Unlike the Landrover, now tearing up the lane towards the stables, pulling up to an abrupt halt at the entrance with Constance Kershaw at the wheel. Constance, a bustling, cheerful woman in her mid-fifties, a head taller than Delia, ran towards her and enveloped her in a tight embrace. She had been longing to get hold of the child ever since she and Philip had returned from the school cricket match an hour ago and heard the news of what had occurred at the Hall.
One of Ralph’s grooms had left the ‘News Today’ in the tack room where they all sat for their breaks. Ralph had seen it and brought it into the house to show Constance. Pointedly ignoring the lurid photographs but reading the text to her, Ralph exploded angrily, castigating Margaret from the bottom of his heart. Constance had cried, feeling deeply for the children and so sad for Charles, who had been a good friend to them over the years. She and Ralph had not had much time for Margaret and was not entirely surprised by the turn of events but only wished it hadn’t been so public and so deeply hurtful for all connected with the Duchess. Then, when Hardy had telephoned an hour ago to ask if Delia was with them and briefed her on Delia’s attack on Parfitt’s car and her disappearance, along with the dreadful news of what had happened to the Dowager Duchess immediately afterwards, Constance’s concern turned to fright.
Ralph had been firm. “It won’t be dark for ages so we have plenty of time to search for her. I’ve got lessons until around 8.30pm and if Delia hasn’t turned up by then I’ll ride around the estate and see if I can find her.”
“I’ll go now,” said Philip. “I don’t know whether to it’s best to cycle or saddle up Verity?”
“You’ll be much quicker on Verity,” said Ralph.
“I’ll stay here in case she should ring. I can fetch her in the Landrover if need be,” said Constance, rushing to the kitchen and throwing Delia’s favourite meal together, all the while listening for the telephone. The relief had been enormous when it finally rang and she heard Delia’s voice. Now, to have her in her arms safe and sound was even better.
“You poor, poor dear,” she said now. “You don’t know how worried we’ve been about you.”
Delia smiled weakly at Philip, who, having seen his mother driving smartly towards the stables, waving at him to follow her, tore into the stableyard on Verity, pulling the pony up sharply. He jumped off and rushed over to plant a big kiss on Delia’s cheek.
“I say, Delly, you pulled a blinder, didn’t you? Smashing up that chap’s car … I bet it’ll cost a fortune to put it right.”
“That’s enough of that young man,” said Constance smartly, pulling away from Delia, allowing her to breathe again.
Truly impressed by her actions, Philip continued to grin at his best friend. Delia, remembering the astonished faces of her mother and Parfitt couldn’t help returning his grin and within seconds the pair were doubled up with laughter; Delia’s, much to Constance’s dismay, bordering on hysteria. The girl looked done in and desperately in need of loving tender care and there was also the dreadful news of what had happened to the Dowager to impart yet. That was going to be really hard. Constance knew how Delia loved and revered her grandmother.
“I think we should get Delia home,” Constance said speedily. “She needs a hot bath and some food. Come on, Philip. Where are your manners? Open the door for Delia.”
Within minutes the Landrover was bowling back down the lane, Constance in the driving seat, Delia safely beside her still wrapped in Perkins old coat. Philip, on Verity, cantered behind.
Ten minutes later they drew up outside Tangles, Philip disappearing with Verity towards the paddock where she would spend the night. Delia looked up at the lovely old house. It hadn’t the elegance of the Hall, the treasured paintings, the object d’art or the Chippendale furniture but that didn’t matter one jot. It was cosy, comfortable and welcoming. Two rescued old Labradors, one black and one golden, along with Gruff, a middle-aged mongrel with hints of Alsatian blood, treated the whole house as their own personal kennel, even though they possessed big, well-padded baskets in the kitchen. Wherever the family were, they had to be too, draping themselves over sofas and chairs and the thick rugs near the fireplaces, uncaring that their muddy paws and shedding hair caused the cleaning lady, Molly Seddon, more work than a little.
The house, especially the lounge, which was on their left as Constance and Delia walked through the front door, was always an orderless jumble with Constance’s knitting, books and papers scattered all over the place, Molly having strict instructions not to move anything. An ardent bird watcher and rescuer of abandoned animals, Constance’s books on their welfare and care were rarely returned as she was forever pulling them out to check a fact and invariably neglected to put them back. Overdue library books also graced the two worn and scratched coffee tables.
The kitchen, on the right of the hall, was a homely muddle. Cookery books were strewn across worktops and the enormous oak table standing in the middle of the room on the slightly uneven stone floor. There were six chairs around the table, a rocking chair in a corner of the room and the three dog baskets all lined up along another, all empty as the
