Eleanor
November 19th, 1847
And so, the dawn finally arrived. Lord Alexander prepared to depart the moment the clock struck half past seven, aiming to catch the nine o'clock train. I stood at the front of the manor to see him off—an agonizing farewell, made all the more terrifying by the uncertainty of what the future might bring.
"I must go now," he said softly.
"I will write to you every day. Please take care of yourself. Within two weeks from today, I will return."
He spoke his parting words while raising a gloved hand to caress my cheek tenderly, his eyes brimming with care and sorrow. It was clear his departure was an obligation, not a choice.
I handed him a handkerchief I had prepared—a token to remember me by.
"This is for you—a keepsake."
"Thank you. I will treasure it," he replied, accepting it before bending to kiss my forehead. Then he called out to Sir Wycliffe, who stood nearby.
"I will leave Theodore here to look after you in my absence. Should anything urgent arise, or should you need to send me a message, let him handle it without delay."
I nodded in understanding.
"It is time for me to go."
He turned away, making for the carriage. Unable to bear watching him leave, I lowered my gaze to the ground. Suddenly, he swept back, seizing me for an unexpected kiss amidst the astonished gaze of a dozen servants readying his luggage—a final, desperate kiss before our separation.
Then he climbed into the carriage, and the coachman drove off at once. I could only watch as the carriage rolled away from the manor, fading from sight, my heart trembling violently. But I could not afford to grieve for long—there was still so much to do, and time was running short.
I carried myself to the familiar sanctuary of the library, determined to finish reading the Penrose journal. Now, at last, I had the focus to decipher the difficult script. I had reached the entries of 1690 by Andrew, yet there was no mention of Dorothea or even Lilith. So far, his writings spoke only of daily life—Andrew, a young man tending the bakery with his wife and daughter. Even his own age was not recorded clearly, though I guessed he must have been between fifteen and twenty when he wrote these lines.
It struck me as odd that Andrew never spoke of his childhood or parents, as if he had never truly lived with them. This worried me; if he had been orphaned young, how could I hope to glean anything about Dorothea or Lilith? I feared this journal might be a fruitless endeavor after all.
Then, just as I was about to give up hope, fortune smiled upon me. Over halfway through the volume, I reached the year 1673 and found, at last, mention of his parents.
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27 September 1672
Today the shop is unusually quiet, for there is a protest demanding lower tax ceilings outside the church, leaving most of the neighborhood's businesses deserted. I used the time to tidy the attic, while Anna, my wife, and Dakota, our only daughter, went to the market square.
Suddenly, I heard a commotion downstairs—a young thief had broken in, rifling through our things in search of a money pouch. I rushed to the bedroom to fetch my pistol and managed to drive him off. Luckily, he was alone. I threatened him with the gun, ordering him to leave the shop and drop the pouch he'd snatched. He left, grabbing a loaf of bread and some loose change instead.
As I cleaned up the mess, I came across an old family photograph I had long forgotten—no idea how it had fallen to the floor. My grandmother had given it to me years ago. The picture shows my late parents and myself as a babe in arms, though I can barely remember them, for both died in an epidemic shortly after I was born. My grandmother raised me until her death, when I was but thirteen, and since then I have tended this shop alone.
I dusted off the photograph—a man standing behind a seated woman, with a baby boy on her lap: myself. I recalled the stories Grandmother told of my family.
My mother's name was Lilith Penrose, the youngest daughter of my grandfather. Both my parents died not long after I was born, lost to disease during those turbulent years of unrest and war. My aunt died, accused of witchcraft—she was burned alive, a fate both hideous and tragic. My grandfather died soon after Aunt Dorothea; only Grandmother and I survived to carry on. I have pasted this photograph here so it may never be lost to memory again.
Later, Anna and Dakota returned to find the shop in disarray. I reassured them the thief had fled, the money was safe, and that we should find a better place to hide it.
The rest of the day, Dakota helped Anna prepare supper. She'd bought a fine trout at the market, determined to grill it for me, as she knew it was my favorite.
Before bed, I read Dakota her favorite story yet again. She adored the mermaid heroine of that fairy tale and insisted magical creatures were real. When I reminded her they were but stories, she grew upset, crying herself to sleep. I sat with her until she finally calmed, before returning to my own room.
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Having finished the passage, I realized at last—Andrew was Lilith's son, not Dorothea's. From his writing, it was clear Dorothea had no children before her tragic death. Reading on, I doubted I would find much more—Andrew himself seemed to know little of Lilith's past. Still, I could not afford to overlook any detail, however small.
