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

by Carole Williams

  “Yes, my dear. I think you are quite right. It’s a good name for the little chap. Demon. Yes,” he laughed. “I like it.”

  * * *

  “Do I have to go to the dentist?” moaned Philip at breakfast on Monday morning. “I hate having fillings.”

  “Philip! You have had this appointment for weeks and we can’t mess the dentist about. Anyway, I want to take you to Harrogate … you have absolutely ruined your school trousers … goodness knows what you do with them … and your blazer doesn’t look too good either. We’ll take the opportunity to do a bit of shopping before I drop you at school this afternoon,” Constance smiled.

  She turned to Delia. “Would you like to come with us? If Philip’s mouth isn’t too numb, we could have lunch somewhere nice.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t think I could bear listening to his screams from the dentist’s chair … and as for shopping for boy’s clothes ….”

  “Um. Yes. I see what you mean,” replied Constance as Philip grimaced at Delia. “Never mind. I don’t expect we will be long … two or three hours. What are you going to do with yourself?”

  “Spend some time with Demon after I’ve finished the history assignment Thistledown has sent. Then I’ll probably take Star out.”

  An hour later Constance and a tense Philip left Tangles in the ancient Volvo estate car. Delia waved them off and called Gruff, who rushed to her side. The assignment could wait for now. Velvet and Demon were now turned out into one of the smaller paddocks during the day. Delia and Gruff strolled down to it. Velvet was grazing and Demon lay contentedly by her side, dozing in the warm sunshine. Delia approached quietly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful scene. She leaned on the gate while Gruff sniffed eagerly in the bushes, hoping upon hope he would find a rabbit to chase. With a sudden woof of glee, he found what he had been seeking and set off in pursuit, crashing through the undergrowth and startling Demon out of his snooze. The foal staggered to his feet and seeing Delia gave a whinny of welcome and trotted quickly over to her.

  “Hello you,” said Delia softly. “Did that silly dog frighten you?”

  Demon nuzzled her. Delia, feeling the usual rush of warm emotion she always felt when near him, patted his head and stroked his long, silky nose.

  “I love you,” she said. “I love you very much and at this moment in time, I love you more than anyone or anything … and I really don’t know what I will do if you’re sold. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

  Delia hadn’t cried since her first visit to Granny’s grave but now the tears glided down her cheeks. She could taste the salt as they reached her mouth. Loneliness engulfed her as she remembered what had happened. She had hardly thought about it since Demon was born but now it all flooded back and Charles would be home soon and now she was on her feet and feeling better, he would probably insist she return to Canleigh. She hadn’t set foot in the Hall since that day. She wondered how it would feel, knowing that her mother would never come back, that she would probably never see her again. How Granny wouldn’t visit every day with her dogs or stay for lunch or dinner. Then there was her father. He would probably start apologising again.

  Depression and loneliness turned to anger. She began to feel that urge to lash out … as she had at Parfitt’s car. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. The feeling of power and release that act had given her had been intoxicating. Wrong but intoxicating. Suddenly she knew what she must do. She had to go back to Canleigh and face it, on her own, before her father returned.

  Gruff had disappeared but Delia didn’t fret. He was on home ground and would return to Tangles when he had had enough. She thought about riding Star to Canleigh but rejected the idea, not wanting anyone to know she was there and with his beautiful grey coat he would stand out like a belisha beacon wherever she left him. Walking was the best idea and wouldn’t take her long.

  An hour later she was gazing at her home from the safety of the trees bordering the vast lawns at the front of the Hall. There was no activity. No sign of gardeners, Dick Joyce or the Hardy’s. The Rolls was parked by the servants’ entrance, indicating Hardy was in the Hall but at this hour of the day the staff were probably assembled in the kitchen for morning coffee. Delia, keeping to the shelter of the trees, moved nearer. Memories flooded back. Parfitt’s car on the forecourt, the feel of the knife entering the tyres, the bangs and hissing that followed, the look on the faces of her mother and Granny.

