Eleanor
22 November, 1847
The damp scent of earth and tender shoots, heavy with a day's relentless rain, lingered in the air—a strangely soothing fragrance. I sat in a daze, gazing at the forested hillsides through the window of the carriage as it rumbled through the mountains, bound once more for All Saints Church in Derby.
My mind was utterly blank, my head tipped against the wall of the compartment, my eyes clouded with despair that pressed ever closer. My body had grown so frail that even hope seemed to ebb away. Tonight marked the third night of the full moon, yet the journal I was so certain existed remained stubbornly hidden. The library had been searched, every nook and crevice ransacked with the help of a dozen servants under Sir Wycliffe's orders, and still, nothing.
The letters from Lord Alexander remained unopened on my desk—even another arrived this morning—but I dared not read them, for fear that my resolve might falter. I wanted, above all, to conquer this deadly wager with the demon before surrendering to softer feelings. Yet, with hope fading, I found myself clinging to one last desperate chance.
The carriage drew up before the grassy grounds of the church. Lillian helped me down, supporting my left arm. My legs, thin as sticks, could barely support me, and I dragged my feet behind me like a cripple, yet I managed to walk on my own, though unsteadily.
I pushed open the familiar heavy wooden doors, carved with crosses, and found only emptiness within. Three candles burned before the statue of Saint Joseph to the left, their flames flickering in the damp, musty air. The scent of stone and moss pressed a feeling of desolation upon my heart, yet, curiously, I also felt peace.
I searched for Vicar Michael but saw no sign of him as before. So I walked to the front pew, knelt, and prayed to the Almighty for mercy.
May I hope for a miracle from You once more, O Lord? Death awaits me at the end of this path. Will You, in Your compassion, look upon me?
I knelt at the wooden rail, my brow pressed to clasped hands before the statue of Christ. Tears streamed down both cheeks, wrung by the anguish of my fear of dying.
"Dear God, please help me. I have come here to beg for a miracle from You, just one more time. Please…"
My weeping echoed throughout the nave, and only Lillian sat close, rubbing my back in comfort, as lost and wretched as I was.
"My lady, would you care to make a confession?"
Vicar Michael's voice sounded from behind, causing us both to turn.
He invited me into the confessional at the rear of the church, beside the statue of Saint Joseph. Not to absolve myself, but to recognize the sins I had committed.
"Almighty God, overflowing with mercy, I confess before You with a heart of repentance that I have sinned in thought, word, and deed. I have neglected my duties of love and justice. I have hidden lies in my heart, allowed anger and vengeance to guide me, and wronged my fellow man. Please, forgive me. By Your boundless mercy, cleanse my heart and lead me back into the light. Amen."
I offered my confession to Vicar Michael, who listened behind the carved screen that separated us.
"If there is anything that weighs on your heart, my lady, speak it now," he said.
I considered his words for a long moment. If I had intended to run from my guilt, I would never have come to confess.
"I have always felt guilty—as though I have greedily stolen something that was never meant to be mine."
"What is it that makes you feel this way?" he asked gently.
"I made someone break a vow he once made to another."
"And if, one day, you were the one betrayed, could you forgive him?"
I was silent for a long time, searching for my answer. I tried to imagine myself as Lady Chelsea, learning that Lord Alexander had betrayed her to love her own sister—could I forgive him?
"I think… I could forgive him," I answered at last.
"Then do so," said Vicar Michael gently. "Forgive him for his betrayal. Love him truly, with a heart free from pride and possessiveness. And forgive yourself for the mistakes you have made."
His words washed over my heart like the warmth of a fire on a cold night, lifting the shackles of guilt I had long kept hidden. It felt as if God Himself was speaking through him: forgiveness is the greatest thing one can give. I felt lighter, relieved from the burden of shame.
"Thank you, Vicar."
"Praise be to the glory of God," he replied.
"Amen."
If it were to happen to me, perhaps I could forgive him too.
I bid farewell to Vicar Michael at the church entrance. Though he could not help with the curse, I left with a measure of peace after my confession. As I turned to leave, he called out after me:
"The Lord grants miracles to the lambs who truly believe in Him, just as Moses triumphed by obeying the Lord's command in ages past. I wish you luck, my lady."
I spun back to look at him, but Vicar Michael had vanished from sight.
