Eleanor
October 25th, 1847
Don't be alarmed by the fact that this journal begins one hundred and seventy-eight years before 2025. As I mentioned earlier, there is a story here that is far more supernatural and bizarre than simply coming back to life. If you keep reading, you'll eventually understand why.
✽ ✽ ✽
From here on out is the true beginning of this journal's journey—the miracle I mentioned at the start has its origin in a single, stormy night. After leaving my little rented house, not far from the main road leading to Cambridge University, the rain began to pour down like a monsoon. I hadn't checked the weather before booking the hotel. If I'd known there would be a storm like this, I'd have chosen to travel the next morning—or taken the train instead. But I'd been too excited about the opportunity I'd just received, desperate to get to London as soon as possible.
The navigation app on my phone told me that the journey from Cambridge to London would take at least an hour, probably two, given the heavy rain and traffic. And then there was the issue of finding parking, since the hotel had none—hardly a surprise, considering how crowded and expensive London real estate is. By my estimation, I wouldn't be checking in until 10 or 11 p.m.—maybe even midnight.
As I drove, visibility disappeared almost completely. The rain came down in blinding sheets, turning the windshield into a curtain of water—by far the worst downpour I'd ever seen. Everything outside was obliterated. Still, all I could think was that I had to make it to London, no matter what. But then, the car beside me began to swerve, its driver apparently losing control. The road was dangerously slick, and old tires were no match for this weather.
I could barely make out the shape of the car veering ever closer to mine, but I couldn't see ahead, behind, or even the road's edge. All I remember was how utterly terrified I was—afraid I might die that night, afraid that my worst fears would come true. Terror rose in my chest until I shook uncontrollably, and, in that desperate moment, my mind instinctively reached for the only refuge left to me.
"Please, God—please let me be safe—"
CRASH!
I never even finished my prayer. The car flipped. Darkness descended on my mind, nearly snuffing everything out. I could barely comprehend what was happening, nor feel the pain of my injuries. All I could hear was the deafening drumming of rain on the car, and the sensation of something wet flowing down my face from my head, over my lips, to my chin. And then—nothing. My consciousness faded completely, leaving me trapped inside that wrecked car.
The next thing I knew, a bright light shone down on my body. I felt as though I were lying in a soft bed somewhere.
'Maybe someone brought me to the hospital,' was my first thought.
I slowly forced my heavy eyelids open. At first, everything was blurry. But as my vision cleared, I realized I was staring at a golden chandelier—beautiful, antique, hanging from the ceiling of what could only be a wealthy person's bedroom. Morning sunlight sparkled on the crystals.
'Am I… still alive?'
I glanced around. I was lying on a large, thick bed—an ornate four-poster in the classic European style I'd only ever seen in books or in old manors I'd visited on my travels. The carved mahogany was so delicately detailed.
'Did someone really pick me up from the roadside?' I wondered.
I immediately checked my body for injuries, looking for any sign that my rescuer had tended to my wounds. Strangely, I seemed completely unharmed—not at all like someone who'd just survived a car crash. Stranger still, I was wearing a long, white nightdress adorned with delicate lace at the bodice.
'Who still wears nightgowns like this these days?'
My mysterious benefactor must have changed my clothes, dressing me in this expensive, elegant gown. Such kindness to a stranger! I examined it, then slid off the soft bed to look around more carefully.
The bedroom was enormous, furnished in what could only be described as an antique style—no television, no ceiling lights. The chandelier was clearly oil-lit, not electric.
Looking toward the large window near the dressing table, I noticed a tea set made of fine ceramics on a small round table. Instantly, I recognized it as masterful Victorian craftsmanship—like something straight out of the era.
'Who on earth decorates a house so authentically?'
I decided to check my reflection before going in search of my benefactor. But the young woman staring back at me in the mirror was not the face I knew.
'Who is she? Is—Is that me?'
'Wait!'
'Hold on!'
'Don't do this to me!'
'No!'
'This isn't me!'
'Whose body am I in?'
I kept screaming those questions in my mind, over and over. The face in the mirror looked much younger than I remembered—she could hardly be twenty.
But her hair—soft, caramel brown that glimmered in the sunlight—and her eyes, clear brown with a hawk-like sharpness, and skin pale and smooth as silk… If someone told me she was a princess from a fairy tale, I'd have believed it. But I knew I'd never possessed such a flawless body.
To make sure this was really my body, I touched my face—cheekbones, lips, nose, hair. None of it felt familiar. For extra certainty, I bit down hard on my arm.