As I resolved to keep reading, the pain I had nearly forgotten returned with a vengeance. My chest tightened, breath growing short as the mark of the curse writhed beneath my skin, like worms burrowing in the flesh. My body trembled, wracked with pain so searing I thought I would die—pain akin to being sliced in two by a sword.
"Oh, God—help me! Someone, please help me!" I screamed.
A door burst open—Sir Wycliffe and Miss Atherton rushed to my side as I writhed on the floor, my body convulsing.
"My lady!"
"Hold on, my lady! Please, keep calm!"
I heard their voices only dimly before consciousness slipped away. When I came to, I found myself alone in utter darkness—no light, not even from the floor. I knew at once what was coming next. Before I could even think, the hideous face of that same witch lunged toward mine, binding my body tight, immobilizing me.
She opened her mouth wide in a grotesque smile, drool and pus mingling with blood on her lips, the stench of death making me gag. Her voice, rasping and chilling, was all too familiar.
"Did you think that by uncovering my past, you would find anything of value?"
No matter how horrifying the apparition, my resolve held firm.
"I will find a way to break your curse!"
"Hahahaha! How delightful you are—so determined, so easy to torment! The more you cling to this love, the more pitiful your soul will be when it shatters. I can hardly wait to devour you!"
She hooked her filthy, blackened fingernail under my chin, forcing me to look at her, then dragged another claw down my cheek, drawing a line of blood. Even in a dream, the pain was real.
"Shall we play a little game? I'll grant you a chance. If you can discover my true past before the moon has risen for three nights, I'll reveal the secret to breaking the curse."
"And if I fail?"
Her tempting words were never to be trusted. There had to be a price.
"Hahaha! You are clever, aren't you?" She pinched my cheeks until my lips puckered, forcing me to stare into the hollow of her eye. Then she slowly licked my face again.
"If you fail, your lifespan shall be halved. That is the price I demand."
I hesitated, but it was the only way. If I succeeded, she would reveal the means to lift the curse—however dangerous the risk, I was willing to take it.
"Very well! I accept your terms."
"Good, good. Our wager begins now. Tell me, do you know why the curse has been dormant these past days?"
I stared at the empty eye sockets, bracing myself for her answer.
"I wanted you to savor the happiness that man brings, to let you grow truly attached—so when the time comes, you'll see for yourself how he betrays you. Then you'll know the full agony of heartbreak, and your soul will burn with vengeance."
"I don't believe your lies. You want me to doubt him, to hate him, because that would strengthen your curse. But I won't fall for it. Lord Alexander would never betray me!"
She cackled. "How can you be so sure, Eleanor? You saw how he betrayed his former beloved for you, did you not?"
Deep down, I knew she was right—I had forced myself into his life, tried to claim him from his past. In the end, he had chosen me over Lady Chelsea. Still, I would not let her poison my heart.
A voice broke through my nightmare.
"Miss! Miss, please wake up!"
It was Lilian, clutching me tight. I touched my cheek, searching for a wound, but found none.
"You're back," I whispered, embracing her with relief.
"I saw you thrashing in your sleep. What's happened, Miss? What illness afflicts you?"
I lied—"I don't know what's wrong with me,"—for I could not reveal the truth of the curse.
"Haven't they called the physician? Why let you suffer so?"
"He has seen me, but found nothing amiss. There's no cure."
"You must eat, Miss. You're nothing but skin and bones."
I looked at my hands—gaunt, skeletal, my flesh wasting away. Fear overwhelmed me as I saw my hair fall out in handfuls. I wept, terrified I would die alone and unremembered.
Is this the death Lady Chelsea once faced? It is far more dreadful than I ever imagined.
Yet something within me still fought on. I slapped my own face, determined to recover my composure.
"Could I have some tea, please?"
"Of course, Miss." Lilian hurried out to fetch it. I sat at my writing desk, counting the days left on the calendar.
Three days had passed since the curse first struck. Twenty-seven remained. My original deadline was December 16th, but if I lost this wager, it would be shortened to December 1st—barely two weeks away. With my strength waning so fast, I feared I would soon be too weak to walk.
How can I tell him, if I fail? We'll never see each other again. Should I write, should I warn him of what I've agreed to?
I wavered, torn between honesty and protecting him from worry.
Lilian returned with the tea, interrupting my thoughts. I drank, feeling a little calmer, postponing my decision.
"Is everything settled in London?" I asked.
