’s swift arrival and departure from Canleigh and pictures of Parfitt’s car as it was towed out of the estate. It was a mystery who had told them it was Lady Delia Canleigh who had viciously attacked it but everything that was known about her had to be printed, along with an old photograph of her as bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding. The weather had been atrocious that day and the image of Delia, soaking wet and cold in her skimpy dress and scowling into the camera, did her no favours. She looked a thoroughly bad tempered, spoilt child.
As he walked up the creaky black wooden stairs, smelling the beeswax polish Constance had used on them earlier in the week, his worry for his daughter enveloped him. For all his concern about Delia when she was galloping across fields, jumping recklessly over anything in her way, he would do anything now to see her up and eager to ride, to see the sparkle in her eyes at the anticipation of a few hours on horseback. It was nothing short of a tragedy to see his headstrong daughter reduced to such a pitiful state.
“She’s angry at the whole world, especially herself, her mother, Parfitt and yes, even the Dowager, for dying and probably you for not being at Canleigh when you were needed most. You will just have to give her time, Charles. She will get better, I promise, but at the moment she needs peace and time to acknowledge what has happened and to realise none of it is her fault,” Dr. Arnold had stated.
“Does … does she need professional help?” he had asked.
Dr. Arnold rubbed his chin before he spoke. “No, I don’t think so. To be honest she just needs the love and care of you all … and as soon as she starts showing any interest in anything, get her outside with the horses. She doesn’t have to ride … but she will gain a lot of comfort from just being with them. She doesn’t have to put on an act for them. She can tell them things, get it all off her chest, and no-one will ever know. They won’t judge her, admonish her or turn from her.”
Charles had known he was right. They all had to be patient. Thinking about what Delia had gone through on that dreadful day was pretty appalling. Firstly the poor child had been dragged out of school without a proper explanation, then he had been so wrapped up in dispatching with his marriage he had shouted at her for running in the house, and not realising she had heard every word of his row with his wife, had then left her to Margaret’s tender mercies. What a ghastly mistake he had made but then he had been so wound up himself, so angry, so desperate to get down to Victoria and Richard to tell them before they heard any other way, he had assumed Delia would have been fine with his mother at the Hall and that Margaret would have had the decency to explain the situation to her in a kind and caring manner. He should have known better. Margaret was a first-class bitch and had no thought for anyone else’s feelings bar her own. He could kick himself for leaving poor Delia without speaking to her first. It had been highly remiss of him.
It had been Susan Armitage, always straight and to the point, who had been working in her office in the ante-room off the library, who advised him Delia had heard every bit of his conversation with Margaret.
“I stood up and crossed to the window for a breath of fresh air. I saw Lady Delia listening to you and Her Grace outside the library … to be honest I didn’t know what to do. I tried to get her attention but with the phone still ringing constantly, I had to deal with that. Then, later on, after you had left Canleigh, the Duchess came through to the study to ask for a telephone number and when she went back to the library, she left the door ajar. I’m afraid I could hear her conversation with Lady Delia who must have seen the newspaper. She was screaming at Her Grace … and crying … and then Her Grace … she hit Lady Delia … and then I heard the Dowager intervene. It was heart breaking.”
Charles groaned at the memory of Susan’s words, wishing he hadn’t left Canleigh so quickly that day. He could have prevented that dreadful scene and what followed. He was as much to blame as anyone.
He walked along the corridor to Delia’s room, the old wooden floor creaking loudly under his weight which would have alerted her to a visitor. He knocked and opened the door with one hand while balancing the tray with the other. Delia was lying motionless in the big bed, looking small and fragile, her face pale and her long dark hair resting limply on her shoulders. Charles knew she was awake but as she did every time he entered the room, she closed her eyes and blatantly ignored his presence. Yet again, his heart sunk heavily.
Charles carefully repositioned the vase of flowers brought up by Philip when he had popped up with the breakfast tray. He had been out early and with Constance’s approval had picked a huge bunch of carnations and cornflowers from the garden, hoping they would cheer Delia up. It hadn’t worked.
Charles placed the lunch tray beside the vase, sat down in the chair nearest the bed and smiled at the dog laid next to Delia. Philip and Delia had found Gruff last year, tied up in a sack in the corner of a field, starving and exhausted. He was devoted to Delia and since she had been ill, remained at her side on the bed, only tempted out of the room for meals or toileting. Constance had placed his basket by the side of the bed but he wanted closer contact with Delia and spread himself out on the bedding, resting his head on her legs, gazing at her with worried eyes and every time she moved, giving her a loving lick. He liked Charles. He licked him too as Charles patted his head and smiled at him again.
Charles bent and kissed Delia’s cheek. He cleared his throat.
“I do love you, Delia. I know I don’t always show it but you are very special to me and I do so want you to get better and get back to your old self. Everyone up at the Hall is missing you, especially Hardy. He has no idea what to do with himself now he isn’t doing the school run every day,” he said, hoping his words would penetrate her wall of hostility.
Charles took his daughter’s hand in his, willing her to open her eyes and look at him.
“Delia, darling, I can’t change anything that has happened,” he said for the umpteenth time, so badly wanting her to react to his words. “I only wish I could. But I want you to know how truly sorry I am that you heard your mother and me and that I rushed off without talking to you. It was hugely remiss of me and I can only apologise and do hope in time you will be able to forgive me. I am so very sorry.”
Gruff shifted position, thumping his tail on the bedcovers but Delia didn’t move.
“I was so angry with your mother and knowing you were safe at Canleigh with her and Granny, I could only think of getting down to Richard and Victoria. I shouldn’t have gone without speaking to you. I am so sorry Delia. I really am. And you shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened to Granny. She was already very frail and wasn’t feeling well that morning. Dr. Arnold said she could have had that dreadful stroke at any time. It was just so unfortunate it happened that morning but it was certainly nothing to do with you. You must believe that.”
His words, stilted and awkward, were heartfelt but did no good. Delia kept her eyes firmly closed, her head tilted away from h
im. Miserably Charles stood up, patted Delia’s hand, smoothed Gruff’s head and left the room, hoping to receive a better response the next day. She couldn’t keep up this silence forever.
Constance looked up hopefully as Charles re-entered the kitchen. She was desperate for Delia to speak to him, give the poor man some kind of sign she was getting better and would forgive him.
“How was she? I do hope she’s hungry and doesn’t give her food to Gruff again,” she said with a smile.
“The same,” said Charles glumly. “Is Ralph back?” he asked, noticing the two Labradors tucked up in their baskets, tired from their morning exercise wandering across the fields in the company of their master.
“He’s just washing his hands. He’ll join us in a minute. Sit down, Charles. Lunch is ready.”
He did as he was told, allowing the soothing atmosphere of Constance’s kitchen to envelop him. It was always the same. Any tensions faded when in this room. Constance’s cheery personality, the aga, the rocking chair, the dogs, content in their baskets, the aroma of delicious food and freshly ground coffee. It was a sanctuary from the outside world and all its problems. He began to relax.
Ralph Kershaw, now in his fifty-eighth year, strode into the kitchen; a tall man of military bearing. There were a few grey hairs remaining on his virtually bald head and his face was weather-beaten, a tribute to his love of the outdoor life. His working clothes of dark brown corduroy trousers and a check short-sleeve shirt were of good quality but well worn. He had taken his boots off in the hall and entered the kitchen in his slippers, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe.
“Ralph!” Constance warned.
Startled out of his reverie, Ralph glanced at Constance and then at her accusing look at his pipe.
“I am so sorry, my dear. I quite forgot myself.”
Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) Page 16