Eleanor
My body was sinking, plunging into the depths of an endless, inky blackness. Countless hands reached up from the darkness below, grabbing and pulling me further down, threatening to drown me forever. But suddenly, a white light appeared above the water, pushing back the darkness. I felt myself being drawn up toward that brightness.
"Ellie! Ellie! You're awake, aren't you!"
Someone was calling my name—a voice I hadn't heard in so long, but immediately recognized as my mother's.
Wait…
Didn't I die? Why am I hearing my mother's voice?
I slowly opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was her face, leaning over me from the right. I propped myself up against the pillows, looking around the room to figure out where I was.
Wait a second…
How did I end up in this hospital? Wasn't I supposed to be dragged down to hell by Dorothea?
"You really are awake!" My mother's face beamed with relief before she threw her arms around me as I lay propped up in a hospital bed somewhere in Cambridge. IV lines trailed from my left hand, and I could hear the distant beep of a heart monitor.
Seeing my mother again—when I'd thought I'd never get to see her in this life—filled me with overwhelming joy. I didn't know what had happened or why I was back in the present, but for now, I just wanted to soak in the warmth of her embrace.
"Mom, I missed you so much," I whispered.
I tried to raise my arms to hug her back, but found them limp and weak. All I could do was lean my head against her shoulder, savoring her familiar scent.
"I was so scared you'd never wake up," she murmured, pulling away but keeping her hands on my thin shoulders, her eyes brimming with worry.
"What happened? How did I end up here? What day is it?" I needed to know how much time had passed since the car accident.
She settled into the chair by my bed and began to explain everything.
"You've been in a coma for a whole month. Today is July 19th. You were in a car accident, but thankfully the ambulance arrived in time. You only broke your leg and suffered a head injury. The doctors warned there might be some memory loss, but you just wouldn't wake up—one full month! When the hospital contacted me, I came straight back to England to be with you. The doctors couldn't explain why you wouldn't regain consciousness. I was terrified you'd never wake up, like some sleeping beauty lost to the world."
So I wasn't dead after all. It was all just a nightmare? All those awful things I went through weren't real? Then what about him? Was he just a figment of my dreams? Why does the pain still feel so real in my chest? Was he nothing more than a character I conjured up in my mind—was that the answer I'd been searching for all along? Was Lord Alexander nothing more than a dream?
A cold ache twisted in my heart at the thought that he might never have existed. The more I tried to accept it, the more bewildered I felt, so I decided to let it go for now.
Grooowl!
My stomach rumbled loudly, a clear sign of hunger after going so long without eating.
"Mom, I'm hungry…"
"I'll call a nurse." She pressed the button by the bed to summon someone for a meal. While we waited, I checked over my body—my muscles were soft and weak, completely without strength. Clearly, being bedridden for so long had taken its toll. I could barely lift my legs; I knew I wouldn't be able to walk like a normal person.
Seeing me struggle, my mother explained further.
"You've been in bed for a whole month, so your muscles have wasted away. The doctor says you'll need at least another month of physical therapy before you can walk again and be discharged."
"I see…" I muttered, and then another thought suddenly came to mind.
"Mom—where's my phone?"
"It broke in the accident. Do you need to contact someone?"
"The Times magazine! I want to know about my article!"
"Ah, about that… Miss Johnson told me your work was canceled since no one knew if you'd wake up. As for university, I arranged for you to take a leave of absence."
"Did Caitlin contact you?"
"She did. She came to visit you three weeks ago, and said that whenever you recover and are ready to come back to work, you can contact her. She's waiting."
At least I hadn't lost my job completely, even if it was put on hold. I was lucky that Caitlin still believed in me. The first thing I'd need to do was learn to walk again, and then pick up my work and studies.
August 20th, 2025 – One month later
After the day I woke in the hospital, I spent another month following the doctor's rehab regimen—physical therapy and exercise to rebuild my muscles.