'Ouch!'
Not a dream. I had really died in a car accident that night and awoken in the body of some other young woman. It defied logic. I had never believed such supernatural things could happen in real life. Was this God's will? Had He chosen to give me a new life instead of saving the old one? If so, why? Why not just let me die?
It was a shame, really. My life as Ellie had ended so quickly—just when things were finally coming together. I hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye to my mother. Still, I didn't worry for her anymore—she'd found love again at fifty-three and moved to Montpellier with her new French husband a year ago. She'd be fine without me.
'But what now? What am I supposed to do? Somebody tell me!'
I kept silently begging for an answer. But there was no reply. I was alone—and I didn't know a single person here.
Creak...
Soon, I heard the door open. I turned, still clutching my cheeks.
"Young miss! You're awake! Are you all right?"
A young woman rushed in, looking anxious. When she saw the bed empty, she looked around until she found me at the dressing table, still gawking at my own reflection.
She had shoulder-length dark brown hair tied in a neat ponytail, eyes a lighter brown—similar to mine, though a different shade. She looked to be in her late twenties, dressed in a simple gray cotton dress with a wide skirt and long sleeves trimmed in lace. The high collar was fastened with a row of ivory buttons. Most noticeable of all was the pale gray apron tied at her waist—she was unmistakably an English maid.
"E-excuse me… who are you?" I asked nervously, not sure who her "miss" was, nor if she meant me—or if she might harm me.
She walked right up and looked into my eyes, her expression filled with concern, before pulling me into a gentle hug.
"Why don't you remember me, my lady? Have you forgotten everything?" she said, pulling back to look at me again. Her speech was so archaic, almost musical, but definitely not from my era.
"I'm not sure. Where am I? And what's today's date?"
She looked even more worried at my questions, probably assuming I had lost my memory in some accident.
"You're at Wexford House, my lady. We're in London. Today is October 25th, 1847."
So I really had traveled back more than a century. 1847—Queen Victoria's era. Judging by this woman's clothes and the decor, this was indeed the Victorian period. If so, I'd best pretend to have amnesia until I could figure out what had happened.
"What's your name? I can't remember anything. Could you please tell me who I am, and what happened to me?"
She paused for a moment.
"My name is Liliana Woodward, but you always call me Lillian, my lady. I've served you since before you were born. Yesterday, you fainted in the garden behind the house, and everyone was terribly worried. I think you hit your head quite hard. You've been unconscious for a whole day."
'So that's it.'
So this woman was my maid, and the original owner of this body must have fainted, struck her head, and died—then I took her place. Oddly, I didn't see or feel any bruises or injuries when I looked in the mirror.
Lillian led me to sit on the upholstered bench at the end of the bed and began to explain more about this body's identity.
"Your name is Lady Eleanor Barnett. You are the daughter—" She hesitated for a moment, seeming to weigh her words, before continuing.
"You are the daughter of the Marquis of Wexford, Lord Percival Barnett, and Lady Vivian Duskbane. Your mother died when you were born, and your father never remarried. You are now eighteen years old and soon to be wed to His Grace, Alexander Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire."
I was stunned. So I now possessed the body of Lady Eleanor—a highborn young woman in Queen Victoria's England. Not only that, she bore the same name as me. And most astonishing of all, she was betrothed to the Duke of Devonshire, one of the most powerful figures in English history.
But wait… the real historical Duke of Devonshire was never named Alexander Cavendish. Who was this man? Was there a purpose to my time travel? Was I meant to solve some mystery about this Duke?
"Tonight, my lady, you must attend a ball at Devonshire House in Piccadilly with His Grace. He sent an invitation this morning. I thought I might have to decline, since you'd been unconscious, but now that you're awake, I'll prepare your gown for tonight."
Lillian handed me an envelope, its message written in old-fashioned handwriting, sealed with a family crest. Everything she'd said was true. Tonight, I was to meet a fiancé I had never known, and in truth, I still didn't even understand what had happened to me.
'Just like that, I've ended up with a husband… and I don't even know how.'
October 25th, 1847
This is the day I began this journal, after awakening in the body of Lady Eleanor Barnett. It is, curiously, the very same day as my birthday in my previous life—and the day I am to meet His Grace, Alexander Cavendish, my betrothed, in just a few hours.
✽ ✽ ✽
An hour and a half after sunset, the golden-carved wooden clock on the wall of my bedroom struck the hour: it was nearly ten o'clock. In these wintry October nights, evening balls for society's entertainment were common among the aristocracy, and only a select few with titles and rank ever received invitations to such gatherings at nobleman's houses. These occasions served many purposes: amusement, matchmaking for sons and daughters, finding business partners, and of course, political maneuvering.
