Eleanor
November 6th, 1847
It has now been two days since Lord Barnett's arrival at the manor. My daily routine consists of nothing more than joining those two distinguished gentlemen for our meals, and, without exception, after breakfast Lord Barnett secludes himself in the study with Lord Alexander and Sir Wycliffe for the entirety of the day. Their discussions revolve solely around business and affairs of state.
As for myself, newly arrived in this grand house, I am uncertain what activities I might be permitted. My only real purpose in coming here was to nurse his wounds—yet now I find myself more a nuisance than a help, shunted aside as if I were some unsightly ornament, superfluous and out of place. Yesterday, I could do little but read over my own journal entries again and again, idling away useless hours. I longed to explore the famed library and pass the time with a good book, but custom dictates I must seek the master's permission first.
This morning dawns much the same. I come down to breakfast early and find both gentlemen already at their accustomed places, their conversation deep in matters of the Queen and the state—business as always, with not a trace of lighter amusement.
"Good morning, Father. Good morning, Lord Alexander," I greet them softly, taking my seat as usual. Lord Barnett returns my greeting with a bright, paternal smile, while my fiancé merely glances at me, his gaze barely lingering.
"Do you have plans for the day, Father?" I ask, hoping he might be free.
"Today I intend to go hunting in the woods. I have been long enough at rest and the forests here are rich and plentiful. I hope to bag a deer or two for tonight's supper," he replies, the prospect clearly cheering him.
"I am glad, Father, that you have found some leisure," I say, smiling for his sake.
"And what about you, my dear—have you any plans?" he inquires.
"I am not certain," I admit, my voice trailing off as I study the untouched food before me, uncertain even of my own wishes.
Lord Barnett, perceptive as always, must surely sense the unspoken tension between myself and Lord Alexander—the heaviness, the distance. Even without public quarrels, our estrangement is evident to anyone who cares to see. Lord Alexander avoids my gaze and speaks to me rarely, as though I am merely a piece of furniture at his side, present but unseen. I, for my part, have resigned myself to this silent agreement, and have not sought his conversation since that fateful day.
"Would you care to join me on the hunt, my dear?" Father's unexpected invitation jolts me from my thoughts, sending a sudden flush of gratitude through me. How fortunate that my injured foot has now healed sufficiently that I can walk—and even venture into the woods! Surely he asks me so I might not feel so lonely.
Hunting! The very idea intrigues me. I know well that the sport is a favored pastime among the English nobility, though I myself—merely a commoner in my former life—never had the opportunity.
"Yes, I would love to go!" I reply, perhaps a little too eagerly, unable to hide my excitement. Father smiles, then turns to Lord Alexander, who has observed this exchange with a cool, unruffled air.
"You will not object, I trust, if I take my daughter into the woods today?" he asks.
"By all means, do as you wish," Lord Alexander replies in a tone devoid of warmth, attending once more to his breakfast with perfect composure.
"If you were not still recovering, I should insist that you accompany us," Father says, not unkindly.
"I thank you for the thought," Lord Alexander replies with polite indifference.
"Sir Wycliffe, please see to the horses and such staff as Lord Barnett and Lady Eleanor may require," Lord Alexander directs quietly to the butler, standing unobtrusively behind us.
"At once, Your Grace."
"Only two horses, if you please," Father interjects, "I have no need of servants trailing after us. I shall take only my shotgun, and when the hunt is done, you may send men to retrieve our quarry."
Lord Alexander regards him for a moment, perhaps surprised, but says nothing further. "As you wish."
"Would eleven o'clock suit you, my dear?" Father asks, consulting the tall case clock behind me.
I turn to check the time—9:41 a.m.—and, seeing that I have ample time to prepare, nod my agreement. "That would be perfect."
Father smiles and returns to his meal in contentment. As for me, I can hardly contain my delight at the prospect of my first hunt. Lord Alexander, meanwhile, maintains his distant reserve, making no comment about our plans, preferring instead to return to his discussion of business with Father.
Suddenly, it strikes me that this moment—this fleeting window—is perhaps the only opportunity I shall have to request permission for the library. It will be the first time in two days that I have spoken to him directly.
