Eleanor
"Sob… sob… sob…"
I did not know where I was. The last thing I remembered was running through the forest, but now… I found myself adrift in an endless void, surrounded by nothing but darkness, as if my body were suspended in the air of another realm entirely.
There, I saw a woman with long, jet-black hair kneeling on the ground, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with grief as she wept bitterly. I hesitated, but concern drew me closer.
"Are you all right? Why are you crying here all alone?"
"I—I have been betrayed…"
"Who betrayed you?"
"It was him! HIM! He betrayed me! And he will betray you, too!!"
Suddenly, her wailing transformed into a shrill, ragged scream. She repeated again and again that someone had wronged her.
"Who would betray me? And who are you? Tell me!"
She refused to lift her face. Instead, her sobs twisted into an eerie, mad laughter.
"Ha… Ha… God must truly despise you, how foolish you are. You escaped your fate once, and yet you choose to run back to him. How stupid…"
Her hands still hid her features, but her voice grew colder.
"Your soul is mine, Eleanor. This time, there is no escape. Hahaha!"
At last, she looked up—and I recoiled in horror. Her face was monstrously deformed, like a specter. Deep, empty eye sockets stared back at me, her skin was a sickly purple, shriveled to bone and sinew. Her mouth stretched wide in a grotesque grin, the lips splitting to her ears to reveal rows of jagged teeth. Blood began to pour from the empty sockets, streaming down her face.
Terror seized me; I stumbled backward, falling onto an invisible ground, scrambling away on my hands and knees. But she slithered after me, insect-like, pinning me down with inhuman strength, her face pressing close, bloody drops splattering my cheeks as she grinned wider, a long, blackened tongue licking my face.
"You will suffer the curse until your final breath. I shall devour your soul, piece by piece, so you die in agony. And remember—he is the one who doomed you to this fate. One day, he will betray you, just as he betrayed me."
"NOOOO!"
I shrieked in terror as her jaws unhinged, gaping impossibly wide, the monstrous fangs sinking into my flesh, scarlet blood spurting through the darkness—
"Eleanor! It was only a dream!"
A familiar voice cut through the nightmare, shaking me awake. I opened my eyes, sweat-drenched and gasping for air, finding myself not in the forest nor that unholy void, but in a familiar bedroom, cradled tightly in the arms of the man I loved.
"Wh—what happened? Ah!" Pain stabbed through my body, especially my temple. Instinctively, I pressed a hand to my head.
"You fell from your horse when you tried to run from me," Lord Alexander said quietly, his voice thick with concern.
The memory came rushing back: our bitter quarrel, my desperate flight, the fall—then the horror that followed, uncertain whether it had been real or merely a fevered dream. But now another pain, deeper and sharper, flared at my chest.
"Aah! It hurts! It hurts so much!"
I writhed and screamed, clutching my chest as though my heart itself were on fire, thrashing until Lord Alexander held me tightly, restraining me in his embrace until the agony gradually ebbed, leaving me breathless and exhausted.
Panting, I looked down, loosening my grip on my chest—only to see something burned, almost branded into my skin: a black, flower-shaped mark, etched into my flesh, tendrils like blackened veins spreading outward. Hideous and unnatural, it called forth memories I had tried to suppress.
"What happened last night? Who was that woman?"
I asked, voice trembling, while he held me even closer, as if fearing I might vanish if he let go. My heart ached with the knowledge that he had finally admitted his love, yet fear choked any joy I might have felt.
"Please, tell me—did I die last night?"
Fragments of the demon's words echoed in my mind, though everything was blurred by pain. My body began to tremble again, gripped by the terror of the curse that now bound me. He raised his hand to cradle my head, his other arm around me, his breath shuddering against my back.
"I will tell you the truth, all of it, when you are well. For now, rest—heal your wounds. I will not leave your side, not for a moment. I will care for you until you are strong again."
His voice was soft, yet I could hear the grief in every word—the sorrow of a man who loved, but could not save me from this fate. How could that monster ever claim he would betray me, when I could feel his tears upon my hair?
Alexander
I sat at my desk, pressing the family seal into the red wax of each envelope before me—one after another—closing each letter with finality. The study was shrouded in dim candlelight, a single flame flickering on the wide wooden table. At my side stood an elderly gentleman, my companion in these midnight hours.
"I trust you to see these delivered first thing tomorrow," I said quietly.
"At once, Your Grace."
"And one more thing—see that no one disturbs me or Lady Eleanor, under any circumstances. Tell my sister and Lady Beatrice to return home at once."
"I shall see to it by morning, sir."
"One last matter," he ventured, his tone carefully neutral. "Do you intend to inform Lord Barnett of… all that has happened?"
I paused, the question striking deeper than I wished to admit. I knew what was right, but I could not bear to let him know—not yet. His heart would shatter if he learned that his youngest daughter was now condemned to the same fate as another before her.
