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

  It was during the London season when Charles met her and fell crazily in love. They were engaged before Charles had even spoken to his mother, who had declined an invitation to join him in London. So, as soon as it was feasible, he invited Margaret and her Aunt Sarah to Canleigh to meet her. They stayed for a weekend and although his mother was naturally courteous and polite, she displayed no real warmth towards the two women. Unable to drive them back to London as he had a prior engagement in Harrogate on the morning of their departure, he and his mother said their goodbyes on the front steps of the Hall where Perkins was waiting with the Rolls to take them into Leeds to catch the London train. It was a difficult moment. Aunt Sarah and his mother were icy cool with each other and he felt awkward kissing Margaret goodbye, albeit it was only a swift peck on her cheek.

  Within minutes of the Rolls disappearing down the drive, his mother had launched into attack, leaving him stunned and miserable as she was normally such a kind, fair person but this was different. This was her son’s future and she wasn’t happy.

  “What on earth do you think you are doing, Charles?” she exploded. “I know I wanted you to marry but to … to this young floozy? You must be mad! She will bring nothing but misery to you and I dread to think what she will do to the reputation of the family. Can’t you see, my boy, she is man-mad and is in no way a suitable wife for you. You need someone who will place you and your heritage first, someone quiet and kind and who has compassion towards others, who will support you in all things. I can’t see any of that in her … can you?”

  He had felt like a small boy again, instead of a grown man; the tenth Duke of Canleigh, with a first-class honours degree and a medal for bravery in the war.

  “I’m sorry if you don’t approve, Mother, but I love her,” he announced defensively, knowing how pathetic it sounded. But it was true. He had been swept up in Margaret’s magic as soon as he set eyes on her at Lady Balantine’s ball, which he hadn’t particularly wanted to attend but being in London on business for a few days and a highly eligible bachelor he was swamped with invitations as soon as he arrived. He had declined most of them but the Earl of Balantine was one of his old Etonian friends with whom he had also shared the dangerous years of war in the Royal Air Force and incarceration in Colditz Castle and it would have been churlish to refuse.

  Margaret’s tinkling laugh and sparkling dark eyes, flashing a smile of delight at him when she tripped down the main staircase and neatly fell into his arms, her stunning figure in a pale blue chiffon ball gown and then the way in which she listened afterwards to every word he uttered as if it were of the utmost importance, sent his senses reeling. Previous to that evening he hadn’t much interest or experience of women. All those he had grown up with were fine as friends but there had been no-one he wanted to share his life with and he was always aware that many of them only simpered up to him because of who he was and what he could provide for them. Margaret, he feared, was the same but what was different were his feelings. He was in love for the first time and dearly wanted to make her his wife.

  “Love! Love! I thought you had more sense,” his mother had raved. “It’s so important you chose the right woman. You know that. You know you are the only hope for Canleigh to continue as it has done for the last 450 years, being the last in a long line of splendid men who have nurtured and treasured it, married well and sensibly to keep it going. You have a duty to them and to Canleigh. For goodness sake, Charles. There are a number of young women in this country who would fit the bill perfectly, who know how to behave and what is required of a Duchess and would be an asset and not a liability. Because I am absolutely positive that is what that little tart of a fortune hunter you have brought home will be!”

  Charles was so mad he hadn’t been able to answer her and left the room swiftly, desperately unhappy that his mother, with whom he was usually so in tune and who he had the utmost respect for, had taken so strongly against the beautiful young woman he had brought home so proudly but nothing was going to stop him marrying Margaret ... and it didn’t. The wedding took place in the little church on the estate on the 12th September last year; Margaret stunning in a floaty creation by Norman Hartnell, his mother doing her best to keep the look of disdain off her face.

  But, just as she predicted, the rot set in as early as the honeymoon in the Caribbean. Charles would have preferred a trip around Europe but with the ravages of war, there was nowhere really suitable and Margaret wasn’t interested anyway. She wanted somewhere hot and spicy which the war hadn’t touched so they decided on a remote little island in the Caribbean where only a few other tourists were holidaying, where the sun was relentless and the mosquitoes their greatest torment.