"Lord Alexander, may I ask your permission for something?" I venture quietly.
He turns to regard me. "What is it?"
"I should like to make use of your library—if I may?"
He fixes me with a steady gaze, considering a moment before answering. "Of course. You are the future mistress of this house. What reason could there be to deny you?"
"Thank you," I reply, though I cannot help feeling his words ring hollow—my 'mistress' status existing in name alone. He is content, it seems, to let me drift through this house as a guest, not as a partner, and to keep to his solitary world beneath the same roof.
I glance at Father, observing our exchange with a worried expression. He has seen, time and again, Lord Alexander's indifference toward me, and his face is troubled. Yet, instead of surprise, there is a kind of resignation, as if he already knew the nature of the marriage he had arranged for me. Perhaps he is aware of the strict rules that bind our household.
This is the future you chose for your daughter, Lord Barnett, I think. It was you who bound Lady Eleanor to a man whose heart is encased in ice. Do you ever feel regret?
But as I reflect more deeply, I am not sure my judgments are fair. Lord Barnett has shown himself to be a kind and loving father, not the sort to sacrifice his child's happiness for ambition or pride. There may be things I do not yet understand about his choices. I must not be too quick to condemn, when I know so little of the depths of another's heart.
✽ ✽ ✽
11:11 a.m.
"Are you ready?"
"I am, Father."
We spoke quietly as we rode, each astride our own horse, winding through the autumn woods. Sir Wycliffe had prepared all necessary supplies, tucking them into the saddlebags on either side, and Father carried only a single shotgun, as he had promised. My only duty was to watch and learn—no weapons for me, for my own safety.
Father checked the equipment once more, then spurred his horse forward, leading us east-southeast toward Stand Wood, the dense forest that lay beyond Chatsworth. Our ride was swift and steady, hooves drumming over fallen leaves, eyes ever searching the shifting shadows for a sign of deer. I was intent on observing Father's methods, hoping to understand something of the world he inhabited.
As we trotted deeper into the woodland, Father's voice broke the hush.
"When did you become so skilled a rider?"
I glanced over, uncertain how to answer. "Why do you ask, Father?"
He smiled, though with a trace of sadness. "You stopped riding years ago, my dear. You used to be so timid with horses."
"I'm sorry, Father," I replied honestly. "I… I remember nothing of my old self."
He nodded, accepting the truth he already knew. "Forgive me, I shouldn't have asked. Perhaps… perhaps we might take this chance to get to know one another again, as though for the first time. Would you mind, Eleanor?"
His words revealed how much he saw me as changed—no longer the daughter he once knew.
"I would like that very much," I said, playing along gently. "All I know of myself comes from Lillian's stories. Perhaps it would be better to discover it directly from you."
He smiled more warmly. "Then let us recover what has been lost, one step at a time."
"Father, may I ask… what was I like, before?"
He grew pensive. "You were the ideal of every gentleman in the county, Eleanor. Your manners were faultless, your grace a mirror of your mother's. Many a lady sought your hand for their sons before you were even grown. It was quite the contrast to your sister—Chelsea was the bold, reckless one, always scaring away suitors. But you adored riding, because Chelsea inspired you. That was until you fell from your horse and broke your leg three years ago. You were frightened off riding ever since."
"I see," I murmured, quietly marvelling at this past I had never lived.
Father went on, "But now, my once demure little girl is the very picture of adventure—so much like Chelsea it astonishes me. It's as if I have both my daughters returned to me, in one body."
We slowed our horses and stopped amidst the quiet, letting conversation take the place of the hunt for a moment.
"What makes you say I'm like Chelsea?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"Because, my dear, you never cared for hunting, nor could you bear the sight of blood. You were always far too sensitive for such violence. It was Chelsea who relished the hunt. Yet here you are, eager to join me. It's… remarkable."
Listening to him, I suddenly understood Lord Alexander's suspicions—why he believed I was not the true Lady Eleanor. My temperament was nothing like hers, but almost eerily similar to Chelsea's: bolder, more modern, the sort of woman my own era had taught me to become.
