Eleanor
November 4th, 1847
A faint breeze wafted the scents of midday preparations from the southern wing. The cooks were no doubt busy with a grand meal for Lord Barnett's impending visit.
I sat on the stone balustrade, letting my legs dangle idly, my gaze lost somewhere amidst the white swans gliding over the lake. I had come out seeking solace in the sun and air, wishing the gentle weather might dispel the unrest within my heart, but it proved futile; my mind spun in ceaseless circles around the question of his recent withdrawal.
Had I done something to offend him? Or was this simply the way of things between us—an endless dance of closeness and distance?
Yesterday evening, I had resolved to see him again, to tend his wound with the new spirit I had procured. But Sir Wycliffe blocked my way, as on the very first day. "His Grace is not to be disturbed," he told me. "Not until Lord Barnett arrives tomorrow."
The sting of exclusion was keen. His manner seemed always to teeter between warmth and an icy, impenetrable reserve—never for long, always uncertain.
Perhaps I misread him. Perhaps I expect too much. Perhaps…
"Young mistress!"
Lillian's call jolted me from my thoughts. She came running, nearly tripping over her skirts.
"You mustn't sit up there, miss—it isn't safe! Please, your ankle—let me help you down."
I obliged, letting her steady me. As we made our way inside, she added, "Sir Wycliffe says we must dress before three o'clock."
Time slipped past unnoticed; had I really spent so long in idle thought?
Inside, servants watched me with an odd sort of wariness, as though I were a puzzle they could not solve.
"Am I so strange a sight, Lillian?" I asked, half-laughing.
She shook her head, "I have never known a lady of your standing to do such things."
Her words amused me—how strange this world was, with its endless codes of conduct. I almost relished their bemusement, preferring it to the stifling effort of perfection. Still, Lillian's next words gave me pause:
"But, miss, you are soon to be the Duchess. The dignity of the Cavendish family rests on your shoulders. Please, at least for His Grace's sake—"
I said nothing, torn between the comfort of her gentle concern and the subtle sting of duty.
We reached my room to find a letter, its presence instantly unsettling me. My hands trembled as I broke the seal.
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November 4th, 1847
To Lady Eleanor Barnett
At three o'clock this afternoon, please be prepared to receive Lord Barnett together with me in the dining room. I have arranged for a variety of dishes to celebrate your reunion with your father, the Marquis.
As for my wound, it has greatly improved with the remedy you suggested, and the fever has left me. I thank you sincerely for making the journey here to care for me.
Yet, there is another matter I wish to make plain: from this day, you are welcome to remain here as long as you desire—except that you must not seek me out unless I send for you. My former rule remains, and I cannot permit further exceptions.
Alexander Cavendish
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For a moment, I almost smiled—relieved that he was well, that my efforts had not been in vain. But then the latter half of the letter drove all warmth from my heart. I was not to see him unless summoned—despite our impending union, despite all we had endured together these past days.
Is this what rejection feels like?
A sharp, unbidden ache rose in my chest.
No tears came, only a dreadful, hollow tightness.
Was this the fate Lady Eleanor had dreaded—a marriage not of companionship, but of isolation?
Lillian watched me quietly, her careful hands unwrapping the bandage from my ankle as I lay on the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind racing.
Perhaps I was foolish to hope things might change. Perhaps I should simply accept my role here—suppress the questions that will never be answered, stifle the impossible hope of returning to my former life, and let the rest of it slip quietly away.
"Lillian…"
"Yes, miss?"
She looked up at me, a silent question in her eyes. I wanted to confide in her—about the confusion, the loneliness, the peculiar ache that came and went whenever I thought of him—but stopped myself. If she saw how shaken I truly was, I feared she might worry for my health, despite all my promises to her.
"It's nothing," I said quietly.
She watched me a moment longer, then busied herself with her task.
✽ ✽ ✽
I stood motionless before the tall looking-glass while Lillian, with practiced fingers, fastened the pearl buttons of my afternoon gown. The dress she had chosen for today's luncheon was a mist-blue silk, its hem and sleeves adorned with delicate ivory lace, the skirt billowing lightly with each graceful step I took. My waist was cinched tight with a corset, sculpting my figure into something almost regal, while the sleeves puffed in the current fashion, and a sheer shawl—embroidered with golden grapevines—draped my shoulders.
Next came the necklace—a string of luminous pearls clasped gently at my throat, their subtle glow setting off the pale skin of my neck. My hair, too, had been swept up into a low chignon, adorned with a silver lily hairpin so fine it seemed crafted by a fairy's hand.
I breathed deeply, my eyes trailing to the reflection in the mirror. The young woman gazing back at me was at once familiar and strange—a reminder that, beautiful as she was, she remained little more than a decorative doll, an ornament to some nobleman's power.
"Lady Vivian always told me that dress is a woman's armour in the theatre of power," Lillian said softly, as if privy to the doubts swirling in my mind.
"Perhaps she was right," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
Knock! Knock!
