Eleanor
November 16th, 1847
In the early hours, a gentle mist drifted above the green meadows that stretched before the grand façade of the estate. The pale grey stone of the great house caught the morning light, its silhouette cast in sharp relief against the sky, as if it were a monochrome illustration from an old volume. At the front entrance, a glossy black four-wheeled carriage bearing the family's crest—a stag with three antlers—awaited our departure. The coachman, dressed in a thick coat, stood by with polite composure, while the servants carefully loaded lunch hampers into the boot.
Sir Wycliffe and Lord Alexander stood waiting for me at the door—it was I who was three minutes late. Miss Atherton had prepared a riding outfit for me: brown cotton trousers and a buttoned long-sleeve shirt made for a lady equestrian. My slender legs were tucked into tall black leather boots, much like Lord Alexander's own. Once all was in readiness, the four of us boarded the carriage, setting off without further delay.
The horses flicked their reins, the wheels crunched over gravel, and soon we were rolling along a narrow road bordered by fresh green hills. Towering oaks and beeches lined both sides, standing sentinel in hushed majesty, as if silently observing our passage. The road snaked southeast toward the town of Derby, skirting the edges of the hills. At times, a brook would run parallel to the road, the sound of water striking stone a steady, companionable music.
"God grant us smooth roads today—the clouds up north look awfully thick," Miss Atherton murmured, glancing skyward. She was a timid sort, not one for adventures, if I had to guess. The two gentlemen sat in silence, not inclined to conversation, while I stared, unblinking, at the passing scenery—last night's events seemed as if they had never occurred. We were each, it seemed, merely fulfilling our scheduled duties: today's agenda included business in town and, as promised, a visit to the stables.
As we drew near to Derby, the quiet of nature yielded to the noise of commerce: the rattle of carts, the clang of the blacksmith's hammer, and the subtle scent of coal from the factories replaced the wildflowers' perfume. At last, we arrived on the outskirts of the town, where the coach stopped beside a vast brick building. From the signage and clatter, I could tell it was a factory for railway components—no doubt part of the Midland Railway. The shrill whistle of a steam engine pierced the air, mingling with the sound of hammers, gears, and foremen shouting orders. The main building, constructed of thick red brick, was immense, topped with a steel-trussed roof and a tall chimney belching smoke into the morning.
Even from the carriage, I could see hundreds of workers—some men in oil-stained vests pounding glowing iron on anvils, brawny arms straining; others, women in drab aprons, assembling small parts with nimble fingers. The flames from the forge sent waves of heat swirling through the yard.
Lord Alexander turned to me as we stopped.
"Remain here," he instructed. "Do not wander off. Miss Atherton, I leave Lady Eleanor in your care."
"Yes, your grace," she replied.
I could only pout in disappointment. I had rather hoped to witness the business of a Victorian nobleman firsthand, but now I was to sit in the carriage, left to my own thoughts and observations.
I passed the time revisiting half-remembered facts as I watched the activity within the factory. In the mid-nineteenth century, Derby had become the heart of England's railway industry, especially after the Midland Railway established its "Derby Works" in 1840. It had since grown into one of the largest, most advanced factories of its kind—its divisions encompassing foundries, engine shops, and testing grounds, all powered by the marvel of the steam engine. Here, hundreds of men, women, and even children laboured at all hours, a testament to the industrial age's inexorable march.
I wondered what business Lord Alexander had here—was he ordering more parts for his company's northern expansion? Surely, no other factory in the region could meet such a demand.
But then—wasn't this the year of the Panic of 1847? My memory stirred with half-recalled economic history. Was his company in trouble?
I nearly decided to ask, as Lillian once advised, but restrained myself until the gentlemen returned after almost ninety minutes. As the carriage resumed its journey, Lord Alexander murmured to Sir Wycliffe, "Halting production midway will have more consequences than we anticipated."
"If I didn't have to wait for the committee's resolution, I'd have acted sooner. At least our strategy is on course. Please ensure all the necessary documents are sent to the Palace by tomorrow."
"Yes, your grace."
From their exchange, it seemed they were dealing with an emergency, not simply placing an order.
I could not hold my curiosity.
"Why have you halted production?" I blurted out.
Both men turned to look at me in surprise—even Miss Atherton seemed intrigued.