I wasted no time contacting Caitlin as soon as I could get to a computer, asking about the stalled article. She told me I could submit a new research proposal anytime; my work was still being closely watched, she said. Encouraged, I launched a new project and returned to class. This time, my thesis was titled:
"The Lost History of Alexander Cavendish, seventh Duke of Devonshire."
Caitlin was quite interested—mistakes and hidden stories among the aristocracy are always exciting for historians, especially when they have the power to change public understanding. History, after all, is often rewritten for personal gain—just as in the famous case in 2012, when the remains of King Richard III were finally found after more than five hundred years of mystery. Until then, no one knew where he'd been buried after the Battle of Bosworth in 1485. His bones were found beneath a parking lot in Leicester, confirmed through DNA testing against his living relatives.
The story of Richard III's character had been twisted for centuries, thanks especially to Shakespeare's depiction of him as cruel and corrupt. The discovery of his remains brought with it a wave of debate and, eventually, a historical reappraisal.
If I could prove that the seventh Duke of Devonshire was truly named Alexander Cavendish—and that, for some reason, his name had been erased and replaced by a relative—then English history would be rewritten again.
Or maybe… maybe I just wanted to believe he was real, to cling to the hope that everything I'd experienced wasn't just a lie. I still believed it was fate and a miracle that brought us together.
I'd tried everything to find evidence of him—scouring the Chatsworth archives online, researching in the Cambridge library, consulting experts. Every attempt came up empty. Eventually, I grew discouraged, convinced I was just a fool chasing a dream.
But one day, after I posted about my strange journey on my long-neglected personal blog, describing it as a dream layered over reality, something changed. One follower commented that he believed me—he believed in His Grace Alexander Cavendish, and claimed he'd heard that name before. His words sparked a flicker of hope.
Later, he contacted me directly via a mysterious email address: [email protected]. He claimed to have evidence that could prove the truth of my story. We exchanged messages for weeks, yet I still didn't know his real name or who he was—he kept everything secret, saying I'd understand in time.
He called himself "Tom," and recently invited me to meet in person at Chatsworth House in Derbyshire, saying that the evidence was hidden there, and that he could get me a close look at it.
Of course, I was nervous he might be a scammer or just trying to give me false hope, but it was my only lead—so I accepted, on the condition that I could bring someone with me.
Today was the day I was discharged from the hospital. My mother was taking me home, planning to return to France in three days. I hadn't told her yet that I planned to travel to Derbyshire and wanted her to come as my companion, but I intended to ask her once we got home.
On the way back to my flat, the city streets made me nostalgic for the days of horse-drawn carriages and country vistas. The world had changed so much with technology and concrete, but I missed the scent of grass and soil, the coal-and-metal tang of the old railways, the aroma of fresh bread on the corner, the wooden tea shops with their ornate cabinets, and all the handcrafted details lost to time.
Modern life was easier, but that old world had a charm—a way of life without technology. I missed living as a noblewoman, especially when I thought of those I had loved: Lillian, Miss Atherton, the kind servants at Wexford House, Lord Barnett, and…
Lord Alexander.
Once I'd hated him for his betrayal, but in the end, I chose to forgive him with my final breath.
I miss you so much. If I find any record of you, will I see your descendants? Will I see the children you had with Lady Beatrice, the line that carries on to this day?
I looked over at my mother as she drove, questions crowding my mind.
"Mom, can I ask you something about love?"
She glanced at me, a little surprised. "That's not like you. You've never seemed interested in romance—never dated anyone who asked."
"It's not that I wasn't interested. I just never felt a connection with anyone."
"No one ever fit your type, is that it? So… have you found someone now?"
"I guess so. He's handsome and accomplished, but that's not the reason. I felt a bond with him from the very first moment. It's like there was this pull, as if we'd known each other for years."
"Does he love you?"
"At first, he avoided me—never admitted his feelings. In the end, he confessed. Maybe because he once had a love he could never forget, so he was afraid to fall in love again."
"The past is the past," my mother interrupted gently.