She looked down, hesitant.
"Yes, all is well."
"The relative you mentioned in your letter—was it Leo?"
"…Yes, Miss."
I didn't press her. She must have her reasons for secrecy.
"How are things between you and His Grace, if I may ask?"
She seemed genuinely concerned, seeing my frail state.
"He's confessed that he loves me."
"Truly?!" Her eyes widened in astonishment.
Last she knew, Lord Alexander had been avoiding me; now, we were in love. No wonder she was surprised.
"Yes. We love each other," I said, thinking back to the sweet words he had showered upon me in so short a time.
"I'm so glad for you, Miss. I only wish for your happiness now. But you must regain your health—the wedding day draws near."
Her words stung. Miss Atherton and Sir Wycliffe must not have told her we had postponed the wedding.
"There will be no wedding now. Because of my illness, Lord Alexander has postponed it indefinitely."
"I'm so sorry, Miss."
She knelt, clutching my hand in apology.
"It's all right—you weren't to know."
"You must get better, Miss. You must be as beautiful as you once were."
Her earnest gaze touched me, and I smiled faintly.
"Thank you, for coming back to me."
"It's late—you should rest, Miss. Tomorrow I'll prepare a hearty meal for you and ask Sir Wycliffe to call the physician again."
"Thank you."
"If you need anything, just call."
She left me to my thoughts. I resolved to finish the borrowed journal by tomorrow and return it within three days. The witch's challenge was now my sole focus.
I must uncover her past before the third night's moon!
Liliana
I slipped quietly into the manor's rear gardens, for I had arranged to meet Leo in secret. He had insisted on accompanying me back from London, claiming concern for Miss Eleanor's wellbeing, especially with such dire circumstances threatening her during my absence.
Looking back to the time I posted bail to secure his release from gaol, it had been a blessing his affliction was nothing grave as first feared—merely a skin ailment, easily managed with herbal ointments mixed with a little olive oil. He made a full recovery; his life had never truly been in danger.
Yet his survival only fanned the flames of resentment he bore for His Grace, doubling it tenfold. Thus, I came to reason with him once and for all—to beg that he let go of this fruitless grudge, for Miss Eleanor's sake above all. Now that it was clear she and her fiancé truly cared for one another, I was even more determined to protect that happiness—and to see Leo freed from the bitter chains of the past, that he might finally choose a life unbound from former wounds.
Though I know not what transpired between the three of them, it had always struck me that Leo's supposed goodwill—the warnings he delivered so earnestly—carried an undertone I did not trust. It was as though he sought to use my mistress as a pawn in his own vengeance, coaxing her into despising His Grace until the poor girl would rather take poison than endure her lot. But this time, I would not allow history to repeat itself.
"Leo? Are you there?"
I called for him in a hushed voice, careful not to draw attention. This was not Lord Wexford's estate, and one slip could cost us dearly.
There was a crackle in the undergrowth nearby—a shadow leaped from the thicket and resolved itself into Leo's familiar form before me.
"How is her ladyship? Tell me everything," he demanded.
"Miss Eleanor's condition is most grave. She's wasting away, skin and bone as if she's not eaten for weeks—and I had only been gone a single week," I replied, shaking my head. Even in the faint moonlight, I could see the worry etched deep on my brother's face as he seized my arm and shook me, almost desperate.
"Lilian, listen to me carefully. Her ladyship is in mortal danger. These are the very same symptoms Lady Chelsea suffered. It is the result of poison—deliberately given, meant to kill her slowly."
"What do you mean?" I gasped, hand flying to my mouth in disbelief.
I had always thought such talk mere rumor, but now the evidence was mounting. Her condition matched his claims, and the royal physician had found no cure.
"Lady Chelsea wasted away just like this before dying in agony. The poison he slipped her eats away at the body, leaves its victim weak, hallucinating demons, and in the end, destroys the organs entirely."
"But why would His Grace do such a thing?"
"He was jealous, that Lady Chelsea belonged to me. So now he seeks to destroy Miss Eleanor out of madness."
"Are you certain?"
His words sounded like wild fancy, yet Miss Eleanor's decline was undeniable. Leo drew closer, his eyes sharp as a blade.
"Believe me, sister. Or if you doubt, observe the lady for yourself. If she is tormented by visions—claims of demons in her dreams—then you will know the poison is at work."
Just then, the sharp creak of a window broke our tense exchange. Both of us turned to see Sir Wycliffe leaning out from a second-floor window to let in the night air. Leo pulled me into the shadows behind a row of carefully trimmed hedges.
