Alexander
November 13th, 1847
I had decided to set aside my pride and try living with her a little more closely, though only within the boundaries of a brother-sister relationship. Surely, that could do no harm. At the very least, it eased my mind to see her so much happier, her spirits lifted at last. Still, I needed to draw a clear line for her, to make her understand precisely what our bond could and could not be, and to remind myself not to stray beyond what is proper. However much I may long to cherish her, I must content myself with mere castles in the air.
"Your grace, it is nearly one o'clock," Theodore came to remind me as I sat at my desk, preoccupied with replying to Lord Wellesley's invitation.
"I'm finished." I rose from my chair and handed him the freshly sealed letter.
"Have this delivered to His Grace Arthur with all speed."
"At once, your grace."
The next order of the day was to share tea with my lady, as she had always wished. Today, the sky was as clear as if it too welcomed my attendance, sunlight warm and bright across the estate—ideal for Eleanor to enjoy her beloved garden, if only for a short while. I was determined not to let her sit out in the wind for too long, lest she fall ill again.
When I reached the tea table, so beautifully set, I found my little lady in a navy dress, waiting for me with the brightest smile. She looked genuinely happy to see me keep my promise.
"Please, take a seat," she greeted me.
"You seem unusually cheerful today. Is something the matter?" I teased, trying to keep my own composure.
"I'm glad you came, that's all." Just as I thought.
"You wrote that you had several questions for me. What would you ask?"
I hurried to business, hoping to mask my own embarrassment. Truth be told, I felt much the same—her smile rivaled the blossoms in the garden, and it put me at ease in a way I cannot explain.
"There's no need to be so formal. Let us just sit and sip tea, enjoy the birds and flowers. I simply wish to know you better, that's all."
"Is that so?"
The truth is, I have always wished for just this. I wish to know everything about you, Eleanor.
I took the seat set for me beside her. Sweets and sandwiches abounded on golden-rimmed china. The last time I had such a pleasant hour must have been that day she made such a fool of herself in front of me—the memory of her stuffing a whole scone into her mouth and chewing awkwardly remains vivid in my mind, endearing me to her all the more. I found myself oddly relaxed.
"Please, my lady, don't stand on ceremony," I gestured, seeing the way her chestnut eyes sparkled at the sight of all those treats, practically drooling like a child.
She reached out for several sweets, loading her plate with undisguised hunger, then lifted the teapot to pour herself some tea.
"That teacup—where did you get it?" I asked.
She blinked, surprised by the question.
"It belonged to Her Grace Georgiana, your mother. I happened upon it in the china pantry by chance."
"I've never seen such a cup before."
"Miss Atherton told me it was a gift from the Swedish envoy."
"Northern craftsmanship is quite unique, isn't it?"
"It is. The Nordics favor simplicity, unlike our own country."
"You seem fond of simplicity."
"You could say that."
"I've noticed—you haven't bought new dresses, nor any new cosmetics, have you?"
"How do you know?"
"If you needed anything, I would have been the one to pay for it, would I not?"
"Must I buy new things?"
"It is the custom among ladies of rank. You are the exception."
"Was I always like this?"
"I cannot say. We lived separately for so long—Lord Barnett was still your guardian then."
"I cannot see the necessity for expensive new gowns. If I had my way, I'd wear lighter, simpler clothes—unless I must dress to maintain appearances for you."
"I require nothing of the kind. If you prefer comfortable clothes, wear what you wish."
Her delight at my answer was palpable—a smile wide enough to split her face, and I was reminded of her late sister, Chelsea, who also disliked fussy attire and preferred light, practical garments, especially for riding.
I poured myself some tea, instantly recognizing the scent of Earl Grey. Eleanor had remembered my favorite.
"Lord Alexander, could you tell me about His Grace William?"
I had not expected her to ask after my brother—least of all today—but Theodore had told me she'd been searching for the Cavendish family genealogy. Strange, since she could barely have remembered meeting William; she was but seven then. Still, I could not deny her curiosity.
