The Widow: The Albion: 1892

By Natalie-Nicole Bates

Can love come twice to Valerie McKenzie?

Valerie arrives back in her hometown after a seven-year estrangement.

She is now a widow and there to see through her late father's affairs.

But things are revealed to Valerie about the past that leave her reeling.

Including the fact she has been declared dead!

But not all is dire.

Valerie meets and accepts employment with the local druggist, Horatio Cooper Clark.

Horatio is skeptical, but soon realizes that the fiery red-haired Valerie is more than just a widow. She is beautiful, intelligent, and possesses just the right amount of sass.

As Valerie and Horatio grow closer, she begins to imagine a possible future with him, but she is still deeply haunted by her past.

Can Valerie make peace with the events of her past and move on to a beautiful future with Horatio? Or will she turn her back on love and leave town forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paperlate Press
• Release date: Mar 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224963331

Natalie-Nicole Bates

Natalie-Nicole Bates is a book reviewer and author. Her passions in life include books and hockey along with Victorian and Edwardian era photography and antique poison bottles. Natalie contributes her uncharacteristic love of hockey to being born in Russia. She currently resides in the UK where she is working on her next book and adding to her collection of 19th century post-mortem photos.    

Book preview

Chapter 1

Back in Black.

The widow arrived unaccompanied one winter day to Carlyle Street and immediately she turned heads.

Not because she was recognized by the people on the crowded street at noon, and maybe some of them should have recognized her.

But it was her appeal that caught the attention of the onlookers, some visitors to Carlyle Street, others long time locals.

From the high quality black mourning dress beneath the open black coat she wore, the black parasol she carried to shade herself from not only a few arrant snowflakes that fell, but to protect her eyes and porcelain skin from an extremely rare bright sky where the sun poked through the winter clouds.

Not that the sunshine would last long. Still it was a bit startling for early December.

It was always so dark on Carlyle Street in winter.

The freak bit of sunshine was startling for certain to the people on the street, but so was the widow’s hair. It was a shade of deep red that few people were born with, and she let it hang long and loose on her shoulders, not tied up in some fancy knot pinned to the back of her skull as so many women wore and considered fashionable.

Especially if they were lucky enough to have a few bejeweled hairpins studding their hair.

But the widow didn’t need fancy hairpins.

As she walked, and her hair moved with the breeze, sparkling earrings dangled from her ears. She also wore no hat. To the average person on the street, she seemed to be a woman who wanted to command attention to herself.

She was definitely a woman of means.

What they didn’t know was that she wasn’t a woman who craved attention.

She was simply a free spirit who dressed as she pleased, not to please anyone else.

After seven years of being away, and not entirely by her own choice, Valerie McKenzie was back on Carlyle Street. This time to settle her father’s estate and close his affairs.

She’d only recently shed her black mourning clothes for deep jeweled shades of blue, red, and green. A signal she was emerging from mourning her husband, who passed the previous year.

Now it was back to black.

But not for long.

She only wore the black garb to fit into what society expected of not only a widow, but the daughter who had just lost her father. She would wear black for as long as she mourned her father’s passing.

A few hours and no more.

She turned a corner and passed through an alleyway next to The Albion Hotel.

She had sent a wire at the train station to The Albion Hotel before she set out on her journey by train at dawn that morning, and informed them of her impending arrival to Carlyle Street, and to expect her to check in to the hotel that afternoon.

She also requested a quiet room.

She couldn’t wait to check into the hotel.

Although the train journey was as pleasant as hours on a train could be, she was weary, and carrying her tapestry travel bag caused her muscles and bones to ache.

She passed a small set of steps that led to what most people assumed was a service entrance to The Albion Hotel,though it had long been rumored to be a thriving, but clandestine speakeasy.

The speakeasy supposedly once thrived, and catered to the most influential men who visited for gambling, drinking, and entertainment by women of a certain reputation. Maybe the governor managed to close it down. But that was doubtful. The police had lost control of the speakeasies. As soon as one was closed down, another opened immediately.

It was well documented in the press.