"I must go," he whispered urgently. "If you can, get her ladyship away from here. If she stays, she will die."
I nodded, and with that, he disappeared into the darkness, leaving me anxious and uncertain how best to protect my mistress. I could not simply run with her; I had no proof to accuse His Grace of such a crime. I would have to find evidence of poison—somehow, and soon.
Eleanor
November 20th, 1847
Nothing. In the end, nothing was found beyond what I already know.
I sent word for the messenger to return the borrowed journal to its rightful owner and secluded myself once more in the library, determined to contemplate other possibilities.
If neither the archives at All Saints' Church in Derby nor the Penrose bakery yielded the answers I seek, only one possibility remains—a place that, more than any other, is likely to hold the truth.
That place is none other than Chatsworth House itself.
The fact that neither Lord Alexander nor his predecessors ever found the source of the curse does not mean that no evidence remains. It is entirely possible that the proof was never destroyed as he believed, but rather hidden—deliberately concealed in a place where someone did not wish it to be found.
That is my current hypothesis.
All the events seem to revolve around this very estate. There is no way the trail would simply vanish elsewhere. Even if the first William Cavendish wanted to erase all trace of Dorothea's existence, what if, even at the end—when he condemned her—he still loved her? If he did, there must be a record, some testament, somewhere. Thirty years of a secret love affair, neither taking another family; it is impossible that nothing remains.
The risk is great, basing my search on little more than conjecture, but it is still better than idly awaiting my death. Every success in scholarship has always begun with a question, a theory, and the courage to pursue it.
I began to search the library more thoroughly than ever before, though I had combed through it countless times already. Given its immense size, it is easy to overlook a hidden nook. This time, I focused on the areas containing journals and records of the Cavendish family—probing every shadow, every secret crevice and shelf, especially in those places that would elude casual observation.
It took three times as long as usual.
As I was rifling through the innermost panels of the old bookcases, Lilian came to find me.
"Dr. Connolly has arrived, miss. He is waiting downstairs with Sir Wycliffe."
I set my book aside and followed her down to the drawing room, where the royal physician sat sipping tea. He examined me as usual, with all his instruments and careful routines, but the results were the same as ever: he could not ascertain the cause of my wasting. He offered only herbal tonics to strengthen me, and told Lilian to ensure I ate heartily.
Lilian wore an expression of anxious confusion the entire time, peppering the doctor with question after question until even he seemed exhausted by her persistence. She simply could not understand why my health had declined so rapidly and unnaturally. Sir Wycliffe sat quietly throughout, as did I; for both of us knew the true cause, and could only keep up the charade.
After the doctor left, Sir Wycliffe handed me a letter.
"A letter from His Grace, miss. It arrived just a moment ago."
"Thank you," I replied, my heart fluttering with anticipation. His first letter, as he had promised, had arrived! Clutching it to my chest, I hastened back to the library, to the same rows of shelves where I had been searching. I longed to read it immediately, but was first confronted by the daunting sight of chaos before me. I sighed—how could I ever find a record whose existence is uncertain, in a library this vast? Even if I spent a whole month, I might not find it.
Ellie, how can you possibly find a diary you don't even know exists? This library is immense…even after searching every corner, a whole month might not suffice. What am I to do?
Then, inspiration struck. Last time, I had idly wished aloud to find the book Lord Alexander had once given Lady Chelsea, and a butterfly had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to guide me to what I sought. If I prayed again, perhaps something would answer.
So I clasped my hands and bowed my head:
If Lady Chelsea can hear this plea, please, show me a sign that will lead me to the clue I need to lift this curse.
I opened my eyes, glancing left and right, searching for a butterfly or some sign, but nothing appeared.
Was it just my imagination? Maybe that butterfly was just an accident after all…
"It makes sense, I suppose. How could I expect anything when her soul was consumed by that witch? If a soul is devoured, what remains? No Heaven, no peace. Only the endless night of damnation. Perhaps that is how one becomes a demon."
The thought made me shiver. I hugged my thin, wasted arms around myself, steadying my breath. Despair is nourishment for evil. If I am to survive, I must depend on myself. I cannot let hopelessness consume me.
With renewed resolve, I plunged back into the search. His letter, still unopened, would wait for a quiet moment before bed—something to soothe my withered heart before I sleep.
"Miss! I've brought your tonic,"
Lilian's voice startled me, her location uncertain within the vast library. I heard the clink of a tray as it was set down, then she appeared, pressing the cup into my hand.