"Not yet. When the time comes, I shall bear the full weight of his wrath myself. Even if he were to demand my head, I will not run from it."
"And Lady Eleanor, sir? Will she not wish to tell her father?"
"I trust her judgment," I replied with conviction. "I do not believe she wishes to burden him with such grief."
Theodore stood beside me throughout the long, heavy night, watching as I finished my grim business. I had no choice but to send out letters to withdraw the wedding invitations sent to hundreds of guests; Lady Eleanor's condition made it impossible for the ceremony to proceed.
"Would you fetch me a bottle of whisky?" I asked, voice hoarse.
He hesitated, searching my face, but bowed and slipped away into the shadows. I pressed my palm to my brow, dragging my hand down over my face, wishing for a reprieve from sorrow—if only for this night.
A moment later, Theodore returned with the whisky and poured a modest measure into a glass.
"Fill it," I commanded.
"Is that wise, sir?"
"Do as I say."
He complied, and I drained the glass in a single, burning swallow, longing to be drowned—if only tonight—by oblivion. Let me forget this wretched pain for just one night.
Eleanor
November 17th, 1847
When I woke the next morning, the first thing I did was look for him—the Duke whom I loved. I found him collapsed, face-down and utterly spent, on the floor at the foot of my bed. The sharp scent of spirits lingered about him; he must have drunk heavily last night, though it was unlike him to lose himself so completely to drink.
I reached out, gently shaking his broad shoulders, softly calling his name. He did not stir.
"Sir Wycliffe—are you nearby?" I called.
He appeared at the door at once, stepping to the bedside, glancing toward his master's slumbering form.
"What happened to His Grace last night?"
"He drank whisky until he passed out, my lady. I tried to help him to his chamber, but he refused—he wished only to remain here, to watch over you."
"But why would he drink so much?"
"I cannot say, my lady. I trust the Duke will explain it himself, in due time. If there's nothing else, I shall leave you."
"Wait, one more question. Has Lillian returned yet?"
"Not yet, my lady. Would you like me to call for Miss Atherton?"
"No, that isn't necessary. I was only curious."
"In that case, I shall excuse myself."
He left me alone in the room with the sleeping Duke. I tried to sit him upright against the edge of the mattress—my own body still sore and bruised, unsteady as I moved. In the silence, I found myself gazing down at the cursed mark upon my chest, still struggling to comprehend that it was truly there.
The demon. The witch. Who—what—was she? Would this curse truly claim my life, as her awful voice had decreed? Was this the same fate that claimed Lady Chelsea? Was Lord Alexander truly the root of the curse, the reason he called himself a murderer? Though so much was clear now, the whole truth eluded me still. I could do nothing but wait for him to awaken and pray for answers.
"Eleanor… I am so sorry." The words slipped from his lips in a dream, as he lay at my feet, haunted even in his sleep.
I watched his face, heart torn between love and grief, fear and hope, despair and fulfillment. To see him brought so low by sorrow for my sake, and yet to feel the overwhelming warmth of love—the love he had finally confessed, even as it cost me my life. I reached out, caressing his unshaven cheek, my heart aching with guilt for feeling joy in the midst of such grief.
"Even if this soul is soon to be claimed, know this—your heart is already mine."
Alexander
After the haze of intoxication had faded, I awoke to find Eleanor still lost in sleep. Throughout the day and night, the cursed mark had erupted again and again, wrenching her fragile body into spasms of agony. Helpless, I'd had to hold her, restrain her from thrashing into the furniture, forced to watch her battle the curse with pain written across every line of her face.
Once her suffering subsided for a while, I bathed, dressed, and tried to collect myself—knowing there was something I must do. I needed to explain to her, at last, the true nature of what we faced, and why she had been drawn into this cruel fate.
I returned to her chamber. For a long moment I simply watched her as she slept, but time was slipping away from us, and every moment was precious. I reached out and gently shook her awake. As she opened her eyes and saw me by her side, she flung her arms around me, clinging like a child to her mother. I embraced her, stroking her hair and cheek, before cupping her pale face in my hands.
"How are you feeling?"
"I keep dreaming… the same dream, every time I fall asleep. That witch returns to torment me, again and again. I don't dare sleep anymore, not if it means facing her." She shivered as she spoke, her whole body trembling.
Even after just one night, the curse was wearing her down; her eyes and skin had grown dark and shadowed, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion, her once-vibrant face gaunt and hollow. The curse was not only tormenting her body—it was tearing at her soul. My heart ached with pity, not only for her, but for Chelsea, too, who once suffered the same way for a crime she never committed.
"It is time I told you everything," I said at last.
I lifted her gently and carried her to my study, seating her at the great oak desk. Facing the painting upon the wall—the portrait of my ancestor—I began my confession.
