Lanesbrough Hall | Elisabeth Linley
A family saga, fateful secrets, and an ancestral home with a touch of magic…
Lanesbrough Hall tells the compelling story of two women whose lives are connected across time and their journey of love, loss, and intrigue.
Scotland, 1953: Mimi leaves her beloved Lanesbrough Hall and her teenage love, Will, behind to start university in St Andrews. When she meets Glen at a party, she is convinced she has found an independent life full of glamour away from the Hall.
But destiny, it seems, has other plans. Torn between passion and convention, Mimi has to navigate her journey from a young, carefree girl on the cusp of adulthood to a lifetime of responsibility and secrecy that forever tie her to Lanesbrough Hall.
London, 2019: Isabelle’s ordered life as an ambitious doctor takes a dramatic turn when she unexpectedly inherits Lanesbrough Hall, her family’s ancestral estate in Scotland.
While browsing through her grandmother’s diaries, Isabelle discovers long-buried secrets that have the power to bring everyone she loves closer together— or tear them apart forever .
Determined to protect her family’s future, Isabelle must step into the past and rewrite their history.
Lanesbrough Hall by Elisabeth Linley is independently published, £11.00 PB, £24.99 HB. Available via Amazon and to order in all good bookshops.
Enjoy the first chapter here!
Chapter One
January 2019
It was on days like this that Isabelle hated her job. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and her shoulders tensed. She took another look at her computer screen, wishing that it was telling her something different. After all, who liked to be the bearer of bad news?
The footsteps stopped outside her door. Isabelle took a breath, like a diver ready to slice the water. She rose from her chair before the knock came, feeling like an executioner about to lead a prisoner—an innocent one—to the gallows and opened the door.
Her own trepidation was reflected in the face of the woman standing there, who was only a couple of years older than Isabelle.
Isabelle grimaced a smile, hoping to alleviate some of her visitor’s anxiety.
‘Hello, Melanie. Please come in.’
She stepped aside, wanting to add that it was good to see her, but it wasn’t. It was anything but. Isabelle closed the door. The room seemed to have shrunk. The scent of the rose diffuser was sickly-sweet, like mildew. She wanted to open the window, but the sound of London traffic changed her mind.
She straightened her shoulders and donned her professional mask as she walked across the room. She gestured for her visitor to take a seat and returned to her chair, facing this woman who looked as fragile as a fledgeling.
She was holding an arm around her waist, as though protecting a broken wing, or perhaps to deflect the words she knew were about to assault her like the pellets of an airgun.
Part of Isabelle wanted to freeze time like an image trapped in a photograph for eternity — no past, no future, just this moment in the present. If only.
There was no escaping the inevitable; Isabelle cleared her throat.
‘Melanie, I have your results… I’m afraid I’ll have to refer you to oncology. The cancer is back.’
There, it was out. And in that instant, the woman’s face broke into fragments of emotions like a pane of glass hit with a sledgehammer. The sound that shattered the room was the universal cry of devastation.
Isabelle fought to keep her composure. She knew she had to say something, to give this mother of two children under the age of five some hope. But deep down she knew all she could offer were platitudes. Instead, she rolled her chair to the other side of the desk, leaving the safety of the professional barrier.
Isabelle took Melanie’s hands, hoping to give her some warmth, to thaw the iciness that gripped her. The room was silent except for Melanie’s cries in tandem with the tick-tock of the clock, counting the time.
The ten-minute consultation had long overrun. Isabelle had other patients waiting downstairs. Some would be staring at the information posters telling them about the annual flu-jab, heart disease, and diabetes. Others would be engrossed in their phones, answering work emails, or playing games to pass the time. More would be swearing under their breath and tapping their feet in frustration like dancers waiting to take the stage.
‘Thank you, Dr Rousseau,’ said Melanie as though reading Isabelle’s thoughts, and she stood.
Isabelle steadied her as she swayed.
‘I will ring and make sure the referral is fast-tracked.’ Except she had already done it that morning. With her arm around her charge, she accompanied her to the door. ‘Would you like me to call anyone for you?’
‘No thank you, Doctor. My mum is meeting me in the coffee shop around the corner. I’ll be fine.’
Isabelle doubted Melanie Stewart would be ‘fine’ any time soon but also knew she had to be, for the sake of her children.
This just sucks.
She made a mental note to call Melanie in a few days, just to make sure. She shut the door and leaned against it for a moment and let the strength of the wood seep into her body before she returned to her desk.
Isabelle felt an almost physical jolt as the door flew open and banged against the wall. The sound was followed by a barrage of words.
‘How dare you call yourself a doctor?’
Isabelle stared at the man who had barged into the room.
‘You had no right to put my daughter on the Pill without my permission,’ he growled at her.
The image of a nervous sixteen-year-old flashed in front of her. Isabelle had been forced to reassure her repeatedly that, from a legal point of view, she was no longer deemed a minor and the consultation would remain confidential. This man had no right to invade her office and give her abuse.
