Eleanor
November 3rd, 1847
Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!
Was that the call of a robin? For a moment, still half-asleep, I wondered where the sound was coming from. Gentle daylight filtered into the room, just enough to let me know dawn had broken. Stiffness gnawed at my limbs and back—a souvenir from yesterday's long journey, and perhaps because I had spent the night sleeping upright, only deepening the ache. When I finally opened my eyes, I found myself staring at the tall window, beyond which green boughs fanned out in the crisp morning sun. Today's sky was clear—an unmarred blue, utterly free of mist or cloud.
Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!
The morning chorus of songbirds spilled through the closed drapes, their bright notes weaving through the hush of this old stone house. The golden light crept slowly over the treetops; the manor itself lay in tranquil slumber, the only sounds the wind in the hedges and the distant, drowsy breath of the house itself.
"Awake already, are you?"
A familiar voice startled me from my reverie. I turned—still dazed—to see Lord Alexander at my side.
"Your grace," I managed, still groggy. I rubbed at my eyes, trying to rouse myself, and carefully got to my feet. The pain in my ankle had faded considerably, and though I couldn't yet put my full weight on it, I found I could stand if I balanced on my toes.
Just then, I felt the down comforter slip from my shoulders. Instinctively, I caught hold of it—wondering, with a start, who had tucked me in. Had it been Lord Alexander? I stared at him, unable to decide what to say.
"Is something wrong? You're staring at me without saying a word," he remarked, half-smiling as he lounged against his pillows. His face looked less drawn than it had last night, and a little color had returned to his cheeks. Clearly, he was recovering.
"How are you feeling?"
"My fever's broken," he said quietly. "There's still some irritation, but the pain and heat have passed. It's nothing like what it was."
"Thank God," I breathed, overwhelmed with relief. At least his infection hadn't worsened, hadn't stolen into his blood.
He regarded me with curiosity. "Where did you learn such medical knowledge?"
"In my spare time I used to read books in my father's library," I replied, feigning nonchalance, though I knew very well how strange my answer must seem. "Why do you ask?"
He considered me, almost as if he could see through me. "You strike me as someone well-read in philosophy and the sciences. I never realized you enjoyed reading at all."
"And if I didn't, what do you suppose I spent my days doing?"
I realized, with a start, that no one had ever told me what Lady Eleanor actually liked. Since waking in her body, I had simply acted on my own impulses, hardly stopping to fit myself to the life I'd supposedly led.
"I always thought you preferred music and dancing," he said.
So the real Eleanor loved music and the ballroom… How unlike me she must have been—gentle, graceful, all that a lady should be. Not stubborn, nor impulsive.
"I suppose I have new interests now," I answered, not quite meeting his gaze.
He fell silent, his expression unreadable. The memory of his confession—the weight of knowing he believed himself a murderer—loomed in the awkward hush between us. I fidgeted, eager to break the tension.
"I'll fetch fresh water and linens to change your dressing and bathe you again," I announced, scooping up the basin full of soiled water. I looked around for Lillian, intending to ask for her help, but neither she nor Sir Wycliffe was in sight. Resigned, I made my way to the door—only to hear Lord Alexander's voice behind me.
"Why not let one of the maids do it? Your ankle isn't healed yet."
"No one knows how to tend your wound better than I do," I replied stubbornly. "Besides, my ankle is much improved—I can walk without a cane today. See?"
I took a few careful, tip-toeing steps for his benefit. He watched, but with a look of sympathy rather than satisfaction.
"If your injury worsens, don't blame me," he said, a little gruffly.
"I wouldn't dream of it. This is my choice," I shot back.
"You've become rather more outspoken than I recall, my lady."
"And you seem far more inquisitive than before," I retorted.
He only shrugged. "I have no opinion on the matter. It's just that you never used to object to Lord Barnett's instructions—or mine. You always did precisely what you were told."
"Well, in that case, please understand that I am not the same woman you remember." With that, I marched out, balancing the basin as best I could, irritated by his words and by the faint sting of guilt.