Before our conversation could go further, my eye caught movement ahead—a flash of brown.
"Father, look!" I pointed, breath quickening.
A young deer darted through the undergrowth. Father wasted no time, swinging his shotgun up and urging his horse forward, seeking a clear shot. But the range was too great; his first shot missed, the deer bounding away, quick as a shadow among the trees.
"Never mind," Father said, reloading with practiced ease. "There will be others. We have time."
We pressed on, searching for another opportunity, but I could feel his gaze lingering, questions unsaid.
"How much do you remember of Chelsea and your mother?" he asked at last.
I took a moment to compose myself, fearing my answer might trouble him, or worse, betray Lillian and Leo.
"I know of Chelsea only through letters I found tucked in my dressing table, and what Lillian has told me. As for Mother… nothing at all, not even her face. Only scraps and stories."
He sighed, visibly grieved. "It is a sorrow indeed, to have lost so much memory of your family. Chelsea loved you dearly, you know. But the past cannot be mended, no matter how one wishes. I have learned that much."
He rode ahead, lost in his own thoughts. I found myself wondering at the pain he must have endured: wife, eldest daughter—both gone. Now only I remained, a stranger in a borrowed life.
"Will you tell me of them, Father? About Mother, and Chelsea?"
He nodded, his voice low and reverent. "Your mother was Lady Vivian Duskbane, more beautiful and gentle than any soul I have known. I was betrothed to her at fifteen, she was the daughter of Lord Duskbane, Earl of Thornwick. I fell for her instantly at a ball on her fifteenth birthday, and we married the following year, when I became a marquess at twenty-six."
He paused, remembering. "She bore Chelsea first, and you, seven years later. She was ill when you were born, and died the very day you came into the world. Her love was more than enough for a lifetime, Eleanor. I needed no other."
A silence, before he continued.
"And then… eleven years ago, Chelsea too was taken, by an illness we could not cure. Fate is cruel to those it despises. You are all I have left, my dearest."
His words made sense of so much that had puzzled me. I had misunderstood him terribly—thought him cold, unfeeling. Yet he was simply a father who had lost too much, clinging to duty and to his promises.
"Why then, Father, did you promise me to Lord Alexander?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
He drew his horse to a halt, turning to face me. "So His Grace has told you, then?"
I nodded, and he looked skyward, as if searching for the right words.
"His Grace William Cavendish the sixth duke was a benefactor beyond compare. I swore, before the Queen herself, to repay his kindness, even if it cost me my life."
He returned his gaze to me, eyes full of sorrow.
"Once, His Grace visited us and took a liking to Chelsea, but he was not fit to marry, his health failing. Instead, he arranged for her to be betrothed to his youngest brother—Lord Alexander. William wished for His Grace Alexander to have an heir where he could not. That was his will."
"Yet fate—Cupid, perhaps—intervened. Chelsea and His Grace Alexander fell in love, not at William's prompting, but truly. But then Chelsea was led astray by a treacherous man—Leopold—whose betrayal left her reputation in tatters and brought about her untimely death, and the ruin of both our families."
Father's voice grew more somber. "His Grace William was enraged, but instead of exacting a life for a life, he demanded that you, then only seven, be betrothed to His Grace Alexander, in Chelsea's stead. The Queen approved. I had no choice but to obey."
He fell silent, pain etched deep.
"I'm sorry, Eleanor, that I could not grant you freedom. I am sorry that His Grace Alexander cannot love you as he did Chelsea. But believe me, he is a man of honour and goodness. You will be safe with him, safer than with any other man. He will never betray you, and you will never suffer for another woman's sake."
I understood then, at last, why he had done all he did. His every action had been to shield his family, to fulfill promises, even when it cost him his heart.
"I understand, Father," I said gently.
He looked at me, surprised by my composure. "You are far more mature than before, Eleanor. I am proud of you."
Just then, two more deer appeared from the southern thicket. Father's attention turned, and he took off in pursuit, leaving me to gather my thoughts.
