Eleanor
The night breeze whispered softly, teasing the blood-red velvet drapes embroidered with gold thread, making them quiver as if murmuring secrets that could never be spoken aloud. A full moon hung high above the ancient oak outside the stone manor, bathing Chatsworth House in silvery light, so that it seemed almost bewitched.
Inside the vast, pitch-dark hall, the crystal chandelier trembled gently in the wind seeping through the tall windows. The entire manor slumbered beneath the silence of night. Yet the gentleman who had just saved my life still carried me quietly up the staircase, saying not a word, despite having scolded me to prepare my explanations.
Thud… Thud… Thud…
I could hear his heartbeat—slow, steady—a rhythm that assured me he was alive, not some lifeless specter. The wound upon his chest made me wonder how he could seem so unaffected by pain. I glanced up at his serene face, illuminated by the silvery moon, and for a fleeting moment I found myself entranced by his countenance. Lord Alexander had just rescued me; what further reason was there to suspect he wished me harm?
He laid me gently upon the bed in a chamber unfamiliar to me.
"Wait here. I'll send for the maids to bathe you, change your clothes, and tend to your wounds," he said before turning to leave.
Though my injured ankle throbbed—its bruising now turning black and purple—I found myself worrying just as much for his wound.
"And what about your own injury?" I called after him.
"It's a mere scratch, as I told you. Theodore will dress it for me. Just worry about yourself."
Even a small wound, if left untreated, can be dangerous, I thought. But I knew he would never allow me to tend it in place of Sir Wycliffe.
He left, and soon two maids entered with a bucket of warm water and a nightdress whose owner I could not guess. As Lillian once told me, there had not been a lady of the house for years; both of Lord Alexander's sisters had married and moved away long ago, leaving him alone in the manor—until me.
'His Grace is not as wicked as you think, my lady…'
Lydia's words echoed in my mind. He did not appear a murderer to me; if anything, he seemed a protector—if sometimes brusque and rough.
The maids bathed away the dirt and mud from my body, then dressed me in the nightgown—which, curiously, fit perfectly.
Creak…
Lord Alexander reentered as the maids were binding my ankle. He gazed at me with a tenderness I could not quite describe. The wound upon his chest was now neatly bandaged, a sign his own injury had been cared for. My worry subsided.
"Theodore has sent word to Wexford House, reporting tonight's events. They'll come to fetch you tomorrow morning," he said.
There was no hiding the truth now; Lillian would soon know I had sneaked out to investigate Lady Chelsea, and no doubt she would inform Lord Barnett as well.
He came to stand by the bed, eyeing my ankle, before instructing the maids to leave us alone.
"It's time you told me the truth, my lady. What were you doing out at such an hour? Do you realize how lucky you were that I found you?"
"I was seeking information," I replied.
He arched a brow, confusion flickering across his face, then seated himself on the sofa in the corner, crossing his legs in his familiar way.
"What do you mean by 'seeking information'? What were you looking for?"
"I wanted to learn about my own past."
"And what required you to do so in the dead of night?"
"I went to find Miss Lydia Fairchild, to ask about my sister."
There was no longer any reason to hide from him. Perhaps now he would reveal the truth I sought.
"You…!" His face darkened at the mention of Lydia, for it led to but one subject.
"So, you remember your sister now?"
"Not exactly. I know now that my sister was once your fiancée, and I want to know the cause of her death."
I had not asked him before, unsure what connection Lady Chelsea had to Lady Eleanor. But now I understood. Not to mention Leo's warning, which had planted such suspicion in my mind. Yet tonight's revelations had swept away all doubts.
Still, another question now troubled me—the true nature of his relationship with Lady Chelsea. Did they love, or hate, each other?
Lord Alexander fell silent, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands before his lips as he stared out the window, pondering what he ought to say.
"You are correct. She was once my betrothed. And as for her death… it was I who took her life."
Had I heard him aright?
"You mean—you are her murderer? Why? Why would you kill her? I thought she died of illness."
He confused me deeply. Surely he, more than anyone, should know the truth. Yet his answer was not at all what I had expected.
"If you have heard the rumors that I killed her, I can confirm they are true. I have no explanation for why I did it. If you fear me as you once did, I understand. That is why I told you to keep your distance. Do you understand now?"
Why did he accept such a grave accusation? Was he mad? Everyone I had questioned claimed she died of illness, yet he, at the very heart of it all, confessed her murder so calmly. He unsettled me anew; only hours ago I had concluded he meant me no harm—now I was unsure once more.
"Why, then, did I become your betrothed?"
He sighed, and at last spoke plainly.