"Do you even understand what we're discussing?" Lord Alexander countered.
"If I didn't, why would I ask?" I retorted, a mischievous glint in my voice, which clearly vexed him. Yet he answered at last,
"Yes, our company has had to halt production abruptly."
"Why?"
"I cannot explain just now, but if you must know, I will tell you later."
I understood—this was not a matter to discuss in front of outsiders. Still, my curiosity pressed on.
"Is it to do with the banks overextending credit to railway ventures?"
"How do you know about such things?"
His surprise was evident; it was not expected of a lady, least of all one of my rank, to know of such matters.
"My father told me long ago," I lied. In truth, my father never mentioned such details, only that the company was expanding its lines northward.
He eyed me closely.
"It is as you say—there is a financial crisis caused by speculative investment in railways, and reckless lending by the banks."
"And agricultural speculation as well?"
"…That too," he admitted, still taken aback by my knowledge.
Satisfied for the moment, I waited for a more private moment to press for details.
In due course, we arrived at the Devonshire Royal Stables. From afar, the cream-hued Cotswold stone stood out, topped with a grand domed tower—once, according to history, a clock tower, later converted into a stable guardhouse and eventually, in 1859, a hospital.
Before the carriage even stopped, three grooms hurried out to greet us. The eldest, with russet-brown hair, a matching beard, and fair, freckled skin, bowed respectfully.
"Welcome, your grace," he greeted Lord Alexander alone.
"Good to see you again," Lord Alexander replied. "This is Lady Eleanor Barnett, my fiancée."
"Welcome, my lady, to our royal stables," he said, bowing with the others.
"This is Mr. Howells, the stable-master," Lord Alexander explained.
"A pleasure," I replied politely.
Mr. Howells gestured us in, leading the way through the great domed entrance. Within, row upon row of mature horses filled the stalls, the air rich with the scent of hay and ancient oak. Each stall was fenced with polished oak rails and marked with brass nameplates—Aurelius, Nightshade, Nighthawk, and many others. The floor was rough granite, wide enough for two horses abreast, with one side dedicated to saddlery, complete with lion's-head iron hooks, and another to the servants' quarters and the duke's own tea room.
Lord Alexander stopped before an especially fine stall—his own mount, I guessed. The nameplate read "Tempest," a splendid Trakehner gelding, his coat a glossy chestnut. The stall was a single, large space, adorned with wrought iron shaped into lions and eagles' wings, the floor laid with soft cowhide and French straw.
He reached in to stroke Tempest's nose, and the animal nuzzled his arm affectionately.
"Prepare my tack, if you please," he told Mr. Howells.
"At once, your grace."
He turned to Sir Wycliffe and Miss Atherton, "Please wait here—I shall take Eleanor with me, just the two of us."
"As you wish, your grace."
Odd, I thought, that he should want to ride with me alone.
"For the lady, shall I ready the gentlest mare?" Mr. Howells asked, uncertain, for I had no usual mount.
"What do you say?" Lord Alexander asked me.
"May I choose for myself?"
"As you wish."
I wandered among the stalls, uncertain how to select a horse, for I knew little of riding. But my attention was caught by a black Trakehner mare standing in the shadows, apart from the others, seemingly uninterested in human company. Without knowing why, I found myself at her stall.
"Milady, please—!" Mr. Howells called, as if to warn me. Even Lord Alexander looked alarmed.
Before I could react, the black mare approached and breathed warm air down on my hair, leaving it tousled. I turned, startled.
"Milady, step back—" Mr. Howells began, but Lord Alexander raised his hand to silence him.
I gazed into the mare's eyes, feeling a strange sense of kinship I could not explain. I reached out and stroked her mane; she remained perfectly still, even nudging my arm with a gentle, playful motion. On her stall, I found a brass plate: "Serene"—a mare.
"I choose this one," I called to Mr. Howells and Lord Alexander.
The stable-master hesitated, then looked to his master for confirmation. Lord Alexander regarded me with a troubled expression, then nodded. Whatever secret history this mare carried, I was now part of it.
Alexander
"Is there something unusual about that horse?"
Eleanor's question interrupted the quiet as she lifted her teacup, her gaze keen. We were seated in the tea room, awaiting Mr. Howells's return, while Miss Atherton fussed with the final arrangements.