The story was almost complete, but questions remained. I knew some of this already, but not all—the tale of Lord Alexander and Lady Chelsea's love, William's illness, Leo's betrayal. What was truth, what was hearsay? The deeper I delved, the murkier it became.
If only I could find the records from the time of the succession…
A shot rang out—bang!—followed by Father's triumphant shout from up ahead. I hurried after him, to find him standing over the two fallen deers, beaming with satisfaction.
"I can hardly wait until supper. It has been so long since I last tasted venison pie!"
November 7th, 1847
Today marks Lord Barnett's final day at the estate. Each time he retreated into business discussions with Lord Alexander, I would slip away to lose myself in the grand library—a wonder he had once renovated for his beloved, now lost. It became my private refuge, a place to immerse myself in the endless volumes, though my real purpose was to uncover some record or diary, anything that might shed light on Lord Alexander's true past. My investigation, so far, had proved fruitless.
He still hadn't summoned me, not once, since Lord Barnett's arrival. I continued to inquire after his wound through Sir Wycliffe, more out of concern that the maids might mishandle the spirits I'd recommended for cleansing his injury, but he seemed to be healing well enough, well enough to travel soon, so I was told.
We did meet, of course, at every meal, but those were brief, formal occasions, and I suspected that once Lord Barnett departed, Lord Alexander and I would return to our usual, distant arrangement: two strangers sharing a house, little more.
I did manage to spend some time with Lord Barnett, notably during our hunt yesterday. Though hardly skilled at the sport, I must admit I found it more exhilarating than I'd anticipated.
In coming to know him properly, I found myself genuinely admiring the man—a loyal servant to the Queen since his youth, a steadfast investor in the new railway, not for profit but for national interest, reporting faithfully to Her Majesty. And most remarkable: though he lost his wife, Lady Vivian, at only forty, he had never sought another, devoting himself to her memory.
How I wish, just once, to encounter a love so enduring.
During these days, I observed that Lord Barnett and Lord Alexander seemed truly at ease with one another—just as Lillian had once said. No trace of animosity, no hint of blame. If anything, Lord Barnett often praised Lord Alexander in my presence. It seemed ever more certain that he did not, in his heart, believe Lord Alexander guilty in Lady Chelsea's death. The evidence—the testimony from every quarter—now led me to believe that she died, as many had said, from an incurable illness, and not by his hand.
With those conclusions, I returned my focus to Lord Alexander's identity, determined to set aside all feeling, all lingering attachments. I would simply investigate—like the historian I once was.
Eee—creak!
The door swung open, interrupting my train of thought just as I was halfway up a library ladder, reaching for a book on the highest shelf.
"My dear, I've come to bid you farewell."
"Father, you're leaving so soon?"
I hastily climbed down and embraced him tightly, feeling a wave of sadness at our parting. It would be some time before I saw him again—likely not until the wedding.
"Take care of yourself, Eleanor," he said, holding me with a rare tenderness before letting go.
"And you as well, Father. Has Lord Alexander finished his preparations? Will he be traveling to Manchester with you?"
He shook his head. "He will not be accompanying me, as you'd thought."
"What do you mean? I thought he was to travel with you."
"I have persuaded him to stay and recover fully, for at least another three weeks. All the necessary arrangements for the meeting are in place; I will act as his proxy. This will give him time to recover properly for the wedding, my dear."
"Is that so?"
Learning he would remain here, I suddenly felt a surge of resolve. After three days spent wrestling with my emotions, it was time to recall my purpose. After all, I am Eleanor Hastings—I am not someone to live at the mercy of others' decisions.
I walked with Lord Barnett to the front of the house, waving him off with Lillian and Sir Wycliffe. Curiously, Lord Alexander did not appear to bid farewell.
Once Lord Barnett's carriage had rolled away, I caught Sir Wycliffe before he could retreat inside.
"One moment, Sir Wycliffe."
"Yes, my lady?"
"Would you kindly deliver this letter to Lord Alexander for me?"
I handed him the envelope I'd spent the morning writing.
He regarded me with a measured expression before accepting it.
"There is something else," I continued. "I have been searching for the Cavendish family tree—do you know where it is kept?"