I wandered down endless corridors, marvelling at the scale and opulence of the place—the gold leafed mouldings, the towering ceilings, the array of ancestral portraits in ornate frames. The scent of lavender and beeswax lingered in the air, and sunlight dappled the parquet floor in shifting mosaics. It was easy to see how Lady Chelsea had described it in her letters—every inch a palace, and not so far from Cambridge that I should have visited long time ago.
Just then, Sir Wycliffe materialized at my elbow, nearly making me drop the basin in surprise.
"If you're planning to boil that for His Grace's wound, allow me to assist. Miss Woodward is already preparing breakfast for you," he said with a polite bow, reaching to relieve me of my burden.
"I—thank you," I stammered, falling in step with him. He seemed to read my thoughts, explaining, "I was standing guard outside when you emerged. But you seemed not to notice."
"Ah. And where is Lillian now?"
"She's in the kitchen. If you'd like to wash before breakfast, I can show you to your rooms and send for her."
"I would like that very much."
He led me through another series of majestic hallways, the hush broken only by our footsteps echoing on polished floors. At last, he ushered me into a suite lavishly appointed in dark red velvet and mahogany, fit for a duchess. As I gazed around, drinking in every detail, Sir Wycliffe spoke again:
"One more thing, my lady—the medicine you requested last night. I'll have it delivered by this afternoon. The chemist's shop does not open before noon."
"Thank you. Please leave it in Lord Alexander's chambers. And—see to it that no one else tends his wound. That is my responsibility alone."
He bowed again, face betraying some skepticism, but withdrew without another word. Left alone, I explored the room—letting my fingers trail over the silky velvet, breathing in the subtle perfume that lingered on the air. For a moment, I almost forgot I had come as caretaker, not as guest.
After half an hour, Lillian appeared with a large tray of breakfast, not a jug of hot water as I had expected.
"You'd have me eat before bathing?" I asked, teasing.
"There's no need to boil water here, my lady. Sir Wycliffe said the pipes bring hot water directly into the bath," she replied, smiling. "The house is fitted with all the latest conveniences."
So the Cavendish estate was among the first with modern plumbing—just as one would expect from such a family. Hot water, piped in from the basement boilers to each bathroom through copper and iron pipes. No more icy dousing in the chill of morning—how many days had I endured that?
She quickly set about running the bath, steam soon filling the room and warming my face. As I sank into the fragrant water, muscles unknotting, I felt a surge of contentment. I could have stayed there for hours, hidden away from the world, never returning to London if I had the choice. For the first time, I truly felt at home.
Ah, the luxury of it. Let me stay here a little longer, just a little while more. Let me rest. Just this once.
Alexander
She has been gone for over an hour now, if my memory serves me right. Where could she have vanished to? Has she perhaps lost her way amidst these endless corridors and found herself unable to return? I find myself growing increasingly anxious over her absence. It has been well past an hour, and still there is not the slightest trace of her—this, after she so earnestly declared she would fetch fresh water to cleanse my wound, forgetting entirely that there is a perfectly serviceable washroom within this very chamber.
As for myself, the fever still lingers—mild now, yet I am not nearly strong enough to venture anywhere on my own. All I can do is wait, uneasy and somewhat fretful.
Knock, knock.
Creak.
There—the door is opening. She has returned at last, my wayward lady—
"Yo—" I began, but had to halt, for the one who entered was not her, as I had so dearly hoped.
"Theodore, have you seen Her Ladyship?"
"I have, your grace. I saw her safely to the guest apartments. Her maid just brought her breakfast a short while ago."
"I see," I replied, resigned to the revelation. So, she has slipped away to eat, having quite forgotten her promise. How like her, truly—devouring scones with such unrestrained hunger that she fails to notice I am left here awaiting her return. It is hardly the first time.
"Would you care for your breakfast now, your grace? I have brought it up for you."
"Yes, you may bring it in."
