Eleanor
November 18, 1847
Amidst the thin morning mist, the silhouette of the ancient church rose in the middle of the dew-covered lawn, its steep roof reaching for the sky, its grey stone walls streaked with moss. The sound of bells rang out from the tower—
Gong... gong...
—echoing solemnly through the stillness. The oak door, carved with a cross, stood slightly ajar, revealing the dim glow of candlelight within. Together, he and I stepped through the heavy door, seeking out the most important person in this place. It was as if he already knew we were coming.
A young vicar, his figure trim, hair short and a shade darker than Lord Alexander's, with amber eyes and dressed in somber black, emerged from a hidden corner and greeted us warmly.
"Welcome, your grace, my lady."
"It is good to see you again, Vicar Michael," Lord Alexander replied at once as the vicar drew near.
"I have come to ask a favor of you."
"And what brings you to seek me here, your grace?"
"I wish to request access to the records of those who perished in the witch hunts during the reign of King James II."
The vicar pressed a thoughtful finger to his chin, weighing the request.
"I have no objection to that, but I must warn you, the records you seek may not have survived the centuries. They have been locked away for a hundred years or more, and may have fallen prey to both rats and time."
"I understand," Lord Alexander replied, "but we must try, all the same."
Vicar Michael studied Lord Alexander's face, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. Despite his youth, he seemed wise beyond his years, and easily likable.
"Very well. Please, follow me."
We followed him through a side door beside the altar, passing a succession of doors until we reached an old wooden one at the very end, battered by age. The vicar produced an antique key from his pocket and unlocked the heavy padlock. As the door opened, a thick cloud of dust filled the air, forcing us to raise our hands to shield our faces, coughing at the disturbance.
Lord Alexander reached into his coat and offered me a clean handkerchief to cover my nose, just as I began to cough. The vicar busied himself lighting candles at odd intervals around the room, illuminating the close, cluttered space—shelves and cabinets stacked with books and documents, pressed close together in the gloom.
He led us to a section marked by a sign on the upper shelf: A.D. 1600–1700. He turned to us again.
"The records from King James II's era should be in this section. I'll leave you for a moment to fetch some tea. Please take as much time as you need."
"Thank you, Vicar."
Once he had disappeared from view, I turned to Lord Alexander at once.
"How do you know Vicar Michael? You seem surprisingly familiar."
"I used to come here every Tuesday for a while, long ago. I became acquainted with him then."
"Really? Why did you come here so often?"
He hesitated, his expression turning somber.
"I came to pray."
"I once believed that if I prayed sincerely enough, God would return Chelsea to me. But… it was nothing more than a fool's hope, thinking I could outwit death itself."
I understood. I could not think him selfish for this. Had I lost him, I too would have done anything, anything at all, no matter how irrational. Now, I finally understood Lady Chelsea's desperation in her final days—the way love could bind someone, refusing to let go. But whatever had been, Lord Alexander was mine now. Perhaps fate had written a new story for us both.
I reached out and touched his sleeve, a silent reassurance that the past had passed.
"Do you know the name of the witch?" I asked gently. "And the year she was burned?"
"My brother once told me. Her name was Dorothea Penrose."
"And the year?"
"It was shortly after the overthrow of King James II."
I pieced it together: if she was executed during the Glorious Revolution, her name would be listed somewhere between 1688 and 1694—the years in which the dukedom of Devonshire was first established.
"Then we must search the records from 1688 to 1694."
We began leafing through the books, searching for her name within those years. Yet a new question gnawed at me: what truly led to her betrayal? Why had William betrayed her so deeply that her soul became twisted with vengeance?
"You know why she was betrayed, don't you? Tell me."
I pressed him, gently but firmly. Perhaps the story he knew was little more than rumor, but it was better than nothing.
He was silent for a long moment, reluctant to stain the name of his own ancestor.
"…My brother told me this, though it is not found in any official record. Dorothea was a local girl from Derby—a secret lover of William's, before his marriage. She was burned as a witch because he accused her himself. He needed to erase any scandal before assuming the title of duke."