Upon returning to Chatsworth House. I found myself standing before the familiar pianoforte, two unopened envelopes in hand—letters I had resolved to read before sundown. I let my fingers drift across the keys, coaxing from them a slow, tuneless echo, and drew in the scent of polished wood, stirring memories of that one sweet night. That familiar fragrance tightened around my heart with a longing almost too great to bear.
No matter how I tried not to think of him, the effort only drove the ache deeper. I missed him—deeply, helplessly. I missed the strength of his arms, once wrapped around me; missed the sound of his deep, gentle voice professing his love. And so, I sat at the piano, determined to play the piece he had once taught me.
Finally, I took a seat, broke the seal, and read the first letter.
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19 November 1847
To Lady Eleanor Barnett
My dearest heart, how are you faring? Have you had any luck with your search? Please tell me, for things here are in chaos. The dead fill the streets, and the plague is far worse than any had expected. It has brought our plans for construction to a complete crisis; every worker has been stricken. If this continues, the company will be forced to halt all works until the situation is under control—only then will I be able to return to you. But the cost has already shattered my original budget, and I must first see to these repairs before I can come back. It may take another full week, but at least it will be sooner than the two I first anticipated.
I miss you terribly, my Eleanor. I long for a letter from you to ease the aching loneliness. The handkerchief you gave me never leaves my side. There is no music here to remind me of the song I taught you, but this small token, carrying your sweet scent, brings me comfort and fills my dreams. Every day, I yearn to return and hold you close. Tell me, do you feel as I do? Please, write back and let me know.
From,
Alexander Cavendish
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Happiness overflowed in my heart as I read his long-awaited letter of love—tears of joy welled in my eyes. I moved on to the second letter to be certain of its contents.
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21 November 1847
To Lady Eleanor Barnett
I have received word from Theodore that your condition has worsened more rapidly than expected. Is this why you have not written back to me? Please, Eleanor, I beg you, answer me. My heart is close to breaking with anxiety.
Tell me you will wait for me. If not, I shall abandon everything for you. I will forsake my duties and return to you at once.
From,
Alexander Cavendish
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This was precisely why I dared not reply to his letters. I feared our fragile hearts would push us into reckless decisions. I might—out of selfish longing—ask him to return, abandoning all his duties for my sake. My life may be coming to an end, but his must continue. What would become of him if he were to throw everything away, only to grieve my lifeless body? It would be better for me to slip quietly away.
I have resolved to be the one who makes the sacrifice this time.
I began to play the old melody he had taught me, letting the notes seep into my soul as I gazed out at the golden sun sinking below the horizon—the sign that the final night of the wager had come. I sat quietly, hands folded in my lap, watching the last orange light fade from the sky.
And just then, a single butterfly, its wings glowing with golden light, fluttered before my eyes.
Without hesitation, I chased it from the drawing room. For a moment, I lost sight of it, but then its shining wings led me to the library. There, I saw it settle upon a stone statue at the center of the far wall—a statue of a woman, kneeling, her face lifted in supplication. Though I had seen it many times before, I had never looked closely, never wondered at its significance—until now. I searched the area around it and discovered, hidden in a narrow crevice behind a bookshelf, an inscription:
"The Confession of the Innocent Maiden"
"I've found it! This is it! The record of Dorothea has been hidden here all along!"
I glanced out the window—the sun had only just set. There was still time before the moon would rise. The statue was too heavy and massive for me to move or destroy on my own. That left only one option.
✽ ✽ ✽
"I cannot obey this order, my lady. I must apologize."
"Please, I beg you—trust me. I am certain the statue contains the record of the curse."
"And why are you so certain, my lady? This statue is a special heirloom from the time of the third Duke William, priceless beyond measure. You would have me destroy it based only on your word, without evidence? How can I?"
After making my discovery, I rushed to find Sir Wycliffe—only he could help me destroy the statue. But he seemed determined to protect it, unwilling to change his mind.
"Please, I have no time left."
I glanced at the moon, rising pale above the horizon, then looked back at him with a steely gaze to show my resolve.
He stood silent, staring back with that familiar mask of composure.
"Please listen to me. Everything I am doing is for the sake of breaking this curse—I have no hidden agenda. I am certain that beneath this statue is the truth we have all sought for so long. I know how valuable this work is, but if the third Duke William discovered the truth and chose to bury it here—would you not wish to help your master by finding a way to break the curse?"
He was silent.
"Was it not Lord Alexander himself who instructed you to protect me? Why do you now refuse my order?"
He turned to face the statue, bowed his head, and breathed out a heavy sigh.
