I grew up on the classic gothic novels of Victoria Holt and Dorothy Eden and Phyllis A. Whitney.
For years, I wanted to write such novels :: the Miss Beale Writes series is my tribute to those early novels that gave my teen-aged self such entertainment.
My first entry in Miss Beale Writes is the novel The Dark Lord.
The Dark Lord is located at this link: https://writersinkbooks.com/mystery-and-gothic-the-dark-lord/
For the scariest time of the year, I have the second novel in the series.
The Bride in Ghostly White
Early in 2025, I was struggling to write fiction while juggling interviews and episode creation for The Write Focus podcast. Finally, I threw up my hands in defeat and dropped the fiction to concentrate on episodes.
When things with the podcast settled down, I should have returned to that novella I had started, but I had a bad feeling about it. I left it to pursue the novelettes that became Courting Trouble, the 1920s mystery trilogy, published last summer.
Finishing Courting Trouble in September meant I should return to that fictional novella.
Starting from the first page, I found a great story hiding in repeated scenes and swirling disconnections, all evidence of the chaos that was late January, February, and March. I revised and wrote new scenes and jerked out the disconnections. Before I knew it, I was a chapter from the end.
The Bride in Ghostly White published October 31, 2025 ~ a fitting time for a Victorian gothic mystery with murder and a ghost.
Read below for the 1st Chapter.
Who murdered Enid’s wealthy cousin? The ghost isn’t telling.
When Enid’s beloved cousin died while riding, she didn’t believe the simple tragic words of an accident.
Seeking the truth, she disguises herself as a lady’s companion to enter the household at Derlaston Manor.
Rumors do not just tell of trouble after the wedding of her cousin to the eighth Baron of Derlaston. Enid also learns of the baron’s need for money, of his late father’s unlucky death while riding, and of a mysterious mistress at the estate when her cousin died.
A black-haired vagabond lurks in a nearby woodland.
And a ghost haunts the manor, a ghost who looks very like Enid’s cousin.
Did the baron commit murder? Or one of his family? Or that mysterious vagabond?
The ghost knows … but the ghost isn’t telling.
Links
Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FWD67JNC
Books 2 Read https://books2read.com/u/49gqep
1st Chapter
The rain stopped drumming on the passenger box as the carriage negotiated the sharp turn from rutted road to smoother drive.
It rolled on. The mud-covered wheels flung mucky mire onto the sides of the carriage. When she no longer heard the clumps of dirt, Enid gave in to curiosity. Derlaston Manor must be near.
“A monstrosity of a manor,” her cousin Neris had named it in her last letter.
Enid lifted the heavy drape that had blocked the rain and mud.
The day looked as dreary as it had when the coachman had met her at the Lock and Key Posting House. A long grassy sward followed a gentle slope to a reed-surrounded pond. White flowering phlox drooped after hours of rain. Looking in the direction of the village, she saw dense trees, towering hardwoods mixed with understory trees.
The carriage turned with the drive, and the roofs of low-bricked buildings came into view, separated from the lawn by a painted fence. Horses grazed beyond the white-painted planks.
The drive turned more. The carriage wheels crunched as they rolled over rain-stained gravel, and Derlaston Manor entered her view.
Sunlight broke through the purpled clouds, but it didn’t grace the manor.
Greystone quarried from their own land, Neris had written, and the Benthams proud that their own stone had built such a solid house.
Solid was the only grace the manor had. The rain had washed the granite to charcoal. A brutish Gothic tower centered the long building. Four pinnacles cornered the tower, and matching pinnacles repeated above the massive entry that centered the main building. The wings had repeated bays of a window triad, tall and iron-braced, painted a sagey green that the rain had also darkened. Panes on top of panes would admit sunlight—if ever the sun cast its warm gleam upon the manorial pile. The cost of glazing alone would be prohibitive.With an ornate façade more imposing than welcoming, no wonder Neris had called the manor a monstrosity.
Her cousin had loved the clean lines of Neoclassical architecture. She must have wept internally when first she saw her grotesque new home, all gothic flamboyance without the open symmetry of the Rational era.