"Please drink this first, miss. I'll go prepare a hearty luncheon for you."
I took the cup, forcing myself to drink despite the pungent bitterness of gentian and quinine root. The taste was wretched, but I finished it all, hoping it might help my failing appetite.
When noon came, Lilian had prepared a lavish spread in the dining room—various meats and dishes arrayed to tempt me. I forced myself to eat, even as every bite felt like swallowing fire. My throat was so tight it hurt to swallow, but I pressed on, knowing I must. My hands trembled, and I could not manage more than a few shelves in the library before exhaustion overtook me.
At least today, I managed to eat more than before. Perhaps Lilian's care had made the food more palatable. But suddenly, a wave of nausea overcame me. I dashed for the chamber pot and retched until I brought up not just my meal, but dark blood as well. The smell was foul—putrid, like rotting flesh.
Lilian, pale and shaken, rushed to my side, followed by three other maids, all whispering with horror. Now I understood the tales of Lady Chelsea's demise—how it had all seemed so unnatural, almost unholy.
"Water, please—quickly—"
Lilian brought me a glass, her hands shaking. I drained it, wiped my mouth, and turned to her.
"Tonight I must find it. I have no more time to lose."
"But, miss, your health—"
"No, Lilian. I truly have no more time."
She saw in my eyes that nothing she said would stop me.
Forgive me, Lilian. This illness is not from any earthly ailment—the curse is eating me alive from within.
Sir Wycliffe entered then, returning from his morning business, and, seeing my state, immediately carried me to my bed and dismissed the staff. He stood beside me, his face uncharacteristically grave.
"Your ladyship's symptoms have advanced to the second stage much faster than usual. I must inform His Grace at once."
"What do you mean—the second stage?"
He turned away, pondering, then explained:
"The curse comes in three stages. First, it torments its victim with fear—nightmares, apparitions, and so on, all while gnawing at the soul. The second stage is when it begins to consume the body itself. Usually, this does not begin until the third or fourth week. For you, it has come in less than a week. That is not normal."
His words frightened me, but I was also curious.
"How do you know all this?"
"I have served the Cavendish family for many years. There have been more than a few ladies who suffered this fate."
"So Chelsea was one of them?"
"Yes. And, if I may, all I know of Dorothea is what the previous His Grace William told me. He tried his whole life to find evidence to lift the curse, but failed."
"I understand. But, please, tell me what you know."
He nodded, then began:
"As far as I know, Mistress Dorothea was a commoner who fell in love with the first William Cavendish, and he with her, from their youth. Even after he was obliged to marry Lady Mary Butler, their love endured. The first Duke was a man of strong convictions—he helped lead the Seven Lords in deposing King James II, installing Prince William of Orange as King, and establishing the new constitutional order.
But to erase all traces of his former life, he accused Dorothea of witchcraft, leading to her being burned at the stake. That is all I know."
"Thank you for telling me."
He bowed and excused himself, promising to call Lilian to sit with me.
His story matched Lord Alexander's exactly. That means His Grace William the sixth duke must have learned it from somewhere—someone—or something.
That, then, is what I must find. I cannot believe there is truly no record left anywhere.
Liliana
'I do not understand. I prepared every meal for my mistress with my own hands, yet she continues to waste away before my eyes.'
I stood anxiously in front of her bedchamber, wringing my hands while Sir Wycliffe requested a private audience with her. My heart was restless, my mind whirling with suspicion. Who could possibly have slipped poison into her food, and when? I was always so careful, examining and tasting everything myself before it was served.
'Perhaps I ought to consult Leo about this matter.'
Creak... Bang!
Sir Wycliffe emerged from my mistress's chamber. I rushed to him without thinking, my worry overriding my manners.
"What did you and my lady discuss just now?" I asked, unable to hide my concern.
He glanced at me, his eyes cold as ice.
"It was a private matter between Her Ladyship and His Grace. I cannot share it with you."
"I—I beg your pardon, sir. I shall return to tend to my mistress, then," I stammered, retreating toward the chamber door.
"Miss Woodward."
His voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned, almost trembling at the sternness in his tone.
"Yes, sir?" I managed.
He fixed me with a piercing gaze.
"I will warn you only once: do not place your faith in idle gossip. There is no one in this house who seeks to do Her Ladyship harm. The only true danger comes from those who cannot let go of their old grudges."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving me standing there, stunned by his warning.
'Does he know I have been secretly meeting with Leo?'