  Delia wanted to vomit. She clenched her fists and tried hard not to cry. This was going to be harder than she thought. She reached the final tree, with only a stretch of grass and the drive separating her from the front steps. Her watch indicated it was 10.30 a.m. She had about half an hour before the staff finished their break and returned to their never-ending cleaning duties.

  She crossed the grass, walked quickly and quietly up the front steps, gingerly opened the front door and stepped into the entrance hall. She listened but there was nothing to be heard apart from the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. The library door opposite was closed. It had been ajar when her mother and father had their final row. A despairing sob broke from her lips. She didn’t know if she could bear it … the pain … the anguish … but if she were to ever live here again past events had to be faced and dealt with.

  She walked over to the library door and opened it. The familiar scent of beeswax met her immediately. She breathed it in, gazing around the room, instantly noticing that the portrait of her mother over the fireplace had been removed. One of a young, smiling Granny replaced it. She looked truly lovely in a pretty cream lace dress, holding a bouquet of pink and cream roses. It was beautiful and with watery eyes, Delia smiled up at the picture. It was so much nicer than the one of her haughty tramp of a mother.

  Nothing else in the room was changed. A rush of scenes hit her with a terrible force. Even though it was empty now, she could see the offending newspaper in the wastepaper basket. She could hear her mother telling someone she was going to get what she could out of her father; the glass of gin in her hand; the cigarette; the slap on the face when Delia screamed at her; Granny’s intervention; her own tears.

  “Oh God,” she cried, folding her arms tightly across her stomach as a dagger-like pain shot through her whole being. She fell onto the sofa, much as she had then, tears coursing relentlessly down her face, hating her mother with every fibre of her being. The woman was totally shallow and selfish and should never have married or had children. She had never loved her family as she should. What a complete and utter bitch.

  She pulled herself off the sofa slowly, noticing a new paperknife on her father’s desk. She picked it up and walked upstairs to her mother’s bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she turned the brass knob and entered.

  The room was just as Margaret had left it. The dressing table in front of the window was covered with bottles of French perfume, make-up, tissues, and a silver-framed photograph of a smiling Margaret on her wedding day. Delia picked it up, her anger boiling over. Before she realised what she was doing, the picture was flying at the mirror on the dressing table. The glass shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces, scattering perfume bottles and make-up all over the carpet.

  In a daze, Delia moved to the dressing room next door and looked at the rows of elegant designer dresses belonging to her mother, some of which had never been worn. Taking a long yellow silk gown out of its protective covering, she laid it next to her cheek, remembering when her mother had worn it. It was on her father’s birthday two years ago. There had been a dinner party to which Granny and the Kershaw’s were invited and the children were allowed to attend. Margaret had looked particularly beautiful and sparkled all evening, chatting happily about her latest trip to Europe and handing out presents to them all. Delia couldn’t even remember what she had been given that evening but no doubt it had been yet another useless gift.

  The paperknife was even sharper than the one used for Parfitt’s tyres. It flashed easily through the yellow silk, ripping it to shreds.
Delia dropped the garment on the floor and reached for the blue chiffon. It received the same treatment, as did another, and another, and another. Before long most of the contents of Margaret’s dressing room were in ruins on the floor. Delia moved back into the bedroom. She opened the dressing table drawers, throwing jewellery boxes and undergarments across the room. Sweaters and cardigans were treated in the same way as the dresses.

  Exhausted she stopped and looked around at her handiwork. The room was a shambles. The only thing not touched by her actions was the four-poster bed covered in cream lace. The bed where her mother had pretended to love father and where no doubt she, Richard and Vicky had been conceived. Within seconds the lace was in tatters. Gold lipstick cases lay on the floor. Delia picked one up and removed the top. It was blood red, Margaret’s favourite colour. Delia looked at the walls. Within seconds, she had written big, bold words with the lipstick. Then voices from the corridor stopped her in her tracks.

  “We’ll do His Grace’s bedroom next … and then Lady Delia’s. Seeing as His Grace will be home later today, he might well be able to persuade Lady Delia to come home too. It’s not been the same without her. Poor child. She’s been through such a lot,” said Betty Hardy.

