Lord Barnett
November 2nd, 1847
"There is a visitor wishing to see you, my lord."
"Lord Garry Moore?"
"No, my lord. It is Mr. Wilson."
"He has returned, then? Have him wait in the drawing room."
"At once, my lord."
I had expected to spend this afternoon discussing revisions to the construction plans for the western railway line with Lord Moore, but instead, the private investigator I'd employed had arrived first.
At the moment, I was compiling the report for next week's shareholder meeting in Manchester. Our company, the London & North Western Railway, had fallen victim to embezzlement. The man responsible had overseen procurement and controlled all construction budgets since the merger of the three companies last year.
Just last month, he abruptly resigned under suspicious circumstances—before I could go through the records and discover evidence of his treachery. I found traces of embezzlement in several inflated purchase orders and swore to myself that I would see him brought to justice.
Meanwhile, Her Majesty had entrusted me with devising a solution for the present national crisis—another matter that had kept me from returning to visit my beloved daughter for many months.
I set aside the mountain of documents before me and walked into the adjoining reception room. This modest house had served as my Manchester residence during business trips, but it had, by necessity, become my second home these past months.
"Good afternoon, Lord Barnett," said the young private investigator, Grant Wilson, doffing his bowler hat and bowing politely.
"Good to see you. I presume you have news—what brings you to see me in person?"
I walked to the window, hands resting on the cane before me, gazing out over the busy streets below, filled with carriages and pedestrians.
"It concerns your daughter, Lady Eleanor."
"She remembers Chelsea, does she not?"
"She does, my lord. But what's more, I have discovered who helped her recover those memories."
I had received a letter from Liliana just this morning. She reported that Eleanor had run away during the night to seek out Miss Lydia and had fallen from her horse during a robbery attempt. Fortunately, His Grace chanced upon her in time, and she is now safe. Yet Liliana never mentioned who had urged Eleanor to do such a thing. She would have no knowledge of that maid's background—there are only a handful of people who might.
"I have quietly investigated Miss Woodward, and found she is still secretly in contact with her twin brother inside your own Wexford House."
Thud!
I struck the floor with my cane.
"Leopold is still at my house, is he?"
"Yes, my lord. Moreover, I overheard him and Miss Woodward discussing his intention to help Lady Eleanor recover her memories of her sister. This Leopold has been in frequent contact with your daughter, and I've seen him warn her about the matter of her fiancé more than once—"
Thud!!
This time, my cane struck the floor harder, my temper flaring. Wilson flinched in surprise.
"Has he not done enough, after what he did to Chelsea? Why must he now try to deceive Eleanor as well? I will not let this go unpunished!"
"Yes, my lord. It was Leopold who persuaded Lady Eleanor to seek out Miss Lydia, though Miss Woodward tried to stop her. That is why your daughter concocted her plan to sneak out in the middle of the night. I could not follow her quickly enough—she rode off at great speed. As for what happened after, I believe you have been fully briefed by Miss Woodward."
"It is strange indeed, Eleanor riding a horse. I cannot recall the last time I saw her ride—perhaps three years ago."
He offered no comment, but continued with his report.
"Currently, Leopold is being held at the London central jail. Two nights ago, he foolishly visited a city tavern, and I alerted the police using the writ of authority you provided. He was arrested for trespassing on the Wexford estate. What are your wishes regarding him?"
I turned to regard Mr. Wilson with some admiration; his efficiency had exceeded my expectations. I had hired him to secretly investigate Eleanor after I learned she'd attempted to take her own life—how could I remain idle?
But I never expected Leopold to return and torment my family again. I had let him go free, for the sake of my beloved wife Vivian who raised him as her own, instead of facing the gallows ten years ago at William's hand. Clearly, he valued his own life too little.
"Instruct the warden to hold him until I return to London."
"At once, my lord. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Tell me, how is my daughter?"
"If you mean since she regained her memories of Lady Chelsea—she has shown no adverse reaction, my lord. As for her ankle, she has received excellent care from His Grace."
"What do you mean, 'no adverse reaction'?" I fixed him with a sharp gaze.
"She is cheerful, energetic, and inquisitive, as far as I have observed—no signs of distress."
"Has amnesia turned her into a completely different person?" I murmured to myself.