"That's true. I wonder what you'd think about what I want to ask next…"
"What is it?"
"If you loved someone so much you'd do anything to be with him, but he chose to betray you for the sake of his own future, would you hate him?"
"If it were me… hmm… that's a hard question. But honestly, I'd probably let him go."
"You wouldn't be angry? Even after everything you sacrificed for him, and he chose himself over you?"
"Anyone would be hurt and angry. But I'd try to understand his reasons. If he had to choose his future, I'd accept it, even if I was angry. Then I'd focus on my own life. If fate meant for us to be together, one day he'd come back, and then it would be my turn to choose—whether to take him back, or move forward."
"You wouldn't be afraid he'd hurt you again?"
"I wouldn't. Maybe that sounds strange, but sometimes, people need to grow. Some people love us but aren't ready. Being together would only cause pain. Sometimes it's necessity, sometimes it's selfishness. It depends if we can forgive. If he's really the right person at the right time, and the betrayal was just necessity, I'd give him another chance, no matter what anyone thought. But if he left me for someone new, I wouldn't go back."
"I see…"
"When did you fall in love, anyway? You never told me."
"It happened a long time ago. It's the past now. In my case, there's no way we'll ever meet again." I looked down, sadness welling up until she reached out to stroke my hair comfortingly.
"Nothing is ever certain, sweetheart. Miracles can happen. If he loves you enough, one day he'll find you again. He'll prove he wants you in his life."
I gazed out the window, thinking about what my mother said. In my case, he chose his own future out of selfishness. I still couldn't forget the image of him kissing Lady Beatrice. No matter how much time passed, the pain lingered. Even if he did come back, forgiveness didn't mean I had to let him hurt me again.
You act tough, Ellie, but here you are, still desperately searching for proof that he really existed. Maybe it's all been for nothing. Even if he was real, what could I do now? He's been dead a hundred years. But at least the love I had for him was real, and that will last until I die.
Clunk, clunk, click!
The car stopped outside my flat, pulling me from my thoughts. My mother came around to help me out, supporting me with a crutch. The flat wasn't large—just a small kitchen, living room, and bedroom. She set my suitcase down on the sofa and helped me sit before excusing herself to the bathroom.
I picked up my phone and checked my email exchange with Tom.
"When are you available, Miss Hastings? I need to make preparations."
I decided to invite my mother along and waited for her to return before bringing it up.
"Mom, I have a favor to ask."
"What is it?" She grabbed two bottles of water from the kitchen, handed me one, and sat down beside me on the sofa—even though there were other seats.
"Someone's invited me to see some archaeological evidence for my new project at Chatsworth House in Derbyshire. Would you be willing to postpone your return to Montpellier a little? I'd like you to come with me."
"When are you planning to go?"
"I was thinking next week—the 15th or 16th, something like that."
"Should be fine. I'll just have to call Jacque to confirm."
"Thank you."
She called her husband. "Hi, dear—Ellie wants me to go to Derbyshire with her next week. Would it be okay if I stay a bit longer to help with her research?"
"…Okay, thanks." She hung up and smiled at me. "Jack's fine with it. He wants to be sure you're all right."
"Thank you! I'll confirm with Tom for the 15th to 17th, and book a hotel for us. You can handle the drive?"
"Three hours? No problem," she replied, getting up to fetch the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard. With my mother agreeing to come, I quickly emailed Tom to confirm the dates and set about booking a hotel for our little journey.
August 24th, 2025
I didn't forget to check the weather before setting off this time. Luckily, the rain held off even though the sky was predictably overcast. The past four days, I'd spent attending online classes and working from home, while my mother stayed to help with muscle rehab and made sure my meals were always nutritious—just as Lillian once did for me. I'd even gotten to eat my favorite tart, the one I used to mention all the time, after mum overheard my half-mumbled cravings. To my surprise, it tasted almost exactly like Mrs. Barker's version from long ago.