As for me, Lady Eleanor Barnett, I was invited to tonight's ball as the official fiancée of His Grace Alexander Cavendish, the current Duke of Devonshire. From here on, I will refer to him as "Lord Alexander" for the sake of narrative ease.
Lillian had prepared a beautiful gown for me to wear to the ball, carefully dressing me and arranging every detail to perfection, befitting the status of the host's fiancée.
The dress she chose was an ivory silk gown, its length trailing the carpet behind me. The silk was gathered in tight pleats from the bodice to the hem, reflecting the lamplight like moonlight in the night. The sleeves were elegantly off-the-shoulder, setting off my pale skin, edged with fine hand-stitched lace at the neckline and cuffs. And, of course, as no lady in this era would be without—a corset, cinched tightly to shape my figure into the ideal silhouette of the age.
She swept my hair up into a graceful chignon, adorned with a pearl comb and golden pins. My lips were tinted deep rose with lipstick made from crushed rose petals, and finally, she misted French perfume over me, concentrating especially at my throat.
Before I was ready to leave, Lillian draped a delicate shawl over my shoulders, its length reaching down to my feet, embellished with garnet stones for warmth. On my breast she pinned a golden brooch bearing the Barnett family crest. London's autumn air was bone-chilling; without enough layers, it was easy to catch cold this time of year.
"My lady, you are radiant. His Grace will surely be most pleased tonight," Lillian said as she finished the last touches.
I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, feeling an unfamiliar sense of wonder. I had never once in my life had the chance to dress like this, not even for the grandest parties, and I had to admit, Lillian was right—this Lady Eleanor was truly beautiful.
"Are you sure I'll be all right?" I asked, nerves fluttering as I faced the prospect of attending such a gathering with no memory of who I was meant to be.
"Even with your amnesia, you can still converse and understand, my lady. All you need do is dance with His Grace, and that will suffice."
"But will I be able to speak with him, Lillian?"
She paused, considering this for a moment.
"There's no need to converse with His Grace tonight, my lady. Silence will do."
'How is that possible? To dance together but not speak at all? Isn't he my fiancé?'
Though full of questions, I didn't press her further, understanding that perhaps this was simply the etiquette of this place and time. Once everything was ready, Lillian led the way to the waiting carriage at the front of the manor, and off we went into the night.
✽ ✽ ✽
As I stepped down from the carriage, I was greeted by the sight of a grand stone manor, its liveliness evident in every glowing window. Elegant ladies in their finest gowns and refined gentlemen stood side by side—some swirling across the floor in practiced waltzes, others chatting animatedly in small groups.
I had to keep lifting the long hem of my dress slightly to see my path, thankful for Lillian's steadying hand; without her, I surely would have tripped and made a spectacle of myself before I'd even entered. She offered her slender hand to help me descend from the carriage with grace.
At the entrance, two men in black, antiquated sack suits welcomed the arriving guests at the thick oak doors. When they recognized Lady Eleanor Barnett, they offered a formal greeting, and the man to the right courteously invited Lillian and me to follow him inside, where Lord Alexander was already waiting.
"Welcome, Lady Eleanor. His Grace is waiting for you inside. Please, come this way," he said.
I followed him into the house, Lillian at my side, until we stopped before a set of grand doors left open to a vast reception hall. Within, dozens—perhaps a hundred—ladies and gentlemen mingled and danced. It was the same grand room I'd glimpsed from outside.
Sweet violin music floated from one corner, and the center of the hall was crowned with a glittering chandelier, a hundred faceted crystals casting candlelight like stars throughout the space. The mirrored walls multiplied the light and the images of swirling nobles dancing in stately circles to the waltz.
The air was delicately perfumed—French fragrance, mingled with champagne and the soft scent of white roses from vases at every corner. The music guided the movements of the dancers, punctuated by bright laughter and lively conversation.
As I paused at the doorway, the assembled guests halted and turned toward me—even the musicians stopped playing. Lillian slipped the shawl from my shoulders and quietly retreated to store it, joining the other servants waiting discreetly by the corridor. Meanwhile, the man in black who had escorted us cleared his throat and began to announce me. It suddenly struck me, too late, that I had never learned to dance.
"This is Lady Eleanor Barnett, daughter of Lord Barnett, Marquis of Wexford," he proclaimed, pausing to let the words settle.
"And fiancée to His Grace, Alexander Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire."
