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

by Carole Williams

  Ruth pulled her hand away and sank back down onto the chair she had just vacated. This was the last thing she had expected. Marriage! With Richard. It was out of the question but she didn’t know what to say. He looked so pathetically child-like, leaning towards her with a look of great expectation on his face. But he was drunk and in the last few moments had shown a disturbing attitude. She began to feel uneasy and wasn’t quite sure what to say to extricate herself and get back upstairs. She wished Charles hadn’t decided to go to bed. This wouldn’t have happened if he had still been here.

  “This is a … a shock. I can’t take it all in. I’ll have to think about it, Richard. Please. Can we talk in the morning?”

  “No!” Richard’s tone was sharp, making her jump. “You must give me an answer now, Ruth. Otherwise I shall know for sure you want Father,” he said, hating his peevishness. He sounded childish and irrational but he remembered again the way Ruth and his father had been tonight, cocooned in their own little world. A powerful surge of jealousy washed over him. He knew he wouldn’t be content unless Ruth agreed to marry him.

  Ruth’s patience snapped. “You’re being extremely foolish,” she said quickly, standing up again.

  “Just admit it, Ruth,” he urged. “I saw the way you looked at each other tonight. There is something between you, isn’t there? Otherwise you would say yes.”

  Ruth turned to the door, indignation written all over her face. “You’re stretching our friendship to the limit, Richard. If I cannot talk to a perfectly delightful man and enjoy his attentions without having to suffer your offensive insults, I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other. A marriage between us would be a complete disaster.”

  “You’re very defensive,” he goaded.

  “I’ve had enough of this. Goodnight.”

  Richard crossed quickly to the door and placed an arm across it, preventing Ruth from leaving. He was desperately angry and wanted to shake her, make her agree to marry him, kiss him, love him, and want him; just as he wanted her. He looked down at her bathrobe, loose on her shoulders. He could see the slight swell of her breasts, gently rising up and down as the pace of her breathing increased. He imagined his father caressing them, kissing them … it was sick … obscene. Before he knew what he was doing Richard’s hand shot out and tugged at Ruth’s belt. The bathrobe fell open, revealing her thin cotton nightdress through which could be seen the outline of her body.

  Richard groaned with desire and pulled her close to him, nuzzling her neck with his mouth. “You can’t want an old man, Ruth … you’re too young … too beautiful … it would be such a waste.”

  Ruth stood transfixed with shock but suddenly sprung into action. She struggled but Richard’s grip on her arms tightened as his mouth ravaged hers. His hands were big and it only took one to grip both of hers behind her back while the other pulled up her nightdress and prised her legs apart with his good one.

  Ruth panicked. He towered over her alarmingly and she had to do something to get him off her before he raped her, here in the chilly kitchen of his family home. There was no-one around to hear her if she screamed. The walls were far too thick. Terrified, she struggled harder. Remembering how Delia had dealt with him earlier, she lashed out with her teeth, biting his lip and drawing blood. She kicked hard but he crushed her against the wall with the full weight of his body, keeping tight hold of her hands behind her back while pulling down the zip of his trousers with his free hand.

  “Don’t pretend, Ruth. You really want me. You know you do,” he panted in her ear.

  “Get off me, Richard. You can’t do this. Your father ….”

  Richard’s laugh was brittle and Ruth trembled with fear. “Oh yes … Father … do you wish it was him here with you, Ruth? His hands on your flesh, his mouth on yours … would you fight him off? No, Ruth, of course you wouldn’t. You’d say, please Charles … I want more … that’s what you’d say, isn’t it, Ruth?”

  With a quick thrust of her hips, Ruth managed to get herself to the angle she had wanted all along, forcing her leg up with all the strength she could muster, kneeing Richard violently in the groin. Gasping with pain he staggered backwards, clasping his genitals with both hands.

  “Christ! You bitch,” he hissed.

  Ruth’s whole body was trembling although, to her surprise, when she opened her mouth to speak her voice sounded strong and calm.

