Sorrowmoor: The Complete Serials

By Lisa Greer

A legacy of death awaits her...

Celia Renton, a poor relation, is summoned to Sorrowmoor, a gloomy estate owned by her cousin, Connall Rothwell. But all is not well at the house. A mysterious death, a master with demons, and a deadly enemy await Celia. Even as her heart is torn with mistrust of the master of the house, danger lurks behind handmade dolls and treacherous smiles. Will Celia live to learn the secrets of Sorrowmoor?

This is the complete e-book edition of the Sorrowmoor Serials, a Kickstarter project originally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gothicked Books
• Release date: Nov 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516362998

Book preview

Chapter 1: Welcome to Sorrowmoor

London—1831

I am sorry, Ms. Renton. There's nothing I can do. The barrister spread his hands and shook his head. The knock had come at the door of our London apartment shortly after Grandmama's death two days before, and now we sat at the simple card table in the drawing room. It was one item our creditors had not yet taken.

I'd been at loose ends, only my knitting keeping me company as I paced and fretted in turn. I threw down my knitting and perched on the edge of my seat, ready to get up and pace. Or should I just fret some more? The barrister hadn't come for tea, after all.

But...I don't know this man at all. I had no idea I had distant relations in Yorkshire. I bit my lip. It would do no good to say more. I had nothing left in the world. My parents had died years before—my father in war and my mother of consumption. My grandmama Phoebe and I had been two against the world. She had been nearly penniless in her life. I hadn't known what I would do in the case of her death.

And she'd slipped away in the night, breathed her last with no warning. Now my life was a dreadful void.

This is the best thing for you, lass. You're quite fortunate. The plump barrister rose, smiling. You're to take the next coach there in a fortnight. The rooms here will be, er, dealt with. He cleared his throat.

I wrung my hands for another minute and then stopped. This man had nothing to do with my fate.

Oh, here is the letter your grandmother gave me a few years ago for safekeeping. It will explain in greater detail than I can. He put his coat on. Well, I'll be off.

Yes, thank you. Goodbye.

He let himself out of the shabby foyer with a nod, into the howling winter wind.

I held myself there in the drawing room by the dying fire, gazing into it, the letter left at my side on the table.

Finally, I sat down, took a deep breath, and began to read:

November 15, 1825

Dear Ms. Renton,

If you are reading this, you are no doubt dealing in great sorrow. My condolences on your grief. It was your grandmother's wish that you should come live with me at the time of her death, if you had not yet secured a husband.

My cheeks grew hot.  At twenty-four, my prospects were dim in that respect, unless I wanted to marry a quality of man I did not choose. I forced myself back to the words, blurring through my tears. The hand was vivid and striking in a way I couldn't explain, as if to indicate that the man who had written this letter held great power.

Arrangements will be made for you to come to Sorrowmoor to live for as long as you choose. You will not be forced to work, and your life will be comfortable. I have made this vow to Phoebe. You are to come here without delay. The details of money have been provided for if such a sad event should warrant your journey.

I am ever yours, your cousin,

Colin Rothwell, Marquess of Sorrowmoor

I shook my head at the idea of this distant relation on my father's side, Phoebe's side who was to be my knight in shining armor.

A poor relation. That's what I will be, living only on the charity and goodwill of others—on a marquess. And Sorrowmoor? What kind of estate has such a name? My words echoed in the nearly empty room as I fought back tears.

As kind as the letter was, I doubted its every word.

But it will have to do, won't it?

I shoved the letter into my knitting bag and decided to waste no more time. I had memories and belongings to gather and my grandmama to bury in her simple, sad funeral before I took my leave.

* * * *

You don't have to go to Yorkshire, Ms. Renton, the kindly vicar told me as I knelt by my grandmama's fresh grave, the cold seeping into my very bones. Tears dried on my face in the wind.

My one friend in London, Trudy Best, stood nearby, waiting.

I don't have another choice.

You could stay here and teach or work as a governess. You have other choices. I could help you.

There was an eager light in his eyes, too eager. I remembered his age, though he was homely. He wasn't but a few years my senior and still in need of a wife.

Trudy cleared her throat, and I could read her thoughts—same as my own. She was yet unmarried though she had a decent dowry. Her snub nose and wild, red curls had been found wanting among the quality. I suspected, though, the real reason for her single state was her stubborn nature.

I shot her a glance, indicating she should be silent. She nodded imperceptibly.

I had no interest in filling the position, desperate though I may have been. I had a belief of my own in God, but being a vicar's wife was not something I could do.

Thank you. I'll remember that if things don't go as expected.

Please, take care, Ms. Renton. He gave me a pained look.

I nodded and forced a smile. When I turned away, heaviness filled my limbs, and I trudged along the dry, cold ground, sobbing as I went. Trudy put her arm around me and hugged me.

There, there, pet. It will all come right. You'll see. And you can write me every day. I swear I'll write back. Her voice shook.

I will, Trudy. You're my one true friend.

And you mine. She squeezed my arm as we closed the gate to the old graveyard.

* * * *

I grimaced as the worn coach bumped along another rutted pathway. The journey had been tiring already, with a stop overnight at a forlorn little village. Yawning, I rubbed bleary eyes as the landscape grew ever bleaker. My teeth chattered even under blankets and in warm winter woolens.

How miserable this place must be.

I had heard of the wild and forbidding moors, but I had no desire to go there. Now, it was my destiny. Wiping a single tear from my eye, I tried to be thankful I had somewhere to turn other than the streets. We were a couple hours from Sorrowmoor I'd been told.