He nodded and returned, wheeling in a tray laden with all manner of morning fare: warm bread, cheese from my own farm, pear preserves, and a pot of Earl Grey—my perennial favourite. He placed it neatly at my left, pouring tea into a cup and handing it to me first.
Today, I find myself well enough to take proper nourishment. Yesterday, I could scarcely bear the thought of food—the very idea of eating seemed a torment, my stomach twisting in knots as the fever raged. Yet now, hunger overcame me; I finished every morsel in a matter of minutes, not a single piece of fruit left untouched, much to Theodore's obvious surprise.
"You must have been terribly hungry, your grace. I cannot recall the last time I saw you eat with such appetite."
His comment struck me as oddly familiar—echoing words I myself had spoken to someone not long ago.
"My apologies. I truly was ravenous."
"No need for apologies, your grace. It is a pleasure to see you recovering so well."
"I owe it all to Her Ladyship. It is she who nursed my wound and restored my strength."
"Indeed, your grace. Yet, I have never seen such a method of treatment from any doctor in England. It is quite peculiar, truly. Even the words she used, I could not quite comprehend. She speaks as if she is not quite one of us."
He is right—her language is unfamiliar, her phrases sometimes curiously foreign. It is as though she speaks English and yet something else entirely.
"That matter can wait. There is something else that must be done at once. Please prepare arrangements for my journey—I must go to see Lord Barnett within the next two days."
"That will not be necessary, your grace."
"And why is that? Do you mean to deny me?"
"Not at all, your grace. I meant only to report that Lord Barnett has sent a letter—he intends to visit you here tomorrow, at first light."
"And does the marquess know that his daughter is here as well?"
"I do not believe he does, your grace."
"Then you must go and inform Her Ladyship at once. The two of them have not seen each other in many months. Lord Barnett will surely be glad to find his daughter here tomorrow."
Even if she remembers him not, given her memory's affliction, it will surely be a comfort to see father and daughter reunited at last, even by some quirk of fate.
"Yes, your grace. One more thing—may I have your leave to go into town later this morning? I must procure the solution Her Ladyship requested."
"You have my leave. Before you go, please have paper, ink, and pen prepared for me. There is a letter I must write to my tutor."
"Is there anything else you require?"
"Do you know if Her Ladyship has any particular plans for today?"
"I cannot say for certain, your grace, but I believe she intends to return and tend your wound after she has bathed and dressed. She gave me explicit instructions that no one but herself is to change your dressing."
So, she establishes her authority the very moment she arrives—so headstrong, so willful, not at all as I once knew her to be.
"Would you prefer I send a maid to care for you instead, your grace?"
"No, let her have it as she wishes."
Theodore looked at me with a knowing gleam in his eye.
"Your grace, you seem to be taking quite an interest in Her Ladyship of late."
"I merely think it would do no harm to let her be a friend to me, as you once advised."
I lie, of course. The truth is, I simply wish to be near her for as long as I am able, to come to know this new self of hers a little better—even if my curiosity is something I must keep locked away, never spoken aloud.
Eleanor
By the time I was properly dressed and prepared to resume my duties, a full hour had slipped away unnoticed—lost to the seduction of a warm bath and the simple luxury of being still. The guilt nipped at me as I hurried along the corridors with Lillian at my side, her arm steadying me in place of my now-missing walking stick. I ought to have asked her to commission a proper cane from the carpenter—a small thing, but it would make this awkward limping less of a trial.
When we arrived at the Duke's chamber, we nearly collided with Sir Wycliffe himself, just emerging from within. He bowed low in greeting.
"You are on your way out, Sir Wycliffe?"
"Indeed, my lady. I have just asked His Grace's leave to fetch the medicine you requested."
"Thank you again. And…how is Lord Alexander this morning?"
"He has just finished his breakfast, my lady, and was asking after you—about the matter of his dressing, in fact."
A pang of shame stung me. Of course he would be vexed with my vanishing act—leaving him to wait, his wound untended, while I surrendered to comfort and neglect. I could not blame him for thinking me entirely irresponsible.