"Certainly. In what regard?" I asked, savoring the bergamot aroma.
"I'd like to know about his life as a Duke and about his illness."
I set my teacup down gently, regarding her with the sense of telling a bedtime story to a child.
"You know he died at forty-seven?"
"I do."
"He succeeded our father at the age of twenty, and being devoted to the arts and letters, he patronized many writers, poets, scholars, and artists. He amassed a remarkable collection—you've seen it here at Chatsworth."
I paused, then sipped my tea.
"He served as Lord Chamberlain and Lord Lieutenant of Derbyshire, a respected peer among the nobility. But chronic muscular weakness plagued him from birth, worsening in his forties until he was nearly bedridden. He could no longer walk or act as he wished."
"In the end, he asked me to manage his duties, to preserve the family's honor. So I became acting master for the last few years of his life. Even now, I continue his unfinished projects—such as the renovations at Chatsworth."
"That beautiful library—was that his work?" she asked. "It's stunning, and I love spending time there."
"That was my own design."
"For Chelsea, wasn't it?"
"You already knew, didn't you? Yes, I made it for her. She adored books as much as you do."
"I once gave your sister a book as a gift, but it seems to have vanished among all those books," I added.
"What book?"
Paradise Lost, by John Milton."
"That epic about the expulsion from Eden?" she asked, as if well acquainted.
I looked at her, puzzled by her knowledge, so like Chelsea's.
"Yes. She was the sole keeper of that library."
"If I find it, may I keep it for myself?"
"It belonged to your sister. If you wish it, it's yours."
"Thank you," she said, her earlier cheer dimmed by the subject.
"You shouldn't only drink tea. Try this sandwich—I made it myself today," she said, beaming as she placed a cucumber sandwich on my plate.
"You prepared all this yourself?"
"Well… just the cucumber sandwich."
"Ha! You make it sound as if you'd done everything!"
I laughed, delighted by her honest answer. Her cheeks flushed, she puffed them out in embarrassment—how adorable. She giggled as well, almost spilling her tea, fumbling to keep the cup upright.
Before I knew it, I was laughing again. She had an uncanny ability to draw laughter from me. Compared to before, she seemed so much brighter—so different from the silent, sullen girl I once knew, who spoke only when I addressed her, whose every glance cut deeper than any accusation, whose eyes condemned me as the thief of all she cherished.
But all that was past. Now, Eleanor's smiles had stolen my heart before I even realized it. Her clear, bright laughter made me grateful just to exist within her reach.
"I can't cook at all. That sandwich is the best I can manage," she admitted.
I smiled, took a bite.
"Hmm…"
"Well? How is it?"
"It is… a cucumber sandwich," I said plainly.
"And the taste? Did you like it?"
"It tastes as it should."
"Oh, you could at least pretend to be pleased."
"I don't know how it differs from any other cucumber sandwich."
She pouted, but I could only shrug—there was nothing to praise, yet I recognized her earnestness.
"Thank you very much for making it," I said, and her smile returned.
Suddenly, I remembered I needed to leave Chatsworth before three o'clock. I checked my pocket watch: 1:45 PM. Time had flown—almost an hour gone. Still, it would not do for Eleanor to stay outside longer, in any case.
"My lady, we should go in now."
"But the sun is still out," she protested.
"No. You mustn't stay outside for more than an hour."
"And what will you do next?" she asked.
"I have business in Derby this evening."
"What sort of business?"
"I am to meet with the Duke of Wellington."
"Lord Arthur Wellesley?!" she blurted, clapping both hands over her mouth.
"How do you know my mentor?"
"Uh… I heard of him from my father."
I narrowed my eyes in suspicion.
"What will you discuss?"
"You are most inquisitive."
"I just want to remember everything," she said.
She's lying. She's never known my mentor—not even his name.