Eleanor had always been dutiful, obedient, and reserved—even if she resented being forced to marry His Grace after her sister's death, she had never openly rebelled. I never imagined how deeply she suffered, enough to drink poison rather than submit to her fate.
But now, after her amnesia, she seemed an entirely different creature—Eleanor, as I knew her, would never have run away simply because she was forbidden.
"I have no further business. My secretary will see to your payment as agreed. Thank you."
"My pleasure, my lord. I shall return to London the day after tomorrow—if you require anything before then, please do not hesitate."
He bowed once more and took his leave. As for me, I longed to see my daughter more than ever—but duty to the company and the nation must come first.
"My lord, an urgent message from Sir Wycliffe,"
My footman entered with a letter from His Grace's man—a clear sign His Grace could not travel as planned.
"Speak."
"With your permission, my lord—Sir Wycliffe writes that His Grace received a knife wound from a robber two days past and has developed a severe fever. He must remain under care until his health improves."
"That wound must have been from saving Eleanor's life…" I muttered, then turned to the footman.
"In two days, prepare my luggage for a three-night stay. I shall visit His Grace at Bakewell."
"Yes, my lord. Lord Moore's appointment is scheduled in half an hour."
"Thank you for the reminder."
He bowed and departed. I sighed heavily and sank onto the upholstered sofa in the center of the room, praying for my future son-in-law's recovery. In any case, Eleanor's marriage must be completed before I can finally rest easy.
Eleanor
The shrill cry of a steam locomotive pierced the iron-arched roof of Euston Station in the early morning, echoing above the pale haze of vapor that drifted thickly across the platform—so thick, in fact, that it was nearly impossible to make out the silhouettes of people weaving to and fro. The iron wheels ground slowly against the rails as the train from Birmingham rolled to a halt.
The air was filled with the mingled sounds of station bells, the sharp whistle blasts of officials, and the calls of passengers searching for their companions—all swirling together with the ever-present scents of coal and hot oil.
I stood surveying the station, quietly taking in the old-fashioned beauty of it all, Lilian standing loyally at my side. I chose to lean on Lord Barnett's cane to avoid burdening Lilian, who was already saddled with the weight of our heavy luggage. My face was hidden beneath a small bonnet trimmed with lace, but my gaze wandered ceaselessly, searching for the signboard that would indicate the train to Derby.
"The train to Rugby will depart in twenty minutes. Passengers, please proceed to Platform Eleven," the station official's voice blared through a brass megaphone, making me jump a little before I turned back to Lilian.
"Where do we go first?" I asked, thoroughly unaccustomed to the railway system of this era. In my own time, signs and directions would be posted everywhere, but here there were only handwritten placards and confusing announcements.
"Platform Eleven, my lady. We must first go to Rugby, then change to a Midland Railway train bound for Derby," Lilian replied, gesturing to the left. She hadn't been able to secure tickets for the last evening train, so we ended up with tickets for the 6:30 a.m. departure instead. Even invoking my status as His Grace's fiancée hadn't opened any special doors—every class of ticket had been sold out, a testament to the golden age of English railways.
When we reached the train waiting at Platform Eleven and presented our tickets to the conductor, he bowed deeply upon reading my name and assisted Lilian with our luggage, leading us to the very front of the train. This was the first-class carriage, where only noble families and wealthy patrons ever seemed to travel.
Our compartment was a private one, its seats upholstered in olive-green velvet facing each other, a small table between them for meals and tea, and a private water closet tucked at the end.
The journey would take five hours to Rugby, then another three hours by rail to Derby, and finally three more hours by carriage to Bakewell, north of Derby. All told, we were not expected to arrive before six in the evening.
It was, without a doubt, the longest and most circuitous journey I had ever undertaken—at least, discounting any transcontinental flights I might once have taken.
Alexander
My body was burning as if engulfed in flames. My head throbbed so fiercely I feared it might split open. The small wound on my chest had begun to ooze with pus, forcing Theodore to change my dressings every six hours. I could no longer stand, my limbs utterly bereft of strength—I could only lie motionless, drenched in sweat, feverish and helpless.