The best news of all: I could walk again, without needing a cane. I wasn't moving as smoothly as before, but the improvement felt miraculous; I could take care of myself again, at least for the most part.
Together, we packed up the car for our short trip. We were only staying two nights, so we traveled light. The hotel we'd chosen was called "The Cavendish Hotel"—situated on the grounds of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire's present-day estate. If the records were accurate, neither of them were Lord Alexander's direct descendants, which led me to suspect his bloodline might have branched off into another family. The probability was almost zero, but I wanted to see the truth for myself before drawing any conclusions.
The journey took just under three hours. We set off from Cambridge at 8:00 a.m. and arrived in Derbyshire by 10:54 a.m. As our car rolled into the village of Bakewell, the sight of the grand old house rising above the hills and the Derwent River brought a wave of déjà vu. Centuries had passed, but the great house had endured almost perfectly—its facade standing proud among the rolling green hills.
Although I'd never visited before, everything looked just as I'd seen it in my dreams, as if those memories were real. There were changes, of course, but the overall feeling—the essential outlines—remained almost exactly as they had been.
We couldn't check in until after 2 p.m., so we left our bags at the front desk and went off in search of breakfast. Neither of us had eaten before leaving that morning, and now we were both properly hungry.
The hotel was just a five-minute walk from the main house. The only nearby café open this early was the "Carriage House Café." The place was almost empty—perhaps it wasn't peak tourist season yet, and most visitors wouldn't come until Christmas. The hotel and café were both unusually quiet.
From outside, the café still looked much like its Victorian ancestor: dark gray stone, a charming tile roof, as if time had never touched it. The building had once been a derelict carriage house but had since been restored with loving care. White-painted wooden shutters and window boxes overflowing with seasonal blooms gave it a cheerful, welcoming air, even on this gray day.
As we pushed open the door, a bell chimed softly overhead, welcoming us into another world. The aroma of freshly ground coffee mingled with pine and cinnamon, drifting through the warm air. Vintage glass lamps hung from the old timber beams, casting a golden light over exposed brick and polished oak tables. The chairs were softened with faded floral cushions. A few guests read quietly by the fireplace, while a couple spoke in hushed tones in a distant corner.
On one wall, black-and-white photographs told the story of days gone by—carriages and horses, engineers in dungarees, women in hooped skirts. The weight of time seemed to saturate everything: the air, the crockery, the quiet comfort of the room.
My mother ordered beef lasagna with a pot of Assam tea. I chose the seasonal soup—this time of year it was carrot and celery, served with bread and a scone. Normally I would have picked Assam, too, but today I ordered Earl Grey—the tea he used to drink—just to remember him, if only for a moment. Just being here, in his homeland, made me feel closer to him somehow.
As we ate, I checked my phone for updates from Tom.
"Have you arrived, Miss Hastings? Please meet me in the main staircase hall at 1:00 p.m." His email had arrived an hour earlier. I replied quickly:
"We're here. See you soon!"
"Mom, we need to be inside the house by one o'clock. Let's relax here till about noon, then head over."
"He told you exactly where to meet?"
"Yes, in the main staircase hall."
"Who is this Tom, really? And why does he claim to have the very evidence you've been searching for? I remember you saying you were ready to give up—that you'd never find anything."
"That's exactly what I thought. I didn't know if what I was searching for was real, or just some fever dream I'd made up. But Tom insisted my theory was correct. That's why I have to see it for myself. As for who he really is… I honestly have no idea. But he says he can get us into the restricted archives—places the general public can't access. I just can't pass up this chance."
My mother set down her teacup and gave me one of her small, encouraging smiles.
"It must mean a lot to you, this thing you're chasing. You've never been the type to believe in fanciful dreams."
"That's true. But this dream—it's engraved in my mind. It feels real, like it actually happened. I just want to meet the person I found in that dream."
"You love him, don't you? That's why you're willing to go this far."