"It was by virtue of a promise your father, Lord Barnett, made to my brother many years ago, to dispel the rumors of your sister's infidelity and preserve the Cavendish family's honor."
"But that makes no sense!" I protested.
"Your father pledged his word before the Queen herself, vowing to give his daughter in marriage to me. To show his good faith, Lord Barnett reluctantly agreed to give his second daughter as my bride, just as my brother requested. The agreement was that when you reached seventeen years, you would become my new fiancée, with Her Majesty's approval. I could not refuse the Queen's will."
I stared at him, dumbfounded. Nothing about this seemed reasonable. Why would Lord Barnett give his second daughter to the man who had killed his first, merely to uphold the family's honor? Or merely to keep a promise, even if it meant sending his own daughter to her death? Was this truly all that mattered?
'Ellie, don't forget—in an age where power outweighs the heart, reason is unnecessary. Only honor matters.'
"I hope my answers suffice, my lady. You need not search for the truth any longer. If you wish to keep your distance, I will not object. But if you desire your freedom, I cannot grant it."
He rose and walked toward the door, having at last answered the question that had haunted me for so long. My intended question about his own nocturnal wanderings was rendered moot; now, I wanted to know only one thing.
"Will you kill me too?" I asked as he opened the door. He glanced back at me.
"Stay away from me, and you will be safest," he replied, then left without another word.
So, he means to kill me—yet why save me, tend my wounds, and bring me to his home? My thoughts whirled in confusion, everything contradicting itself. He admitted to murder, yet warned me to keep my distance for my own safety. How am I to make sense of this? How can I live with a man who killed his former love and may one day take my life as well?
Now I understood Lady Eleanor's hatred and anguish at being betrothed to him—forced to become a scapegoat, bound by her father's oath to the very man who had slain her sister. In the end, Leo had been right all along.
November 1st, 1847
I opened my eyes to find the familiar face of a young woman gazing at me from the bedside, her expression filled with worry as always.
Lillian has come to fetch me home, I thought.
Propping myself up against the pillows, I glanced around. I was still at Devonshire House. Everything that had happened last night was real. I couldn't even remember when I'd fallen asleep.
"I'll call for Wyatt to carry you down to the carriage," Lillian said softly.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"It's 9:45, my lady."
"And is Lord Alexander still here?"
"No, my lady. He left about four hours ago."
He really shouldn't have traveled after sustaining such an injury, I thought, feeling a surge of worry for him. He was always so reckless.
"I see… Then please take me home, Lillian."
"Of course, my lady." She nodded and left to fetch Wyatt, who'd been waiting outside the door for nearly an hour. He carried me, still clad in my nightdress, down to the carriage. The dress I'd worn last night was too tattered to ever be worn again—it had been discarded.
On the way home, Lillian asked the question I'd been expecting.
"My lady, why did you do such a thing? If something had happened to you, think how heartbroken your father would have been…"
"Isn't it because of Father? He went so far to hide the truth about my sister. I had no choice but to investigate it myself."
She fell silent—my words were the truth.
I do not know what Lady Eleanor's character was truly like, but for me, at least in this moment, I would go to any length to seek the answers I wanted.
"You've sent word to Father, haven't you?"
"I—I have, my lady… How did you know?"
"It wasn't difficult. Father hasn't been home in months. There's no other way for him to know about my memory loss and order everyone to keep silent about my sister."
"I… I see…" Lillian was flustered, but I'd known since she first slipped and said, 'Your father forbade me from speaking of the past.'
"So you know everything now? Leo confessed to me this morning that he told you to seek out Miss Lydia at the Boar's Head. I pressed him after Sir Wycliffe's message came to bring you home."
"It wasn't just Miss Lydia who told me the truth. Lord Alexander himself revealed everything to me."
"Truly! His Grace told you himself? Then… then how did Lady Chelsea die?"
"I can't tell you that, Lillian. I'm sorry."
I couldn't let anyone know that he had confessed to murder. But at least Lillian would know I had learned the truth from him, so she needn't hide anything from me any longer.
When we arrived back at Wexford House, Wyatt carried me up to my room, with Lillian, Agatha, and Mrs. Barker following behind.
"We were all so worried about you, my lady," Mrs. Barker said when she saw my bandaged ankle.
I forced a small, uneasy smile, knowing how much I had worried everyone since my memory loss. At the very least, I knew Lady Eleanor was truly loved by her household.
"I'm sorry for worrying you all."
The three maids crowded around, eager to know what had happened. I told them only that I'd been attacked by robbers on my way home, had fallen from my horse, and twisted my ankle—nothing more. Remembering the horse, I quickly apologized to Wyatt.