  Their marriage hadn’t started well. Charles had gone down with food poisoning and was confined to bed for a few days while Margaret dashed off to the beach for hours on end, flaunting herself in the skimpiest of bathing suits and flirting endlessly with any male who ogled or came near her. The bed in their villa was near the window and when Charles wasn’t sleeping, he was able to see her antics clearly and was aghast at her behaviour. She was constantly surrounded by adoring laughing males, who dashed in and out of the sea with her and took turns in towelling her dry and applying sun cream to her body with long, lazy strokes. It had shocked him to the core to see his new wife having no respect for herself, for him and for the title she now bore, especially since she knew he could see her and was uncaring as to whether or not his feelings were hurt.

  As soon as he began to feel better, he cut the honeymoon short and they returned to Canleigh, Charles wholeheartedly relieved when Margaret announced her pregnancy a few weeks later which meant her wellbeing and the harsh winter provided a perfect excuse not to entertain and suffer more humiliation if she should decide to flirt with male guests.

  His mother’s warning words had reverberated around his head on and off during the long months of pregnancy …, although she never said another word, just conveyed her feelings with despairing looks every so often but now Margaret was about to be the mother of his children and a whole new chapter in their lives was to begin, hopefully her natural motherly instincts would take over, she would settle down and his mother would finally accept her.

  Charles looked at his mother who was fighting the desire to nod off in the warm waiting room. She wasn’t used to late nights anymore, rarely venturing out in the evening if she could help it but the event last night had been an important dinner for an animal welfare charity of which she was patron and there was no way she would have avoided it.

  He looked at his gold Rolex watch. It had been nearly an hour since Margaret went into theatre. Surely the twins had been born by now. God, he hoped everything was all right. It was nowhere as dangerous in childbirth now as it had been years ago but things could still go wrong and he so wanted these twins. He could forgive Margaret anything if she could provide him with a family. Canleigh needed children to bring it to life. Charles’s father had died in a hunting accident when Charles was ten years old and until Margaret’s arrival last year, there had only been him, his mother and a few staff rattling around the enormous house. Following his marriage, his mother moved down to the Dower House which left only him and Margaret. Children would breathe life into the place, into them all. He was so excited. His tummy flipped over. He couldn’t wait to see his babies.

  A quick tap on the door made him look up and his mother’s eyes spring open.

  “Your Grace. Would you like to see your children?” said the pretty young nurse popping her head round the door and smiling at Charles.

  He stood up quickly, a huge sense of excitement flooding his body.

  “What are they?” he asked quickly, hoping upon hope that at least one was a boy.

  The nurse smiled. “You have a girl and a boy. The girl was born first.”

  Charles smiled joyfully as pride and relief rushed over him. “Splendid, absolutely splendid … and how is my wife?”

  “Her Grace is still asleep bu
t you can come in now and sit with her and the babies.”

  “Mother,” he said, turning to Anne. “Do you want to come and see the children.”

  Anne smiled widely. “Just try keeping me away.”

  They followed the nurse down the long corridor of the maternity wing where they could hear other women moaning and crying in the delivery suites. Two pale-faced men sat outside looking apprehensive and anxious as they listened to their wives. Charles smiled sympathetically at them as he passed.

  There were two private rooms at the end of the wing and Margaret lay in bed in the furthest one, her face pasty white. Her long dark hair was brushed and lay thick and heavy on the pillows. Her hands, with their manicured red nails, lay motionless on the starched white sheet covering her. Charles bent to kiss her cheek. She stirred and moaned but went straight back to sleep.

  Two cots were placed by the bed. Anne followed Charles to look at the occupants. One baby was asleep but the other stared up at him, holding his gaze almost …, the thought crossed his mind, defiantly. He checked the name tag which was pink; the sleeping baby’s was blue. So that was his heir, Charles thought proudly, with a wave of overwhelming love engulfing him. He looked back at the baby with the pink tag. She continued to stare at him, locking her eyes with his and for a second Charles felt a sense of unease as the tiny creature challenged him. What to, he had no idea but that was how it seemed.