He fixed me with a searching gaze. "May I ask why you wish to see it, my lady?"
"I merely wish to refresh my knowledge of His Grace William's line, nothing more."
He seemed to sense more than I revealed.
"Follow me, if you please."
He led us through a series of corridors, Lillian at my side, until we entered a room that resembled a miniature museum. Along the way, rows of lifelike statues lined our passage, until we came at last to a plinth topped with a glass dome. Inside was a large, ancient volume bound in animal hide.
"This, my lady, is the Cavendish genealogical record," Sir Wycliffe explained. "It is one hundred and fifty-three years old, begun by William Cavendish, first Duke of Devonshire, in 1694, on the very day of his investiture."
I stared at the book in fascination. I'd never seen it referenced in any of the many historical documents I'd read—indeed, no public record I'd ever encountered even included a photograph of it.
Perhaps it has always been kept hidden, out of public sight?
Could it contain the secrets I so desperately sought?
"May I examine it more closely?" I asked.
"I am afraid not, my lady. The book cannot be removed from this glass. If exposed to the air, it would rapidly deteriorate. Only the Duke himself may handle it, and only when making new entries."
"Is there a copy, perhaps?" I pressed.
"No, my lady. All that is on display are the latest entries for His Grace William and Her Grace Georgiana. I apologize for the inconvenience."
"No matter. Thank you."
With no other option, I peered at the latest entries—those pertaining to Lord Alexander.
Let's see…
Father: His Grace William Cavendish, Fifth Duke of Devonshire, born 1749, died 1811, aged 62.
Mother: Her Grace Georgiana Spencer, later Duchess of Devonshire, his first wife, born 1783, died 1806, aged 48.
Children listed as follows
First daughter: Lady Georgiana Dorothy Cavendish (later Lady Georgiana Howard, Countess of Carlisle), born 1783.
Second daughter: Lady Harriet Elizabeth Cavendish (later Lady Harriet Leveson-Gower, Countess Granville), born 1785.
First son: William Cavendish, Sixth Duke of Devonshire, unmarried, no children, born 1790, died 1838, aged 47.
Second son: Alexander Cavendish, Seventh Duke of Devonshire, born 1805, engaged to Lady Chelsea Barnett in 1836, then to Lady Eleanor Barnett—myself.
But according to the actual records, Her Grace Georgiana Spencer had only three children, not four. The death date of William, the eldest son, was also off—he should have died in 1858 at the age of 67, not 47.
"Miss…"
Was that a voice? Or just my imagination?
And how could Lord Alexander be twenty years younger than Lady Harriet? Did Her Grace Georgiana really bear a fourth child only a year before her own death? None of this made sense.
What is the truth?
Was Lord Alexander truly the legitimate son of Her Grace Georgiana? Why had he vanished from the historical record?
Strange clues began to multiply, and now more than ever, I was desperate for answers. I longed to unravel the mystery of the Cavendish succession—today, if I could.
"Miss Eleanor!"
Lillian's urgent voice snapped me from my reverie. She shook me, concern etched on her face. How long had I been standing there, lost in thought? I resolved to set the questions aside, for now.
Turning to her, I declared, "Lillian, would you prepare an afternoon tea for two, please?"
Alexander
I stood gazing out from the second-floor window, watching the carriage rolling down the drive. Below, two ladies and my trusted servant stood waving farewell to my dearest friend in my stead, as he departed for Manchester to fulfill the duty he had pledged. Truth be told, I could easily have ignored his gentle urging to remain behind, but I did not.
The reason I abandoned my original intention to travel with him lay in his earnest request a few days past. The weight of it pressed so heavily upon me that my old fever returned with a vengeance, confining me to bed for several days. Thus, I had no choice but to accept his suggestion: to stay, to recover fully, before facing what lay ahead. And beyond this, I found myself deeply troubled by the current state of affairs between myself and my betrothed.
I am beset by guilt and concern for Lady Eleanor. I have spent these recent days avoiding her, turning away from her, treating her as if she were a mere shadow within these halls. She has withdrawn into herself, burying her days amidst the endless shelves of the library, rarely venturing beyond, unless Lord Barnett himself coaxed her outside. Without his invitations, she might never have seen the sun at all.