"What troubles you?" I asked, mirroring her gesture as I raised my own cup.
"I noticed how flustered Mr. Howells became when I approached the horse," she replied.
"That mare is notoriously wild," I answered at last, setting my cup gently onto its saucer. "No one has dared to ride her in years."
"Then why did she seem so gentle with me?"
I turned to meet her gaze, searching for an explanation even I did not possess.
"I cannot say. She has only ever permitted a rare few to come near, and now, it seems, you are one of them."
Eleanor stared into her tea, her brows furrowed in thought. I myself was at a loss as to why the mare should accept her so readily. There had only ever been one woman who had succeeded in taming her—if one did not count the stable hands.
Mr. Howells re-entered, interrupting my thoughts.
"Both horses are ready, your grace."
Theodore and Miss Atherton accompanied us outside to the exercise paddock, which was enclosed by wide wooden rails and opened at its far end onto the depths of Duffield Frith. The gates stood ajar, as if beckoning us onward. Eleanor and I mounted our horses, she atop her chosen black mare, I astride Tempest. Mr. Howells could not help but steal glances at her, curiosity and uncertainty writ plain across his face. At last, unable to contain himself, he murmured,
"Your grace, that mare has not suffered a rider for years. It is most peculiar that her ladyship should be able to do so."
"Indeed," I replied quietly.
I set Tempest to a gentle trot, leading the way to the open gate. Glancing back, I saw Eleanor adjusting her hat, urging her dark steed to follow. The black mare responded with docility I had never witnessed.
So you recognize her, do you, Serene? I thought you belonged only to Chelsea. Perhaps you know who this woman truly is.
"Where are we going?" Eleanor called as she drew alongside.
"Follow me," was all I said, and spurred my horse forward.
Our destination was known only to me, a secret place in the depths of the wood—a place I had not visited in five, six years, perhaps longer. The precise number escaped me.
The mature horses carried us gracefully beneath the canopy, the sound of iron-shod hooves ringing rhythmically over root and loam—
clop, clop, clop,
—a music all their own.
Soon we arrived at our goal: a colossal oak, its gnarled roots plunging deep into the earth, its massive limbs stretching to the heavens. Centuries old, perhaps a thousand years if my eye did not deceive me, it stood alone at the center of a clearing, surrounded by lesser trees and a gentle brook gliding past its base. There was an undeniable enchantment to the place—a sanctity born of age and memory.
I dismounted first, then offered Eleanor my hand as she slid from the saddle.
"My thanks," she murmured, grasping my hand and dropping lightly to the ground.
I moved to the great tree, trailing my fingers over the rough bark, feeling the ache of old recollections. Eleanor watched, her face a study in confusion and curiosity, before she finally voiced her question.
"Why have you brought me here?"
I did not answer at once; there was a battle within me as to what I ought to say.
"Lord Alexander," she pressed, growing uneasy at my silence.
"Who are you?" I demanded at last, turning to her. "Tell me the truth."
She blinked in surprise.
"You are not Lady Eleanor Barnett. Who are you?"
I pressed harder, the old, unspoken doubts surging to the surface.
"I have told you—I am E—" she began.
"You are not her! Stop lying to me!" I thundered, my fist striking the ancient trunk. "Eleanor would never know of politics, or literature, or smile at me as you do. She never delighted in my company, not for a moment. Do you know why? Because she believed me a murderer—her sister's murderer. She believed herself shackled to a monster who had taken everything from her."
She looked as if she might faint from fear; never before had I let my temper blaze so openly. I dropped my gaze, fist clenched and trembling.
"If you were truly Eleanor, you would never have fallen in love with me. You would have borne your misery in silence until the day you died, and that—yes, that—would have spared you from me. And I—" I broke off, unable to finish.
"Spared me what? Say it!" she demanded, voice trembling.
"I cannot. However much it pains me, I cannot say it."
The words burned in my throat, the truth so close and yet forbidden. I turned away, pressing my brow to the ancient tree.
"Do you understand what agony it is for me, to see you suffer because of me?" I asked softly. "To know that your fate is entwined with mine, and yet to be powerless to give you what you deserve. So tell me—who are you? If you are Chelsea returned, in any guise, say so now. However impossible it may be, I would believe it if only you gave me cause."