I understood then. Even if there was no proof, it felt plausible. The betrayal was born of love twisted by ambition, by the need to protect a rising noble house. She had been his mistress for decades, yet he condemned her to death for the sake of his own name.
The more I considered it, the more it made sense—though who could truly know the heart of someone long dead? Perhaps their love had always been doomed by circumstance, and the pain of that betrayal became a curse strong enough to endure for centuries.
Many of the books were still in fair condition, though some pages had faded beyond reading, and others bore the marks of rodents. At last, I found her name.
"I've found it!"
Lord Alexander laid aside the volume he was searching and came over to look.
"She was condemned to death by burning, accused of practicing the dark arts. The record states she died in 1690, at the age of forty-eight."
A brief biography followed.
"Dorothea Penrose, born in Derby in 1642. Daughter of the town baker, Mr. Jill Penrose and Mrs. Mary Penrose. The youngest sister was named Lilith Penrose."
"The Penrose bakery!" Lord Alexander echoed the name, surprised.
"You know it?"
"No, I've only seen it in town. I never knew it had any connection to her."
"Then the next place for us to search is the Penrose bakery."
Knock, knock!
A sudden rapping at the door startled us. We turned to see Vicar Michael returning, bearing a tray of tea.
"I've brought you some tea."
"We found what we were looking for!" I blurted, unable to contain my joy.
"Splendid! You must be truly blessed today. Would you care to join me in the parlor for a cup of tea before you go?"
I felt Lord Alexander hesitate, and quickly tugged at his sleeve. There was no need to rush—the curse had quieted for now, and our search had already made more progress than I'd dared hope.
He caught my eye for a moment, understanding my intention.
"Very well," he said, accepting the vicar's invitation.
✽ ✽ ✽
"What is it that you are searching for?"
Vicar Michael inquired, his eyes resting thoughtfully upon us as we sipped our tea, the warmth helping to wash the dust from our throats. I glanced at Lord Alexander, silently asking how much we might reveal to an outsider. He nodded almost imperceptibly—reassuring me that we could trust this man without reservation.
"We are seeking the history of Mistress Dorothea Penrose, a local woman who was accused of witchcraft," Lord Alexander replied.
"And why, may I ask, do you pursue the memory of one who perished centuries ago?"
"Eleanor and I are under the shadow of a curse—one laid by this very witch, long ago. As a servant of the Church, I hoped you might know a way to break it."
Vicar Michael showed no sign of alarm at Lord Alexander's confession. He only sat quietly, contemplating, his manner calm and measured.
"There is nothing in this world greater than the power of God, your grace. Breaking a curse is not beyond hope."
"Do you mean that you could do it?" I asked quickly.
He shook his head. "No. To dispel a generational curse is not the same as casting out a demon from a possessed soul. In such cases, perhaps a priest from the Vatican might assist you. But a curse of darkness is more akin to a chain forged in the underworld itself. Such curses act according to the will of the one who cast them, their hatred as fuel."
"Those who devote their souls to Lucifer wield formidable power, and every curse they weave contains its own condition for undoing—always. For Lucifer, the fallen archangel, the king of the abyss, delights in turning fate into a cruel game. You must win his game if you are to break the curse."
"Why would God abandon us to such torment?" I whispered, a sting of bitterness in my voice. It seemed so unjust, that a demon might prey upon souls, feeding on hatred, and God would allow it.
"My lady, you misunderstand the Lord," the vicar said gently, shaking his head.
"Though God cannot intervene directly in such matters, and though you must find your own way to break the chains that bind you, He has not abandoned you. He watches, ever-present, sending help in many forms so that you might triumph over evil. The only question is whether you will recognize His aid and endure the trial set before you."
His words became a beacon of hope in my heart. I had always believed in God, and meeting Lord Alexander in this time—I could not accept that it was merely chance.
"I shall pray that you succeed," the vicar said solemnly.
When our tea was finished, we excused ourselves to continue our quest. But just as I crossed the threshold, a curious pull turned me back toward the altar.
There, the wooden statue of Christ hung serenely above the stone table—His head crowned with thorns, His hands and feet pierced and bloodied. Yet, in His suffering and death, there was a profound and righteous sacrifice, a redemption for all mankind.