The carriage slowed as it turned onto the gravelled court before the entrance. Enid Travers, she reminded herself and touched her plain bonnet, ensuring her hair remained tidy underneath. I am Miss Travers of London, lady’s companion and never anything more. She tugged on her gloves then drew her cloak around her, the black color matching the gloom of the gothic manor and reminding her of Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto.
She didn’t seek supernatural interventions. She hunted a murderer.
The carriage jolted to a stop.
The box door jerked open. A man in dark green livery turned down the step.
Enid paused as she leaned out of the carriage. “I believe there’s a mistake. I am Miss Enid Travers, to be companion to the Dowager Lady Derlaston.”
“No mistake,” the footman said.
“But the servant’s entrance—.”
“No mistake,” he repeated. “The rain will start again soon, Miss.”
She accepted his hand and stepped down.
A second footman carried her bandbox through the entry, two paired doors of rain-washed oak, high and arched. Time had worn away the finer details of the carved shield serving as the keystone of the arch tip.
“Go on, Miss,” the footman urged then turned to accept the valise that the coachman tossed down.
“My trunk—.”
“Redger will carry it in from the back.”
Rain peppered down, destroying Enid’s hesitation. She hastened inside.
The deluge resumed. The footman closed the massive doors, shutting out the rain and blowing wind.
Enid stopped a few steps within the cold entry hall. A grand staircase of marble and ebony wood fronted her while dark panels covered the surrounding walls. Light came from a few dim sconces and highlighted the paler paints in time-darkened portraits. The painting of an austere man in Puritan lace captured her attention.
“Welcome to Derlaston Manor, Miss Travers.”
The warm voice countered the chilled hall, and she turned toward it.
A man of her age stood beside the staircase, in the opening to a shadowy hall that she hadn’t noticed. Though dressed as somberly as she, his smile reinforced his voice’s warmth. Hand extended, he approached. Candlelight burnished his blond hair and highlighted his sharply-cut features. “I am Ambrose Welloughbey, secretary to Lord Derlaston. I hope your journey was not too tedious. The agency noted that you were eager to leave London.”
The words harbored a question. Derlaston Manor’s slow country life would contrast sharply with London’s hubbub. Enid offered a smile of her own. “While my working life is recently based in London, I spent my early years in the countryside. London’s coal-grimed streets do not attract me. I miss green fields and wildflowers and singing birds. I am fortunate in my positions, for I am often in rural locales. In my last position I was three years abroad, traveling with a youth on his grand tour.”
“London’s constant busy-ness is certainly off-putting. Where did you spend your childhood?”
“Wales.” The word was no sooner spoken than Enid wished to recall it. She had intended to keep that part of her background unspoken. She must be cautious with every word.
“Our late mistress was from Wales,” he responded with sharp attention, making the connection she had hoped to avoid. “Welsh is not in your accent,” he continued.
“The late mistress?” Her emphasis would hopefully distract him.
“Yes, the late Lady Derlaston was Welsh. Neris Griffiths. Did you know her or her family?”
“No, I’m not familiar with that family name,” she had to lie. “Griffiths? We did have a Griffiths near our home village. One of those unpronounceable village names impossible to spell.”
As if expecting someone to descend, he glanced up the grand staircase. “Lady Derlaston is missed.”
Enid quickly jumped on the additional opportunity to distance herself from Neris. “Did she pass away recently?”
He shook his head. A lock of blond hair fell over his brow, and he impatiently thrust it back. “A riding accident late last year.”
She murmured the expected platitude even as she remembered how Neris had stuck to the saddle like a burr. Multiple jumps and rough terrain never unhorsed her cousin. “A hunting accident?” she added, hoping to snatch more information omitted from the lawyer’s letter to Uncle Griffiths. Here was Enid’s strongest suspicion about Neris’ death.
“She fell from her horse as she jumped over a brook.”
A brook? Enid tried to mask her incredulity. That explanation was senseless. A brook would be a slight hop for a tall hunter. Neris would have ridden one of the best horses in the stable, not a clod that landed in a shallow brook. Yet all Enid could say was “A tragedy for you all.” In her ears, that reaction sounded flat and callous.
