The Widowed Bride: Ravenswood Hall ~ the Beginning

By Constance Kent

A decaying mansion. A feuding family. A dark secret that forces them together and drives them apart. The Widowed Bride is the prequel to Constance Kent's Ravenswood Hall Series. Set in 1875 Maine, the novella introduces the wealthy and powerful Coleridge family.

Aubrey Eliot arrives at the Hall and stumbles across a dark secret that sets the stage for the bitter feud that will divide the Coleridge sons decades later. A feud that leads to moral decay, insanity, and even murder.

Ravenswood Hall is a new historical mystery series that blends romance and suspense outside of the bedroom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writewood Creations Publishing
• Release date: Jun 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781988003924

Book preview

THE WIDOWED BRIDE

Ravenswood Hall ~ The Beginning

The Widowed Bride

Ravenswood Hall ~ The Beginning

Historical Mystery Romance

CONSTANCE KENT

Copyright 2022 Constance Kent

Writewood Creations Publishing

261 Lac Bernard Road

Alcove, Quebec

Canada J0X 1A0

Website: Constance Kent Historical Romance

ISBN 978-1-988003-92-4

All rights reserved.

This publication remains the copyrighted property

of the author and may not be redistributed for commercial

or non-commercial purposes.

Cover Image by Shutterworx / b.z. images

Cover design by Roksolana Fursa

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

From the Author

The Widowed Bride

For the Reader

About the Author

From the Author

A decaying mansion. A feuding family. A dark secret that forces them together and drives them apart.

The Widowed Bride is the prequel to Constance Kent’s Ravenswood Hall Series. Set in 1875 Maine, the novella introduces the wealthy and powerful Coleridge family.

Aubrey Eliot arrives at the Hall and stumbles across a dark secret that sets the stage for the bitter feud that will divide the Coleridge sons decades later. A feud that leads to moral decay, insanity, and even murder.

I hope you enjoy this new historical mystery series that blends romance and suspense outside of the bedroom.

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Miss Kent’s Salon

THE WIDOWED BRIDE

Chapter One

Ravenswood Hall, Maine

December 1875

BEING ACQUITTED OF murder was preferable to being convicted of murder but experience taught me that one fate was not so different from the other.

A guilty verdict led to the gallows. A not-guilty verdict led to another sort of death, no less serious and painful than the loss of one’s life. It was a slow death by poverty, starvation, subjected to diseases of the flesh—it being determined by good society that being tried for murder was the same as being a murderess and therefore rendered one unemployable.

The widowed matriarch of Ravenswood Hall, Angelique Coleridge, made no scruple in stating these facts in our interview. We were seated in a splendid drawing room draped in mourning black for the deaths of Blake Coleridge and his twin brother, Leyden only six months before.

You are in no position to object to any task that is put before you for the salary your employer deems is fair. Would say that is correct, Mrs. Eliot?

Angelique Coleridge was beautiful, rich, and the mother to the heirs of the Coleridge fortune, twin boys whose names I did not know at that time. The family was one of the wealthiest in the nation, having built their fortune on shipbuilding, fisheries and a sordid family secret—or so I was told on the journey to this rocky island off the coast of Maine.

The ferryman who transported me loved a good gossip. He began his tale by warning me off seeking employment within the tainted walls of Ravenswood Hall and when I first laid eyes on the house, glowering down at us from its place on top of a windswept hill, I believed he was right.

It had been steep climb for the horse and carriage that delivered me to its front steps.

Within reason, I said in answer to Angelique’s question. I have my conscience and liberty to consider. I cannot be compelled to do anything against the law or that will bring harm to the condition of my soul. I twisted my well-worn gloves and held my examiner’s imperious gaze. Angelique was not yet forty but had begun aging long ago in spirit. I am not guilty of the crime I was charged with and I have been found innocent by the court.

The housekeeper entered the room, carrying a tea tray. A finding of not guilty is not the same thing as being found innocent, said the newcomer. Not the same thing at all. Now tell me why you killed your husband and leave nothing out. I adore a good murder.

Hutton, as she was called, was a striking older woman with dark eyes, skin and hair, a woman of African descent. The tea tray was laden with cakes and tiny sandwiches. She set it down on the table under the window.

The drawing room at Ravenswood Hall boasted magnificent views of the Atlantic Ocean that stretched as far as the weather would allow. On this day, ominous clouds banked on the horizon.

Hutton, this is Mrs. Aubrey Eliot. She has reservations about doing what I require her to do to secure this position. She says she must respect the law and her soul ahead of her hope for employment at Ravenswood.

A peculiar stance in light of her chances beyond these walls, I would say.

Hutton positioned herself in such as way as seeming to be standing guard over her mistress, giving me to understand I would have to win her approval if I was to secure the position.

The story has been covered in the papers, I replied with mounting tension. I did not kill my husband.

My mistress only wants to know what happened, Mrs. Eliot. Hutton turned to the tea table and lifted the pot. She will hear your story and make her determination from there. If you speak the truth, you have nothing to fear.

Cool perspiration beaded under the knot of hair at the back of my neck. Angelique’s had been the only reply to my advertisement for employment since I placed it at the beginning of the year. Secretary and lady’s companion were the only occupations for which I was suited and they were few and far between. What little money I had left had been consumed by legal fees, the price of my lodging and purchasing a few decent dresses to raise my prospects. I could not afford to fail.

Nothing to fear. I repeated Hutton’s remark, endeavoring to swallow the lump in my throat. If you had the slightest understanding of the prejudice I’ve been made to endure, you would not suggest such a thing.

The housekeeper halted, cup in hand, and fixed me with a disbelieving stare. "I am sure I could not instruct you in persecution and prejudice, Mrs. Eliot, but I beg