Without thinking, I stepped away from Lord Alexander, drawn to stand before the altar. I gazed up at the crucifix, hands clasped, and bowed my head in silent prayer. Lord Alexander waited quietly by the door, his expression composed and patient as I offered my plea to the heavens:
Please, dear Lord, let us break this curse. Let me remain with the one I love until the world itself must end and part us.
When I had finished, I turned back to Lord Alexander, only to find him reading an urgent letter that Sir Wycliffe had just handed him—his face dark with concern, brows drawn in deep worry. At once, I knew something grave had happened, and our journey was about to take another perilous turn.
✽ ✽ ✽
I know well that God often sets strange and arduous trials for those who believe in Him, but this time, I felt as though I were being sorely tested—if not outright tormented—by the Almighty. I had only just prayed for us to remain together, and yet fate now threatened to separate us, sending him far away to a place fraught with peril.
"Eleanor."
He called my name softly, his hand pressing gently upon my lap, pulling me back from my melancholy reverie as we journeyed toward the Penrose Bakery in town.
"I will return to you as swiftly as I am able."
"I understand," I replied. "You need not worry for me—I am certain I shall discover a way to break the curse before you return."
I tried to give him a reassuring smile, though sorrow glimmered in my eyes. He responded by taking my hand in his large, warm grasp, squeezing it tightly.
"How can you ask me not to worry? Do not speak of such impossibilities. If I could bring you with me, I would."
By chance, I glanced at his other hand, which gripped his cane so tightly that it trembled. I could see how bitterly he resented the hand fate had dealt, and yet he had no choice but to obey duty's call.
Half an hour earlier, he had received an urgent summons from Queen Victoria herself, commanding him north to Manchester with all haste. He was to depart at dawn the next day, to oversee and respond to the emergency gripping the nation: a great epidemic now threatened the railway industry—his life's work.
I recalled from history that, in 1847, England was ravaged by severe public health crises, with typhoid and cholera decimating the great industrial cities of Manchester and Liverpool, claiming countless lives.
This summons was of the utmost urgency, and its duration uncertain. Should he be required to remain there more than a month, and I failed to find a cure in time, we might never see each other again.
Even at the moment of my death, he might not be at my side. Yet if I were to insist that he abandon his duty to return merely to witness my last breath, I would be forcing him to choose between his country and his heart—an injustice I could never bear. No, the only path left was to break the curse. That is not to mention the uncertainty of his own fate; there was every possibility he could contract the very disease and perish himself. It was a duty as perilous as marching to war, but this was the burden that nobility must bear.
At last, we arrived at the little bakery in the heart of the town. It stood at the corner of an old, cobbled street near St. Peter's Church in Derby. The brick façade, once warm and golden, was now stained grey from years of rain and smoke from the baking ovens. The timber supporting the front door bowed gently, as though nodding in greeting—or perhaps simply from the passage of more than a century.
Above the clouded window, where dust had gathered thickly, hung a faded wooden sign, the ink almost vanished: "Penrose Bread Baker." The letters were so pale they could barely be read, yet the aroma of fresh bread drifting on the air as we neared was proof enough that the ovens still burned within.
The shop was tiny—three people would crowd it. The wooden floor creaked beneath our feet as we entered. Behind the counter, loaves of coarse baguette, pumpkin bread, and pale white rolls wrapped in thin linen were stacked haphazardly, still steaming.
At the back, the old brick oven shouldered with a faint haze of smoke. Scorched marks along the walls bore witness to decades—no, centuries—of constant use.
A woman in her fifties, flour dusting her apron, was talking to a small boy trading a penny for a single roll. Her hands, gnarled but deft, moved with practiced ease, her fingertips still pink from handling dough only minutes before. Though the shop was aged, it was alive—full of warmth, history, and the spirit of bakers who had kept its fire for generations.
"Welcome," the woman greeted us with a bright, genuine smile, only to pause and blink in surprise when she took in our attire, recognising at once our rank.
"Good day, my lady and your grace. How may I be of service to you?"
"Good day, madam," I replied. "We are here seeking the proprietor of this bakery."
