My Poetry. Constance Harding.

Constance Harding was a beautiful girl,
Her brief, short life tragically ended in disaster.
She worked as a young housemaid in those early days,
Adored by the entire household, and especially the master.
They quickly blamed the death on a horrible accident—
Such were the convenient findings of the court.
She was barely eighteen and a half that fatal day,
Cut down by the Lord's privileged, bloody sport.

The lord of the Manor, Sir Henry Folds,
Was indeed a true chip of the old, arrogant block.
His father before him was a ruthless, cold man,
Who, too, had met his end before the final clock.
Constance had been put in charge of the hunt's catering,
It was her detailed task to feed all the arriving guests,
Even though personally, she utterly loathed the blood sports,
The savage hunting of animals, and all the cruel tests.

She left the hall early to rush to the hunting lodge,
The boisterous party was due to arrive in one hour.
The weary cooks had prepared a banquet fit for a King,
Expertly crafted with fine meats, fruit, and flour.
The table was perfectly set, the food superb and grand,
Sir Henry nodded across the room to Constance in awe.
You could see the obsessive passion kindle in his eye that day,
He offered no complaints, found no single flaw.

But her feelings were emphatically not mutual; Constance was happy
With her loyal fellow worker down in the stables.
The boisterous guests had arrived, taking their privileged place,
Looking tiny amidst the cavernous, long tables.
After the lavish meal, the guests slowly began to leave,
Nodding their shallow approval for the very fine food.
Some, loading their discretion-covered "doggy bags,"
Stealing any small object or choice morsel they could.

Sir Henry beckoned Constance to join him for a moment,
As he sat adjacent to the huge, blazing fire.
His dangerous passion was kindled, fuelled by bottles of deep red wine,
He knew precisely what his selfish heart desired.
Constance paced wearily along the echoing hall floor,
So slow, he thought she might have deliberately stopped;
Sir Henry grew fiercely impatient, gesturing for her to rush,
Tiredness made her young head look heavy and flopped.

She knew what was coming next, she felt a terrible certainty,
But she had always managed to deftly escape before.
She stood stiffly in her uniform, her cheeks a burning red,
With her large, protective black cape slung over her arm.
Sir Henry offered her a glass of intoxicating red wine;
Constance refused the drink with a nervous, polite smile.
He began immediately, confessing how deeply he "loved" her—
She had obviously known of his obsession for a long while!

Not accepting any refusal, Sir Henry became determined;
He tried violently to force her compliance with his charms.
Constance pulled her head sharply away from his advances,
But he ruthlessly locked her body in his grip and his arms.
"No!" cried the desperate girl, "I do not love you, Sir!"
Hot tears began streaming down both of her cheeks.
"I have been telling you this for a long, long while,"
She pleaded, "For months, for days, and for weeks!"

Sir Henry was completely intoxicated, not just with the wine;
His selfish passion grew stronger with every passing second.
While Constance fought off his raging, unwanted advances,
She pointed desperately at the door, nodded, and sternly beckoned.
Angry and deeply hurt by a female's firm rejection,
He suddenly reached for a heavy rifle kept on the nearby shelf.
"If I cannot have you, then no other man ever will!"
He cried out, at first tragically pointing the gun at himself!

Still fueled by that white-hot rage, with a sweating, frantic brow,
He violently pointed the weapon toward the wide door.
Shouting vulgar profanities, his fury was utterly on fire,
His privileged feelings rejected, humiliated, and sore.
He shot wildly at the heavy door, missing her by a mile—
As Constance, exhausted and terrified, fell hard to the floor.
His rage instantly turned to horror as he looked down upon
Her small, limp body lying still, tragically by the door.

Constance died within a few seconds of that final, fatal shot.
Sir Henry quickly carried her body out to the freezing field.
His powerful status and respect would be permanently tarnished by this,
He knew his own wealthy fate would surely be sealed.
The official inquest declared a hunting "shooting accident,"
There were no other witnesses to say or claim otherwise.
No forensic DNA or modern Police equipment was available then,
So the predictable result was not a single surprise.

At the funeral service, the faces of the staff were ashen and pale,
For a sweet girl who was deeply idolized and adored.
Sir Henry stood stoically at the back of the silent crowd,
His status, his power, and his position quietly restored.
Constance died unjustly at a devastatingly young age,
While Sir Henry lived on to a ripe, old age,
Haunted by the bloody secret he successfully kept for years,
All for one night of pathetic passion and violent rage.

This poem is fictional and does not relate to anyone.