"Wyatt, about the horse… I'm sorry I let her escape."
Wyatt, who was also responsible for the stables, shook his head with a gentle smile.
"There's no need to worry, my lady. She'll find her way back here on her own."
Impressive. I hardly knew anything about horses, and this only deepened my admiration for these noble creatures.
"Does she have a name?"
"Yes, my lady. Her name is Scarlet. She was Lady Chelsea's favorite—"
Before he could finish, Lillian elbowed him in the side.
"Ahem, forgive me," he coughed.
"It's all right, Lillian. Let Wyatt speak freely. You know I know everything now."
The staff in the room were visibly startled; clearly, Lillian had told no one else why I'd run away the night before.
"Yes, my lady, Scarlet was Lady Chelsea's favorite."
Why do I feel so drawn to anything connected to Lady Chelsea? Even though I inhabit Lady Eleanor's body, it is Lady Chelsea's story that seems to matter most to me—even Lord Alexander himself…
She was once the woman he loved with all his heart.
Every time I think of this, my chest aches strangely, as if I resent seeing him suffer over her name.
I placed my hand to my heart. It pounded in a peculiar rhythm. I tried to convince myself it was only the burden of being her successor, being compared to her at every turn.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
"All right, everyone, please leave my lady's room now so she can rest," Lillian announced, clapping her hands thrice.
The others said their goodbyes and left, with Lillian gently closing the door.
I reached for the bedside table, opened the drawer, and took out a stack of letters still dusted with age. Upon inspection, I saw they were all from Lady Chelsea, written to Lady Eleanor eleven years ago—letters that had never been delivered.
Eleven years ago, Lady Eleanor would have been only seven. Perhaps that's why these were never sent. Or perhaps, she never got the chance.
I opened the first letter.
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March 14th, 1836
To my dearest Eleanor,
I am sorry that I cannot stay to care for you as Mother did. As Father's daughter, I have duties I must fulfill, and so I must go far away. You are still very young, and may not understand, but please remember always that your sister loves you dearly. I hope Lillian will care for you as well as I have. If ever I am able to return, I will visit as often as I can.
From your loving sister,
Chelsea Barnett
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Just this first letter revealed how deeply Lady Chelsea loved her sister. She had lost her mother at birth and taken it upon herself to raise her as her own. Such a compassionate woman.
From the content, it was clear she spoke of her engagement to Lord Alexander and her move to Chatsworth House in Derbyshire. Eagerly, I read the next.
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March 20th, 1836
To my beloved Eleanor,
Oh, my darling sister, has Lillian taken you to visit Father's barley fields this spring? They're but a short journey away. There's a little wooden house there that Father built for me when I was your age—a place where you can see the golden barley stretch to the horizon and smell the beer wafting from the nearby brewery.
How are you, my precious? Are you well, are you happy? Has Mrs. Barker made you the raspberry tart I so love?
I've been here nearly a month now. Lord Alexander takes good care of me, if you're wondering. Never lacking food or comfort, and even had the library renovated just for me, despite my not asking. He insisted. I could not refuse.
Oh, Eleanor, I once swore to dedicate my life to Queen and country. I dreamt of making my name in politics, not as a voiceless wife. But now I can no longer escape my fate as the Marquess's daughter. My dream may never come true, yet my heart is slowly warmed by his kindness. Lord Alexander has gently entered my heart, bit by bit, until I find myself flushed every time our eyes meet. I never thought it possible to love someone so deeply—but now I do.
I hope to see you at our wedding when I turn seventeen, my dear sister.
Your loving sister,
Chelsea Barnett
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Tears streamed down my cheeks before I realized it. Why did these letters move me so? I'd never met her, and yet I felt both sorrow and joy from her words. Lady Chelsea was so happy then. Lord Alexander must have cared for her in a way so different from how he treats me.
No, Ellie, you're crying as her sister, not as yourself.
I tried to wipe away the tears and reached for the last letter, but my hand froze.
I wasn't ready to read it—not yet. My heart fluttered painfully, unsure whether my tears sprang from happiness for her or bitterness that her joy eclipsed my own. I put the letters away and pulled the blanket over my head, mind aching from so many thoughts.
Why do I feel so strange about Lord Alexander, even after learning he was a murderer? If Lady Chelsea truly never had an affair, and was just beginning to fall in love with Lord Alexander, why would he ever kill her?
From what Lydia said, it's entirely possible Lady Chelsea only met Leo to deliver letters, and he was simply the messenger—witnesses might have misunderstood. But what about the physical rumors… could they be true?