"The man in this painting is my forebear, William Cavendish, the first Duke of Devonshire. The curse you bear is the witch's vengeance for his betrayal. It marks any woman who loves a male heir of the Cavendish line, dooming her to an untimely death. It is a curse that ensures no heir of my house will ever know true happiness in love."
Eleanor stared at the portrait, her gaze unwavering. "You mean, every woman who falls in love with a Cavendish man is doomed to die?" she asked softly.
"That is the truth. But the curse is only triggered when love is fully requited—when both hearts are united. If I loved a woman who did not return my feelings, or if she loved me and I did not love her in return, the curse would remain dormant. But when love is mutual and true, the curse awakens."
"This time, though, things are different. The witch has never shown herself before—not to any other. You are the first."
I glanced at her with a troubled heart. Why had the witch chosen to reveal herself to Eleanor? There must be something special about her soul.
"Why did your ancestor betray the witch?" she asked.
"I do not know the full truth. My elder brother once told me fragments of the tale, but all that remains are half-whispered stories, passed down through the generations. There is no record, no written account of what truly happened. All evidence seems to have been destroyed long ago."
Eleanor looked at me, her eyes searching. "Is that why you have kept your distance from me? To spare me heartbreak?"
I nodded, finally laying bare everything I'd hidden.
"In the beginning, I wished only to be your friend, to shield you from pain. But the more time I spent at your side, the more my resolve faltered. I thought myself capable of loving only one woman—yet I found myself helplessly drawn to you. Your smile was like a gentle warm breeze in the coldest winter, and every moment with you felt like a reprieve from sorrow. I tried to bury my feelings, to act indifferent, but my heart was yours long before I dared admit it."
I paused, gathering my courage, then leaned closer, hands braced on the desk, gazing deep into her eyes. My fingers brushed her cheek, then slid through her hair, caressing her as if she might vanish at any moment.
"All this time, I have been selfish. I have kept you near even though I knew the risk. You cannot imagine how much I have suffered—how often I wished I could give you what you deserved. No matter how hard I tried to resist, I could not stay away. I longed to hear you call my name, to see your smile each day."
"And I… I dreamed that you would one day be my wife. That you would bear my children, and fill our home with warmth and laughter."
I closed my eyes, voice breaking. "But our love is cursed beyond all reckoning."
Tears glimmered in Eleanor's eyes—not of sorrow, but of a joy so deep it threatened to overflow. I drew her to me and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, whispering the words I should have spoken long ago.
"I love you, Eleanor. Forgive me for saying it only now, when your soul is already ensnared by the curse."
She cupped my face, shaking her head, refusing to let me shoulder all the blame.
"You needn't blame yourself. This is not your doing—it is the legacy of your ancestors, not your own. Even if my soul must perish, I am grateful to have known your true heart at last. That is more than enough."
Her tears fell, and I wiped them away, kissing her once more, savoring the sweetness as if it were our last. Resting my brow against hers, I whispered, "You are the heart of me, even as it breaks anew."
And then, in the hush, I confessed the final burden.
"There is one more truth you must hear, Eleanor. Please—do not hate me for it." I lifted her slender hand, pressing it to my chest.
"We have come so far together. There is nothing you could say that would make me turn away," she answered, her voice bold.
"I must cancel our wedding," I choked, my voice trembling with pain. "I have sent letters to all our guests, to the Queen herself. I could not bear to see you forced into such a farce, knowing what awaits us."
She blanched at this, but did not protest. Instead, after a moment, she squeezed my hand with new resolve.
"I will find a way to break this curse. I will live—if only to remain by your side."
Her eyes burned with fierce determination, and I marveled at her strength. Even with death closing in, she would not surrender to fate.
"There is a truth I must share with you as well," she said, "but you must promise not to despise me."
"I swear on my life—I could never despise you, my love."
She met my gaze, trembling, and spoke with equal parts courage and fear.
"I… I am not Lady Eleanor Barnett, as you have believed all this time."
Her words sent a chill through me, but I listened, refusing to look away.
"I am not Lady Chelsea, either. My name is Eleanor Hastings. I am but a historian from a far-off future, flung by fate into your world. My soul is a wanderer from the twenty-first century."
I stared, unable to comprehend.
"Everything happened in a single night. I was in an accident—I died, and awoke in this body."
The impossibility of her story was nothing compared to the curse that haunted my bloodline. At last I realized the truth: the real Eleanor Barnett had perished long ago.
"Then… the true Eleanor is gone?"
"I believe so."
So much was suddenly clear: the differences in her spirit, the reason the witch called her by another name, the source of her strange knowledge.
"It explains why you know so much of our world—why you are so like Chelsea in some ways."
She looked at me anxiously. "Does this change your feelings for me?"
Wordlessly, I leaned down and kissed her again, silencing her doubts.