The royal physician had examined me yesterday, but could offer nothing more than a diagnosis of "persistent fever." The stitches in my chest sent lances of pain through me at regular intervals. I should have arrived in Manchester by now, but my sudden decline, which began even as the train pulled out of London, compelled Theodore to change our plans and bring me back to Chatsworth House instead.
Turning my aching head, I tried to make out the old man and the maid standing vigil at the right end of my bed, intending to ask the time. I could scarcely recall how I had returned here.
"What time is it, Theodore?" My voice was faint—hoarse with fever and the swelling in my throat.
"It is 2:34 in the afternoon, your grace," Theodore replied, retrieving his pocket watch and consulting it before answering.
Knowing it was already the afternoon only increased my anxiety, for I had wasted the entire day confined to bed, unable to accomplish anything. No matter how fiercely I willed myself to rise and work, my body would not obey.
It struck me then that I had not been back to this house for many months, having lived in London so long I had nearly forgotten how vast Chatsworth truly was. The smell of old wood and mattresses in this room filled me with a sense of nostalgia. I was born here, raised beneath this very roof—this ancestral seat of the Cavendish family, now tended only by myself.
Theodore had ordered the maids to wipe me down at regular intervals to cool my fever and cleanse the accumulated sweat from my skin. The medicine prescribed by the physician was little more than a herbal tonic brewed from chamomile and willow bark—meant to reduce fever, but of no true help.
My eyes, heavy with exhaustion, settled on Theodore, who looked more troubled than I had ever seen him. Normally the picture of composure, the old man now betrayed a depth of worry rarely visible in him.
"Have you written to Lord Barnett?" I managed to ask, my breath labored.
"I have, your grace. I have also sent word to Lady Eleanor."
"You needn't have done that. She needn't be troubled. I'll be well in a week."
"With all due respect, your grace, Lady Eleanor ought to know your situation. The wedding is to be held at the end of the month. If your recovery requires more than a week's convalescence, it is better that she be informed."
I could only sigh, too weak to argue further. My eyelids felt unbearably heavy; sleep crept over me once again.
"As you see fit, Theodore…" I whispered before surrendering to unconsciousness.
When I next awoke, voices were raised in heated argument outside my door—one female, the other Theodore's. I struggled upright, anxious to discern who dared quarrel at my chamber so late in the day. The sky beyond my window had darkened; evidently I had slept for hours. My chest still burned, the wound throbbing dully.
"Theodore… Who is at the door?" I tried to speak, but my voice was barely audible above the fever.
At last the door burst open, and in hurried a woman I knew all too well, limping but determined, her cane supporting her small frame, distress etched deep into her face.
"Lord Alexander! How are you feeling?" She pressed her palm to my brow. Even after some rest, my fever had not abated. My face and body were still aflame.
"This is bad—he's suffering from an infected wound," my fiancée declared to someone out of my blurred line of sight. I recognized her by voice alone, for my vision was too clouded.
"My lady, what do you mean? I do not understand," the maid asked anxiously.
"Sir Wycliffe, when you stitched his wound, did you wash your hands? Did you clean the instruments first?" she pressed, ignoring the maid's confusion.
"I did, my lady. The instruments I used were all new," Theodore replied, visibly startled by her question.
"Then there is still hope."
"What do you mean, my lady?" the maid persisted.
"Lord Alexander's wound is badly infected. He hasn't received any antiseptics or proper anti-inflammatory medicine. His body is fighting the infection, that's why the fever is raging."
"I never knew your Ladyship was versed in medicine," Theodore said, clearly impressed.
"That doesn't matter now. I've read about such things," she replied shortly. "Do you have any strong spirits? Please bring me some at once."
"My lady, I hardly think it wise for you to—"
"No, you misunderstand. I need it to disinfect his wound, not to drink. It may be our only chance."
"I do not fully comprehend, but if you wish it, I shall obey."
Theodore bowed and left, leaving my fiancée and the maid alone with me. Eleanor gently supported me, lowering me to the pillow, then peeled back my covers to inspect the wound. Upon seeing its condition, her expression became even more grave. She ordered the maid to prepare fresh boiled water and clean linens.
"Lilian, fetch a jug of boiled water and plenty of clean cloths. Dispose of that basin and boil it thoroughly as well."
"Yes, my lady."