I need to see Leo and ask him everything. If I beg Lillian, would she agree to fetch him?
I glanced out the window. Not a ray of sunlight had broken through since dawn, and though it was already one in the afternoon, thick fog cloaked everything—a sure sign winter was coming in earnest.
Knock, knock!
"Come in," I called.
The door creaked open and there was Lillian, standing respectfully at the threshold.
"Why don't you come in?" I asked. Normally she would walk right in after knocking.
"I'm sorry, my lady. I didn't want to disturb your rest."
"I haven't slept at all—I can't seem to."
She seemed more reserved than before, giving me space, not trying to control me as she once did.
"Would you like some tea or perhaps some sweets this afternoon? I can bring them to you."
"Thank you, Lillian, but I'm not hungry yet."
After a pause, I spoke up. "Lillian, I need you to do something for me. Can you bring Leo to see me?"
She looked briefly startled, but as if she'd half-expected it.
"Yes, my lady."
Strange—she agreed so easily this time. Before she could leave, I stopped her.
"Wait—I have another request. Can you take me to the third floor? I need to find my sister's diary."
I knew I was forbidden to go there, but Lillian didn't protest. She merely bowed her head and left. Watching her, I wondered if she was trying to make amends for being so controlling that I'd run away.
It is my right to know. I'm sorry, Lord Barnett, for breaking your orders. But I'm not the daughter you remember.
Lillian returned half an hour later, having searched everywhere but unable to find Leo.
"He's not here?"
"No, my lady. I haven't seen him since yesterday. I don't know where he's gone."
"He never has business outside the manor?"
"No, my lady. The townspeople were ordered not to welcome him. I doubt he could go anywhere."
Lord Barnett is a truly decisive man. I pity Leo, but there is little I can do.
I saw the worry in Lillian's eyes—her own brother missing now. She's always been so selfless, caring for everyone but herself.
"I'm sorry I can't help you," I said softly, clutching the blanket with guilt. I had thought Leo only wanted to turn me against Lord Alexander for revenge, but now I realized he only wanted to warn me, to protect what Lady Chelsea loved.
My hand tightened. Why did so many men love Lady Chelsea so dearly? What sort of woman was she, to be cherished by so many? Jealousy rose in me before I could stop it. I tried to regain my composure—none of this should affect me.
I tried to clear my mind and focused on my other task.
"Did you bring the third-floor key?"
"I did, my lady."
"Then please take me up there now."
"Y—yes, my lady." Lillian hurried over to support me.
I could only hobble up the stairs on one leg, leaning heavily on her. The third floor was cold and deserted—rarely used by anyone except Lillian and Agatha, who cleaned occasionally. There were no candles in the holders. I shuddered to think how pitch-dark it would be at night.
There were only two doors, side by side.
"The room on the left belonged to Lady Vivian, your mother. She stayed here during her pregnancy with you."
"Why didn't she sleep with Father on the second floor?"
"She was often ill, and didn't want to risk passing her fever to him. Thankfully, she delivered you safely before passing away. Lord Barnett ordered the room sealed afterward."
"And the right-hand room?"
"That belonged to Lord Barnett's mother. Lady Vivian told me long ago. It's a storage room now."
"Do you think Father would have kept Chelsea's things there? I'm looking for her diary, nothing else."
"Leo told you about it?"
"Yes. He said my sister recorded everything in her diary. It's the only proof of what I've learned. Father brought back all her things after she died, and I'm sure they're in there."
"I can't say, my lady. I wasn't assigned here then. Shall we search?"
"Yes, please."
She settled me by the door, unlocked it, and let me in. Dust filled the air—more neglected than even Lady Chelsea's old bedroom. The grandeur had faded; everything was broken and worn, the curtains and paintings gone.
Everything was piled in a corner: pictures, crates, chairs, books, documents, and some ceramics. I pointed to the pile of books. If I was to find a diary, that was the place to start. Lillian busied herself elsewhere. Watching her, I was grateful for her trust and help, even defying Lord Barnett for my sake.
"Lillian?"
"Yes, my lady?" She turned, surprised but still sifting through things.
"Why are you helping me?"
She paused, lowering her gaze.
"I saw how hard you tried to remember your sister. Even with your memory gone, you and Lady Chelsea loved each other dearly. I don't think we should hide the past from you anymore, no matter how painful. You've grown stronger, my lady. I just want you to be happy."
"Thank you, Lillian, for caring."
I'm sorry, Lillian. I don't have the bond you think. I search for Lady Chelsea's past only because she is the axis around which my new life revolves. Everything I face now stems from their relationship.
