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

The drawing room, on the opposite side of the hall, was light and sunny with French windows opening out onto the side lawn.  Delia smiled.  Visitors would have no doubt in their minds she adored horses.  On rosewood side tables between the two four-seater red velvet sofas and gold velvet cushions, and on the alcove shelving and every available surface in the room, sat figures of horses, mostly made of porcelain but Delia’s favourite was of crystal, reputed to be over three hundred years old and once owned by the Austrian royal family.  A heavily patterned Wilton carpet of red and gold covered the floor and the full-length curtains at the French windows and the sash window overlooking the front lawn were of gold brocade.  It was certainly a room that smacked one in the eye, she thought with delight and if she had overdone it, she didn’t care.  She loved it.

There had been two slightly smaller rooms behind the drawing room and Delia had asked Ruth, who hadn’t any reason to refuse, if it were possible to make them into one.  It was now a nice sized sitting room, with more French windows, this time overlooking the pretty gardens and lawn at the rear.   She and Lucy would spend most of their time in here, Delia decided.  This was where they could relax, watch television, listen to music, or just play, confident that tiny investigative fingers could break nothing of any value.

Although Delia didn’t mind preparing the occasional meal, she certainly didn’t want to spend much time in the kitchen at the rear of the property that had suffered badly from the leaking roof but after the repairs, boasted brand new oak cabinets and shiny equipment.  Ruth had kindly popped a notice in the window of the village shop to advertise for a part time housekeeper, for four days every week, and Mrs. Forest, the wife of Ed Forest, one of the estate gardeners who lived in the village, would be commencing her duties the following day.

Delia went back into the hall and up the stairs to the front of the house and entered her own bedroom with the cream en suite.  Delia had managed to locate the carpenter who had made the ebony bedroom furniture her father had bought for her at Canleigh, sadly destroyed in the fire.  An exact copy was made and Delia searched far and wide until the same colour carpet, curtains and bed coverings were found.  There were a couple of paintings of Canleigh on the walls and, of course, a few more equine figurines … and her favourite photograph of a smiling Philip by the bed, taken when they had attended the Yorkshire Show many years ago, the first thing she would see every morning and last thing at night.

Lucy’s room was opposite Delia’s, comfortable and secure for a three-year-old little girl.  The wallpaper, curtains, duvet cover and bedside lamp were festooned with beaming teddy bears in assorted styles of dress and different poses and Delia was positive Lucy would love it, smiling at the sight of far too many cuddly toys positioned militarily on the bed.

She quickly peered into the other two bedrooms and the family bathroom, content that her orders had been carried out to the letter and the Dower House was now ready and waiting for the permanent arrival of herself and Lucy.

Life had to improve now, Delia thought, driving back to the apartment in Alwoodley.  The last three years had been simply intolerable.  When deemed fit enough to be discharged from hospital after the fire she had moved to London and rented a roomy flat in leafy Hampstead, near to the Heath where she could walk and think while her pregnancy advanced.  The operations the plastic surgeon wanted to perform on her face had to be postponed until after Lucy was born so Delia led a quiet, sheltered life, whiling away the days as best she could, not speaking to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.  After years of receiving nothing but looks of admiration and desire, it was difficult to bear the glances of shock and pity when people saw her damaged face for the first time, hurting her more than she cared to admit.  She took to spending many hours in darkened cinemas or theatres where no-one could see, making sure she sat near to the wall on the right so that the wrecked side of her face was in obscurity when the lights came up.  Needing fresh air and exercise, she took long and lonely walks on the Heath where no-one bothered her.  She had to venture out for the necessary appointments at the doctors and quick trips to the supermarket to stock up with food but otherwise she kept to the flat, willing the time to pass quickly, looking forward to the time when her child would make an appearance and the operations could commence.

Then came the day Lucy was born.  Delia’s waters had broken just after lunch and not long afterwards the horrendous pains began.  She rang for an ambulance and was whipped into hospital where ten hours later Lucy arrived, red faced and hollering at the top of her voice.  When the tiny bundle was placed in Delia’s arms, it was as if she had received all the goodness in the world in one instant.  Suddenly, nothing else mattered but the screaming infant.  Lucy was her saviour and made the sun shine again.  Delia adored every inch of her and knew in a flash of certainty that Lucy was her entrée back to Canleigh.  The child had to grow up there and Delia was going to make sure she would, whatever it took.

The real work on Delia’s face began a few weeks after the birth and while Lucy was cared for by a hired nanny Delia endured three operations in an effort to regain her former beauty but although a slight