"I am she," the woman answered. "My name is Mary Ann Price—a descendant of the founders of this shop. What brings such distinguished guests to my humble bakery?"
It was a reaction we had come to expect. Nobility rarely frequented such small shops in the winding lanes; they sent servants, or summoned merchants to their estates. For us to arrive in person was remarkable indeed.
"Are you descended from Penrose, the founder?" Lord Alexander asked.
"Yes, I am. My family has kept this bakery for generations."
"Do you know of Dorothea Penrose?" I inquired.
The woman's face clouded with confusion, her eyes searching her memory.
"I do not believe I've heard that name before, madam. Might you tell me where you came by it?"
"Dorothea Penrose was the daughter of Jill Penrose and Mary Penrose, who founded this bakery."
"I must apologise—I have no knowledge of such a name in our family. Perhaps she was an ancestor lost to the passage of time."
"Do you have any family records?"
She hesitated, then replied,
"We are but simple folk, my lady. We have kept no written records as noble families do. But if you are interested, I do have the journal of my great-grandfather."
"If it would not trouble you, might we read it?" Lord Alexander interjected. The woman seemed reluctant, but Lord Alexander quickly reassured her
"You need not worry. I shall offer you fair compensation. Tomorrow, one of my staff will come to purchase all your bread, and if her ladyship is satisfied, I shall place a standing order every week for bread to be distributed to the poor."
He had observed her earlier, kindly exchanging bread for a few coins with a ragged street child. His offer was both generous and well-timed.
The woman's hands came together in gratitude.
"Thank you, your grace—I would be honoured."
Mrs. Price invited us to a small sitting room behind the shop.
"Would you care for some tea?" she offered.
"That will not be necessary—we have had quite enough, thank you," Lord Alexander replied.
"Very well, please wait a moment. I will fetch the journal."
She disappeared for about fifteen minutes, returning at last with an ancient, red leather-bound book. The cover was so faded as to be almost illegible, but she handed it to me with reverence.
"This is the journal of Andrew Penrose, my great-grandfather—grandson of Jill Penrose."
I received it with care. The book was in remarkably good condition, though the paper within was fragile and threatened to crumble at the lightest touch. I opened it gently, reading the careful entries—daily accounts of the life of the baker, a man who lived generations after Dorothea, but who, I hoped, had preserved some mention of her.
The first entry was dated 1699, making Andrew the son of either Lilith or Dorothea. The handwriting was hurried and small, requiring great concentration to decipher. I knew I would need time—far more than could be spent in a single day.
"If it would not trouble you, might I borrow it to read at my leisure?" I asked. "It is not possible to finish in a single afternoon."
She considered a moment, then nodded.
"You may, madam—but please, bring it back to me in its present condition. It is precious to me, a legacy from my forebears."
"I promise to treat it with the utmost care, and will return it within three days at most."
Alexander
I completed the papers and revisions required for the Midland Railway Company. At first light tomorrow, I must depart once more for Manchester, though the thought of being parted from her for even a few hours is agony. Yet Eleanor remained wholly absorbed, steadfast in her efforts to decipher the journal we had only just borrowed—so focused she hardly spared a moment's rest.
She sat quietly on the long settee across from my desk, not uttering a word, never calling out or asking after me. I watched her delicate features drawn into a frown of concentration, my heart burning with anxious turmoil. Outwardly I appeared calm, yet within, a fire raged. If I failed to resolve matters in Manchester before the month was out, and if the curse could not truly be broken as we so desperately hoped, her life would surely be extinguished before I ever laid eyes upon her again.
We were each racing against time—each battling our own obstacles, with freedom from this cruel fate as the finish line. If I could choose, I would remain by her side and make the most of whatever time remained, but the command came directly from above; there was no other choice but to obey. Yet, before we lost even the last memory of happiness together, an idea took shape in my mind.
"Can you play a piece of music?" I asked suddenly.
She turned at once, startled, perhaps still caught in the tangle of emotions the reading had provoked.
"You mean the pianoforte?"
"Yes."
"I'm not certain—I haven't played since I was a child."