Lady Eleanor was no less loved than Lady Chelsea; she still had Lillian and the staff, and her sister's love as well.
Or perhaps—I was simply jealous of Lord Alexander. Was that why I thought such dark thoughts?
My heart pounded anew. I shook my head, telling myself it was just the pain of comparison. Still, my hands rifled through the books, unfocused.
"This must be it!" Lillian cried. She held up a diary bound in calfskin, tied with a cord—unlike any other.
"Where did you find it?"
"In this little crate, my lady."
She brought out a small box from a larger trunk—likely the very trunk used to bring Lady Chelsea's things here. I opened it, and yes—it was Lady Chelsea's diary.
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February 20th, 1836
We arrived at Chatsworth House in the afternoon, after nearly half a day on the train and another hour by carriage. This estate is boundless; I cannot see the end of it. Lord Alexander once told me that all the hills stretching to Derby belong to the Cavendish family. I cannot wait to ride their horses. They keep a grand stable with over a hundred. Lord Alexander promised I would meet them soon.
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I skimmed forward, searching for the entries near her death, but after March 25th, 1836, the pages were torn out. Someone had deliberately removed them, hiding the truth. On the final surviving page, I found only this incomplete passage:
"If my heart must cease to beat, I pray to the Almighty, to the thousand stars above, that the man I loved most dearly may one day find true love—that she may free him at last from the shackles of the past. Should this not—"
A simple prayer, as she neared her end—pleading for God to bless the man who would soon be her killer, to be freed from his chains.
But what was the past she spoke of? I can only guess she wanted him to find new love—someone to heal his wounds. If I understand correctly.
I closed the diary and handed it back to Lillian.
"Will you not keep it, my lady?"
"No. It's no use. The final entries are missing. It can't answer my questions."
It does confirm she knew her end was near, but she didn't seem to hate Lord Alexander—instead, she prayed for his happiness, even as he killed her.
"I'll keep it for you, then, in case it's ever needed."
"Thank you."
Lillian put it away, looking troubled. Even she didn't know how to help. But neither did I—only Lord Alexander knew the truth. The thought of seeing him again now made me anxious beyond words.
She helped me back to bed, then went to boil water for my bath. Dusk was falling; she would have to summon the doctor for my ankle tomorrow. Before she could leave, Agatha entered with a letter from Sir Wycliffe.
"My lady, a letter from Sir Wycliffe."
"His Grace must have arrived in Manchester by now," Lillian remarked.
I took the letter and read:
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November 1st, 1847
To Lady Eleanor Barnett,
His Grace is now resting at Chatsworth House. Due to the knife wound to his chest, he has developed a severe fever. I have summoned the royal physician, and he has been treated accordingly.
Yours Sincerely,
Theodore Wycliffe
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No… I shouldn't have let him leave so easily…
My greatest fear had come true. That knife—who knows what it had touched before? Without proper sterilization, infection could be fatal. And in this era, there was no real understanding of germs or antiseptics.
If Sir Wycliffe had sewn the wound without cleaning his hands, Lord Alexander might die of sepsis. My own sprained ankle was a trivial matter—two or three weeks and I'd be healed. But his case was far more dangerous. What could I do? He was there, and I was here. If he truly meant to kill me, perhaps fate would be kind if he died now, sparing me.
No.
My heart told me that I simply couldn't let things remain as they were. I couldn't bear the thought of him dying—he was the one who had saved my life, and it was because of him that I found myself in this situation.
I knew then what I must do.
I have to save his life.
"Please arrange a travel ticket for me—I'm going to see Lord Alexander tomorrow," I said.
"But—my lady, you're still injured! How can you travel in such a state? I must fetch the doctor to attend to you—"
"That's not necessary! My leg isn't so badly hurt; it will heal soon enough. Lord Alexander is in danger. I must help him!"
"I—I understand, my lady. I'll go at once and purchase a ticket for the earliest train tomorrow morning."
"Find the very earliest departure possible. If there's a late train tonight that we could just about prepare for, then buy that one."
"Yes, my lady!" Lillian replied quickly, turning to Agatha, who was standing by with a puzzled expression.
"Agatha, please prepare some bathwater for my lady. Afterwards, see to her luggage and make sure everything is packed. I must go now to purchase her ticket for the journey."
With that, she hurried out without another word, and Agatha excused herself to fetch hot water for my bath as quickly as possible.
I have no idea if I'll make it in time. All I can do is pray that his body is strong enough to endure until then. Lord Alexander...
I clasped my hands together in prayer, beseeching the Lord to grant me one more miracle.