Eleanor
October 28th, 1847
It has now been three days since I last met Lord Alexander. Life has settled into a quiet routine befitting a lady of high birth at Lord Barnett's manor. I have been making every effort to grow accustomed to the mannerisms and speech of this era; thankfully, my background in historical linguistics means I am well-versed in the vocabulary of the time, and there is little danger of me slipping into the blunt speech of the century I've come from.
Today is a rare, beautiful day—the sun graces London with its warm embrace, a sight seldom seen. Restless, I decided to spend the afternoon in the manor's garden to relieve my boredom. As Lady Eleanor, I have no occupation or duties as others do; my days pass with little more to do than find small amusements to fill the time. Lord Barnett himself has not returned to the manor for months, being kept away on business in Manchester, leaving his daughter alone here with the staff.
The garden at the rear of the house stretches out like a lush, green carpet, dotted with carefully sculpted shrubs and blooming flowerbeds in the season's full glory—English roses, lavender, and a profusion of blue delphiniums wafting their delicate scent on the afternoon breeze. White gravel paths twist through arches of blushing climbing roses, leading to a petite, hexagonal pavilion at the garden's heart. Painted cream, its fretwork was delicately carved, and its roof shingled in pale grey, partially shaded by trailing vines.
I made myself comfortable beneath this little pavilion, which offered seating for two. Lillian had prepared a tea service and a selection of small cakes for my afternoon refreshment, and also found for me a fine novel of the time. I settled down with a copy of Pride and Prejudice, the celebrated work of England's own Jane Austen, first published in 1813.
Jane's books are perhaps not yet widely beloved; she is still, after all, a woman who values work over marriage, a rarity for her era. She was among the world's earliest champions of women's rights, long before such ideas took root in the next century. She wrote with depth, wit, and sweetness, her novels famed for their keen observations of society, class, and women's roles, and for their lively, sharply drawn characters. She passed away in 1817 at the young age of forty-one.
I had barely begun my book and tea when Lillian appeared with a fresh letter.
"His Grace has sent you an invitation, my lady," she announced, presenting the letter on a silver salver.
"Thank you," I replied, accepting it and taking the small silver knife to slice open the envelope. The letter inside read as follows:
October 28th, 1847
To Lady Eleanor Barnett,
I invite you to visit me at Devonshire House at five o'clock this evening to discuss the arrangements for our forthcoming wedding.
Yours Sincerely,
Alexander Cavendish
Seeing the subject was marriage, Lillian's face fell rather than brightened.
"I'll see to your wardrobe for the occasion, my lady. Is there anything else you require?" she asked, her manner unusually flustered.
"No, thank you, Lillian. I'd like to sit here a while longer. The sunlight is so wonderfully warm and pleasant today, don't you agree?"
"It is, my lady. Please enjoy your afternoon—I won't disturb you further." And with that, she left me in the peaceful garden, with nothing but flowers, the gentle sunlight, and my book for company.
Lilliana
My mistress awoke with no memory after drinking poison in the garden five days ago, intent on ending her life. By some miracle, she survived, though she now recalls nothing—not even her own name. This may be a blessing in disguise, for her countenance is brighter and her eyes lighter than I have ever seen them. Though there is something odd in her manner and speech, I, who have cared for her since infancy, could not bear to see her in sorrow again. I must write to inform my lord.
So thinking, I slipped back to my room and composed the following letter:
October 28th, 1847
To Lord Percival Barnett,
Lady Eleanor attempted to take her own life by poison five days ago. By a miracle, she survived, but has lost all memory of her past—even her own name. She has met with His Grace at the ball on the night of the 25th, and the two are now arranging the date and details of their wedding.
Sincerely,
Liliana Woodward
After sealing the letter, I hurried to dispatch it by the fastest messenger, lest my mistress suspect anything. I then returned to her chamber to prepare her attire for this evening's appointment, but an odd notion struck me: How deep does her memory loss go? Does she recall the woman whose actions led her to this state?
With that, I went to the adjacent room, just fifteen paces away, and fetched the key from my apron pocket to unlock the wardrobe. There, I selected a gown of deep emerald green with a simple white collar at the throat.
'This is the dress I shall lay out for her to wear to meet His Grace this evening.'
Eleanor
Wexford House stood to the southwest of London, in the town of Putney. The journey to Devonshire House, set in fashionable Piccadilly, never took more than twenty minutes by carriage. During the ride, my mind wandered—yet Lillian, sitting across from me, seemed lost in reverie, her gaze unfocused upon the passing world.
"Tell me, Lillian, what manner of man is Lord Alexander, truly?" I asked, breaking the silence.
She started from her thoughts, startled by my question. After a moment's hesitation, she replied, "His Grace is a reserved man, my lady. I have heard that he dislikes being in the company of women."