"Political matters."
"What kind?"
She pressed on; I doubted she would understand if I explained.
"Matters concerning the nation's current difficulties."
"The economic crisis?"
"You know about that?"
I was taken aback. Eleanor was never educated beyond music. There was something peculiar here.
"I read books—did you forget?"
"Hmm. So you did."
"May I come with you?" she asked.
"No, I'm sorry. This business is for gentlemen only."
"I understand." She looked crestfallen.
On a whim, I decided to test her.
"What is your favorite color?"
"Green."
"Do you know where Chelsea and I first met?"
"No. I know nothing of your time together."
"I see."
Perhaps I was being fanciful, half-convinced she was Chelsea reborn in Eleanor's body—an impossible notion, yet the similarities made me wonder.
"Why did you ask?"
"I thought you might remember something from the past."
"And you? What's your favorite color?" she asked.
"Black."
"The color all gentlemen favor."
"Perhaps so."
"Would you tell me about what happened between you and my sister?"
There it was—the question I most wished to avoid.
Before I could refuse, Theodore arrived with a letter.
"A letter from Lady Harriet, your grace."
I took it, curious what business my sister could have. She wrote only when there was some matter of real importance.
Eleanor asked no more, but sat quietly as I read:
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October 10th, 1847
To His Grace,
I am on my way to visit you and Lady Eleanor, your future Duchess of Devonshire. I write in advance to inform you of our journey, and expect to arrive by the fifteenth, unless unforeseen delays arise.
I am accompanied by my husband's niece; Lord Leveson-Gower will follow for the wedding itself. I also hope to host a ball at the house to celebrate the new Duchess, with your consent.
Sincerely,
Harriet Leveson-Gower
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I sighed at my sister's busybody ways—surely she intended this ball to find a match for Lord Leveson-Gower's niece. I know her better than anyone, and she always takes such liberties, sending notice only days ahead of her arrival.
"Please arrange rooms for Lady Harriet and her niece," I told Theodore.
"At once, your grace."
"Lady Harriet is coming?" Eleanor asked.
"Yes. She'll arrive by the fifteenth, with her niece."
"This will be my first time meeting her, then."
"It will. She comes to help us prepare for the ceremony. It looks like we must ready ourselves for another ball as well."
"What do you mean?"
"She wants to host a ball in your honor as the future Duchess—but I suspect she's more interested in finding a match for her husband's niece."
"I see." She nodded in understanding.
"You'll have companions for tea now—two ladies to keep you company."
"That's good. I've been looking forward to meeting Lady Harriet."
"I must take my leave now. Theodore and I must be off for Derby before three. You should return inside as well."
"I wish you a safe journey."
I stood, nodded to Miss Atherton, who stood nearby—a signal for her to escort Eleanor back inside.
Today's conversation had truly delighted me. For the first time, the future seemed less daunting. She seemed to accept our arrangement with perfect grace, and I found caring for her as a sister to be no burden at all. Life, so long colorless, now felt vibrant—though I cannot reach for more, this is comfort enough.
And if I excused myself so abruptly, it was only to keep her from circling back to the question I am not yet ready to answer: the story of the past, which remains, for now, my secret alone.
Alexander
White trails of smoke drifted languidly in the air, billowing softly like spun sugar, a sight to behold. The venerable gentleman before me—his authority and storied reputation all but tangible—sat with his cane propped elegantly before him, his gaunt face framed by short, snow-white hair. He drew a measured puff from the cigar between his fingers, savoring its flavor before exhaling another cloud.
"What was the outcome of the meeting?"
"It went as we wished, your grace."
"Good."
He absently stroked his neatly trimmed white beard, contemplating what I had just recounted.
This man was none other than Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, the famed general who defeated Napoleon Bonaparte at Waterloo, later elevated to a dukedom in the reign of King George III. Once England's monarch, Lord Wellesley had also served as Prime Minister some ten years before, and had long been my mentor in the arts of war and statecraft since my youth.