Sir Wycliffe's eyes flickered downward, noticing Lillian's steadying grip at my side.
"If you do not mind, my lady, would you care for a walking stick? We have an old one that once belonged to His Grace William. It may serve until your ankle mends—"
"Yes, please!" I answered too quickly, cutting off his offer with a desperation that surprised us both. He bowed again, hiding a small smile at my eagerness.
"One more thing, my lady. Lord Barnett—your father—will be arriving tomorrow to visit His Grace. There is no precise hour, but please be prepared to greet him with His Grace."
"Oh—my father? He's coming?" My voice trembled, betraying the turmoil inside. I had never truly known the sensation of having a father—not even a distant one. My whole life, it had always been just Mother and I. I felt Lillian's hand squeeze my shoulder in quiet encouragement.
"Do not worry, miss. His lordship understands your circumstances."
I managed a grateful nod, then watched as Sir Wycliffe took his leave, and Lillian returned downstairs—servants were not permitted in the Duke's rooms except by his direct sanction.
Opening the door, I found Lord Alexander propped up on his pillows, his expression unreadable as he watched me limp across the room. I braced myself for the scolding I deserved.
"Are you not going to admonish me for my absence?"
"And why should I do so?"
"I left you waiting for hours, with your wound untended."
"You, too, have your own injury to care for, do you not?"
Was that concern in his voice? The thought startled me—it was perhaps the first time he had ever spoken so gently.
"I'm truly sorry for abandoning my responsibility. I meant to return promptly, but I…let myself be tempted by the warmth and comfort of the bath, and lost track of time."
He shook his head. "I bear you no resentment. In fact, I am glad you are enjoying the amenities here. And how fares your ankle?"
"No great improvement, but the swelling has subsided—perhaps the hot water helped."
"Good."
I smiled, then caught sight of the clean water basin already set out, the very one I had taken from him that morning.
"Has a maid tended your dressing in my absence?"
His lips curled in faint amusement. "You yourself forbade anyone but you from touching it. Who would dare cross the orders of the soon-to-be mistress of the house?"
Ah, so Sir Wycliffe had informed him of my rather bold insistence. I bristled, unable to hide my embarrassment.
"I'll change your dressing now," I said, moving briskly to his side. I carefully unwrapped the bandage. The wound was still healing, but the inflammation had lessened—a relief. Still, as I cleansed it, he drew a sharp, hissing breath.
"I'm sorry."
"It's nothing. I can bear it."
I busied myself at the washstand, finding all the supplies ready: fresh linen cloths, the basin refilled, even the bottles of spirits from the night before lined up neatly. I worked in silence, aware of his gaze—though he looked not at my face, but rather at the movement of my hands. I found myself conscious of the breadth of his chest, the tautness of his shoulders, the way his body seemed forged for battle, not convalescence. I felt a dangerous warmth blossom in my chest, mingling embarrassment with something far more treacherous.
As I leaned closer, my awkward attempt at cleaning him sent my knee catching on my own skirts. In a flash, I stumbled toward him.
No, no, no—I'm going to fall—
Before I could right myself, his hands gripped my arms, steadying me as though I weighed nothing at all. Our faces hovered mere inches apart, his breath warm against my cheek. For a moment, our eyes met—startled, too close, both of us caught off guard.
My heart began to thunder wildly.
Thump, thump…thump, thump…thump, thump…
I jerked away, mortified, my face aflame. I raised my arm in a feeble attempt to shield my embarrassment from him.
"S—sorry…"
"Do be careful, my lady. I would prefer not to spend another night in agony."
"Truly, I apologize. I was only trying to reach more easily…"
He said nothing, merely watched me in silence. I forced myself to breathe, to steady my nerves, and hastened to finish my work. He offered no resistance, surrendering himself to my ministrations with a trust that left me strangely flustered. At last, I tied off the fresh bandage, cleaned every inch of him as best I could, and made to leave—still clutching the basin, as if on autopilot.