"Yes. Maybe you think I'm crazy, chasing after a dream-lover. But I just… I feel there's more to this than we understand—something beyond what science can explain. I believe he existed, even if I don't have any evidence yet."
She reached across the table, rested her hand on my head, and leaned in with the same gentle encouragement she'd always given me.
"Whether you fail or succeed, whether it's real or just a dream—if it brings you happiness and gives you purpose, I'll always stand by you. I'll support every decision you make, sweetheart."
I looked at her with all the gratitude and love I could muster.
"Thank you, Mom."
How long had it been since I'd traveled anywhere with her like this? Ever since she remarried, we'd lived separate lives—me chasing my own dreams, her starting a new family with the man she loved. Every now and then, we managed to meet and spend some time together, and it always brought a quiet happiness. For some reason, I had a strange premonition that this might be the last time we'd get to travel together like this—maybe a lingering fear after all my time-traveling, or maybe just a reminder of how easily people can be lost.
Thinking about it, I realized how lucky I was to have a mother as loving and understanding as mine. Even in my days as Lady Eleanor, Lord Barnett had been just as gentle and devoted. Perhaps that was what united me and my counterpart in every world—a parent's unconditional love.
12:53 p.m.
The closer it got to the appointed hour, the more my heart raced with anxiety. I had no idea who this "Tom" we were about to meet truly was, and a part of me still feared that all this hope I'd been offered was just empty air. While I waited, I tilted my head up, admiring the ceiling murals—still untouched by time—angels and gods rendered in vibrant color, just as I remembered seeing them, long ago. The angels brought back memories of Vicar Michael, and that final vision before my death in that other world: the moment I saw him unleash a burst of holy light from his palm to drive Dorothea's spirit away. I couldn't help but wonder—what exactly was he? Human? It didn't feel right. Some kind of exorcist-priest? That wasn't quite it, either. In my heart, I was convinced he was something above humans and demons both—a celestial being, disguised as a man of the cloth.
My mind always did have a flair for weaving dreams beyond reason…
"Good afternoon, Miss Hastings."
A deep, pleasant male voice spoke my name, formal yet warm, from just behind me. He must have come in through a staff door; I hadn't seen him enter the main hall.
"Yes—hello. Are you… Tom?" My mother greeted him first. I turned, following her lead.
He looked to be in his late forties, by my estimation. Handsome in a reserved, English way, with light brown hair and bright blue eyes. There was something gentle about him; he smiled easily at both me and my mother as we exchanged pleasantries.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, bowing slightly to my mother before turning to me. "And you, Miss Hastings—at last we meet in person."
"It's nice to finally meet you as well. Are you the curator here?" I cut straight to the point.
He let out a quiet laugh. "You could say that, yes."
He formally introduced himself: "My full name is Thomas Wycliffe. My family has served as caretakers and archivists here for generations, in service to the Cavendish family since the very beginning. Our name isn't one most people would know; we never made much of a mark in history. I stumbled upon your dream journal on your blog, and I was stunned—you wrote about my ancestor with uncanny detail, as if you'd known him yourself. That ancestor was Sir Theodore Wycliffe."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"He truly was the confidant of William Cavendish, the sixth Duke. So you can imagine my shock at seeing his name in your writing. And then, when I read that you were searching for evidence of Lord Alexander Cavendish's existence, I became convinced your dreams were real. Since I knew you were working on a research project, I wanted to help you succeed. That's why I reached out."
A dizzying wave of relief and disbelief swept over me—Sir Wycliffe had been real, and this man was living proof. Tears pricked my eyes, slipping down my cheek before I could stop them. It wasn't just a dream. Lord Alexander had truly existed. All of it—every impossible thing—was true.
Both Tom and my mother seemed a bit embarrassed by my sudden tears. I wiped them away, laughing softly at myself, and got straight to business.
"The evidence you mentioned…what kind is it?"
He smiled gently. "A genealogical ledger."
"But…the family registers never mention him, do they?" I pressed.