Within the cramped meeting room of Derby's town hall, it was just the two of us. My mentor had deliberately broken his journey here for the sole purpose of visiting me, before continuing north to Scotland in two days' time.
We had been speaking for nearly two hours, exchanging updates on our current affairs. I briefed him on the troubles plaguing my company.
"I have already ordered production to cease, and will meet with the factory next week to discuss the matter further."
"Your company has responded to the crisis with commendable speed," he praised.
"How fare things in the capital, your grace?"
"London is in utter turmoil. The Lords and Commons are united in passing emergency measures. The Bank of England is being forced to intervene, as the stock market is in freefall and unemployment is soaring. I am gravely concerned that Europe's entire economy may collapse beyond repair."
"The repeal of the Corn Laws last year has cost the aristocracy dearly, driving some to illegal dealings behind closed doors," he added, exhaling a heavy sigh with a shake of his head, weary at the state of the nation.
Indeed, repealing the Corn Laws—meant to reduce soaring food prices after crop blight—was Sir Robert Peel's policy to aid the common folk, yet it directly undermined the landed elite. As a result, peers lost income and, lacking expertise, flocked to invest in railway ventures, heedless of long-term prospects, sparking a bubble they could not sustain. Some seized the opportunity for money laundering, as my company and Lord Barnett's were now discovering. The banks, too, had granted loans far too freely amid the craze, until the entire system was left dangerously illiquid.
"Well, seeing you so well gives me comfort enough."
"My thanks for your concern, sir."
"It is late—go and rest. We shall meet again at month's end."
"Then I shall take my leave."
I rose, taking up my trusty cane and the top hat resting on the side table. Bowing low in respect, I bade farewell to my elder.
On my way back, our carriage passed a certain inconspicuous jeweller's shop on a street corner—'Mystique Jewelleries', read the familiar sign. I instructed Theodore to stop at once, deciding to pay a visit for old times' sake. Memories of years past washed over me. I had once come here seeking a fine necklace to present to the woman who was the very light of my life, now long since buried in the earth with her lifeless form.
"Welcome, Your Grace,"
A middle-aged woman, presumably the proprietor, greeted me as I entered. She remembered me well, though I could not recall her name. I cast my eyes over every display, searching for a necklace to match the one I had lost.
"Is there something you seek, sir?"
"A silver necklace with an emerald cut stone—might you have such a thing?" I inquired.
She looked at me a moment before a small smile played at her lips.
"The very one you once bought for Lady Chelsea, is it not?"
I said nothing, struck by how well she recalled the story—as though we were old confidantes. Without waiting for my answer, she retreated into the storeroom, emerging with a small, timeworn wooden box, which she carefully dusted off before opening it for my inspection.
Inside lay a simple silver necklace, set with a beautiful emerald cut stone—almost the twin of the one that was lost.
"This necklace was made as a pair, your grace. If you are curious, it is the masterpiece of an anonymous craftsman. I kept this last piece, never wishing to sell it, cherishing it as a mark of respect for my family's humble name. But it seems it has finally found the one it was meant for."
I lifted the necklace, examining its delicate details. Yes, it was indeed Chelsea's twin, just as she claimed.
"I believe it would be most fitting for Lady Eleanor, Your Grace."
Eleanor
November 14th, 1847
As the great, thick wooden doors swung open, the gentle aroma of old book pages and polished beeswax wafted out, saturating the air with a soft, comforting warmth. Once again, the grand library of Chatsworth House revealed itself to me in all its awe-inspiring splendor. The lofty ceiling was adorned with ornate plasterwork and a grand chandelier that hung at the heart of the chamber, catching the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows. The golden light spilled across the dark oak bookshelves, which ran from floor to ceiling, filling the room with an atmosphere of deep relaxation and peace.