"Very well. I will do as you ask, my lady. Please, take shelter at the far side of the room."
I retreated to the farthest corner for safety. Sir Wycliffe crossed the room, took down a cutlass from the wall, and leveled it at the statue. I'd heard before that his skill with a blade was unrivaled—even in battle, none could best him.
Whshh!—CRASH!
The sound of stone shattering thundered through the room. Fragments clattered across the wooden floor, and dust filled the air, forcing me to raise an arm against it. As the cloud cleared, I saw the statue, now neatly split in two. Sir Wycliffe took a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe the blade clean before returning the cutlass to its place.
I peered into the hollow cavity inside the statue and saw an ancient wooden box—neither too large nor too small, just the right size for a hand. Sir Wycliffe lifted it from its hiding place and placed it upon the center table, opening it to reveal its contents: a dark, oil-stained leather-bound journal, loosely wrapped in cotton cloth.
"We've found it! We've finally found it!"
My weary eyes flashed with joy as I saw the journal was indeed real, just as I'd hoped. At last, we had succeeded. I reached out to open it, only for a lock of black hair to fall from its first page.
I picked it up and knew at once to whom it belonged. The lustrous black strands could only be those of Dorothea, the witch. When I turned to the first page, the name of the journal's owner was inscribed there:
William Cavendish, 3rd Duke of Devonshire.
Beneath that was a short note:
"I have discovered the hiding place of my ancestor's records. The origin of this curse lies in an unforgivable mistake. Within this journal is the whole truth of what happened to Mistress Dorothea Penrose, the innocent woman sacrificed to the intoxication of my family's power. To cover our ancestor's shame, I have chosen to bury these truths where they may never again be found. And yet, I still believe that, in time, it may serve some purpose."
"This is the journal of the third Duke William!"
My voice rang out, trembling with excitement. But when I turned, I saw the old man beside me being consumed by a cloud of black mist—his eyes burning red. Suddenly, he lunged at me, hands closing around my throat, and spoke:
"Your time has come. The moon has risen for the third night, as agreed."
The journal slipped from my hands and fell open on the floor. Sir Wycliffe—possessed by the curse—tightened his grip around my neck, lifting me off the ground. My feet kicked and flailed helplessly as I gasped for air, trying desperately to pry his hands away, but he was impossibly strong. Darkness crept in as I suffocated, and at last, I lost consciousness.
✽ ✽ ✽
The heat of the flames jolted me awake. All around me, I saw nothing but fire raging—spreading from dozens of stacks of straw laid across the ground. As I looked more closely, I realized there was a great wooden stake planted at the center of those piles, and the shadow of a human form bound tightly to it.
"Screeeeeeam! Screeeeeeam!"
The piercing screams echoed from every direction, mingling with the shouts and clamoring of a frenzied crowd.
"Burn her! Burn that witch to death!"
The mob's voices rose from behind me just as a burly, rough-clad man seized my hair, dragging my frail, helpless body across the grass-strewn ground and hurling me down brutally onto the gravel. Without mercy, he lashed me to the great stake at the heart of the unlit straw.
I screamed in terror, knowing full well what fate awaited me—I was about to be burned alive.
"No! I'm not a witch! You're mistaken, all of you!"
No one cared to listen. They hurled their torches onto the straw at my feet, and flames began to lick higher and higher, searing my legs. I thrashed and struggled with all my might to escape death.
"Someone! Please help me!" I shrieked at the top of my lungs.
The pain of burning flesh was beyond description—a slow, excruciating death. The flames crept inexorably up my body, finally engulfing me completely.
The scene dissolved into darkness, though a ring of fire still blazed in a circle around me. And then, she appeared before me once more.
"You've lost our wager. Your life will be cut in half, as promised."
This woman strode through the fire to stand before me, only five paces away. This time, she was not the terrifying witch I'd seen before, but a strikingly beautiful woman—her skin pale with a faint pink hue, eyes a honey-gold, cheeks and lips tinged rose, and a mass of lustrous black hair tumbling to her waist. She wore a simple, long white cotton dress and was barefoot.
This is Dorothea's true form.
"I found your story, your journal. How have I lost the wager?" I demanded.
"You don't realize—the moon had already risen above the clouds before you began to read. You still do not know the truth of my past."
She was right. Though I'd found the book, I hadn't read a word before being attacked and falling unconscious. Suddenly, she appeared right in front of me in an instant.
"No matter—you're going to die anyway."