  “They are beautiful, Charles,” said a smiling Anne at his side. She bent over to stroke the little girl’s cheek. “Well done, my boy. Proper heirs for Canleigh at last. A boy … and a girl. It will be wonderful to have them home and I so look forward to watching them grow and learn to love Canleigh as we do.”

  Charles stared down at his offspring. He had never felt so happy; so complete and fulfilled. They were perfect, absolutely perfect, and he couldn’t wait to take them home and show them off and spoil them rotten. They would have everything they wanted and he would fill their days with love and laughter. They were going to be the happiest children on earth.

  Margaret stirred and her eyes flickered. Charles turned back to her, wanting so much to thank her. She mumbled something but he couldn’t make out what she had said. He drew closer and bent towards her.

  “What did you say, darling? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “The baby … I didn’t want him … I really didn’t want him,” she moaned, moving restlessly about the bed, her eyes flickering open and shut but not focusing on anything.

  “Darling, you don’t know what you are saying … it’s probably the anaesthetic. We don’t just have a boy, we have a girl too … and they are wonderful … just perfect … and I can’t thank you enough for giving them to me.”

  “No! No! The other one,” she cried, “I mean the other one. The boy! I didn’t want him. Elizabeth and George took him … he’s in America.”

  She slumped into a deep sleep and Charles stepped back from the bed, his heart pounding. He didn’t want to look at his mother to see her reaction to Margaret’s words but his eyes betrayed him and jumped straight to hers.

  He shook his head. “It’s the anaesthetic. She’s dreaming,” he said, not even believing his own words.

  Anne said nothing, just turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her, her whole demeanour saying ‘I told you so’.

  Charles looked back at Margaret, feeling a deep, deep dread. It could have been the anaesthetic making her hallucinate but deep in his soul he knew it wasn’t. His young wife had another child … by another man …out of wedlock. She had deceived him, completely and utterly …and presumably, so had her Uncle Arthur and Aunt Sarah as they must have known and had probably helped her conceal her shame.

  So, where was this child and who was the father? The questions jumped into his head. He walked to the window and looked despairingly over the hospital grounds where nurses in uniform and doctors in white coats hurried about, a couple of male patients in pyjamas and dressing gowns were sat on a wall smoking cigarettes, a patient in a wheelchair was being pushed towards the hospital gardens by a concerned looking person, no doubt a relative; an ambulance siren could be heard in the distance heading towards the hospital. It all looked so normal. People getting on with their lives, their work, getting better from whatever ailments plagued them but his world was upside down. He was deliriously happy that he was now a father but his wife’s few words had stunned and revolted him. All the joy he had felt in the past few minutes had been tainted by this new knowledge and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to deal with it.

  CHAPTER 2

  CANLEIGH – MAY HALF-TERM 1964

  The taxi wound its way down the drive until the grand façade of Canleigh Hall came into view. Margaret, the Duchess of Canleigh, in the back seat of the hideous green Ford Consul, closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She hadn’t wanted to come home. She wouldn’t have done if it hadn’t been for Charles’ insistence that she return from London immediately. So, here she was, and chomping at the bit to leave again. She had to return to London as soon as possible or she would burst with frustration. She had a seriously urgent need to feel a certain someone’s hands on her body and she couldn’t remain at Canleigh for a second longer than absolutely necessary, whatever her husband said.

  The taxi drew to a halt by the front steps to the Hall and Margaret, not bothering to wait for the driver to open the door, stepped out, divinely elegant in her yellow silk shift dress and matching stilettos, while Hardy, dapper in his neatly pressed butler’s attire and highly polished black leather shoes, trotted down to collect her luggage and pay the taxi she had hired to drive her home from Leeds railway station.

  “I would have sent Perkins to collect you in the Rolls if I had been aware you were returning to Canleigh today, Your Grace.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure what I was doing until the last minute. It was easier just to hire a taxi,” Margaret snapped as she walked up the steps.

  She didn’t like the blasted man’s tone. That was the main drawback to being a Duchess. She liked the prestige and she liked the money but to be constantly watched and approved or disapproved of by servants was a bind, especially by Hardy. He 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?”

&nbs
p; 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.