This piqued my curiosity even more. Why would a man of such striking countenance avoid the company of women—his own fiancée included?
Could it be that he prefers the company of men? I mused inwardly, watching the wooden wheels clatter over cobbled stones. I looked out upon the cityscape of another age, marveling at the world's antiquated rhythm, and could not help but wonder if Lord Alexander himself was somehow connected to the mystery of my own arrival in this era.
Soon enough, Mr. Barker drew the carriage up to the familiar entrance of Devonshire House. Lillian and I alighted and made our way up the steps. The house, so lively the previous night, now seemed strangely desolate and foreboding in the daylight. At the great oaken doors, the same old gentleman I'd met the night before awaited, this time bowing deeply in deference.
"Welcome again, my lady," he intoned, his face expressionless.
Lillian hurried to his side, whispering something in his ear. The old man turned back to me and offered a proper introduction.
"Forgive me for not treating you with due respect before, my lady. My name is Theodore Wycliffe, your servant and the personal knight of His Grace."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Wycliffe," I replied, trying to mask my confusion.
"And mine, my lady. Please, follow me inside."
Sir Wycliffe led us into a room far deeper within the house than those I'd seen before—a large study, appointed with a set of fine guest chairs and a massive rosewood desk fit for a duke. Seated on a long settee to the right, legs elegantly crossed, was Lord Alexander, not even bothering to glance up as he sipped his tea. When I sat opposite, he nodded to Sir Wycliffe, who promptly poured tea for me and Lillian in perfect silence before quietly ushering all the servants, including Lillian, from the room.
Now, only Lord Alexander and I remained.
He set his cup down and, eyes closed, pressed his hands together on his lap. Without opening his eyes, he said, "The royal wedding ceremony is to be held a month from now. Her Majesty has commanded the marriage take place on the 30th of November. Do you find this agreeable?"
I said nothing, simply watching him, waiting for more.
He continued, "And I would speak to you of the conditions—"
At last, he opened his eyes and looked at me, his face suddenly tense, the air thick with unspoken accusation.
"Was this your intention all along?" he demanded, his tone cold and sharp, his formality gone.
"What do you mean?" I stammered, genuinely perplexed.
"Return home, Lady. I have nothing further to say to you today," he spat, rising abruptly and striding for the door, not bothering to explain himself.
"Wait! I don't understand—what have I done?" I called after him, but he did not stop, nor did he turn. He simply vanished, leaving me standing there in bewilderment.
Sir Wycliffe soon reentered, politely yet firmly inviting me to depart. He escorted me no farther than the entrance before retreating back to his master, leaving me to return to the carriage in a cloud of confusion and wounded pride.
What is wrong with him? Every time we meet, he seems only more irritable, as if he has some great grievance against me! Has Lady Eleanor truly wronged him so terribly? Nothing here seems as it should…
That Night, in the Bedchamber
"Lillian, may I ask you something?" I said as she brushed my hair with the gentlest hand, preparing me for bed. "Have I ever done anything to earn such bitter animosity from him?"
Lillian's face, reflected in the looking glass, was pensive. She set down the brush and arranged my hair with care, then suddenly knelt at my side, clasping my hands in hers as though begging forgiveness.
"My lady, you have done nothing wrong. It is I who am at fault."
I turned to her in surprise. Lillian's demeanor was so solemn, so repentant.
"What do you mean?"
"I was afraid to tell you the truth. I feared that if you knew, you would never agree to meet His Grace at all."
"And why should I be afraid of him?" I pressed. "He seems only a man—one who dislikes women, perhaps, but nothing more."
"Please, my lady, do not breathe a word of this to anyone, or I shall surely be punished most severely. But there are rumors… It is said that His Grace was deeply betrayed by the woman he loved most, years ago. She was unfaithful, and ever since, he has been cold and distant, sometimes even lashing out at women without cause. I beg you, try to understand him."
"He truly has the saddest eyes I have ever seen," I murmured, recalling our dance. "In that moment, it was as if all life had been drained from him. But—does he have any friends? Anyone at all?"
"To my knowledge, your father is his only close companion, my lady," Lillian replied.
"My father? You mean Lord Alexander and my father are friends?" I was astonished.
"Yes, my lady. They have been close since childhood. But it is late now, and you must rest. Let me fetch you some chamomile tea."
With that, she rose and made to leave, but I caught her skirts, unwilling to let her go just yet.
"And this woman—who was she, the one who wounded him so?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
Lillian hesitated, clearly uneasy. "I do not know, my lady. The affair was many years past… I shall return shortly with your tea."