‘You can’t just walk in here. I could have been in consultation —’
‘I knew you weren’t. I’ve waited long enough for that lady to come out. And you’re gonna listen to me.’
Isabelle held up her hand.
‘You’ll need to make an appointment. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with my patients.’
‘We’re not finished yet.’
The sound of footsteps reached them. Relief washed over Isabelle at the sight of Mrs Hargrave, the practice manager.
‘I’m sorry for the disruption, Dr Rousseau,’ Mrs Hargrave said as she laid a hand on the man’s arm. ‘Now, come along please, Mr Patrick, and we’ll sort this out.’ She sounded like a bouncer trying to shimmy along a drunk.
The man yanked his arm away.
‘I’ll sort this out when I speak to the General Medical Council and have your licence taken away. We’ll see how you like it then,’ his voice boomed one last time as he lumbered out of the room.
Isabelle shook her head. The GMC was her professional regulatory body, and whilst they had the obligation to take every complaint seriously, Mr Patrick would soon realise his mistake, should he ring them.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Rousseau. This won’t happen again,’ said Mrs Hargrave.
‘It isn’t your fault, Mrs Hargrave. Don’t worry about it.’
Isabelle let herself fall back on to her chair. The clock on the wall told her it was only 11:30 a.m.
How can I survive another six hours?
The desk phone rang as if to confirm she needed to get on.
‘Yes?’ she answered, feeling haunted.
‘Dr Rousseau, there’s an urgent call for you,’ said the receptionist.
‘I really need to get on. Can you take a message? Or perhaps someone else can deal with it.’
‘It’s your mother.’
Isabelle put a hand on her forehead. Today couldn’t possibly get any worse. Right now, she just didn’t have it in her to talk to her mum.
‘Please, Mrs Dobson. Tell her I’ll call her this evening.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve already tried; she is rather insistent.’
Isabelle didn’t miss the woman’s emphasis on the last word. She closed her eyes. Yes, her mum, Bonelle, was insistent all right. It had always been her way or the highway.
‘Fine,’ she breathed out the word—that word again. ‘I’ll take it.’
There was a click, then a pause before her mum’s voice
penetrated her ear. ‘Isabelle, why haven’t you been answering any
of my calls and messages?’ said Bonelle, her tone as sharp as a scalpel.
Isabelle’s fingers dug into her temples. ‘I’m at work, Mum.’
‘And this is an emergency. I need you to go to Scotland. Mimi’s been admitted to the hospital. She’s in a coma.’
Time stood still. A sudden image of Mimi abandoned in a hospital bed flashed in Isabelle’s mind. Nausea rose from the pit of her stomach, choking her. The words Mimi, coma, and hospital kept repeating themselves like a mantra foretelling doom.
‘Isabelle? Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ she said, unable to hide the tremor in her voice as she brushed away tears.
‘Isabelle, I know what you’re doing. Stop it now. You always have to see the worst in everything, don’t you?’
And why are you always as cold as a reptile? Isabelle wanted to say. Instead, she asked, ‘Will you be coming over?’
‘I would, but I have a few things in the diary I’d rather not cancel. For all we know, it’s much ado about nothing. Call me when you know more. And Isabelle, try not to worry too much.’
Isabelle clenched her jaw to stop herself from saying something she might regret. But she needn’t worry. True to form, Bonelle had already hung up.
Anger propelled her into action. Isabelle found Jeremy’s number and prayed her semi-retired colleague would answer.
‘Isabelle?’
‘Listen, Jeremy, can you fill in for me for a few days, ideally starting today?’
‘That urgently?’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause, but Isabelle didn’t intend to fill the gap.
‘OK, I’ll be there in the next hour, but you owe me.’
She breathed a sigh of relief.
Next Isabelle opened WhatsApp before she forgot. Charlie, won’t make it tomorrow. Family emergency. Sorry lovely. Speak soon xx
She’d been looking forward to catching up with her best friend from uni, but she knew Charlie’d understand.
She dashed downstairs. The reception was heaving. She ignored the stares that bored into her and made her way to the side door.
‘Is James free, Mrs Hargrave?’
‘He’s between patients, just go ahead.’
Isabelle knocked on the door, and without waiting for an answer, strode in. James looked up from his screen. He creased his brow, and she knew she wasn’t welcome.
‘I’m sorry, James, but I have to leave. I should be back in a few days.’
‘This is highly irregular, Isabelle. What about your patients? You can’t just up and go.’
Colour crept up his neck, but she ignored it. ‘I’ve arranged for Jeremy to cover my clinics. He’ll be here in an hour.’
‘That’s as maybe. But this is not helping your chances of making partner in this practice.’
Isabelle nodded, turned on her heel and left, resisting the temptation to slam the door behind her.