Sometimes the same establishment would be raided by the police and closed down one night, only to reopen a few hours later. The industry ran on bribes and blackmail.

Not that it mattered.

She had no interest in the speakeasy or the activities that may or may not go on within its basement walls.

She arrived on Winston Street, which sat parallel to the main street, which was Carlyle Street. Winston Street looked more or less as it did when she last saw it years before.

Most of the government offices were positioned on Winston Street, as well as the town’s newspaper offices, and several professional offices of lawyers and doctors.

In the law office of Ethan Burke, formerly the offices of Coykendall and Burke, she sat with her gloves in her lap, strangely emotionless as she waited to be called to Mister Burke’s office.

It wasn’t that she hated her father, but she did not love him, either.

The man was an enigma she never would understand and did not care to.

If it hadn’t been for the small notice in the Lowbridge Daily Examiner, requesting any relatives of the recently deceased Roy Coykendall to come forward, likely she would never have known of his death.

Someone, presumably Mister Burke, had taken out notices in several newspapers in an attempt to find any living relative of her father.

Until recently, she was unaware of her mother’s passing three years earlier.

Her toes tapped the scarred hardwood floor as she continued to wait. She was most anxious to get this meeting underway and over with. There were so many questions she had for Mister Burke, her father’s best friend since childhood. The two had attended school together, and later law school, before opening their joint practice.

Now it appeared Mister Burke exclusively owned the firm.

Missus McKenzie?

A woman motioned her to follow.

Valerie stood and crossed the floor to the back office.

Mister Burke sat behind his expansive oak desk. Since their last contact, he had gained considerable girth, his face now well wrinkled, and his hair sparse and silver.

He did not look up from the paperwork on his desk.

Occasionally, he turned a document, followed by a low grumble under his breath. Finally, he lifted his watery blue eyes, and for at least one full minute stared mutely at Valerie.

Like she was a ghost.

It was unnerving, to say the least.

To add to her discomfort, it was eerily quiet, except for the rhythmic tick of the mantle clock. She cleared her throat in a feeble attempt to break the stillness.

Did Mister Burke not recognize her?

Had she changed so much in less than a decade?

From his frozen expression and lack of speech, perhaps so.

His features then relaxed, and he lumbered to his feet.

Valerie Coykendall, as I live and breathe. Girl, you are a sight for this old man’s eyes. You are all grown up! You look so much like your mother.

The mention of her mother seared her soul a touch. What she felt for her mother was a bit like what she felt for her late father.

Apathetic.

Ah, Mister Burke, it is lovely to see you again after so many years.

It was lovely in its own way.

Since she was cast out of her home all those years before, to see a friendly, familiar face was most welcome. No one else she passed on the streets recognized her, and she did not recognize anyone.

Perhaps that was to be expected after seven years. People came and went, life went on.

He gestured for her to take a seat in the large maroon padded chair in front of his desk. She sat and fumbled with her gloves which were once again on her lap.

I have to say, Valerie, he sat back down with an audible groan. When I received your telegraph, I wasn’t sure if it was someone’s cruel idea of a joke.

Her head snapped up.

Excuse me, Mister Burke?

He cracked the knuckles one by one on of each of his fingers, slowly and deliberately.

Each snap of bone was torture to her nerves.

When you disappeared all those years ago, no one was sure what became of you, or what to think…who to believe. When we held your funeral…

Funeral! She blurted.

Her gloves tumbled to the hardwood floor.

She barely noticed.

Her dark eyes were huge and fixed upon Mister Burke’s face. Surely, she misheard him, or maybe his mental faculties were failing him in his old age.

He swallowed noticeably several times; his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Finally, he clasped his hands together and exhaled.

Valerie…your father was…how shall I put this?

He paused momentarily, maybe searching for the right words.

A difficult man, Valerie offered one of the nicer descriptions she held of her father.

Mister Burke let out a nervous little chuckle.

Yes, a difficult man. To put it mildly.

It is okay, Mister Burke, please speak freely. I am no longer a young girl. I am a fully-grown woman. I am well aware of the temperament and habits of both my parents. If anything, I am certain that both of them never changed, and quite likely, their tempers and habits worsened after I was gone.

