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

The only problem was Anne herself.  Charles was fully aware of how stubborn his mother could be when she didn’t want to do anything.  Just like Delia, he sighed inwardly.  His daughter was just the same if she objected to anything, such as the time when she ran away from Roedean and refused to go back.  Thankfully she was settled now.  Thistledown was perfect for her and she was happy there, especially as it gave her time to ride for an hour or two with Philip after school.  The pair were inseparable and unless Charles was seriously mistaken, he could see them being married in the next few years.  It would be a good match as Philip was a solid influence on Delia, although she did have a tendency to boss him about and Charles wondered how that would work when they were older.  Still, that was years away and a problem for the future.  Now he had his mother to worry about.

“No, Charles.  You know why I don’t want to move back here … not even for a few weeks.  I find it such an ordeal trying to keep a civil tongue in my head when Margaret is here so it would only cause more stress.”  She threw a condescending look at the portrait of her daughter-in-law above the fireplace.

Charles, dressed casually in navy blue cord trousers and an open neck blue shirt, stood up and crossed the room to sit beside his mother.  He took her right hand in his.  “I know, Mother, I know.  It’s unfortunate you don’t get along.”

Anne shot him a withering glance, which he chose to ignore.  “Where is she now?  I thought she had returned home but Hardy informed me yesterday that she has shot off again.”

Charles sighed deeply.  “And without even waiting to tell me where she was going … she left a message to say it was something about a friend in need.”

“You are daft, my boy.  Plain daft!  God knows what she is getting up to and one day … one day, something is going to explode around your ears.  I just know it … and deep down so do you.  The woman is a trollop.  I am sorry, Charles, but you know full well how I felt about her before the twins were born but after that … that confession, after just delivering your children … and I sometimes wonder if you are their father as neither of the twins look much like you … unlike our little Victoria, who is yours without question.”

“Mother!” Charles exclaimed, feeling slightly ashamed that he had thought the same himself but to hear it actually stated, especially by his mother, was quite shocking.

“Yes, well.  That’s neither here nor there now.  The way I see it is that the twins and Victoria were the only good things to come out of your marriage and we can mould them to our way of thinking, especially young Richard as he is the heir and doesn’t need any bad influences to affect his behaviour.  Victoria is a poppet and I am sure will marry well and wisely … and then there is Delia.”

“Yes, Delia,” Charles sighed.”

Anne smiled.  She loved all her grandchildren deeply but Delia … with her streak of stubbornness and fearlessness was a force to be reckoned with when she either wanted or didn’t want to do something.  Anne had secretly admired the child when she had debunked from Roedean, hitched a ride all the way back to Yorkshire and stood in her father’s library, announcing she would never go back and if she did, would only run away again.  Anne remembered the scene well as she had been in the garden when Delia had arrived in a battered white Cortina driven by a scruffy looking young man who had smiled gaily as he drove away down the drive.  Anne had hurried into the Hall to see why her granddaughter had appeared so unexpectedly and was witness to Delia’s firm statement.  The girl had guts and intended sticking to her guns.  Anne had been impressed and somewhat amused.

A knock on the door announced the arrival of Betty with the tea tray, which she placed on the coffee table beside Anne with a smile and quietly left the room.  Anne poured two cups, passing Charles his with her left hand.

As she drew it away, he looked down at the thin gold wedding band, the diamond eternity and even larger engagement rings, his father had given her all those years ago.  He wished his own marriage had been as happy as theirs, even though it had been so cruelly cut short by his father’s accident in the hunting field when Charles was ten years old.

His father had been fearless in the saddle and Master of the local hunt for a number of years.  He was obsessed by horses and rode for hours every day and insisted that Charles learnt to ride as soon as he could walk.  Unfortunately, Charles hadn’t taken to it and although disappointed that his son didn’t share his passion, his father had finally allowed the torturous lessons on Noddy, the little black Shetland pony bought especially for Charles, to cease.  At least his wife, who was a competent rider, was willing to accompany him as often as she was able.  Anne hated the killing but found the actual ride exhilarating, although she much preferred the long summer evenings when they would leisurely explore the Yorkshire country lanes on Janus and Juno, their favourite mounts, occasionally stopping for a bite to eat at a local hostelry.  Anne had often mentioned those magical evenings to Charles, her eyes wistful as she remembered the joy of having William all to herself, ambling along, chatting about this and that, listening to the birds settling down for the night and watching the sun going down.

It had