“A double tragedy. She had announced only the night before that she expected the new heir. I had only just taken my position here. The former secretary, Mr. Hollister, knew her well. He was devastated. I believe the village still talks of the accident. The baron, however, does not often reference his late wife, and those of us here respect his wishes. Lady Derlaston’s death is not for idle gossip.”
That warning struck Enid more deeply than the shock of the new information.
“Now, I am remiss. You will wish to refresh yourself before you meet the Dowager. I must warn you,” Mr. Welloughbey’s smile flashed out, belying his warning, “she is eager for your arrival. James, will you escort Miss Travers to her chamber? When you are refreshed, come here again. I will introduce you to the Dowager.”
Enid controlled her jumble of emotions. “Thank you. I would not wish to meet any employer, however eager, in all my travel dirt.”
“Based on the glowing references we received from the hiring agency, I am certain all your employers are eager to meet you. James, if you will.”
“Yes, Mr. Welloughbey.”
He saluted her then returned through the side hall, his steps regular and assured.
She followed James up the grand staircase, desperate to sneak glances at the architecture and décor, landmarks that would help her find her way in the impressive manor.
At the first-floor landing deep burgundy draperies covered the tall windows, creating a shadowy gloom. The matching carpet with its paler flowers had faded and thinned. A grand clock centered the landing. Portraits decorated the interior paneled walls, this time lit by silver sconces. They depicted Tudor and Medieval men and women, this veiled lady displaying a large pearl set in a ring, that man with a pointed beard wearing a purple hat on his golden locks. The corridor stretched down the center of the manor, with deep chambers on either side. The landing split the house into two wings, and the footman pointed out the family wing.
The stair climbed on, but the footman said, “Servants’ stair,” and hooked a finger in a waist-height hole to open the door. The servant’s staircase was well-lit with sconces at each tight turn of the stairs. James didn’t look around when she hesitated, and Enid hurried to catch up. The servants would know her expected station in the manor. Apparently, she was to cross back and forth between family and servant realms.
They climbed a tight, steep flight where he pushed open another door, revealing the second story landing. From the landing, running front to back, she spotted two central corridors branching off into each wing, doubling the number of rooms available. The rooms would be smaller, without the depth of those on the first floor. Rain washed down the glazing, turning the outdoor view to a blur. These unlit walls were painted, and the windows had no drapery. The rug was a mere runner over darkly painted planks. Only sconces lit the corridors.
The staircase continued upward, but they did not. The footman turned into the front corridor which was above the family wing. The windows on his right admitted the only light. He pushed open the sixth door of the hall and carried in her valise and bandbox.
Her trunk had already arrived and steamed on the rag rug before the lit fireplace, already heating the room.
Although small, the chamber was larger than she expected. A narrow tester bed with dark green curtains dominated the space. Similar curtains covered the window, open now to overlook the gardens and distant woodland. The only furniture was a wardrobe, a table and hard wooden chair, a washstand with basin and pitcher and mirror, and an upholstered chair near the bed, separated from it by a little table centered with an oil lamp.
James left even as her word of thanks dropped from her lips.
When the door shut she allowed a gasp to escape. The lawyer’s letter had told her uncle and herself little about Neris’ death, just the bare information of when she would be interred in the family crypt at the ruins on the edge of the village. Her uncle had been too ill to attend. Enid veiled herself with heavy black lace and arrived minutes into the funeral ceremony at the parish church. She had walked behind the procession to the cemetery and stood at the edge of the sacred ground while her cousin’s silver-adorned black coffin was carried into the granite tomb marked with the name Bentham. She left on the next train.
Ambrose Welloughbey had surprised her with Neris’ newly announced pregnancy and the exact means of her death.
Had she lived, Neris would have recently delivered that baby, the heir, ninth Baron Derlaston. Or a little girl with dark curls like her mother.
Now Enid had an even greater incentive to discover the whole truth about her cousin’s death.
Vitally important was that no one discover her identify. She could not lose this opportunity.
Neris had married Theodore Bentham, the eighth Baron Derlaston, while Enid’s tutoring position had taken her abroad. That part of her story wasn’t a lie. She had returned to England only a week before Neris’ tragic demise.