A sharp knock sounded on the door, and Mister Burke’s secretary entered the office. She carried a tray supporting a large white teapot, two matching china cups and saucers, a small ramekin of milk, another of white sugar lumps, and two small spoons. She placed the tray on a nearby table and turned to Valerie.

Milk and sugar, Missus McKenzie?

Valerie did not want tea.

The tea was an annoying delay to her finding out the truth. Still, she would never be rude.

Milk and sugar would be wonderful. Thank you very much.

The woman nodded, and slowly went about preparing the tea.

She placed a small, circular lace doily on the desk in front of Valerie and set down the full teacup and saucer. Beside the cup, she added a small, neatly pressed white napkin. She then repeated the same ritual for Mister Burke. At last, she politely nodded again to conclude her business and exited the office.

Please continue, Mister Burke, Valerie encouraged.

He toyed with the tiny spoon, which in his large hand looked comically like a little girl’s tea party toy.

I suppose it is best to start at the beginning and go from there.

Yes, the beginning would be fine, and please do not skip over any detail, no matter how mundane or painful it may be. I need to know everything.

You must first understand, Valerie, that no one is quite sure of the truth. He paused. No one I know of. When people, including myself, noticed you were not around for weeks, and then weeks turned into months, questions of your whereabouts were asked of your father. Sometimes he said you were out of the country, resident in a college for young ladies. In Switzerland, if my memory is correct.

Well, part of her father’s excuse was true.

She was out of town for certain.

But not in Switzerland, and it most certainly was not a college for young ladies in which she was enrolled and resided.

It was a convent school full of sadistic nuns.

This thought Valerie did not share with Mister Burke.

The only other person who knew the whole truth was her late husband, David. Right now, Mister Burke gave her the distinct impression he was sugar-coating the truth.

Sometimes? What about other times? she prodded.

He now flexed and unflexed his fingers.

Understand, Valerie, your father was in the midst of some type of nervous affliction. He was deteriorating mentally all the time.

This news did not come as a shock to Valerie.

Her father was always a bit off in his mind, as was her mother.

It might help to explain some of their irrational behaviors, but in no way justified or excused them.

Valerie firmly believed her father was pure evil.

Her mother was simply a puppet he controlled, and she had her own issues with her nerves and whatever other afflictions she suffered from.

Her mother was the lesser of the two evils.

Other times, especially when your school chums asked for an address to post a letter to you, or when someone asked for the name of your school, he told everyone you mysteriously vanished. You ran away, and no one knew where you went. That you were an insolent, spoiled, ungrateful young woman.

This sounded more like her father.

When a colleague of ours became suspicious of the inconsistent stories, he raised the issue of your disappearance with the local police authority. When a detective arrived here at the offices to question your father, he became irate…hostile even. He was always a high-tempered man, but the look on his face that afternoon…

Mister Burke stopped speaking and shook his head.

He groped inside a pocket of his coat, removed a folded blue handkerchief, and mopped his sweaty brow.

It was unlike anything I ever saw before. I was certain your father was a man possessed by demons. Many, many demons that tortured him without respite.

Valerie allowed for a few minutes of silence to pass between them, as she absorbed his words and steeled herself for what was to come.

Mister Burke needed time to regroup his thoughts as well.

Likely, he wasn’t at all eager today to recall the unfortunate, not to mention, uncomfortable events of seven years earlier.

When enough minutes passed without a word, Valerie spoke up.

Please continue, Mister Burke. I need to know the entire truth.

Of course, you do.

He nodded so vigorously the fleshy jowls on his lower face bounced, reminiscent of those huge, salivating dogs that carried small whiskey barrels around their necks while rescuing people stranded in the Swiss Alps.

About a week later, your father announced you had been located, but you were dead. Drowned in the East River. A funeral was held, a casket was buried, and life soon returned to more or less normal. Who were we to question your father any further? All asking questions did was invite his wrath. The police, and most people who knew your parents, thought your father was deeply in grief and was unable for a time to process the truth. We believed him. Wrongly I now see.

He paused and gestured