With that, she fled the room. I watched her go, determined to uncover the truth for myself. Perhaps somewhere within this house, there remained some clue to this tangled past.
Liliana
I left my lady's chambers with a heart full of worry. This was not good—my mistress had begun to question her own past. His Grace, for all his noble lineage, truly had not a shred of gentleness when it came to the feelings of his betrothed. Yet today's events confirmed without a doubt that Lady Eleanor's memories had truly vanished.
The gown I had chosen for her meeting with His Grace this evening was one tangled in their shared history. If she'd remembered anything, surely she would have recoiled from it at first sight. I had never imagined His Grace would behave so harshly, and now I felt keenly responsible for prompting my lady's doubts about her own past.
"Miss Liliana! Miss Liliana! There's a letter from the master—express post!"
It was young Mick, the fifteen-year-old son of Mrs. Barker, our head-cook. He ran to me, waving an envelope—clearly a reply to the letter I had sent earlier, reporting the day's events to Lord Barnett. Usually such a letter took a day or more, but today it had arrived in mere hours. The master could not be far from London, surely anxious for news of his daughter.
"Thank you, Mick," I said, taking the letter from his hand. The boy vanished down the hall, and I opened the missive at once.
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28th October, 1847
To Liliana
My sincere thanks for informing me of Eleanor's condition. See to her well-being with the utmost care, as you have always done. Report to me immediately should anything else occur. Regarding the wedding—I am aware of the arrangements, but I remain detained by business and may not return before the day itself. I travel now to Derby, and in two days' time shall proceed to Manchester.
One more matter: you must strictly forbid all staff from speaking of Chelsea in Eleanor's hearing. Keep the door to that room locked at all times, and under no circumstance allow my daughter to remember her.
Percival Barnett
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The master's wishes were clear—he, too, wished the tragedy of the past kept from my lady's memory. So be it. I would see his commands obeyed.
Eleanor
After Liliana brought my tea, she went about snuffing the candles, plunging the chamber into darkness. I tried to close my eyes, to grant my weary mind some rest, but I could not set aside the day's mysteries. My mind kept turning, turning…
What, truly, had happened to Lord Alexander? What linked his story to mine, or rather, to Lady Eleanor's? Why was I his betrothed, and why did he so plainly resent me—was it something about myself, or… something I wore?
That thought sent me abruptly from my bed. I crossed to the mirror, letting moonlight spill across my borrowed face, searching for any telltale mark, but found nothing unusual.
Unable to rest, I decided a stroll in the night air might clear my head. I took up a small candleholder from beside the bed and crept from my chamber, careful not to disturb Lilian. The corridor was dark, but the faint light from the wall sconces provided enough guidance. I paused to light my taper and continued on, wandering the upper floor.
My steps slowed when I noticed a door secured with a heavy lock—a room barred from entry. Whose room could this be, and why was it sealed so tightly? That was a mystery for the morning; there was no entering it tonight.
Descending the great mahogany staircase—its red velvet runner muffling my steps—I paused, noticing a faded mark on the wall where a large portrait had once hung. Had it always been so? Was it a family portrait, now taken down? Did Lord Barnett still mourn Lady Vivian? I resolved to ask Lilian soon.
I stepped outside into the cold, the garden cloaked in darkness, the night air icy against my skin. I drew the candleholder close for warmth and made my way down the stone steps to the garden, but halted in terror—a shadowy figure lingered at the foot of the stairs.
Was it man or ghost? My heart leapt in my chest. Had I survived one death only to be met with another at the hands of some midnight intruder? I turned, ready to run, but the figure called out.
"My lady, heed this warning—do not trust him. He will kill you."
A man's voice, young yet urgent. I turned, candle trembling, and raised it to see his face—but he stepped further into the gloom. Cloaked in tattered black, hood drawn, he was a stranger.
"Who are you? How did you get in here? Who do you mean—who is 'he'?"
I pressed forward, but he retreated further into the night. At that moment, a voice called from behind—
"My lady! Whatever are you doing out here? You should be abed!"
It was Liliana, lantern in hand, worry etched in every line of her face. I glanced back—the cloaked man was gone.
"I simply wished for a breath of air, that's all. I'm sorry," I replied, choosing to keep the encounter to myself.
"Come, my lady, you'll catch your death out here. Let us get you back inside."
As we made our way back through the house, I ventured to ask, "The locked room—whose is it? Why is it sealed?"
Lilian was silent a moment, the glow of her lantern flickering on her grave face. "That was the mistress's chamber, my lady. After she died, the master ordered it sealed. He could not bear the memory of her loss."
So, my suspicions were correct. Lord Barnett mourned his wife still; the empty space on the wall was a wound left raw by memory.
Like something out of a melodrama, I mused, as we climbed the stairs once more.