I have never before struggled with maintaining distance from women; perhaps because I felt no obligation toward their feelings. But Lady Eleanor is different.
As for entrusting Lord Barnett to attend the investors' meeting in my stead, I feel not the slightest apprehension. He and I have worked together since the days when my brother yet lived; we have always shared the same vision for our country's advancement, as Her Majesty desires. If future generations look back, I hope they might feel pride in the great deeds of their ancestors.
If I must entrust such weighty matters to anyone, I can say with complete confidence that there is no man more reliable than Lord Barnett—honest, decisive, unwavering once his mind is set. We are united in purpose for this meeting: the company must halt all new orders for parts, commence construction on the new line, direct our engineers to use up the stockpiled materials to their fullest, and above all, cease further borrowing, given the looming economic crisis.
Last night I finalized the new expenditure plan, explaining it to Lord Barnett from the financial perspective, preparing him for the questions that would arise in the meeting. He grasped it all at once, as I knew he would. It is little wonder the Queen entrusts him with her most secret commissions.
Yet though one task is now complete, I am left with another: the approaching wedding with the woman whose heart I have so recently wounded.
A sudden thought stirred within me, and I turned away from the window, returning to my study on this upper floor. I approached the old mahogany cabinet, unlocked it, and withdrew a single letter—one I had not read in many years. I seated myself on the lone settee by the window, the faint scent that rose from the old paper awakening a familiar ache in my chest, my heart racing violently within me.
This was the letter Chelsea had written me so long ago. She had not sent me many, but this one, like honey in May, had sweetened my soul beyond measure. The scent of her violets lingered still, untouched by time. I unfolded it gently, desperate to taste once more the happiness of days gone by, to remind myself of a love once in bloom.
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March 30th, 1836
To His Grace
I thank you so much for allowing me to return to London for two whole weeks. I was able to spend such precious time with Eleanor and Father, just as my heart desired. This happiness is beyond words.
Did you know, even though Eleanor is but six, she adores riding just as I do? I have often spirited her away from Lillian, galloping through Father's barley fields far from the house. She would laugh and laugh, declaring that one day, when she is grown, she will ride to faraway places, just as I do now. I promised her that when that day comes, the two of us would travel together, to every place she wishes to see.
Father scolded me for taking her out at such a tender age, but I do not care. I want Eleanor to grow into a noble and free woman, to live as she wishes, to see the world as she deserves. The world is vast—do you not agree?
How are you? Do you need anything from London? If there is anything I can bring back for you, please do let me know.
From,
Chelsea Barnett
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How fragile my heart is, reading these words again. Lines written by the only woman I ever truly loved now rend me with such guilt. I have come to care—unwittingly, unwillingly—for another, who is, by blood, her own sister. I am the one who stole the freedom of both women, as coldly as any villain.
As I sat, hunched, clutching my head in both hands, striving to master my sorrow, Theodore entered quietly through the open door. He regarded me with concern and pity.
He pressed his right arm across his chest, left hand holding a letter.
"Your grace, forgive me—would you care to confide in me?"
"It's nothing. I shall manage. Thank you, Theodore. Whose letter do you bring?"
"It is from Lady Eleanor, your grace. She wished me to deliver it to you."
I took the envelope and broke the seal.
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November 7th, 1847
To Lord Alexander
I would like to invite you to afternoon tea at one o'clock today. I ask that you honor the promise you once made to me at the pavilion.
From,
Eleanor Barnett
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Is she quite sane, I wonder?
I glanced at the old clock—10:25. Lord Barnett's carriage had departed at 9:12. Time seemed to drag terribly today.
"Go and tell her I shall not accept her invitation. Prepare tea for her alone."
I handed the letter back without a second thought. How curious that she should be so spirited today; I'd half-convinced myself she had fallen into hopeless despair. Her strength astounds me, yet I must keep my distance, even if it means breaking my word to her.
Theodore said nothing, simply bowed and left the room.