  “Don’t you ever … ever try that again,” she warned, ready to bolt out of the kitchen if he moved towards her. “And if that’s your idea of a proposal, you might have guessed by now what my answer is … and if I were you I should seriously consider changing my approach before asking some other unfortunate female.”

  Richard was a pitiful sight with a bloodied lip, a bandaged leg and writhing in agony on the floor nursing his genitals. His eyes darkened with loathing and contempt as he glared at Ruth but he didn’t speak.

  Ruth looked down at him, unable to believe what the young man she had so liked and respected had turned into it. He looked so similar to his twin, the same look of anger and yes, even wildness, on his face. The twins were obviously highly strung and unpredictable. Where on earth did they get it from? Certainly not Charles. It must be their mother. They both looked like her. There were no pictures of her in the house but Richard had shown her a family photograph he kept in his wallet with Margaret and Charles side by side with their three children sitting at their feet on the lawns outside the Hall.

  “You’re behaving like a complete fool, Richard. A jealous, stupid fool. I don’t suppose for one minute your father and I will ever set eyes on each other again after tomorrow. Now, I’m definitely going to bed and in the morning I shall catch a train back to Oxford. I couldn’t stomach another moment in your company and if you ever come near me again I’ll report you for attempted rape . . . and I don’t think you want your career tarnished by such a charge, do you, Richard?”

  Terrified by the look of sheer rage in Richard’s eyes, Ruth fled the room, raced down the corridor and up the back stairs to the entrance hall. Her pace slowed slightly once she reached the central staircase but even so she didn’t breathe easily until she reached the sanctuary of her room and locked the door behind her. She hated to admit it but Richard had really scared her and she wasn’t taking any chances.

  She sat on the bed, shaking like a leaf, unable to believe what had just occurred. Apart from Richard’s physical attack, the conversation hadn’t been so very different from that of yesterday, with Delia. Did twins not only look alike but virtually act the same way as well? She thought of Delia, driving away into the night and wished she could do the same but her car was in Oxford. She rubbed the angry red marks Richard had left on her wrists. She wanted to cry. She wanted to have a shower. She felt dirty … unclean. He hadn’t raped her, thank goodness, but it had been a sordid encounter and she wanted to wash it away. She could still smell the alcohol on his breath and his cologne on her neck and her nightie. She felt nauseous and ill … and wanted to go back to Oxford as fast as she could but she certainly couldn’t return with Richard … couldn’t be alone in his company again.

  She picked up the telephone beside the bed and asked Directory Enquiries for the numbers of the railway station in Leeds and a local taxi firm. On being informed that a train left for Oxford at six thirty in the morning, she booked a taxi to take her to the station. Making definite plans made her feel slightly better and back in control but even so, she removed her nightie quickly and stepped into the shower to wash away the smell of Richard and the feel of his hands on her body. Applying a liberal amount of her favourite lavender body lotion to her skin would hopefully help her sleep but before she slipped into bed she quickly packed her few things and scribbled a short note of thank you to Charles which she would leave on the tray in the entrance hall when she left in the morning. She was extremely sad she wouldn’t see him again but no doubt he would forget all about her pretty quickly. He had an absorbing life with his travels and his wri
ting and wouldn’t give much thought to her once she had left. She drew the bed covers around her and burst into tears.

  CHAPTER 22

  LONDON JUNE-JULY 1972

  Delia’s life was blown apart. She had never been so low and so miserable. Her heart ached, her body ached, her soul ached worst of all. All her hopes and dreams had vanished; disappeared in a whirlwind of a just a few short days. Everything that was precious to her was gone and she was lost; totally and utterly lost. Thoughts of ending it all seemed almost attractive and the only way out of this dreadful despair which wracked her whole being. It would be a huge relief to rid herself of all this pain. No more fighting. No more struggling. What was the point of going on? No-one wanted her. No-one cared. All her dreams were in tatters. There was simply nothing to live for and nothing she wanted anymore.