"I'll come back and tend your wound again once Sir Wycliffe has brought the medicine."
He said nothing more. This time, he did not call me back, nor ask a single question. I stepped outside, pressing a trembling hand to my heart.
Thump, thump…thump, thump…thump, thump…
The beating was almost deafening. I had never felt such a sensation before—this treacherous flutter, this ache beneath my breastbone. What was happening to me?
Oh, Ellie. Admit it to yourself: this man, your betrothed, is altogether too handsome, too commanding, too…alluring for his own good. Never before have I truly desired any man—until now. But what good would it do to let myself fall? His heart is already locked away, forever devoted to another. Steady yourself, Ellie. Do not be foolish.
Yet my subconscious whispers the truth I dare not speak: I am hopelessly, achingly drawn to him, and I fear there is no turning back.
Alexander
'My lady, just now you set my heart beating so wildly I thought it might leap straight out of my chest. I know what it is you're feeling—oh, I know it well enough.'
It happens each and every time I draw near to a woman. I watched her retreat, clutching the water basin, her cheeks tinged with that unmistakable blush after the fleeting contact of skin on skin. My body, it seems, has found itself a new victim. I know the truth: she is likely drawn to nothing more than the vessel—never the soul, never the heart that yearns so ardently for her.
There have always been women—too many—seeking me for the shape of my body, for the title I bear, for the power I hold. They would do anything—anything at all—never mind the existence of a betrothal that should have deterred even the boldest heart. In the end, I became a man who closed his heart, who would not let any woman near, save for the one chosen by fate—and she, in her time, despised me with every fiber of her being.
Yet now, it seems, that is no longer the case. Now, Eleanor is the one chosen to share my name and my home, and the affection I feel for her has become a poison—my own, and perhaps soon hers as well. It is I who am at fault in all this. I only wished, foolishly, to be close to her. When did I begin to love her so? Was it in some small happiness she brought me—happiness I thought I had lost the right to know? Even the smallest joys she offers have become precious, for I have lived too long with nothing but emptiness for company. Her sincerity, her unassuming charm, her unguarded honesty—they have melted the ice around my heart at last.
Even as I stand here, Duke of Devonshire, scion of the Cavendish line, a man of consequence and power—inside, I am just a lonely mortal yearning for an embrace. Once, I had the right to love freely, but that was long ago, and now it is no longer possible. I have accepted that I am to die alone, and I must not draw her into that same solitude.
My lady, if ever you knew the truth about me—what then? How long could you endure living by my side as husband and wife, knowing that my heart will never truly be yours? Did you ever dream of a family, of warmth and laughter and a life unshadowed by regret? I am sorry, so sorry, that I must drag you into these chains with me.
I turn these thoughts over and over. Have I done right by her—or anyone at all? Ominous doubts whisper their warning, as if fate itself would intercede.
No matter how I might feel for you, no matter how you might begin to feel for me, we must never allow our hearts to align. From this moment forward, I must step back. I cannot—must not—extend the hand of friendship I once promised you. I am sorry. I am so deeply, helplessly sorry.
Knock! Knock!
The sharp sound at the door broke through my reverie.
"Come in."
Creak...
"Your grace, I have acquired the solution her ladyship requested."
"Leave it on the table, there."
Theodore placed the unfamiliar bottle upon the table, eyeing its strange, transparent liquid as if it might hold a miracle—or a curse. Could this really do as she claimed? To me, it looked far more dangerous than healing.
"I shall fetch her ladyship for you, then—"
"That will not be necessary!" I snapped, so sharply that Theodore spun to look at me in surprise.
"Summon a maid to attend me instead. There is nothing complicated in the use of that liquid. I watched her pour it over my wound—just a small measure, nothing more."
Theodore regarded me with clear suspicion. To rescind my word so abruptly—he knows the truth, though I will not voice it. There are some things one must carry in silence.
"As you wish, your grace," he said at last, bowing and making his exit.
Yes, I thought as the door closed behind him. This is for the best. For both our sakes.