But why are ye goin' thar? I never been there myself, the hackney driver asked rudely, spitting on the road.

To visit family. I was hardly going to tell him of my misfortunes.

His brows knit together. You'll not be wanting to do that.

And why not? I stamped my feet together against the cold while he fed the horses.

Because that house isn't right. It's cursed and strange. His eyes grew wide.

Fiddlesticks, I said, hoping my tone showed how unworried I was.

He laughed. I warrant you won't last there a week. My counsel is to head back where ye came from, girl.

Thank you. I walked stiffly back to the coach, determined not to speak to him again. And I didn't for the rest of the ride.

My eyes closed, and I let them.

I'll rest until we get there. It will do me good.

Wake up, lass. We're here.

The man's rough hand forced my eyes open. I made a small sound of shock in my throat. Late afternoon had stolen over the landscape, and the air slipping into the hackney was bitterly cold.

I forced myself to get out of the coach, where I stood shaking at the head of a road, looking up at a grand castle—the likes of which I'd never seen in a dream or—more appropriately—a nightmare. The looming slate monster towered over me. I could have sworn it was leaning forward as if to devour me.

And no one would ever know if it did.

I was little more than a speck in a wide world now, a dot, a thing to be taken care of by those who likely loathed the task of my keeping.

The castle was massive with a sweeping drive and rooms upon rooms in the upper floors. Lights winked in only a couple of them, reminding me of insects' eyes. Sorrowmoor might as well have been deserted for the suggestion of life that surrounded it. Dead was the word that tolled in my mind like a bell stuck in position in a ruined church loft.

I stop here, the driver said with a sniff.

I sighed, grabbing my two valises—all I had in the world. My teeth clacked together as I trudged up the drive, surrounded by trees and undergrowth. The path cleared in some yards ahead, but I wasn't sure how many. The longer I trudged, the lengthier the path seemed to grow.

What sort of reception would I receive? The sound of the hackney departing filled me with even more dread.

I'm all alone here, cut off from everyone, hours away from anyone I know who might even care for me.

For a moment, I wished I had stayed in London and taken the kindness of the homely young vicar.

No, I said, unable to keep a tremble from my voice as I trudged along the shadowy path, growing darker by the minute as dusk made a lavender bed of the sky. As I neared the house, tangled growth around it was obvious. It hadn't been kept up at all in terms of the grounds. A vine snapped against my foot, making me cry out. I rushed to disentangle myself.

Do ye need help?

The voice made me jump and scream.

I whirled around. A handsome man I would have said was around my age stood too close to me—so near I could feel his breath on my face. A wide smile made his face a welcoming one, and almond-shaped eyes suggested exotic parentage as did his dark complexion.

I—I am come here to live. I choked the words out, dropping my valises in exhaustion for a moment.

He nodded, confusion darting across his features, but he asked no questions. I'll be taking these for ye. Wouldn't do ta have you at the door alone, dragging your belongings. He smiled, and tears filled my eyes at the small kindness—one of the few I'd experienced in some time.

The young man grabbed my bags, and I fell in step behind him, hugging myself against the cold. What is your name?

I saw no harm in asking. I could only assume he worked at the estate.

Glidden Parshuk.

I see.

I marveled at the strange name even as I pegged him for a gypsy. I'd heard they lived on the moors in caravans, moving seasonally. It appeared, though, that Parshuk might have a place with the household.

And yours? He didn't turn, and I felt comfortable not having to meet his gaze again in the gathering darkness.

Cecelia Renton. I used my formal name, though everyone knew me as Celia.

Ah. Nice to meet ye, miss. Frightful time of year ta be traveling. He lapsed into that strange dialect I wasn't sure I'd ever heard before.

Yes, but it couldn't be helped. I bit my lip, my heart lifting just a bit as the house loomed closer and closer.

I still had that strange sensation of being sucked into something larger than myself. The lavender sky changed to an even darker shade, and the bottom floor of the house lit up in places it hadn't been moments before.

Soon, warmth and food.

Here we are, miss. Glidden and I stopped at the stone entryway after a surprisingly steep climb to the massive front door.

He picked up the knocker three times. I realized I was no longer breathing and tried to relax as I wondered what my cousin, the marquess, would be like.

Might take her a bit. She's an old lady.

I didn't respond but puzzled at his words.

The door finally opened, warmth flooding toward us. A beak-nosed old woman stood there, glaring.

Well, what ya be wanting, lad? Her eyes widened as she took me in.

This young lady...Ms. Renton...I met on the road. She is come for a visit. He cleared his throat.

We're not expecting any visitors. Go back where you came from.

But Mrs. Parsall, surely—

Surely nothing, my lad. Be off with ye both. The door slammed in our faces, and I could not help myself, I broke down in tears.

Welcome to Sorrowmoor, your new home, a gleeful voice intoned in my head.

Chapter 2: Midnight, My Master

I have nowhere else to go, I wailed, hating the weakness in my voice. Nothing had ever driven me to my knees as my grandmother's death was threatening to do. Looking up at the hulking mansion, the estate of Colin Rothwell, Marquess of Sorrowmoor and my distant cousin, I didn't know what I would do.

But I knew I wasn't leaving. This was my only hope unless I wanted to return to the kind, homely vicar in London...

Glidden Parshuk, the young man and servant of some sort I'd met on the road