The lawyer’s letter, granting her a portion of Neris’ remaining inheritance and containing too little facts, had precipitated her vow to find the truth hidden within his sparse words.
That plan needed months to set in motion. It also needed the complicity of her mentor Miss Boniface, who ran her employment agency with a steely gaze and an iron hand. On Miss Boniface’s advice, Enid used her mother’s maiden name. She brought nothing to betray her connection to Neris, only Grandmother’s locket with its matching drawings of Neris and Enid, captured in the months before Neris was launched into society and Enid left on that extended grand tour. In Miss Boniface’s safe-keeping were Enid’s most precious possessions, Neris’ letters sent before and after her marriage, dwindling closer to the end.
The plan’s success or failure would be on her shoulders.
I will not fail.
Grief must not consume her, not now.
Yet it flooded through her. Neris, here, alone. Expecting a child. Dying mysteriously. Enid had to steel her heart.
A peg near the wardrobe would hold her cloak, but it remained wet from the journey. She draped it over the hard chair to dry. Delving into the valise, she set about repairing the depredations from the long journey, the hours on the train, a lunch at the Posting House while rubbing elbows with all sorts, and a jouncing ride in the carriage. She rescued the valise’s contents from the wet that had soaked through the thick tapestry cloth and placed them on the table. The valise’s interior was good leather, protecting its contents, and she quickly unpacked into the wardrobe. The trunk would have to wait until this evening.
Her gown had survived the day of travel, with only the hem soaked. Its black color would hide the wet. A high-crowned bonnet had protected her hair. She tucked a few loose strands back into the chignon. Then she turned to the trunk, unlocking it with a key. The rain hadn’t reached inside. She had no other reason to delay.
She chose to take the grand stairs rather than the servants’ stair. Footsteps soon caught up to her.
“I’ve never seen you here.”
Enid placed a hand on the banister before she looked around.
A chill swept over her. Bright green eyes had a rakish glitter that aged the dark-haired man. He stopped on her step and flashed a winning smile that would have set many hearts to racing. Although she was of an age with him, she distrusted him on sight. She tried to reject her immediate dislike.
He chuckled as she remained silent. “I know who you are. My grandmother’s new companion. What is your name?” He snapped his fingers. “Trapping. Traggen. Travers. That’s it, Travers.”
“You are before me, sir, for you know my name, but I am not acquainted with yours.”
“That we must remedy, for we will encounter each other daily.” He sketched a bow. “Captain Nicholas Bentham, at your service. You will certainly enliven the ancestral pile.”
She primmed her lips. A younger lady might have giggled, flattered by his attention and his deprecating words about the impressive manor. She continued down the stairs, crossing around to the next flight.
“You do not think you will enliven our existence, Miss Travers? Trust me, we are heartily weary of each other here. A new face, especially a pretty new face like yours, is a welcome addition.”
Flattery again, with no reason except future persuasion. As a woman earning her own way, Enid distrusted flattery designed to soften her defenses.
Mr. Welloughbey was not present. A footman was, not James, but wearing the green livery of the house. Enid stopped to wait.
“Coming?” Capt. Bentham asked.
“My apologies, sir, but no. I was asked to remain here by Mr. Welloughbey.”
“That old prose. No spark in him. Well, your loss, Miss Travers.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his loose houndstooth jacket and strolled away.
Enid glanced at the footman who studiously looked over her head.
The delay gave her a chance to ponder Capt. Bentham’s words. His flattery she ignored. She wasn’t here for romance. As a companion, she would live between the status of family and servant, belonging to neither realm. She’d taken this position for that reason. Her cousin’s death, happening within the first year of her marriage to the baron Theodore Bentham, had shocked Enid. Daily interaction with the family had to be to her benefit. She would reach the truth of Neris’ death soon than she’d anticipated.
Enid had disrupted her life to find out that very truth. An accident while riding, the words written by the lawyer Mr. Costaigne, was far different from a fall while jumping her horse over a brook. Accidents did happen, even with superb riders, yet a fall during a simple ride—No.