A knock at the door broke our reverie; it was time to face the two men waiting below—one who would confine my freedom, the other who had so thoroughly destroyed any kindness I had offered. In this era, a woman's life seemed ever at the mercy of men's designs.
I followed Sir Wycliffe down the broad staircase, Lillian steadying my arm. I caught her anxious gaze and offered the smallest of smiles. At least my injured ankle had improved beyond all expectation.
But when we entered the dining hall, I was struck almost breathless by its splendours. The ceiling soared overhead, painted with a mural of Grecian gods drifting among golden clouds—each stroke the work of a master artist. From the centre of the room, a vast Venetian glass chandelier floated, its myriad candles casting a constellation of stars across the room.
The walls were clad in dark oak, carved with peacocks and winding vines, their polished surfaces gleaming in the candlelight. On the floor, a Persian rug wound from the double doors to the centre of the room, where a long, oval table—fashioned of the finest teak—could seat twenty with ease. The table was laid with a cloth of silvery silk, edged in gold, and set with the Cavendish family's crested silver, porcelain plates, crystal wineglasses, and gold-rimmed coasters—all in immaculate array.
At the far end stood a marble hearth, carved with lions, its fire guarded by their stony gaze. On either wall hung great oil portraits of the ducal line, none so imposing as the founder himself, William Cavendish, First Duke of Devonshire.
The air was perfumed with roast meats, wine sauce, and the fresh scent of baked bread, mingling with the delicate strains of a quartet of musicians tucked into the far corner. The entire scene was one of elegance—yet carried an invisible weight, as though expectation itself pressed down upon us.
There he is. He sits at the head of the table.
Sir Wycliffe led us to the seat at the Duke's right hand and gestured for me to sit. There was still no sign of Lord Barnett; perhaps his carriage had not yet arrived. Lillian gently settled me into my place, then slipped away to stand with the other maids, leaving me to face Lord Alexander alone.
He did not greet me. He merely sat reading his correspondence, making no inquiry after my ankle, not so much as a glance in my direction.
How cruel he is—writing such a letter and then feigning indifference as if I were invisible. Let this be the end of any debt between us.
I watched him, determined to take his measure; he did seem, at least, recovered—no trace of fever, and the wound, I surmised, must be healing for him to move so freely.
"Pardon me, your grace, Lord Barnett has arrived," announced a footman.
At last our guest appeared—a man of nearly sixty, his hair a deep brown streaked liberally with silver, his features stern yet not unkind, a well-groomed beard masking his mouth. Lord Alexander laid aside his letter and stood to greet him. I followed suit, despite the protest of my leg. Lord Barnett's eyes moved fondly between us, his smile revealing a genuine delight at the sight of us together.
"I am most pleased to see you, Your Grace. Thank you for taking such good care of my Eleanor," he said, bowing.
"It is a pleasure, and the pleasure is mine to receive you," Lord Alexander replied, every inch the gracious host.
"It is a joy to see you again, Father," I said softly, curtsying as a daughter ought.
"It has been too long, my dear. Allow your father a proper embrace," he said, coming round the table to gather me in his arms. The roughness of his hand as it stroked my hair filled me with a strange sense of nostalgia, a longing that did not quite belong to me. I returned his embrace, wondering if, little by little, my spirit was melding with that of Lady Eleanor. Perhaps that explained the pangs of belonging and suffering, too.
Am I becoming the real Eleanor after all?
Lord Alexander watched our reunion with an expression almost tender, as though, for all his coldness, he retained some small measure of goodwill.
Lord Barnett took the seat to the Duke's left, facing me. Sir Wycliffe poured us each a glass of merlot, moving clockwise from Lord Alexander's seat.
"My thanks for this magnificent meal, Your Grace. I am glad to see you well," said Lord Barnett.
"It is I who ought to thank your daughter, my lord. It was her skill and care that nursed me back to health," Lord Alexander replied.
I looked at him then, startled he should say so after his chilly letter and silent greeting.
"Eleanor, possessing medical knowledge!" Lord Barnett exclaimed, but he quickly dismissed the subject and returned to the business that had brought him.
"But let us discuss business after we have eaten," he said. "You should have a moment's rest and enjoy this fine table, Your Grace."
Lord Alexander nodded, and Lord Barnett raised his glass in approval.
I watched them both keenly, searching for any trace of the enmity Lord Alexander had spoken of, but found none. Instead, there seemed a cordial affection between them.
Lord Barnett does not appear to harbours any grudge against him at all. On the contrary, they seem almost as friends.
"And your ankle, my dear?" Lord Barnett asked.
"It is nearly healed, thank you, Father," I replied, stealing a glance at the Duke. He continued methodically slicing his steak, offering no comment.
"I am glad to hear it."
"Lord Percival, how long do you intend to stay?" Lord Alexander asked suddenly.
"Three days, perhaps two nights, if my schedule allows," Lord Barnett answered.
"In that case, I must alter my plans and travel with you when you depart."
"Are you certain you are strong enough for such a journey?"
"I am quite sure."
"But the meeting does not take place until the ninth of November, does it? You could do with a little more rest, Your Grace."