When she had finished giving instructions, Eleanor turned back to me.
"I will tend to you myself from now on. I believe your body can fight this infection. You must survive!"
Why are you so determined to save me? Do you not fear me, as others do?
I lay there, breathing raggedly, meeting her resolute gaze from the pillow. Her face radiated determination and defiance—she would not be swayed. I wanted to order her to leave, to let Theodore resume his care, but her stubbornness was ironclad. I simply hadn't the strength to argue.
"You should go, my lady. Let Theodore take care of me," I whispered.
"No. If you wish to live, cleanliness must come first. I trust no one else. I will nurse you until you are well."
I could not fathom her insistence—why was cleanliness so important to a fever such as mine? If you asked me whether I wished to survive, I could not have answered just then. But if it was God's will that I should die today to atone for my sins, then so be it.
Eleanor
We arrived at Chatsworth House just before seven in the evening, wasting no time with formalities or waiting for anyone's permission. Lillian and I marched straight into the grand hall, causing a flurry of confusion among the staff, who were visibly startled by our unannounced entrance. Yet, they all recognized me at once, and none dared to question my right to be here.
At last, we found Sir Wycliffe standing guard before Lord Alexander's bedchamber. He tried every means to prevent me from entering, afraid I would disturb his master's rest. After several tense minutes of arguing back and forth, I lost patience and forced my way past him without further explanation.
I hurried straight to Lord Alexander, who sat propped against the pillows, his posture fraught with agony. Sweat beaded his brow and plastered his hair to his face. He squinted at me, lips moving as if to speak, but he had no strength left for words. My eyes dropped immediately to his broad chest, searching for the condition of his wound. The bandages covering it were soaked through, oozing with pus. The skin around the cut was swollen and reddened—clear signs of a serious infection.
The wound itself was not deep, but the inflammation was obvious and severe. If Sir Wycliffe truly had washed his hands and used clean instruments, as he insisted, then it was likely the infection came directly from the blade that cut him. This fever was a sign that his immune system was fighting desperately against the invaders. To help his body recover, cleaning the wound as thoroughly as possible was our only hope.
Drawing on the knowledge I possessed, I quickly assessed our limited options. Turning to Sir Wycliffe, who had followed us in with a stormy look on his face, I requested the supplies I needed.
Alcohol for disinfection, as we know it today, was not available in this era. But there were strong spirits—"white spirits" with high alcohol content, sometimes exceeding 60%. It wasn't ideal, but it might suffice in an emergency like this. Ideally, I would have preferred something over 90%, but I knew that was impossible here.
Sir Wycliffe soon returned, arms full of bottles. A maid followed close behind, helping to arrange the bottles in neat rows on the side table by the window—dozens of them, all gin, some homemade and some well-known brands.
Gin—its distinctive juniper scent filling the air—had been beloved in England for centuries, its roots deeper and more storied than many realized. The familiar green bottle of Gordon's Gin from London, founded in 1769, stood next to Plymouth Gin from 1793—both still famous even in my own century. But their proof was only about 85, or 50% alcohol by volume. The highest I could find was the so-called "Navy Strength," measuring 100 proof—just 57.15% alcohol. Not quite enough, but it would have to do until I could find something stronger. The only hope might be the unlabeled bottle, clearly homemade.
"Sir Wycliffe, do you have anything stronger? Anything from foreign lands?" I pressed.
"I'm afraid this is all we have in the house," he answered, apologetic but firm.
I thought quickly. Using spirits below 60% was a risk, but there was one more possibility. "Could you try the apothecary's shop? I need distilled alcohol—pure spirit, if possible."
He raised an eyebrow. "What do you intend to do with it, my lady?"
"I intend to save Lord Alexander's life. I'll use it to disinfect his wound," I replied, trying to keep the impatience from my voice.
He looked thoroughly unconvinced. "In my experience, boiled water is sufficient—no one I've seen has ever poured spirits on a wound. But if you insist…"
"Please, Sir Wycliffe. I beg you. I only wish to help him, not cause him further harm."
He frowned but relented, disappearing in search of what I'd requested. Pure spirit in this era was used mainly for tinctures, and the distillation methods weren't exactly reliable, but it would have to do. I prayed silently for guidance
God, please let me be right about this.