A hush fell over the room; not even polite applause followed. Slowly, the crowd in the center of the hall parted, forming a clear path—and there, at the end of it, I saw him for the first time.
My Lord Alexander.
All my anxiety about dancing vanished as I took in his striking presence. He wore a midnight-blue tailcoat, the fine cloth fitting his tall frame perfectly. Beneath, a pristine white linen shirt with a high, turned collar, and an ivory satin cravat tied just so—matching my own gown.
'This gentleman is my betrothed.'
I stared, transfixed, as he strode toward me, the crowd stepping aside. From the corner, I caught the unintentional whispers of young ladies huddled together, their words floating to me:
"Poor thing, to be forced to marry the Duke…"
"I envy her, truly—to stand beside a man so handsome."
"The cold, distant Duke, you mean…"
I glanced at them, confirming with a glance that they were indeed speaking of the man now approaching me. When they saw my gaze, they hastily raised their fans, embarrassed to have been overheard. Their gossip only made me more curious about this enigmatic duke.
He stopped before me, took my hand in his, bowed over it, and pressed a gentle kiss to my fingers.
"Please, my lady, would you do me the honor of dancing with me this evening?"
Almost unconsciously, I curtsied in reply, letting my body move on its own accord.
"I would be delighted," I said.
He led me by the hand, our arms raised gracefully, onto the center of the ballroom. His right hand settled lightly at my waist, his left still holding mine aloft. At once, the musicians began a new, gentle melody. We waltzed in perfect time, no words exchanged, while the rest of the assembly watched in silence.
In that moment, I studied his face—memorizing every line and feature. He was heartbreakingly handsome, but his eyes were the saddest I'd ever seen—deep and hollow, as if life had long ago left him, and only his body remained. His eyes were the pale shade of barley water, his short, golden curls gleaming in the candlelight. He seemed almost otherworldly—more beautiful than any woman in the room, despite the maturity of his years. Yet his skin was still as youthful as a young man's.
Suddenly, I realized something odd: I was dancing with perfect confidence, moving as if I'd always known how. Perhaps it was a skill of the body I now inhabited.
As others began to take up the dance again, he remained utterly silent—so unlike the man who had spoken so sweetly a moment ago. The silence grew uncomfortable, and, forgetting Lillian's advice, I tried to break it.
"Why are you so quiet, your grace? I rather expected you to show more spirit at your own ball."
"I live only for myself, and I owe no one my feelings," he replied coldly, his face unreadable.
I could hardly believe my ears—this man who had just addressed me so gently now spoke so harshly.
'What have I done to offend him?'
"Have I done something to upset you, your grace? You needn't speak so unkindly."
"How strange, my lady. It is usually you who greets me with silence. What makes you wish to talk to me tonight?"
"What do you mean?"
"You usually despise me, Lady Eleanor. You have never shown the slightest interest in conversation. Are you even the same Lady Eleanor I have always known?"
As he finished, the music and our dance halted. He let go of my hand, leaving us standing face-to-face in the center of the ballroom.
"I am still Eleanor, the very same," I replied, uneasy that he might see through me, and confused by his accusation. Why had the real Lady Eleanor so disliked this duke? I could hardly explain the truth—that I was not truly her at all.
"Please, my lady, come with me outside."
Lord Alexander led the way toward the balcony, motioning for two footmen at the doors to leave us in privacy.
"You seem quite different tonight, my lady. Has something happened to you?"
"I—" I began, but was interrupted by a sudden voice.
"Your grace, forgive the intrusion—I have urgent news," said an elderly man, clearly not a servant by his bearing, appearing in the doorway. His gaze was as cold as Lord Alexander's own.
"What is it, Theodore?"
"Lord Marbello wishes to speak with you at once."
"I see. I'll be in directly," Lord Alexander replied.
The man named Theodore turned and departed. Lord Alexander looked back at me.
"I must return to the party. You look pale, my lady. You ought to return home and rest. I will send for you another time, when we can discuss our wedding in earnest."
With that, he left me standing alone at the open doors, the chill night air swirling around me. Luckily, Lillian had been keeping a watchful eye and hurried to my side, cloak in hand. She wrapped me up, then slipped away to summon Mr. Barker to prepare the carriage. I remained, lost in confusion, for quite some time.
'How cold he is! Why does he make it so plain he does not wish to marry me?'
I pondered it, and at last understood: in this era, noblewomen were often paired with men of equal rank, willingly or not. In my case, it was all too clear that Lord Alexander was anything but willing.