  “Aye,” replied Olive, one of the cleaners. “That young girl is tough though. She’ll pull through.”

  Delia stood silently listening, the voices fading into the distance as the women made their way to her father’s room further down the corridor. So, he was coming home today. She wondered what he would say when he saw the devastation in this room. He would know it was she who had gone crazy. Who else would have been so vicious towards his estranged wife? Who else would have had the opportunity? Somehow she didn’t care. He should think himself lucky she hadn’t done the same to his room. She hated him nearly as much as her mother.

  Hearing the faint hum of the vacuum cleaner in her father’s room Delia decided it was a prudent time to leave the Hall. She took one last look at her handiwork and gave a great smile of satisfaction, especially at the words ‘BITCH’ written in deep red lipstick on all four cream silk walls. She opened the door into the corridor and ran quickly down the stairs into the entrance hall and out of the front door. In two seconds, she was racing across the grass towards the trees, laughing uncontrollably, happily unaware that Hardy had seen her leaving her mother’s bedroom, had opened the door to see if anything was amiss and was horrified to see the wanton destruction Delia had wrought.

  He moved to the window and watched her progress across the front lawn back to the shelter of the trees with great trepidation. He understood her anger but this … he looked around the room with dismay … this was nothing short of violent vandalism. Hardy felt a tremor of fear. This was twice Delia had let her temper get the better of her within a matter of a few weeks. He sincerely hoped the rage she was obviously feeling was now out of her system ... but he had an uneasy feeling it wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 12

  YORKSHIRE – MAY 1972

  Twenty-three-year old Philip Kershaw was deep in thought and if anyone has asked him outright exactly how he felt about his forthcoming marriage to Lady Delia Canleigh, he knew he couldn’t possibly say he was positive he was doing the right thing. With his hands in his trouser pockets and kicking at stones with his heavy boots, he gloomily walked from the stables up to Tangles, wishing his grandparents were still alive so he could discuss his dilemma with them.

  Philip knew he loved Delia, he always had … but was it the right kind of love, the enduring kind where partners were equal in all things? Delia was a very strong woman, a domineering woman, a deeply determined and demanding woman. Could he handle all that for the remainder of his life? They shared the same passion for animals, horses in particular, which is how they became such good friends long ago but was it really enough?

  Philip was a fine looking man, so Delia, whose school friends fiercely envied her for snaring him at such an early age, frequently told him. He was now just under six-foot tall with an athletic figure and well-tanned skin due to the amount of time he spent outdoors, although his former thick fair hair was beginning to thin and recede at the crown which he found acutely embarrassing. He hoped he wouldn’t end up bald in later years.

  He, like Delia, was not a socialite and was more than content to lead a quiet life at Tangles passing on what he knew about horses and riding to anyone who wanted to learn, although he wasn’t able to teach to the standard of his grandfather and didn’t offer residential courses to any would-be future Olympians. However, having gained the highest qualifications possible in equine studies at Askham Bryan College near York, and thanks to his grandparents having bequeathed him the premises and thirty horses and ponies, he was in the perfect position to earn a good living. The more docile animals were used for lesser able pupils who wanted to learn how to ride and the more agile were lent out for general hacking for those who could ride well and as Philip had a good reputation, the business was busy and growing by the day. He also offered a small livery service and still offered sanctuary for a few rescued horses when his friends at the R.S.P.C.A requested it.

  Nothing, apart from the deep grief for his grandparents, marred his happiness working outdoors with people he knew and liked. He was totally at ease with the ‘horsey’ crowd he met every day but a fish out of water in any other gathering and was dreading the aristocratic wedding now only two short weeks away and in which he would play a leading role. Four hundred guests had been invited, many of whom Philip didn’t know due to Delia’s insistence that she wanted the world at the wedding, and the mere thought of the event left him bordering on complete panic.