Not long after, Lillian returned with the items I had asked for. I gently unwrapped Lord Alexander's chest, revealing the wound in all its angry, inflamed truth. With a clean cloth dipped in boiled water, I carefully cleansed away the blood and pus. For now, I poured a scant amount of the Navy-strength gin over the wound, hoping it would at least kill some of the surface germs.
Lord Alexander jerked with a sharp cry of pain. "Ah!" The sting of the alcohol told me it was doing its job. I quickly pressed a fresh linen dressing over the wound and bandaged it securely, then used another clean cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck.
Hearing his ragged, pain-filled breaths tore at my heart. A part of me knew he was suffering this fate because he had thrown himself in harm's way to save me. I owed him this debt—and, somewhere deep in my heart, I still could not believe he was truly the murderer of Lady Chelsea.
Alexander
I awoke with a start in the grey stillness before dawn, unsure of the hour or even whether a new day had begun. The pain in my chest, which had tormented me for days, seemed to have lessened—an odd, unfamiliar relief. I tried to sit up, only to discover something heavy pressing gently across my thighs.
In the near darkness, without even a candle's glow for company, I heard the faintest sound of breathing—soft, steady, and close. As a faint silver shaft of moonlight slipped through the slightly open window, it cast its pale glow across the delicate features of a young woman sprawled across my lap in utter exhaustion. Her long hair, the colour of burnt caramel, tumbled carelessly over her cheeks and neck. Even in sleep, her lips—rose-tinted and soft—were slightly parted, betraying a childlike innocence.
The night was bitterly cold, yet I felt none of it, fever still burning in my veins. She, on the other hand, lay quietly beside me with nothing to keep her warm. I leaned down, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. Eleanor. My betrothed, sleeping so peacefully atop my lap, her scent—faintly freesia—rising from her hair. When was the last time I had allowed myself the luxury of such nearness to another soul?
She had journeyed all this way, unannounced, braving night and discomfort, solely out of concern for me—her stubbornness overcoming every warning and command. I could not help but feel a surge of gratitude, mingled with something softer, more dangerous. Not only had she cared for me as no physician could, with knowledge and resolve far beyond her years, but there was something about this Eleanor that defied all I thought I knew. There was a gravity in her, a pull I could neither name nor resist. She was not the timid girl I had once known—or perhaps I had simply never seen her for who she truly was.
Who are you, Lady Eleanor? I found myself studying her, searching her face for some sign—was she the same, or some beguiling imposter sent to torment me with hope? Her wit, her spirit, her iron will—they reminded me so painfully of another, of a woman whose memory haunted every hour of my waking life. Stubborn, clever, proud, impossible to subdue...
"Thank you, my lady, for tending to me," I whispered softly by her ear, though she did not stir. Tenderly, I pulled the down comforter over her slender frame, guarding her against the chill she had so carelessly ignored.
Why do you not fear me? I asked the darkness. What kind of woman in her right mind would so willingly linger beside the man accused of murdering her own sister?
Thump, thump... thump, thump...
And suddenly, that long-dormant feeling awoke inside me again. My heart—so long convinced of its own death—beat fiercely in my aching chest, each pulse a cruel, impossible mixture of pain and longing. My rough hand reached out, cupping her cheek with all the gentleness I could muster, committing every line and shadow of her sleeping face to memory. So near, and yet eternally out of reach. Even if fate decreed us to wed, even if we were bound in the eyes of all England, I could never truly claim her.
"I'm sorry," I murmured, voice breaking as I traced the soft line of her jaw. "I can never let you take Chelsea's place. All I wish is that you might survive this life unscathed."
Though I felt something for this woman—God help me, something I had never intended or desired—I knew I could never speak it aloud. My heart, once given, was lost forever to another, bound by an oath even death could not sever. So let me spend what life remains to me in service to the Crown and to this estate. Let me love you in silence, Lady Eleanor, and promise you only the dignity and security that befits a Duchess—never the fullness of a lover's devotion. That last sanctuary will always be sealed.
Exhausted by these thoughts—by pain, by longing, by the effort of pretending—I finally let my eyelids fall. Leaning back into the pillows, I drifted into restless sleep once more, alone with the ache that could never be spoken.