  The rain was sheeting down, hard and fast, almost as soon as she turned her powerful, beautiful car out of the gates of Canleigh and towards Leeds. As if in competition with her tears, the water lashed hard against the windscreen, the wipers hardly able to keep pace with the torrent. Leeds was quiet for a Saturday night. The rain had seen to that and although there were a few taxis parked up waiting for the pubs and clubs to tip out their drunken customers, the pavements were empty; revellers packed inside lit up buildings with loud music booming out into the night.

  Delia didn’t know where she was going or where she wanted to go. She wondered about booking into a hotel but couldn’t face it. She wanted to be on her own, away from prying eyes. She was well known in Leeds and didn’t want to bump into anyone she knew or endure speculation from curious receptionists. Everyone in the world would soon know how she had been rejected by her fiancé and her family. There was no need to speed up the process.

  She headed for the M1 and London. On reaching the virtually empty motorway with only the odd driver wanting to venture out on such a night, her driving became wilder and more erratic as she gave way to her grief. She knew she shouldn’t be driving, especially when she virtually slammed into the rear of a crawling black car in the left-hand lane and had to veer sharply to the right to avoid it. It gave her a jolt and gripping the steering wheel with one hand, she used the other to rifle in her bag on the passenger’s seat for a tissue to wipe away the tears and clear her eyes.

  Even though she was heading for London she still didn’t know where she really wanted to go, only possessing a deep desire to get as far away from Canleigh as possible and as fast as she could. The car sped along the wide road but emotionally drained and exhausted, Delia began to succumb to the continual drone of the engine. Her eyes grew heavier and heavier.

  A hungry fox, desperate to reach a sandwich thrown out of a passing car ignored the danger and dashed into the middle of the road, directly in front of the Jaguar. Startled out of her wits, she virtually stood on the brake and clutch and wrenched the steering wheel to the left. She missed the fox by inches, the car skidding to a halt on the hard shoulder. She looked around at the animal who had been so near death but he had grabbed the sandwich and fled, leaving Delia alone and trembling in the night.

  To steady her nerves she lit a cigarette, inhaling hard to gain the maximum impact from the nicotine. Winding down her window now that the rain had finally eased, the stillness of the night provided a sense of peace and calm. Nothing stirred. There was no traffic now. Slowly and gradually her heart slowed its rapid beating and the terrible tension began to lessen. She was exhausted and emotionally drained. She had to find somewhere to rest but she couldn’t remain on the hard shoulder of the motorway.

  Finishing the cigarette and flicking it out of the window, she re-started the car and drove a couple of miles more until a sign for Sheffield appeared. She had been down that road not so long ago with Philip when they brought back a livery horse to its owner who lived not far from here. Delia remembered there was a transport café not far away, where they had stopped for coffee. She turned off the motorway, badly in need of freshening up and sleep … and there was no-where else for it but the car. No doubt there was a hotel around this part of the world but it was too much effort to drive around and find one. She could go on no longer tonight. Wryly she wondered what her precious father would say if he knew his daughter, the Lady Delia Canleigh, was intending to bunk down next to lorry drivers.

  However, she did have a major problem, which had to be resolved before entering any establishment. She was still dressed in her long black evening gown, although she had ripped off the stupid stilettos and was driving in bare feet. She couldn’t go tripping into a cafe in the middle of the night dressed as she was. She would not only look ridiculous but the dress was somewhat provocative and goodness knows what lecherous males she might meet and she had enough problems at the moment without adding more.

  She pulled quickly into an empty lay-by, jumped out of the car and rummaged in one of the suitcases in the boot for some suitable attire. Her favourite red sweater, along with jeans, and comfy old loafers were just the thing and she pulled them out quickly, wondering how she was going to take off the dress in the car. She threw her casual clothes onto the passenger seat and listened intently for the sound of an approaching car, praying one wouldn’t suddenly appear and pick her up in its headlights. She pulled down the zip of the dress, quickly donned the sweater to cover her bare chest, and yanked the dress down, stepped out of it, flung it in the car and jumped in, locking the door behind her. Somehow, she struggled into her jeans and wriggled into the loafers, feeling slightly better now she was more suitably dressed. She looked at the black gown sorrowfully. She would never wear it again. It represented too much misery. She leant over to open the passenger door, and bundled the dress, along with the hated stilettos, onto the grass verge. Someone would wonder what they were doing there but Delia never wanted to see them again. Then there were the rings. Her sweater covered the black beaded necklace but the rings were too obviously expensive to wave around where she was going. She removed them and placed them in the zipped-up section of her handbag.