I had come here today with a purpose: to search for that book belonging to my elder sister—the very one my fiancé had gifted her long ago. I had spent the previous day scouring the first floor, but found not a trace. Today, it was the second floor's turn. I climbed the narrow spiral staircase, fashioned from wrought iron and hardwood, nestled in a corner of the room, ascending to the unreachable shelves above. From there I could look down at the intricately carved wooden table in the center of the hall, upon which sat a brass lamp with a crystal shade, placed with exquisite care. Beside it lay an old leather-bound notebook, its cover marked by faded ink stains, as though its owner had only just departed. Perhaps Lord Alexander himself had only recently been here.
'Paradise Lost' ought to be shelved alongside those beginning with 'P', but, after combing through that section five times, it was nowhere to be found. I tried searching under 'J' for the author, John Milton, but again found nothing.
"Where did you hide it, milady?" I muttered softly, moving myself to the section for unclassified volumes—a jumble of unnamed books stacked haphazardly and thick with dust. Some were so tattered as to be illegible, most appearing to be manuscripts or poetry composed by nameless writers, or perhaps members of the Cavendish family themselves, I guessed.
"Well, I suppose this is the last pile," I sighed, already weary and disheartened.
One by one, I searched through the remaining three volumes. Even the last yielded nothing. I finally gave up, brushing dust from the hem of my dress with both small hands. The swirling motes tickled my nose, causing me to sneeze violently twice. And then—just by chance—my eyes caught a small movement.
A butterfly.
It was unmistakably a butterfly, its wings shaded in soft brownish-grey, fluttering aimlessly through the cloud of dust before me. I was baffled, as not a single window in the library had been left ajar.
'Where did it come from? How did it get in here?'
The thought echoed in my mind. I could not help but wonder if it was the departed spirit of that very lady, my intuition whispering as much.
The little insect drifted feebly, buffeted by invisible currents, now rising, now dipping, weaving left and right, until at last it alighted upon a bookshelf I had already searched several times before. It sat in the furthest corner of the first floor, in the section for literature—not organized alphabetically, as it should have been. Was I simply imagining things? Was this my own fancy, believing the butterfly to be Lady Chelsea's spirit come to guide me? Perhaps it was a sign, hinting at the book's hiding place.
With nothing left to lose, I decided to search that shelf once again. I rolled up the long, lacy sleeves of my black dress, which kept falling over my wrists, and began running my fingers over the book spines, reading each title with care. Most were literary works by famous authors—Charles Dickens, whose books had only recently been published. I read their names aloud to myself as I worked:
"Oliver Twist."
"Barnaby Rudge."
"The Pickwick Papers."
"The Old Curiosity Shop."
"Nicholas Nickleby."
"Para—" I stopped short as I reached a spine with the very title I sought.
I pulled it out at once to check whether it was real or just a trick of my imagination. As my mind caught up to my racing heart, I saw that the book in my hand was indeed Paradise Lost. I glanced about in astonishment, hoping to find the butterfly—but it had vanished as mysteriously as it had come.
'Was that really Lady Chelsea's spirit? I had only just whispered for her help, and she came…'
I carried the book to the table at the center of the room and began leafing through its pages, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent of old paper. The binding was a beautiful dark green leather, sewn to creamy, brownish pages, printed in the old-fashioned typeface.
I read for quite some time, and by the fourth chapter, I was stopped short by a note written in an elegant, flowing cursive—someone's handwriting from long ago. I had to squint to decipher its contents. But before I could make out the words, the library door creaked open.
"At last I've found you."
The golden-haired gentleman greeted me, his gaze steely, as though he'd just vented his anger on someone.
"Is something the matter?"
"I've been searching everywhere for you." Lord Alexander strode towards me.
"Why didn't you have Miss Atherton fetch me?"
"I wished to see you in person. What are you doing here?"
I handed him the book I'd just discovered. As expected, his eyes widened in astonishment.
"This is… you found it!"
"Yes. What did you want with me?" I repeated, hoping to distract him from the book.
