Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama), Carole Williams [ebook reader 8 inch .TXT] 📗

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 again.

“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.

“Please don’t ask, Milady,” he said quickly before his young charge had a chance to speak.

Delia tried to return to her dreams of achievement in the show jumping world but found it impossible as her niggling concern turned to serious consternation on approaching the back gate and seeing two burly estate gardeners and a policeman on guard.  Her eyes widened in astonishment as they opened the gate and the policeman waved them through; Hardy continuing to drive smartly along the back lanes, deftly avoiding Delia’s eyes in the mirror.

Eventually, they reached the Hall and Hardy stopped the car next to a white sports car with a rather handsome young man in the driver’s seat.  He was wearing sunglasses and when he smiled at Delia, she couldn’t see his eyes.  Strangely, Hardy ignored him, opened the door of the Rolls for Delia and she dashed up the steps, fed up with all this secrecy and wanting to find out what was going on.

The library door was ajar and she could see her mother standing by the open French windows, clutching a glass in her hand, no doubt with plenty of gin in it, thought Delia wryly.  She dashed into the library.  Her father expressly forbade running on the highly polished oak floors in case of accidents but Delia was too exhilarated to care … she tore into the room and flung her arms around Margaret, who flinched outwardly and made no attempt to hug her daughter back.

“Oh, I’m so pleased you’re back home … I thought you would miss the show on Saturday when you disappeared yesterday.  I was so hoping you would be here but why have I had to leave school early and who is that man outside?  What’s going on?” she asked, suddenly realising the atmosphere in the room was icy cold.

Charles drew in his breath sharply.  Having his difficult interview with his wife interrupted was highly annoying and in this way, doubly so.

“Not now, Delia,” he thundered angrily.  “And I have lost count of how many times you have been told not to run in this house.”

Margaret wriggled out of Delia’s grasp and refilled her