"Why do you think I am your late beloved?" she whispered.
"Everything you are—your learning, your manner, your wit—these belong to Chelsea. At first, these qualities drew me to you, but the more I watched, the more I saw her in you. Chelsea was born a woman but had the mind of a statesman. She yearned for recognition, for a place in the world, but the world denied her. She became my wife out of necessity, forced by the limits of her sex."
As I spoke, I felt her arms slip around me from behind, slender and warm. Stunned, I glanced back to find her resting her cheek against my back.
"I am sorry I cannot give you the answer your heart desires," she said quietly. "I am not Chelsea, much as you wish to hear it. I am Eleanor. Does it not pain you, clinging to a love that burned to ashes so long ago?"
Her words, her embrace—they did nothing to quell my doubts. I turned, and for a moment I saw both women—the past and present—overlapping in a single form.
"Can you not open your heart, even a little?" she pleaded softly.
"I cannot."
"It's not fair to me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Fate has brought us together and still you push me away. I know it seems immoral—I am her sister, and yet, nothing we have done is wrong. You were betrothed to me more than a decade after her passing, and I know you care for me."
Ah, but I would curse the heavens for making us pawns in such a merciless game.
I lifted my hands, resting them on her slender arms, feeling the weight of her despair.
"I… I love you," she said.
No! Do not say those words—not to me. Never!
I drew her to my chest, holding her as if to shelter her from the world, but forced myself to utter the lie that would protect us both.
"But I do not love you."
Her face crumpled in pain. She knew it was a falsehood; my own heart ached at the deceit, but there was no other way. If we were to go on together, she had to hate me—nothing else would keep us safe. The closeness of man and woman only led to danger; now, at last, I had become the one who suffered first.
Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She brushed them away, tore herself from my arms, and mounted Serene, spurring the black mare into the forest, away from me.
I wasted not a moment, swinging onto Tempest's back to give chase. If she vanished into the depths of this wood, she might never find her way out again.
Why must fate deal only in loss and pain? I railed inwardly. If I were to lose Eleanor by my own hand, I could not bear to live in penance a day longer. If that came to pass, I would curse God Himself.
Eleanor
I never wanted things to turn out this way. In the beginning, all I wished for was to discover who he truly was—nothing more. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would fall for him so deeply, so irrevocably, that I could no longer free myself from these feelings. I always knew my heart was drawn to him, but I spent so long pretending it was not so—lying to myself, convincing myself that what I felt was nothing more than fleeting admiration. Yet from the very first moment, something in him caught my eye, and, somewhere along the way, our closeness blossomed into a love I could not name or resist.
Do you know what it feels like—to know, with aching certainty, that our hearts yearn for one another, and yet be forced to accept that we may never speak that love aloud? His stubbornness, his relentless commitment to his word, drives me to madness. If I could simply command my heart to forget him, I would have done so long ago. But feelings, once awakened, do not yield to will or reason.
Lost in this tumbling reverie, I hardly noticed the path beneath Serene's hooves, scarcely aware of which direction I rode or what it was I sought. Then—hooves thundered behind me. It was him, coming after me, calling me back. Yet in my confusion and pain, reason deserted me; I acted without thought.
"You must stop! Do not do anything reckless!" His voice rang out through the forest, pleading. But I could not bring myself to obey. Instead, I urged Serene onward, driving her to greater speed, fleeing from the man who pursued me so relentlessly. The path grew narrow, branches thickening overhead until I lost all control.
"Eleanor!"
A sharp cry escaped my lips—
"Ahh!"
—and then, suddenly,Serene leapt high to clear a great root that jutted from the earth. I felt myself lifted from the saddle, tumbling through the air—
—and then, merciful darkness swept all thought away.
Alexander
"Eleanor! Where are you?!"
My voice rang out, desperate and raw, echoing through the endless tangle of woods. I had chased after her, only to lose her somewhere amidst the gloom. All I found was Serene, standing at the stream, drinking quietly—her mistress nowhere to be seen upon her back. Ominous, terrible—if I did not find her before sundown, the forest would become a realm of utter darkness, teeming with wild beasts eager to hunt beneath the moon. The peril to her life was immense.
"Eleanor! Where are you?!"
