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

was Charles’s man through and through and she didn’t trust him one iota not to report back to her husband on her movements while she was at Canleigh.  God, she had only just arrived and she was already wishing she could depart.  How she loathed this musty old mausoleum and its occupants.

“His Grace is in the library if you wish to see him,” said Hardy helpfully, ignoring her waspishness.

“Where else would he be?” she replied sarcastically.

The front door was open and it was possible to hear what she considered to be the never-ending screeching and trilling of soprano voices from some Mozart’s opera or other, which Charles loved so much.  It was one of the things that drove her crazy.  He insisted on playing his cherished classical records repeatedly and the volume always had to be set high.

“Where are the children?” she asked without any real interest.  As long as the twins and Victoria, born two years after Delia and Richard, weren’t under her feet, she would be satisfied.  “I take it they’re running amok now it is the holidays.”

Hardy removed her two cream leather suitcases out of the boot of the car, nodded politely to the departing taxi driver, and followed her into the cool of the entrance hall, with its black and white Italian marble floor tiles.  The white walls were adorned with several large oil paintings of Yorkshire in all its glory; York Minster, Whitby Abbey, the mountainous Dales, the Moors in acres of purple heather and finally, the largest and most impressive of them all, Canleigh Hall.

“I believe Lady Delia and Lord Richard are about to go riding with Master Philip, Lady Victoria is at a friend’s birthday party in Harrogate and the Dowager Duchess is also in Harrogate.”  He glanced at the French long case clock positioned by the library door.  “Perkins will be collecting them at six o’clock.  Would you like refreshments, Your Grace?”

Hearing she wouldn’t be bothered by either the children, or her annoyingly critical mother-in-law, was a relief and some of the tension left Margaret’s shoulders.  “No.  I’ll have a quick gin in the library with my husband and then I intend relaxing in my room and don’t wish to be disturbed until dinner.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Hardy nodded and made for the stairs with the luggage and a sinking heart.  The atmosphere in the house wasn’t exactly comfortable when Margaret was in situ and he didn’t think for a minute that the children would be too enraptured to see her and as for the Duke, he would, as usual, feign indifference.  Hardy felt so sorry for Charles.  He was a good man, kind and considerate to all and deserved far better than Margaret with her haughty airs and graces just because she had married a Duke.

“Hello, Charles,” Hardy heard her shout as she entered the Library, trying to make her voice rise above the crescendo of soprano voices.

*   *   *

Charles looked up from the papers he was studying on his solid oak Chippendale desk, positioned near to the floor to ceiling sash windows and French windows.  Whenever the weather permitted Charles liked to have them all wide open so when he looked up from his work there was a fabulous uninterrupted view down the south terrace steps, over the well-tended parterre with the statue of Pegasus in the middle of the pond, and then across to the lake and the woods beyond.  Studying the calm, pastoral scene could help enormously if he was stuck for words or had a particularly knotty writing problem he couldn’t get his head around.

“So, you managed to drag yourself away from the metropolis and your dubious friends …  at last,” he said, turning down the volume on the music cabinet beside him and watching his wife sashay over to the drinks tray to shoot a goodly amount of gin into a glass.  He shuddered and grimaced as she drank it quickly.  If she was intending to get intoxicated, it would inevitably lead to a scene and he really wasn’t in the mood as he had reached a particular sticky chapter in his latest historical novel centered on the Battle of Towton, which took place in March 1461 during the War of the Roses.  Towton was just a few miles from Canleigh and Charles had spent many interesting hours wandering the land where it had occurred, pacing around the area and taking advice from the local historical group who were keen to tell him all they knew about such an important time in English history.  He just wanted to get all he had learned down on paper while it was still fresh in his mind and didn’t want the distraction of a row with his wife.

Margaret looked around the room.  It was like Charles.  It never changed.  Two dreary old brown leather sofas were positioned either side of the marble fireplace with rows and rows of centuries old books lining three walls, along with Charles’s reference books.  The only thing she liked was the enormous oil painting hung above the fireplace, painted in the heady days of their engagement.  She stood alone, dazzling and resplendent in a strapless vermilion evening gown, her black glossy hair swept into a chignon, a dazzling necklace of diamonds and rubies around her long elegant neck.  Her left hand, touching the necklace, was adorned with her engagement ring, a cluster of identical stones.

“Well, I didn’t have much choice, did I?” she snapped, remembering his curt telephone call last night, informing her that she had to return to Canleigh immediately.  “I honestly don’t know what the fuss is about and why you insisted I had to come back here before I intended to.”

Charles drew in his breath and let it out slowly, trying to keep his composure.  “We have an agreement, Margaret, and in the last few weeks you have been bordering on breaking it and I simply