I wanted to decipher the inscription myself before sharing it with anyone—perhaps out of sheer possessiveness, or perhaps out of suspicion that it might be a message from her heart, left in the past.
"I have— I mean, there is something I wish to ask you."
"What is it?"
His words sounded strangely awkward, as if his tongue had twisted itself.
"The ball. I have summoned the musicians for rehearsal tomorrow—I wish for you to join me in practice."
I cocked my head, frowning in curiosity. Why the hurry? Lady Harriet had not even arrived yet.
"I thought you'd wait for Lady Harriet's arrival before rehearsing."
"That's unnecessary. Whenever she visits, she insists on hosting a ball. I've asked Miss Atherton to begin preparations ahead of time."
Today, Lord Alexander seemed quite different from his usual self. I was delighted that he had come to invite me as his dance partner personally, even going so far as to search for me himself, rather than sending someone else as he would have before. Though he had seemed rather cross at first, now, in this moment, his barley eyes gazed upon me with a tenderness as deep as a calm ocean—so unlike before. My heart thundered as he drew near. A wild, unspoken longing to embrace him swept over me; I wanted so much to be held in those strong arms. But it was a wish that could never be.
Thump… thump… thump… thump…
Though I now fully acknowledged my feelings for him, our agreement left them unspoken.
'We can only ever be siblings, no matter that we are husband and wife in name…'
He was kind to me now because I knew my place. He cared for me now because I had accepted my lot as the "little sister" of his former beloved. My thoughts circled endlessly, tormented by this reality, but if suffering in silence meant I could remain by his side—if I could receive even a sliver of warmth—I would endure it.
"Your grace, Lady Harriet's carriage has arrived."
Sir Wycliffe's sudden announcement from the doorway startled both Lord Alexander and myself.
"I'll come at once."
The three of us went to the great entrance hall to greet them. The black carriage, adorned with the Leveson-Gower family crest, rumbled up the drive, coming to a stop before the main steps. A dignified, middle-aged lady descended gracefully, her posture proud, fan in hand. Beside her stood a younger lady, not much older than myself, both arrayed with an air of haughtiness, the latter casting me a sidelong, disparaging look.
This was Lady Harriet Leveson-Gower, née Lady Henrietta Elizabeth Cavendish, the youngest daughter of William, the fifth Duke—elder sister to both the late sixth Duke and Lord Alexander. According to the records, she must be in her sixties by now.
"Welcome home, dear sister," Lord Alexander greeted her.
"It is a pleasure to see you again," Lady Harriet replied, bowing in respect to her younger brother's superior rank.
"And it is an honor to meet you for the first time," I smiled and curtsied to Lady Harriet and the young lady beside her, expecting a friendly welcome. I was mistaken. She looked me up and down, her expression barely masking her displeasure, and answered my greeting with a cold, perfunctory tone.
"It is a pleasure to meet you."
The younger lady said nothing, merely glancing at me with an air of contempt before turning to Lord Alexander, bowing deeply and demurely, her manner artfully graceful. She raised her eyes to him with syrupy sweetness, her manner almost flirtatious, lavishing him with charm right before me, his fiancée.
"It is a great honor to meet you at last, Your Grace. Your reputation for handsomeness does not disappoint," she gushed.
"The pleasure is mine," Lord Alexander replied coolly, showing little interest in the stranger's attentions.
"This is Lady Beatrice Sophia Hervey, daughter of Lady Harriet Charlotte Sophia Ryder and Reverend Lord Charles Hervey," Lady Harriet announced, introducing the young lady formally.
The names meant little to me; the only one I recognized was Lady Charlotte Sophia Ryder, formerly Leveson-Gower, the sister of Lord Leveson-Gower—Lady Harriet's husband.
It was painfully clear that neither Lady Harriet nor Lady Beatrice had much fondness for me. It seemed I was about to face another trial in this grand house.