Clutching the locket at my neck, I refused to accept the fate she offered.
"I refuse! Why must you cling to your hatred so desperately that it destroys you?"
She stared at me with icy eyes, then spoke.
"I will show you what truly happened to me. Judge it for yourself."
The world around us seemed to blur, as if time reversed. We stood, invisible, incorporeal, among a crowd—like spirits witnessing the past.
The first scene: Dorothea, twenty-eight and pregnant by the first Duke William. The two were deeply in love, just as I'd suspected. But as evening fell, he would always return to his real family, leaving her alone. She endured her pregnancy in solitude, yet found joy in feeling her child move within her, cherishing the love they shared.
But disaster struck. In the late months of her pregnancy, two robbers broke into her home while she was alone, beating her so badly that she miscarried. Though she survived, her spirit was shattered. The one who ordered this atrocity was Lady Mary Butler, Duke William's wife—determined to rid herself of her husband's illegitimate child.
Duke William knew all of this. Though he was furious that his wife had killed his child with Dorothea, he did nothing. Dorothea, however, forgave everything for the love she bore him. William continued to visit her as before, year after year, until, after twenty more years, he led the revolution that dethroned King James II.
Then came the witch hunts across Europe. Fear gripped the continent—people whispered of women with dark knowledge sowing chaos and disaster, blamed for every plague, every war.
Dorothea, now forty-eight, lived peacefully with her sister's family and her mother, running a simple bakery in Derby. They lived quietly, well-liked by their neighbors.
But then, the accusations came. After the king was overthrown, Dorothea was branded a witch—on nothing more than baseless rumor. On the day she was dragged out for public humiliation, the man she had loved for over thirty years presided over her trial, sentencing her to death.
Her once-lovely face was bruised and battered from abuse; tears streamed from her swollen eyes as she stared at the man she had once trusted with her soul. All she'd given him—her child, her life—he had betrayed.
She bit her lip until blood ran down her chin, her eyes blazing with unspeakable vengeance.
"I curse you and all your descendants! May your family never know true love, ever again!"
The curse would ensure that every Cavendish heir could produce children, but never know enduring love—all their unions would be hollow. And then, Dorothea, her soul consumed by hatred, made a pact with the Lord of the Abyss.
"Before my soul is snuffed out, I curse the God who abandoned me! I pledge myself to Lucifer, ruler of the Underworld—I will serve as one of your demons, leading souls to ruin and madness!"
Dorothea sold her soul to Satan to exact endless vengeance on William and his bloodline. Where once her spirit was pure and loving, it was now corrupted—transformed into a decaying demon of hatred.
As the vision ended, I found myself surrounded by the spirits of countless women who had died by her curse. They spoke as one:
"He will betray you, just as he betrayed us!"
Dorothea fixed me with a steely gaze.
"And one day, you will share our fate."
I clenched my jaw, balling my fists to steady myself—they were trying to drive me mad.
"I don't believe it. I believe his love for me is true."
"Hahaha, foolish girl. Then let me reward your naivety."
She shifted from icy calm to a broad, mocking grin—her mouth distorting inhumanly, her arms thrown wide in a gesture of cruel delight.
"I will tell you the condition to break the curse. You are the first to witness my story. And if you think his love can save you in what little time remains…"
"The condition is when the Cavendish man freely surrenders everything—his title, power, wealth, even his life—for the woman who is cursed, then and only then will the curse be broken."
I frowned at this, her so-called answer. Was she telling me that Lord Alexander must choose—save my life and forfeit his own, or save himself and let me die as the curse intended?
"You mean, he must sacrifice himself to break the curse?"
She moved closer, her grin stretching wider with delight at her cruel little game.
"If he does not act before your time runs out, your soul will be mine. Hahaha!"
I jolted awake, gasping for breath, my heart pounding with fear. Glancing around, I found myself sprawled on the library floor, Sir Wycliffe unconscious beside me.
The library was a mess—shards of stone scattered everywhere. I tried to stand, but couldn't, so I crawled to Sir Wycliffe and shook him, trying to rouse him.
"Sir Wycliffe!" I called.
He didn't respond, so I shouted for help.
"Anyone! Is anyone there?!"
Two maids in long white nightgowns rushed in, holding lanterns.
"My lady, what happened?!"
Miss Atherton, just behind Lillian, gasped at the sight. Lillian hurried to cradle me, letting my head rest in her lap. My body trembled, wracked with pain—I could hardly speak.
