The Phantom of Linkshire Manor, page 1
The Phantom of Linkshire Manor
Marissa Meyer
Copyright © 2021 Rampion Books, Inc.
Distributed by Smashwords
The Phantom of Linkshire Manor is a work of fiction, but it deals with the real issues of mental health, depression, and suicide, which may be triggering for some readers.
If you or someone you know is at risk, help is available at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 800-273-8255.
Anna emerged from the carriage onto a cobblestone path slicked with rain. The doctor stood at her side, holding an umbrella and digging through the back of the carriage for his satchel, immune to the sight of the looming mansion before him. But it had left Anna speechless the moment she’d spied it. A shadow, a castle, a ruin, towering over a sprawling landscape. She could see few details in the storm’s darkness, just the hint of spires jutting toward the clouds and a handful of arched windows lit by candles.
“Come along, then, Anna,” Dr. Edwards said, grasping his satchel in one hand, the dripping umbrella still in the other, as he proceeded to the mansion’s imposing French doors. Anna caught her breath and followed along in his dry halo, clutching her own satchel with whitened knuckles.
A woman opened the door before they could knock. She had a thin face that may have been handsome in youth, lithe limbs, and graying hair pulled into a knot at her neck. She nodded politely to Dr. Edwards and ushered them in out of the storm, letting the door slam against the roaring wind. Another servant, this one young and slight with wispy blond hair, took the doctor’s umbrella, hat, and coat. She moved silently and with her head lowered, as if she’d been trained to make herself invisible.
“Thank you for coming, doctor,” the older woman said, lifting a candle off of an entry table. “I dreaded to call you out on such a night, but the master became ill so sudden . . . I did not know what to do.”
“Never mind that, it’s perfectly all right,” Dr. Edwards said. “Let’s have a look at him, shall we?”
Anna did not try to hide her roaming gaze as it landed on Grecian sculptures, oil portraits in gilt frames, speckled marble tiles beneath her feet. She followed the woman and the doctor up a wide stairway, her hand caressing the time-worn mahogany rail. She could sense the young maid’s eyes on her as she passed, probably curious to observe the town’s first lady doctor.
They were led down a hallway lit by only a pair of sconces at either end. The floors creaked, but their steps were softened by plush carpets. The woman opened the door to a room at the end of the corridor.
Dr. Edwards approached the bed, but Anna lingered near the door, waiting to be summoned. The furniture in the room was minimal: a writing desk and chair, a wardrobe, a reading chair beside a small nightstand, and the bed. But the pieces were fine, many exquisitely carved, their craftsmanship apparent even to Anna’s untrained eye. The fabrics on the bed and curtains on the window were rich and trimmed in the most delicate of laces. A fire burned in the hearth, providing the only light besides the housekeeper’s candle and a great deal of warmth. Though at first it was a welcome change from the chilling winds of the storm, Anna soon began to wish that the maid had offered to take her overcoat as well.
“Anna.”
She yanked her thoughts back to the doctor and hurried to his side.
“Check his vitals, dear,” Dr. Edwards said. He turned back as Anna obeyed, opening her satchel on the small side table while the doctor began asking about symptoms, diet, and health history.
Anna kept her ear on the conversation as she looked down at the patient. She had expected James Rothwell, the master of Linkshire Manor, to be old and frail, but she instead discovered a somewhat young, if very ill, man lying in the bed. She doubted he could be much past thirty. Though his forehead was beaded with sweat and his breath was slow and labored, he had no wrinkles to mar his complexion and his features were sharp and strong. His square chin prickled with the beginnings of an unshaven beard. His black hair brushed the base of his ears, longer than was the popular style.
She went through the tests mindlessly, having done them a hundred times. She checked his pulse with her fingers against his wrist and found it frightfully quick. She glanced at the doctor, who was still speaking with the housekeeper, but did not bother to alert him. She knew he would have already checked this.
The man’s skin was warm, clammy. Anna gently opened his chapped lips and peered into his mouth and throat as well as she could, finding it dry and irritated. She proceeded to his eyes, carefully lifting one lid with her thumb.
The pupil was dilated, only a hint of a gray-green iris rimming the blackness. Anna pursed her lips and went to check the other when both eyes snapped open of their own accord and an iron grip clutched her wrist.
Anna gasped, lurching back from the bed, but the man’s hold on her only tightened. His gaze was intense, almost desperate.
“Camille,” he whispered, his voice gravelly.
Anna flinched as his hold on her wrist tightened, amazed that a man so weak with illness could be yet so strong. She licked her lips and shook her head.
“Camille,” he whispered again, his other hand reaching up to grasp her opposite elbow, anchoring her to the side of the bed.
“My name is Anna Forrester,” she started, but it was all she could say before the doctor was at her side, coaxing the man’s fingers off of her. He released her without a fight, his hard gaze meeting the doctor’s as his head collapsed back onto the pillow.
“There, James, it will be quite all right,” Dr. Edwards said, nudging Anna behind him as he leaned over the patient and examined the dilated pupils for himself. “How are you feeling?”