Only the speed of a train enabled her to attend the funeral and interment. She had returned that evening to her temporary employment as secretary to a chemist. From that day, she fretted over her cousin’s loss. Soon she would find answers.
Her letter to Mr. Costaigne, asking for more information, received a brusque noncommittal reply. A Mr. Moakley answered her second letter, guising himself as the lawyer’s clerk. He claimed to have no particulars about the death of the late baroness.
When the chemist no longer needed her services, Enid had the rudiments of a plan which she presented to her mentor Miss Boniface. That lady had proposed a temporary position as companion and mentioned that the elder Lady Derlaston would need a new companion in a few months. The plan took shape. She had to wait, and in that time she worked out several questions to have answered.
Now she stood here, waiting for Mr. Welloughbey.
Rapid footsteps drew her attention, and she turned to see him, tugging at his jacket sleeves, as if he’d removed it to work.
“My apologies,” he said before he reached her. “I thought you would take longer. They will soon have tea. The dowager presides, and you will attend her. This way.” He waited for her to reach his side.
“What is your position here, Mr. Welloughbey?”
“Private secretary to the baron.”
“You have been here for how long?”
“Seven months. I had a few weeks of training by my predecessor, Mr. Hollister. He dared not turn over the reins to an academic.” He sounded amused.
Enid hid a wince. A latecomer to the house, he would have little to tell her. “You’re an academic?”
“I had planned to be. I’m awaiting an appointment to Cambridge. In the offing is a rather different position which utilizes my skills better, but I should not speak of that opportunity. Last year I would have preferred Cambridge, but more opportunity lodges in this other position, especially as the Cambridge position may not open for a decade or more.”
“Mr. Hollister is still here?” The old man would know about Neris.
“Semi-retired in a cottage on the estate. He offers his help twice a week. I do still need to reference him on a few arcane matters of estate management that arise. The baron currently lacks a steward and acts in that capacity himself. He prefers to do so although he sometimes sends his uncle Mr. Bentham to the far-flung properties.”
“Yet you need no help in your position?” she teased.
“Oh, I do need help,” he admitted, earning her admiration for his humility. “Many details of estate management still escape my knowledge, and the ways of the nobility are foreign to me. I am at a disadvantage, for I was raised in Canada. We are under British rule—hail to Queen Victoria—but we are not English, not at all.”
“I thought I detected an accent. Very slight, but there.”
“Mr. Hollister found it deplorable. Enough about me.” He grinned, his blue eyes twinkling, then intoned, “Those in the baron’s employ do not have a personal life.”
“Now you sound very like a private secretary.”
“Mr. Hollister’s words to me, said about once a month now. Said daily when first I came here. Almost hourly that first week. I should be explaining all these rooms.”
“Please do not. My head is spinning enough.”
“Yet you look calm, Miss Travers.”
That was acceptable flattery. She tried to hide her smile. “I have met one of the family, on the stairs. I hope I was right to use the staircase rather than the servant’s stairwell. I didn’t like it, for all that it is well lit. Very claustrophobic.”
“We’re caught, you and I, accepted in the family but still employees, still very like servants” he agreed, understanding the intent of her question about the staircase. “Unless we have guests, we are expected to be with the family. Once guests arrive, we may be relegated to behind the scenes, unnoticed and unseen. Who did you meet?”
“Captain Bentham.” 
His smile dropped.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Links for this Victorian Gothic Mystery are Here:
Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FWD67JNC
Books 2 Read https://books2read.com/u/49gqep
For M.A. Lee’s page https://writersinkbooks.com/m-a-lee/
For the Home page https://writersinkbooks.com/
reminded of how light streamed under it to guide her along the corridor. Yet the corridor remained silent, everyone asleep. For later spells, she must remember to barricade the door.
Camisse balked at sitting down. She searched his eyes, looking for that golden gleam in the mossy brown. Something in his eyes seemed a little off. Not quite right, as if—no, it couldn’t be—as if the color were wrong. Yet he met her gaze unwaveringly. “I will tell you what I can—if you think you must learn from a woman who fumbled through the Trials and came out more than a little scorched.”