"This is the original manuscript, written in the hand of each Duke from William I onward. It's never been made public—its age and condition make it far too fragile to display. That's why the present Duke doesn't allow anyone to handle it."
Just as I'd suspected: the secret ledger Sir Wycliffe once showed me was real, and still kept hidden.
"But why allow me to see it? If my research is published in The Times, it could cause quite a stir."
He nodded. "I discussed your story with His Grace. He feels it's time the truth was known: who the real seventh Duke was, and why he was erased from history. Perhaps your dreams are a sign that justice should finally be done."
I smiled, not just for myself, but for Lord Alexander. At last, he would be recognized.
"Thank you. Truly."
"My pleasure. This way, please."
Tom led us upstairs, along hallways that felt uncannily familiar—past the door to the room I once called my own. As we walked, curiosity got the better of me.
"Do you know why Lord Alexander was erased?" I asked.
He glanced back at me, smiling wryly. "You sound awfully close to him, you know." He laughed softly.
I blushed, realizing how strange it must sound—referring to him so intimately, as if we'd known each other.
"There's no solid proof, only family rumor," Tom said at last. "The genealogical ledger is the only surviving evidence he existed. Not even his grave has ever been found. The stories say he suffered from mental illness—some claim he wandered into the woods alone and vanished, never to be seen again. The scandal so threatened Queen Victoria's reputation that she ordered his name erased. All his achievements were credited to his elder brother, William, and the ducal title was passed to a cousin instead."
I felt a pang of grief and anger; Lord Alexander I had known was nothing like that. But facts were facts, and the rest was silence.
"It's only a rumor," Tom added gently. "No one truly knows what happened."
We arrived at a room filled with shelves—an archive lined with ancient documents, many sealed behind glass. Tom selected a framed page from one shelf and placed it carefully on a central table. It was the same page Sir Wycliffe had once shown me, only now the paper was more battered and yellowed with age.
A wave of emotion overcame me. I covered my mouth, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to keep from sobbing aloud. There, written in the trembling hand of history, was his name—Alexander Cavendish—the proof I had chased across lifetimes. My mother stroked my hair, comforting me.
At last. I'd found him.
Tom pressed a card into my hand—a keycard.
"You're staying until the 17th, aren't you? You'll have unrestricted access to this room and the archives until you leave. Use them as much as you like—just don't remove or damage anything."
"Thank you. I promise, I won't let anything happen to these treasures."
He smiled. I gripped the card, breathing deeply, already plotting how best to use my time here.
Tom walked us back to the main entrance; we needed to check in and settle our luggage before I returned here alone. My mother planned to rest, then explore the gardens in the afternoon, while I wasted no time in heading back to the archives.
3:23 p.m.
While my mother napped, I retraced my steps, winding through the halls until I reached the library I'd loved so well. It was now open to the public, and much changed, but the scent of old wood and paper lingered—just as before. The great table in the middle still stood, unchanged, the very place where I had once wept my heart out. It felt as though time itself had frozen, trapping fragments of the past in amber.
I let memories swirl—then saw something impossible. A golden butterfly, shimmering with light, fluttered before me, just as it had in the dream that changed everything. I blinked hard, but it vanished in an instant, leaving me with only the echo of wonder.
Imagination, I told myself, and returned to the archives.
For the rest of the afternoon, I poured over what little documentation existed—organizing notes, cross-referencing records, preparing my report. But as dusk fell, an old question tugged at me: where was his grave? I wanted to find it. I needed to know where he had truly died. I emailed Tom, asking for any leads. He replied that no archaeologist, no record, had ever uncovered a clue—not a single trace of Lord Alexander's burial.
Still, he sent the best possible theories. One: he might have been buried alongside William. Two: he died alone in the forest and was never found. Three: he was interred in an unmarked grave, somewhere nearby.
That narrowed my search to two cemeteries: the ancient graveyard at Derby Cathedral, and St. Peter's Church in Edensor, where William's tomb lay.
Tomorrow, I would begin there—one final journey, in search of the truth.