"You need never fear that, dearest. Whoever you were before, whoever you are now, my heart is already yours."
She smiled through her tears, determination shining anew.
"Do you have any records of the first William Cavendish? We must begin there."
I thought for a moment. "There are some old documents, preserved in the library."
"Have you ever sought to break the curse yourself?"
"I have, since I was young, but every trace seems to have been destroyed. There is nothing left—not even a written account of the first Duke's life."
She did not falter. "I believe we can find a clue. If we look to the era of King George III, the parish church may still hold records—names of those lost in the witch trials."
I pondered her suggestion; it had never occurred to me before.
"It is possible. Some records might have survived the centuries."
"Do you know where the witch met her end?"
"She was burned in Derby."
"Then the records must be at All Saints' Church in Derby," she murmured. "Can we go there tomorrow?"
The irony struck me—All Saints' was to have been the site of our wedding, and now it had become a place of last hope.
"We shall depart at first light," I promised.
Eleanor
His breath echoed in the silent hush of night, a gentle warmth brushing against the nape of my neck, sending a shiver through me. Lord Alexander lay behind me, his arms wrapped firmly around my waist, his face nestled close to my hair, as if he could not bear a single moment apart.
It was a new feeling—rarely had we ever spent such time together, not truly as lovers, nor even as betrothed. Yet tonight, he brought me to his chambers himself, crossing boundaries I never wished to redraw. Here was the man who longed for me with every breath that remained to him, even as fate forced the collapse of our wedding plans. Still, I would not yield to despair. I believed there was a reason I had been swept into the past, that God himself intended some purpose for my journey.
We would rise before dawn to depart, but I could not close my eyes. The image of the witch still haunted me, the fear that sleep might steal me from his side too real to ignore. I scarcely dared to move, afraid I might disturb the precious peace of his slumber.
"You are not yet asleep, are you?"
His deep voice murmured softly from behind me. I turned, facing him—so near that even with his eyes closed, he seemed to know my heart.
"I am afraid to sleep," I whispered. "I am afraid I may not wake to see you again."
He slowly opened his eyes, and the look within them was all the comfort I needed.
"I am here. If you do not wake to find me, I will find a way to wake you myself."
His hand caressed my back, soothing my fear with its steady warmth. For a moment, nothing else existed except the closeness we shared in that darkened room.
Yet I could not help but notice how my body had grown frail, my spirit weighed down. Even so, his strong hand absentmindedly traced the curve of my waist, stirring sensations I thought lost to me. My body yearned for him; I wanted to remember this beauty, this connection, before it slipped from my grasp forever.
Moonlight spilled softly across his face, accentuating his noble features, the sharp line of his jaw, the golden waves of his hair. His arms held me fast, and his eyes—cold to others, but now filled with truth—met mine with unwavering intent. I trailed my hand along the breadth of his chest, savoring the strength that belonged to me alone.
"Do you know," I murmured, "that night when we danced, every time our bodies touched, I wondered… what it might be like if you truly claimed me as yours?"
He caught my hand, halting its movement, and in a single breath, the world seemed to tip. Lord Alexander moved above me, his gaze fierce.
"If you speak like that again, I fear I will lose all restraint."
I reached for him, desire trembling in my voice.
"Please. Let me be yours—before this body withers, before I am gone. I want to know your love while I still can."
His brow knit with worry.
"Do you realize what you are asking?"
I looked up at him, unashamed.
"Do you not wish to hold me, my lord?"
"There has never been a moment when I did not long for you," he admitted, voice raw. "Merely holding you sets me alight. But your body still bears wounds, your strength is fading. I am afraid I might hurt you—"
I silenced him with a kiss, a whisper against his ear.
"The pain of longing is all I am now. Let me have this, just once."
His gaze sharpened, the tension between us electric.
"If I begin, I will not be able to stop, not for anything—not even if you beg me."
"That is the only plea I wish to make," I replied, lips curving into a trembling smile. "Kiss me, my beloved Duke."
His hesitation vanished. His lips found mine, hungry and unyielding, deepening until I could scarcely breathe. His fingers tangled in my hair, his hands exploring, his touch both reverent and consuming. Every caress set my skin aflame, every stolen breath weaving us closer.
He paused only to whisper, his voice rough with promise,
"I will not stop. I will make you mine again and again, until not even death itself can erase me from your memory."
Clothes fell away in the moonlight, replaced by his touch—tender, then insistent, each sensation new and overwhelming. His kisses trailed along my skin, branding me with his love, until I could no longer contain the cries he drew from me.
In his arms, I felt cherished, claimed, alive. Pain and pleasure tangled together, and I surrendered to him, to the storm he unleashed, until all sense of time faded away.
And when at last we lay spent in each other's arms, I drifted into sleep, the echo of his voice a lullaby at my brow—
"Sleep well, my love."