"A demon… Sir Wycliffe was possessed. Please, help him…"
Lillian turned to Miss Atherton, who nodded and ran off to fetch the male servants to carry Sir Wycliffe back to his room.
"You're in terrible shape, my lady. What happened? Why does the library look like a battlefield?"
She glanced at the ruin of the broken statue.
"I was attacked by a demon. Please… take me back to my room," I croaked, exhausted.
Though Lillian seemed alarmed to hear the word "demon," she supported me without further questions, helping me back to my own room as I requested.
November 23rd, 1847
I lay beneath a thick down duvet, not venturing anywhere from morning until late afternoon, my body still aching and bruised from yesterday's ordeal.
At present, my hand grasped a quill, dipping its sharp tip into a dish of black ink beside me. I lowered the nib to the paper on my lap and carefully composed a letter in reply to the man I loved, pouring out my longing and recounting what I had experienced on my end—though only what I wished him to know. I intended to report everything to him, but only what I needed him to believe.
I had spent the entire night deciding: it would be better for me to die than to let him sacrifice his precious life to break this curse for me. I was utterly convinced that if Lord Alexander learned the true condition of the curse, he would not hesitate to lay down his life.
As I focused on my writing, my gaze caught on something. I paused, lowering my pen, and studied the back of my hand. Once slender and fair, tinged with healthy pink, it was now a bruised, lifeless shade of purple—more like the hand of the dying than the living.
I am the one at death's door, not him. That is why I have decided to tell him only that I found nothing—so that he will continue to believe that my deadline is December 16th, as before.
I glanced at the calendar on my bedside table. Today was November 23rd. Only one week remained until the day of my destined end. He would not be able to return before that time.
Even though I had steeled myself for this, had wept out my grief through the night until my pillow was marked with the round stains of tears, my wretched tears still would not stop, even now. A few drops fell onto the letter as I continued to write my gentle lies—all done so that I might save his life from death.
We finally found each other, only to be parted by death in the end. At the very least, I now know what true love feels like. My love must be one destined only for sacrifice, ordained by God Himself. This will be my true death, at last.
Once I had sealed the letter, I entrusted it to Lillian—who had just brought in my herbal tonic—and asked her to summon Sir Wycliffe, now recovered, to my room at once.
When he arrived, he stood at the bedside, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed in respectful silence as always. I asked Lillian to leave us alone for a private conversation.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"I remember nothing at all, my lady. The next thing I knew, I awoke in my own room."
"…"
"You called for me so urgently, my lady. Is there something I can do for you?"
I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him the truth. Ever since he woke, he had recalled nothing of the previous night, as if all memory had been erased. I had ordered Miss Atherton to strictly instruct all the servants at the manor to say nothing of what happened to anyone not directly involved.
The way we had been found last night—me crawling, injured, on the floor with Sir Wycliffe lying unconscious nearby—could easily have been misinterpreted as an act of violence on his part, something that could threaten his life in the future. To protect him from such suspicion, I needed to explain what had happened, to ensure there would be no misunderstandings.
"Last night, you were possessed by that witch and nearly strangled me to death."
"!!"
His calm eyes widened in rare shock. Such an accusation was grave enough to warrant execution for attempted murder of a noble.
"What happened after that, my lady? How did you survive?"
I shook my head.
"I lost consciousness before anything more. She intended to send me into a dream, but this time, she revealed the conditions for breaking the curse."
"What are those conditions, my lady?"
I met his gaze, my eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Lord Alexander must be willing to sacrifice everything for true love. That is the only way to break the curse."
That meant, in all these generations, not one Duke had ever been willing to surrender everything he possessed—or his own life—to save the woman he loved. The Dukes of Devonshire had always chosen self-preservation, clinging to power and legacy, and that was why the spirits of all those women had appeared—to warn me.
He will betray you…
But I believed Lord Alexander was not like the Dukes who had come before.
Sir Wycliffe's face darkened with concern. I knew he would not wish for his master to abandon his title or his life to save me. The Duke was a man of national importance; his death would threaten the stability of the royal court, and suicide would mar the royal family's history forever.
"Please deliver this letter to Lord Alexander for me."
He took the letter but made no move to leave. He remained standing by my bed, frowning, clearly uneasy about what I might have written to his master.
"There's no need to worry," I said softly. "I would rather choose my own death than allow him to sacrifice his life for me. In that letter, I told him only that we had failed to find the condition to break the curse, as we had hoped."