I left the desk and came to sit beside her, slipping my arm gently around her slender waist. Her body had grown alarmingly thin, her ribs pronounced beneath the gown, a grim reminder that the curse was still working its evil, even if its effects had been dormant for some time.
"Have you found what you seek?"
"Not yet. The script in this journal is the most difficult I have ever tried to read. I may need more time."
"I think you should rest your eyes a while, love. What can you hope to find, reading in such dim light?"
She glared at me, as if prepared to scold, but I interrupted before she could speak, hoping she would understand what I truly wished for.
"I know every moment is precious to us now. But please—after tomorrow, we cannot know what awaits us. I may never see you again. Allow me to spend just one more night by your side, without distraction."
Her stern expression crumbled. Suddenly she collapsed against my chest, weeping in great, shuddering sobs.
"I'm not ready to be parted from you! I can't bear to let you go!"
"If I could be selfish, I would beg you to stay," she choked out, "but I know I cannot. The Queen's orders are absolute."
Her tears tore at my soul. I gathered her tightly in my arms, determined that every second remaining would be etched in memory. In the hush broken only by the flickering candlelight, we held one another fast.
"I would choose the same, but I cannot betray my oath to the Queen," I whispered.
I pressed my hand to her shoulder, then raised her chin so I could kiss her—long, deep, and sweet. Desire awoke slowly between us, as it so often had, and my hand strayed beneath her skirts almost without thought. Yet I forced myself to pause, mastering the ache, for there was something I wished to do first.
I lifted her into my arms and carried her to the piano in the next room, settling her gently upon my lap as I took the bench.
"I want to teach you my favorite piece. Whenever you miss me, play it, and you will know I am beside you. And when I hear it, I too shall know you are near, no matter the distance."
She wrapped her arms around my neck, gazing up at me with such a look of tenderness it nearly undid me. Then she turned to the keyboard, placing her fingers as I directed. There was no time for lessons in theory or scales; all I could hope for was to teach her the basic positions, so that she might recall a single, simple melody.
The piece was 'Moonlight Sonata' by Ludwig van Beethoven, the great German composer.
Eleanor learned with astonishing quickness—after only a few attempts, she could follow the sequence, if a little uncertainly. The pleasure she took in mastering even these few notes brought a bright smile to her face, a joy I had not seen for so long. For a brief moment, music swept away all her sorrow.
I let her play on, laying my head gently against her shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent at the nape of her neck, letting my lips wander along the curve of her throat, grazing her skin lightly with my teeth. My affection for her grew only more tender as I felt her soft gasp in response.
"Mm…"
Her face flushed, but her fingers did not falter, as if she wished to keep me present through music as well as touch. The desire that I had forced down earlier now surged up with renewed strength. My hand found its way beneath her dress, cupping her breast, caressing her as my lips traced from her shoulder to her ear. She faltered at last, reaching up to touch my cheek, her eyes half-closed with longing.
"If you cannot bear the ache, you must stop me now," I whispered, my breath hot against her skin. "If I begin, I shall not be able to stop myself."
Her answer came in a ragged sigh.
"I can bear it. I want you, too. Give me a night to remember—a last sweetness before we must say goodbye."
"You tempt me too well, little one. You are far too lovely."
No more words were needed. I slipped her gown from her shoulders and turned her toward me, kissing and caressing her until my restraint was lost. I shed my own clothes and joined our bodies together at her invitation.
"Ah—!"
I lifted her, setting her gently against the body of the piano. She clung to the edge, arching beneath me, her hair tumbling as we moved in rhythm, her cries echoing through the chamber—each one tearing at my heart, for I knew this might be the last time.
"I love you, Eleanor. I love you," I murmured over and over, willing the words into her soul.
She raised her eyes to me and drew me down for a kiss.
"I love you, too."
Time passed in a blur—her body moving with mine, her voice calling my name at my urging, until at last she collapsed, trembling, against the wall. I caught her up, carried her to the bath, and washed her gently before bringing her to bed.
I held her close as she drifted into sleep, marveling that the curse had not struck. It seemed almost as if some greater power held it at bay. I brushed a stray lock of hair from her brow and pressed a kiss to her cheek, whispering my promise.
"I shall return to you in two weeks. I swear it."