Either the master did not hear him or he could not answer. His gaze had drifted up toward the firelight that danced across the ceiling. His breathing returned to struggled rasps. His strength fled as he sank into a lethargic state.
“Anna?”
Anna glanced at the doctor but he did not take his attention from the patient. Clearing her throat and forcing her heart to steady itself, Anna began prattling off her observations of Mr. Rothwell’s symptoms. The doctor nodded, but he was frowning when she’d finished. With a sigh, he backed away and wiped some sweat off of his own brow with a handkerchief. The action reminded Anna of the room’s heat and her suffocating overcoat.
“Well, doctor? Will he be all right?”
Anna turned toward the housekeeper, surprised to see she’d been joined by another servant, a rounder, balding man with a brow that could only have become so creased after years of scowling.
“I’m afraid I’m unable to give an adequate diagnosis at this time,” said Dr. Edwards. “His symptoms are unusual. I must consult with my medical books in order to give an accurate diagnosis and suggest the proper treatment.”
The housekeeper paled, her eyes glancing at the master.
“What can we do in the meantime?” the man asked.
“I think it will be best if my assistant stays here and keeps a close eye on his progress for now.”
The man stiffened, his face darkening. “Your assistant . . .” He trailed off, refusing to look Anna in the eye, but everyone knew what he was thinking.
The doctor waved the concern away. “She’s quite capable, I assure you. James will be in good hands.”
“But Dr. Edwards—”
“Female physicians are becoming quite common in the larger cities,” Dr. Edwards interrupted. He waited only a moment for the servants’ reactions before continuing, “If there will be no further objections, then I would like to have a brief word with Miss Forrester before I go.”
The two servants looked uncomfortable, casting stray glances at the master caught up in his distressed dreams before they left the room. Anna noted they left the door ajar and was sure they intended to eavesdrop.
“Anna, I hope you understand the need for this arrangement.”
She nodded. “You will write me immediately should you find anything?”
“Of course.”
“Should I send for you if he gets worse?”
“No, no, there’s nothing I can do for him that you can’t. You may as well send for the parson at that point.”
Anna’s stomach tightened. Though she had been Dr. Edwards’s apprentice for nearly seven years, she had never been far from his shadow. Nevertheless, her anxiety filled her with determination. Dr. Edwards clearly felt she was ready to tend to her own patients and she would do all she could to not disappoint him.
“Now then, be on good behavior,” he added with a fatherly wink. He tipped an imaginary hat to Anna before leaving the room. She heard the protests of the servants in the hallway. They followed the doctor down the stairs and all the way out the front door. The rain was still pelting the windows as she decided to perform one more inspection of Mr. Rothwell. His symptoms were unchanged, though his breathing had somewhat eased. Her heart jolted to look at him, expecting his hands to grasp her again at any moment. But the patient remained in a restless sleep.
She wandered back into the hallway, casting long looks down each end of the corridor. It was all shadow, made more ominous in the dim candlelight. She heard the front door close and the servants briefly bickering in the foyer before footsteps thudded once more on the stairs. Anna straightened her spine and waited for the housekeeper’s drawn face to appear at the railing.
The bedroom door slammed shut behind her.
Anna jumped and swiveled, her heart racing. The hallway had darkened with
Anna twisted harder, her fist straining at the effort, her palm sweating on the cool metal.
“Miss Forrester?”
The doorknob turned. The door jerked open. Anna nearly tumbled into the room. Catching her breath, she quickly scanned the bedroom, but all was as she had left it. She looked at the doorknob, but it looked too innocent to be the culprit. Until she noticed, with a skip of a heartbeat, that there was no lock on the door at all.
“Miss Forrester?” the housekeeper repeated. Anna turned to face her, setting her shoulders back and her face into what she hoped was an expression of professionalism.
“Yes, my apologies. It appears the door was stuck.”
The housekeeper sent a quick glance at the knob. Her lips thinned.
“I will show you to your room,” she said, her tone cold. Then she turned back to the hallway, holding the candle aloft for Anna to follow.
The guest room contained more furnishings than the master’s suite, but the quality of the pieces was not as fine. Nevertheless, it far surpassed Anna’s expectations. The bed was comfortable and clean and larger than her bed at home. She was supplied with a dresser and a wardrobe, a washbasin, a small table with two mismatched chairs, a writing desk, and a bookshelf—empty save a collection of works by Jonathan Swift.
“Will you be needing anything else, Miss Forrester?”
Anna gratefully pulled her arms from the heavy sleeves of her overcoat and smiled at the woman hovering in the doorway. “Only your name, perhaps.”
The woman’s frown deepened, but she complied. “May Adams.”
“You are the manor’s housekeeper, I presume?”
“I am.”
“And who else lives at the manor?”
Though May leveled Anna with a sturdy scowl, she responded, “Only Robert, the butler, and Elizabeth, the maid.”
“Mr. Rothwell has no relatives living at the manor with him? No children?”
“He has no children, and only an older brother, Mr. Thomas Rothwell, for a relative. Thomas lives outside of London. We sent word to him of the master’s illness this morning, as soon as we saw it could be serious.”
“Do you think he will come to see him?”