"I would rather make my preparations in advance."
"As you wish, of course."
I listened, curiosity piqued.
What meeting is this?
A flame of inquisitiveness flared within me, refusing to be extinguished by any foreign memories or borrowed emotions.
"What meeting is that?" I found myself asking aloud.
Lord Barnett regarded me with surprise, as though it was a peculiar thing for Lady Eleanor to inquire into such matters.
"The meeting of the London and North Western Railway's investors," he replied after a pause. "Both His Grace and I are partners since last year."
The name was familiar—a thread drawn from the tapestry of my old life. The LNWR, as it was known, had been established only last year from a merger of three major railways, to create the largest network in the kingdom. Its terminus at Euston Station in London had become a symbol of progress, linking the capital to the great northern cities.
Why do such men, with their vast estates, pursue business so assiduously?
I sat in thoughtful silence, only vaguely aware of Lord Barnett's patient gaze and Lord Alexander's more wary observation, each man no doubt wondering at this new inquisitiveness in Lady Eleanor.
Alexander
"My daughter… she is no longer the child I once knew."
Lord Barnett sat swirling his wine in the glass—seated on a sofa angled from my own—draining yet another glass, as if the vintage could somehow explain away the confusion that weighed on his heart. The old man's fondness for wine was legendary; I had seen him empty more bottles in my company than I cared to recall.
After dinner, the three of us—he, myself, and Theodore—had relocated to the drawing room on the second floor for conversation and after-meal indulgence.
"I should like another bottle," he announced.
"At once, my lord." Theodore bowed, then excused himself to fetch a fresh bottle as requested.
"Lord Alexander, what is your view?" Lord Barnett pressed.
"I find myself in agreement with you," I replied.
"I never imagined amnesia could so thoroughly alter a person's very nature," he continued, his voice heavy with incredulity. "Eleanor was never one for medical matters—in fact, the mere sight of blood would send her swooning. When you spoke of her tending your wounds, I confess I was shocked."
"And now, there's her curiosity for our business affairs," he added, massaging his temples, visibly troubled. It was clear he was wrestling with the fear that his daughter had been transformed into someone unrecognizable. I understood that sentiment all too well, for I had questioned—time and again—whether this woman was truly the Lady Eleanor I once knew.
"Before we proceed to business, Lord Alexander," he said at length, "there is something I must discuss with you—something I wish you to understand."
"What is it you wish to say?"
He paused, then spoke with grave intensity. "Eleanor is my youngest, and my only remaining daughter. I beg you, treat her with the care you once afforded Chelsea. Please, do not condemn her to misery in a marriage she cannot bear."
At this, discomfort twisted within me. I felt compelled to answer him honestly, to make my position unmistakable.
"I am sorry, my lord, but I cannot make that promise. I understand your feelings, truly I do. I know the reasons that drove her to the brink of despair, and I am deeply sorry for all that has transpired—sorry, too, that it has made her into someone so changed. But I cannot offer my heart to anyone but Chelsea."
"Lord Alexander…" he murmured, pain written plainly across his features—pain that mirrored my own. How many times must we utter her name, that ghost between us?
I drew a long, steadying breath. "That said, I can promise you this: I will honour Eleanor as my Duchess. I will see to her every need, be faithful to her and her alone, and never bring another into my household. But love—and the prospect of an heir—are things I cannot offer her."
"Are you quite certain you wish for no heir?" he pressed, searching my face for any sign of hesitation.
"I have settled that question within myself long ago."
"Why, then, do you insist on living in the past? You are not the murderer some gossips would paint you, Lord Alexander. You deserve the chance to begin again. The Cavendish name deserves to thrive, in keeping with William's wishes."
I am that murderer, I thought, the words unspoken and heavy. But I had no desire to continue my line simply for the sake of family legacy, nor to comply with the wishes of my late brother or even the Queen herself.
"I cannot father a child with a woman I do not love. I beg you to understand."
"Lord Alexander, reconsider. Your house has stood in greatness for centuries. Even Her Majesty supports William's request that you marry—not merely to accept my daughter as a peace offering, but to continue your noble line."
His tone, inflamed by wine, had grown sharp, his patience fraying at my stubbornness.
"No," I answered, softly but firmly, hoping to forestall any further argument.
You misunderstand me, Lord Barnett, I thought. Never have I regarded Eleanor as a mere token to expunge Chelsea's memory, nor do I devalue either of your daughters in such a way. My reasons are deeper, darker—a force beyond even a monarch's understanding governs my fate.
He sighed—a long, weary exhalation. "So be it, then. I had only hoped Eleanor might one day find the love she seeks. Would it not be a blessing if you could open your heart to her?"
But I am not that man, I told myself, though I care for her as you so wish. Even so, she is doomed to remain by my side in loneliness until our days are spent.
This hidden truth pressed upon me with a sorrow I could not voice. I was powerless to bring happiness to anyone—neither Lord Barnett, nor Eleanor, nor myself. Yet, I was certain this was the only way to shield them all. There is no other path left to me.