I shouted her name with every ounce of strength left within me, my calls stretching on for hours as the last of daylight faded, yet not a single reply came. I had no choice but to return, to summon help, to gather every stable hand and villager for the search.
"My lady! Eleanor!"
Their voices resounded through the darkened forest, torchlights swaying in clusters as we scoured the undergrowth without rest. Nearly four hours had passed since she vanished—five more minutes, and it would be eight o'clock.
I retraced the path I believed she had taken, searching every twist and hollow of the terrain, until I reached the very spot where I last glimpsed her. There, among roots and shadows, I saw something—a small hand, upturned, half-buried beneath a scatter of leaves beside a great stone.
My heart clenched in terror, fearing I had found only her lifeless body. I flung myself toward her, sweeping away the debris to reveal Eleanor lying unconscious, her body battered, streaked with blood and bruises. I gathered her into my arms, frantic, checking for a faint breath. Her body trembled with cold, so I stripped off my cloak, wrapping it tightly around her, and set her beside the fire to warm her as best I could.
She is alive.
Tears streamed down my face, racked with guilt and relief as I held her shivering form.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, my lips close to her ear, brushing dirt from her face, longing to see it whole and unblemished once more. The wound on her brow was slick with blood—she must have struck her head against the rock as she fell, rendering her insensible.
"Eleanor… I am the cause of your suffering. Your life hangs by a thread upon the cliff's edge, your spirit unclaimed only by the grace of fate. The love you have for me has wounded you more deeply than any curse."
I bent my head to her chest, wracked with sorrow, unable to hold back the words I had never meant to say aloud.
"Oh, my dearest, will you ever smile for me again? Will you look upon me with laughter and light?"
"You admit it, then?" Her voice was no more than a whisper.
I started, lifting my head in disbelief at the sound.
"You're awake!"
Her small hand reached for my face, her words gentle and full of meaning.
"You called me the light of your heart. At last, you've accepted your own feelings. That alone is enough for me."
A smile of pure happiness broke across my face. I pressed my hand over hers, elated that she had awakened. But even in my joy, I realized my mistake—I must not let her say the forbidden words.
"No, Eleanor! You must not say it!"
But it was too late. Dark shadows coalesced around me, forming a mass of black mist that shone with an unholy light—molding itself into the grotesque, rotting form of a woman risen from the deepest pits of Hell. A shriek, so foul and piercing it burned my ears, split the night—a howl of rage, of pain, of hatred. The thing's face was crawling with worms, its flesh decomposing and fetid, stinking of death. Blood-red eyes glared, filthy hair tangled and matted, as its bony, blackened finger stabbed toward me.
"I have waited so long for this. I have watched your love blossom, and now the curse is fulfilled. You will pay for the sins your family has wrought. Her soul is mine, a tribute for the wrongs of your bloodline!"
"You've already taken Chelsea—will you never be satisfied?!" I roared.
It laughed, a chilling, hideous sound that scraped at my sanity.
"My vengeance is centuries old. Do you think a single woman would sate it? Every woman who dares love a son of your house shall be stolen by me. Each must be sacrificed until the line is ended. Hahaha!"
"What is that thing?" Eleanor, barely conscious, clung to my arm, struggling to comprehend.
"What does it mean by all this?" she asked, forcing herself to remain awake despite her wounds.
I had no words, no way to explain. The horror was only beginning.
"I curse you, Eleanor Hastings! In one month, your life shall be forfeit. On that day, I shall return for your soul!" it screamed, pointing a twisted finger at her, naming her in a voice not of this world.
A wave of purple fire erupted from the fiend, engulfing us both, searing us with flames from the abyss.
"Ahhhhhh!"
Though we burned together, only Eleanor felt the pain. I could do nothing to protect her. My arms wrapped tight, desperate to shield her, but the fire did not touch me as it did her. She writhed and screamed in agony, her flesh charred, her body collapsing to ash before my eyes. Her skin peeled away, revealing a new mark—a black narcissus blooming upon her chest. And then she fell still.
"The cursed blood of your family will pay with the lives of all who dare love truly, until the last heir is dust. You cannot protect anyone, Alexander, son of William! Hahahaha!"
With those words, it vanished, leaving nothing but its laughter and the darkness behind.