Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) by Carole Williams (uplifting novels TXT) 📕

the tack room and over to the window where the Hall could be seen clearly up the winding path linking it to the stables.  “I don’t understand you, Richard.  I really don’t.  Perhaps you take after Mummy more than you think and you will be more interested in the goings on in London when you grow up, hobnobbing with your friends and then cutting up bodies all day long at some hospital or other.  Yuk . . .  and double yuk!”

Richard moaned and made for the door, not wanting to get into yet another argument about his inheritance.  He was so sick of it and sometimes wished he could just give Canleigh away.  He really didn’t want it.  He was only thirteen years old, it was already causing him massive problems, and he had a nasty suspicion that as he grew older, it was only going to get worse, and he dreaded to think what Delia would be like when he did inherit.  Miserably, Richard thought about how his life would pan out with the estate like a millstone around his neck, having Delia continually finding fault in every decision he made and interfering relentlessly.  He knew she would.  Even if she did marry and move away, she would still find a way to poke her nose in.  Canleigh was her ultimate passion and he knew in his heart of hearts that she would never, never truly let go of it, and would make his life a torture forever.

Richard glared at his twin.  “Do you know, Delia, I am truly fed up with your obsession with this place.  If you want it, you can have it.  There, I have finally said it.”

Delia stood stock-still and stared at him.  “What?”

“You heard.  You know I don’t really want it.  You do, so you might as well have it when the time comes.”

“But you can’t do that, the primogeniture thingy …”

“Oh, fiddle.  If I inherit, I can do what I like with it.  Anyway, I don’t particularly want children so you would inherit anyway when I die.  So, how about we draw up some kind of document indicating that I promise to sign it over to you the moment I inherit.  Father need never know, as it won’t come into force until he isn’t with us anymore.  Then perhaps we can live in peace until that time comes and I can get on with what I want to do without your continual harassment.”

Delia looked incredulous.  She couldn’t believe her brother’s words.  He didn’t know what he was saying; he was giving her the world.  An enormous feeling of gratitude and relief swept over her and all the angst and bitterness she had felt for as long as she could remember dissolved in an instant.  She turned to the drawer in Perkins desk and rifled through quickly for pen and paper, determined Richard would carry out his promise without further delay.

They sat at the desk, dark heads together, more in tune with each other than they had ever been, planning the words that were going to change both their lives.  Richard took the pen Delia offered him and started to write, his tongue poking slightly out of the side of his mouth as he concentrated on getting the words exactly right.

‘I, Richard Canleigh, Marquis of Keighton, do solemnly declare that on the day I inherit Canleigh Hall, I will give up all rights to the estate and it will pass to Lady Delia Canleigh for her to do with as she pleases’.

“There, do you think that will suffice?” he asked Delia with a worried expression on his face.

Delia read it aloud.  “Yes, I think that will be absolutely fine … but what will we do with it?” she tapped the paper with her finger.  “No-one must find it, or know about it, otherwise there will be a terrible kerfuffle.  This must be a complete secret between you and me.  We mustn’t tell anyone,” she stared firmly at him, reminding him clearly of Granny.  It would be a tremendous mistake to disobey any of her instructions and Delia possessed the same determined manner when she had made up her mind about something.  It simply wouldn’t be wise to disagree or argue.  Not that he wanted to.  He didn’t want anyone finding out what he had just done either, especially his father.  He would be livid.

Richard shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden stool he was perched on.  “I know.  I promise.”

He looked around the room.  “We should hide it down here somewhere.  It’s no good in the house as someone will be bound to find it, especially during the spring clean when everything is pulled out and gone through thoroughly.”

Every April an army of extra cleaners were drafted in from the village for the yearly mammoth task of cleaning the whole house, overseen by Granny who, in their mother’s inevitable long absences liked to make sure it was done as correctly as it had been when she was the Duchess in situ.  Even Father was banished from the library so every single book on the shelves could be removed and dusted meticulously.

“Good idea,” Delia agreed.  “But not here.  I know it looks a mess but Perkins knows exactly where everything is but,” she smiled widely, “I know just the place.  Come with me.”

Delia rushed outside and across the cobbles towards one of the loose boxes opposite the tack room.  “Come on,” she hissed as Richard walked slowly behind.  “In here.”

Richard followed her, looking furtively around to make sure no-one was watching.  He wanted this so badly.  It would make life so much easier to get Delia finally off his back.  They entered the empty loose box and Richard shut the door behind them, intrigued to see Delia pushing and prodding at the old faded red bricks on the far wall.

“It’s somewhere here.  I know it is,” she uttered.