What is it you hope to gain, Lady Eleanor? Have I not made myself clear? I only wish to remain distant from you.
I returned Chelsea's letter to its place, then walked into the adjoining music room, approaching the rosewood pianoforte with its gleaming maple lid. I lifted the lid and settled onto the bench, pressing my right index finger to C-sharp—the note echoed throughout the chamber. I began to play Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words, No. 2," which I had not touched in years, hoping the music might wash away the turmoil in my heart.
Eleanor
"Did you hear that sound, Lillian?"
My hands, busy arranging pastries and carefully selecting a ceramic tea set, froze in mid-air as the melody drifted through the vast halls of the manor, all the way to the kitchen.
"I hear it, my lady. It is the sound of the pianoforte," Lillian replied quietly.
"Who is playing such a sorrowful piece?" I murmured, pausing to listen more intently, my senses sharpened by the unexpected music.
"It is His Grace at the keys, my lady," answered Mrs. Atherton, the head housekeeper, who was assisting me in assembling the tea service.
"I never knew he could play so beautifully," I confessed, turning to observe the stout, kindly woman beside me. She looked utterly astonished.
"My lady, the master has always been fond of the pianoforte, though I have not heard him play in many years. I too am startled to hear him perform today," she admitted, her eyes wide with surprise.
What could have happened to him, I wonder… I thought, my curiosity piqued.
I turned my attention back to the selection of tea sets. There were hundreds to choose from, some bearing patterns I had never seen before, and others curiously similar to the modern glass teacups of my own era. One such set, made entirely of clear glass, stood out to me at once.
"Mrs. Atherton, where did you acquire this set? It is most peculiar. I have never seen teacups made entirely of glass before," I inquired, feigning ignorance though I recognized the design all too well.
"That set was a gift to Her Grace Georgiana from the Swedish ambassador, my lady. I believe it is a piece of Northern European artistry," she replied.
"I shall use this one," I declared without hesitation.
"As you wish, my lady."
It made perfect sense. Northern or Nordic art is known for its simplicity, far less ornate than the grandeur and intricate designs favored by England or France. I busied myself preparing everything for the afternoon tea in the garden—the first time I had ever ventured to use that space since arriving at Chatsworth. Its sheer size made it intimidating, a world away from the cozy grounds at Wexford. But today I needed an excuse to draw him out, to bring us together for a conversation he could not so easily avoid. He was still bound by a promise, after all. If he refused, he would be breaking his word.
Just then, Sir Wycliffe strode into the kitchen unbidden, disregarding my strict instruction that he was not to enter lest he discover what I was plotting.
"My lady, I beg your pardon for intruding. I have a message," he said, his tone solemn.
"What is it? It must be urgent, I presume."
"It is, my lady. His Grace asks me to inform you that he must decline your invitation."
Just as I suspected. He has no intention of facing me easily, I thought bitterly.
"He also requests that you prepare tea for yourself alone."
So he dares break his promise so brazenly? Lord Alexander, you truly have no shame. I went out of my way to pen a courteous invitation, yet this is how you respond?
"Then please inform His Grace that I shall be preparing tea for two. I expect him to join me at the appointed time," I said coldly, not budging an inch.
Lillian and Mrs. Atherton both looked shocked, perhaps never having witnessed anyone challenge his authority so openly, let alone a woman in this house.
"My lady, forgive me, but I must advise against such insistence. His Grace is not a man to obey anyone's orders—save perhaps the Queen herself," Sir Wycliffe replied, trying to reason with me.
"I have nothing more to say. I shall be waiting for him as agreed," I cut him off, determined not to be drawn into further argument. If he intended to test my resolve, let him.
Sir Wycliffe fixed me with his usual steely gaze, impossible to read whether he approved or disapproved, then bowed and departed. Lillian, who had been silent throughout, suddenly blurted out,
"My lady, how could you dare speak so?"
"He once promised me he would join me for tea when I came to live here. I am simply holding him to his word," I replied, unable to hide my irritation at being refused and contradicted at every turn.
Master and servant alike—both equally stubborn and proud…