  The transport café was quiet as not many truck drivers worked at weekends. Only two lorries were parked up; curtains drawn across their windows, indicating the drivers were fast asleep. Delia envied them their comfort. It wasn’t going to be easy, sleeping in an E-type. Luckily it was a warm night so she wouldn’t get too cold. Stupidly in her haste to leave her home she hadn’t thought to bring a coat so had nothing to throw over her if the rest of the night did become chilly. However, she had more urgent needs, being desperately in need of a toilet and hot coffee. Before leaving the car, she checked her face in the mirror. No trace of makeup remained and her eyes were red and swollen. She shrugged. What did it matter was she looked like? She’d never see the proprietors of this café again. Stiffly she got out of the car, locked it, and made her way into the timber-framed building displaying a huge white board above the door shouting in red letters that it was open twenty-four hours a day.

  “Coffee, please,” she said smartly to the weary looking middle-aged man slumped over the cash register reading a newspaper.

  He pulled himself up quickly, never having had such a stunning looking woman grace his establishment during the night before. It was obvious she had been crying, and crying a lot but even so, she was a good looker. Gorgeous long thick hair, a damned good figure and an air of confidence and even though her clothes were casual, they weren’t cheap. She obviously had money. He was intrigued.

  “Is there somewhere I can freshen up?” Delia asked, avoiding his gaze, embarrassed in the harsh fluorescent lights by the state of her face. She now wished that before leaving the car she had applied some powder to cover up the signs of her distress.

  “Sure,” he replied, waving an arm at a door in the corner of the room, his brain working overtime wondering who she was, where she had come from and where she was going … and why she looked as if she’d been sobbing for hours on end. Some man, he supposed. It had to be, looking the way she did.

  Delia made her way into the
washroom, wrinkling up her nose at the grubby sink and the smelly toilet. It made her want to vomit. Quickly she had a wee, splashed water all over her face and hands and deciding not to wipe them on the towel which looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a very long time, took some tissues from her bag to dry herself.

  A steaming mug of strong coffee was on the counter when she emerged from the washroom. She paid, still avoiding eye contact with the man behind the counter, drank her coffee, burning her tongue in her haste to remove herself from his presence and with a sigh of relief, made her way back to her car, easing herself in and locking the door behind her. Weariness overwhelmed her as she laid her head back and closed her eyes. Although coffee usually kept her awake, it stood little chance against her intense weariness. Within minutes she was fast asleep.

  She woke up at dawn, stiff and uncomfortable. One of the lorries had gone but two more were just entering the car park. Although desperate for another wee and something to eat, Delia decided not to risk another venture into the café. She’d head on towards Sheffield and find a decent hotel.

  An hour later she found what she was looking for. A smart, beautifully elegant board at the entrance to a long tree-lined drive advertised luxurious bedrooms, an indoor pool, beauty treatments, and exquisite food in secluded surroundings in a country house hotel named The Willows. Without further ado Delia turned the car up the drive, stopping briefly to flick a comb through her hair and smear some lipstick on her lips. She still looked a fright but a short stay here should make a vast improvement to her appearance … and hopefully calm her mind.

  She was right. Following two days of being pampered and two nights in one of the most comfortable four poster beds she’d ever slept in, Delia felt able to move on. The shock of what had occurred at Canleigh was receding but the anger remained; a deep burning anger, which would take little to ignite into a roaring flame but for the moment she could keep a lid on it while she planned what she was going to do to get her revenge . . . because she wasn’t going to leave things like this. There had to be a reckoning one day. She had promised … and unlike Richard, Delia always kept her promises.