“I should think so. Mr. Rothwell and his brother have always been close.”
“I see. Thank you.”
May nodded curtly and moved to leave the room, but Anna quickly called her back. “If I can keep you for one more question, please. I wonder that you sent for Mr. Rothwell’s brother this morning, before you thought to call the doctor. Was there a reason?”
Though May’s irritation was growing plainer by the moment, she clasped her hands and responded, “I have nursed many a person back to health since my employment began here nearly forty years ago, Miss Forrester. I may not be a doctor, but I was hoping that my skills would be enough.”
“And yet you sent for his brother thinking his condition was dire.”
“It was precautionary. Mr. Rothwell’s brother likes to be informed of his health and happiness. Being the eldest by some years, he is quite protective.”
“I see. Have you any thoughts as to what could have caused such a sudden change of health?”
May again pursed her lips tight, her gaze dark and piercing. “No,” she finally answered. “I can think of nothing.”
Anna nodded. “Thank you, Miss Adams. I promise to do my best in seeing him to health again. I bid you a good night.”
May did not return the sentiment and left the room, leaving only a single candle burning on the nightstand. Anna was almost too tired to be put off. She discovered a linen nightgown in the wardrobe. Soon, she had crawled beneath the heavy blankets and fallen asleep.
Anna was awakened by an agonized scream. She sat up in bed, drawing her blankets tighter around her and peering into the dark. The room was nearly pitch-black, only the faintest outlines of furniture visible. The curtains were open but the night was moonless and the rain still pounded on the glass. A chill turned Anna’s skin to gooseflesh. She held her breath and listened, wondering if she’d only dreamed the sound that had roused her. The house seemed quiet except for the incessant storm, tree limbs clattering against the bricks outside, wind whistling down the chimneys.
Her eyes would not adjust to the dark. When no further sounds came from the house, Anna forced herself to lie back down. But no sooner had she done so than she heard a commotion directly beneath her.
Anna sat up again and reached for the candle that had burned out during the night. Finding it little more than a useless stub, she growled under her breath and pushed her blankets aside. Her feet rebelled against the cold wooden floorboards, but she clambered onto them anyway, searching for her discarded shoes. Once she found them at the foot of the bed, she made her way to the wardrobe where she had hung her overcoat. She stumbled upon it nearly by mistake and haphazardly threw the coat on over the nightdress.
It was not until then, as she bravely made her way to the door, that she heard another scream, abruptly cut off by a strangled gurgling, and a weak voice seemed to emerge from the very floorboards.
“Help,” it cried. “He’s killing—”
A thud. Then all went quiet.
Her heart racing, Anna threw open the door, grateful to find a pair of candle sconces burning in the hall. She hurried toward them, dodging the shadows that reached for her and grabbing a candle as she bustled down the stairs.
She found herself in the foyer, which was marked by unfamiliar doorways. She heard no other sounds, no footsteps, no struggling. Continuing on, she found that the bottom floor of the mansion was composed of great rooms and parlors, libraries and sitting rooms. It was easy to lose track of her whereabouts as she tried to determine which room would have been beneath her own quarters. She thought it must have been the main library, itself musty and coated with dust. There was nothing to indicate a fight, nothing to indicate that a foot had stepped into the room in years.
Anna proceeded down the corridor, the candle held aloft and her shaking hand gripping the front of her coat, but still there was nothing. The house seemed deserted. Silent. Still. All the windows locked. All the candles snuffed for the night.
Anna reached the end of the corridor without event. She stood there for many minutes with the candle casting a halo of light around her, trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. A sudden torrent of rain on a nearby window made her jump and the wind howling through the trees forced her to determine that what she had heard had been nothing more than the settling of an old house and the screeching of an angry gale.
She returned to her room, casting many looks over her shoulder and finding nothing but shadows. She left the candle burning on her nightstand and her shoes in easy reach as she slipped back into bed.
She rose with the dawn, or what she judged to be dawn from the hazy gray light filtering in through the window. She’d been awake for a time, though she could not determine how long, her eyes refusing to shut, her body refusing to lie still. The rain had become a steady drizzle and the wind had all but disappeared, leaving a trail of branches and debris in its wake.
Anna pulled herself from the bed, shivering in the drafty room, and managed to dress herself despite her numbed fingers. She put on the same dress she’d worn the previous day, having no change of clothes. She could not help hoping that she would find Mr. Rothwell completely cured so that she would not have to stay another night in the gloomy place.
She went to her patient first, without breakfast, though she could hear some of the servants moving around in the downstairs rooms. Mr. Rothwell was sleeping. The fire in his hearth had been recently stoked, a fresh log just beginning to char among the flames, and the room once again felt stiflingly warm compared to the chill throughout the rest of the house. Anna checked Mr. Rothwell’s pulse, which was still somewhat erratic. There were beads of sweat on his brow and his hair clumped wetly to his forehead. All other symptoms were unchanged and he slept through her administrations without stirring. Leaving her instruments on the writing desk, Anna exited the room, stopping only to look at the door’s knob, which had no problem with sticking this morning, and to cast a last look at the slumbering master.