  As he crossed the uneven, overgrown lawn, making a mental note that something would have to be done about it, he glanced up at the warm red brick of the house, the lattice windows and the great solid oak front door and felt loneliness engulf him. He hated going back to an empty house, sorely missing his grandparents who had brought him up and given him the best childhood he could have wished for. The dreadful fate of his grandfather, three years ago, had shocked everyone to the core when he was kicked to death by Thunderbolt. Ralph had been grooming him in his loose box at the time and didn’t notice a wasp sting the horse’s nose. Thunderbolt went berserk, kicked, reared, and sent Ralph flying to the ground. A hoof struck Ralph on the head and he was killed instantly. Then, only last year, Constance, who had never really gotten over the shock of losing her husband, was given the news that she had breast cancer and after a monumental struggle, finally lost her hold on life.

  How Philip missed them. Apart from the cleaning lady, Molly Seddon, who came in once a week to give the house a good ‘bottoming’ as she called it, and Delia, of course, who was there most days and many nights, he rattled around in the big house on his own. He didn’t even have a dog for company. Old Gruff and Ralph’s two Labradors had passed on a while ago and were buried in the garden. He was considering rescuing two more but wanted to wait until after the honeymoon when Delia could take her pick of those who needed a loving home.

  Pictures of a future with Delia leapt into his mind. None of which made him feel any better, dreading the thought of the coming nuptials but why was he growing wobbly now? They had been together for years. Delia had been his first and only girlfriend. Perhaps that was what was wrong. He’d not sewn any wild oats . . . and time was running out . . . fast. Not that he would ever have dared . . . goodness he sounded a right wimp he admitted to himself but Delia would have gone crazy if he had ever suggested they cool their relationship and see other people. She loved him deeply. Philip was well aware of that but her love could be all-consuming, almost suffocating and she was definitely the authoritative figure in their relationship. Philip wiped his brow worriedly. Was all this angst just pre-wedding nerves, he asked himself, or was it something more serious? He badly needed to talk to someone … but who?

  * * *

  Charles sighed with satisfaction as he strolled leisurely in the warm sunshine around the garden of Blairnes
s Castle. He had just enjoyed a light lunch of scrambled eggs on toast followed by a banana fritter prepared by Morag McFrain, his cook/housekeeper, he was planning to spend the afternoon pottering about the garden and this evening intended to finish chapter ten of the novel he had been working on all summer, this time about Robert the Bruce. He had delved into Scottish history in a big way since residing so much at Blairness in the last few years, creating the familiar urge to turn his new knowledge into fiction.

  He sighed again. This was going to be the last few hours of pleasurable solitude he would enjoy for the next month. Tomorrow he was journeying back down to England to help oversee the final arrangements for Delia and Philip’s wedding in two weeks’ time. Following that he would give his valued estate manager, Dick Joyce, the send off he deserved after thirty years of loyal service and then help his new French estate manager settle in. Charles spoke French fluently and it would be good to be able to converse with the new man and keep up his language skills. Charles had been surprised when Louis Machon applied for the position, unable to understand at first why a Frenchman would want to be employed as an estate manager on an English country estate but Louis assured him that it had always been an ambition of his to do so. The position had been advertised and there were other candidates but none with the experience, qualifications or references Louis possessed. Charles had approached Richard for his approval. They interviewed Louis in Oxford so Richard didn’t have any time away from the hospital, and then Charles took Louis up to Canleigh and gave him a tour of the estate in the company of Dick Joyce. Louis was given the news that the job was his and he was due to commence his duties the day after Dick retired.

  Charles sat down in the arbour covered in pink roses, which his mother constructed many years ago. He was so lucky to have Blairness. It was a sanctuary from the world and he loved it as passionately as he did Canleigh. However, since his mother had died, his marriage disintegrated, with Richard and Victoria away at school and an antagonistic teenage Delia preferring to reside at Tangles following her breakdown, he had become depressed and desperately low at the Hall. He was also restless and unable to concentrate on his work. The Kershaw’s saved his sanity. It was they who insisted he come up to Blairness and not to worry about Delia as she was safe and happy living with them. So, Charles removed himself to the haven of Blairness and as time went on, spent more and more time in Scotland.