Chapter 2

The Summer Garden Ball at Buckingham Palace is one of the most highly anticipated events in British high society.

Eleanor spent two full weeks preparing. She studied royal etiquette, consulted the best stylists, and took the time to learn about the latest horticultural trends—just in case a royal asked her about Devonshire Manor’s world-famous rose garden at the ball.

“Duchess, this dress suits you perfectly,” said stylist Miranda, holding up a pale gold evening gown. “Emilia Wickwood designed it and complements your elegance perfectly.”

The dress was indeed beautiful. Delicate patterns were embroidered onto the champagne-colored silk satin base, and the neckline featured a high collar with Victorian-style lace that was both dignified and elegant. Eleanor twirled in front of the mirror and could hardly recognize herself.

“I’ll take this one,” she said.

On the day of the ball, she was ready half an hour ahead of schedule. As she descended the stairs, she was surprised to see William waiting in the hall. He wore a perfectly tailored tailcoat, and his blond hair was immaculately combed. He looked as if he’d stepped right off the cover of a fashion magazine.

But his brow was furrowed. When he saw her, his gaze swept over her dress without comment. He said, "Let's go."

The drive from Devonshire Hill Manor to London took two hours. The car was suffocatingly quiet. Eleanor stole a few glances at William. He kept his eyes fixed on his phone screen, and his expression grew increasingly sullen.

"Is something wrong at work?" she asked tentatively.

"It's none of your business," he replied without looking up.

Eleanor pursed her lips and turned her face toward the window.

The banquet hall at Buckingham Palace sparkled with lights. Guests in elegant attire held champagne flutes and whispered to one another beneath glittering crystal chandeliers. The air was filled with the sounds of a string ensemble performing for the Royal Orchestra, and the scent of money and power hung heavily in the air.

As Eleanor entered the hall on William’s arm, a flurry of camera flashes erupted. As one of Britain’s youngest ducal couples, they were always the focus of media attention.

"Smile," William whispered in her ear, his tone almost commanding.

She did as he said. Her smile looked like a mask pasted onto her face.

The audience with the Queen went smoothly. Her Majesty graciously praised the Devonshire family’s contributions to public service, and Eleanor responded with gratitude. William stood by her side, exuding the perfect aristocratic demeanor.

Afterwards, Eleanor breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

But she had rejoiced too soon.

During the informal reception, waiters weaved through the crowd carrying champagne and delicate pastries. William was surrounded by several political and business figures, discussing investment plans for the North Sea oil fields. Eleanor stood by his side, maintaining a polite smile and nodding occasionally, as etiquette dictated.

Just then, a gentleman with gray hair and a white beard approached. Eleanor recognized him as Sir Patrick Crawford, a Member of Parliament and an old-school aristocrat renowned for his passion for gardening.

"The Duchess of Devinhill!" Sir Crawford greeted her warmly. "I've long admired your reputation. I hear you’ve taken over management of the estate’s rose garden.”

Eleanor’s eyes lit up. "Yes, Sir Crawford. I’ve been in charge of the garden’s overall planning since this spring.”

“Wonderful! I visited your fall rose show last year and was very impressed,” the elderly gentleman said enthusiastically. "Especially those Bourbon roses imported from France—they’ve been cultivated very successfully."

This was precisely Eleanor’s area of expertise. Eagerly, she replied, "Those roses certainly have great potential, but they'll need time to adapt to the British climate. I’m currently experimenting with a new organic fertilizer formula—"

"Fertilizer?" a shrill voice suddenly cut in. "Good heavens, Duchess, discussing fertilizer on an occasion like this?"

The Countess of Featherstone appeared at her side, waving her ostrich-feather fan and wearing an exaggerated expression of disgust.

Sir Crawford frowned. "My lady, gardening is a refined art."

"Of course," Lady Featherstone drawled, "but I simply didn't expect the Duchess of Cavendish to take an interest in such vulgar matters. After all, such things are not part of her duties.”

A few of the nearby ladies let out low giggles.

Eleanor’s face burned fiercely, but she remained polite. “Gardening is my hobby. If you ever have the opportunity to visit Devonshire Manor, I’m sure you’ll find—"

"Oh, dear," Lady Featherstone interrupted, turning to William. "Your Grace, your wife is truly...one of a kind. But, to be honest, I’m more interested in knowing when you two will provide the Devonshire family with an heir. After all, you’ve been married for over a year now, haven’t you?”

The shift in topic caused the air around them to freeze instantly.

Eleanor froze in her tracks. She saw several older noblewomen exchange meaningful glances, and a few young ladies covered their smiles with handkerchiefs.

William’s hand, holding his wine glass, paused.

"You’re quite right."

Suddenly, a sharp, cold female voice interjected. The speaker was Margaret Cavendish, William’s aunt—an old-school aristocrat in her sixties who still commanded an imposing presence. Leaning on her ivory cane, she walked over, her piercing gaze sweeping over Eleanor. "A year of marriage, and still no sign of a baby. No wonder rumors are swirling that the Devonshire line is about to die out.”

Those words cut like a knife into Eleanor’s heart.

She turned to William, hoping he would say something—even just a look of denial or a hint to change the subject.

But William raised his glass and took a sip of whiskey.

Then he said the words he would later deeply regret.

"Is a foolish woman who knows nothing but climbing into bed really fit to bear my heir?"

His voice was neither too loud nor too soft—just loud enough for everyone around him to hear. There was no anger or defense in his tone, only casual disdain, as if he were evaluating a product that failed to meet his expectations.

Laughter rang out.

Some laughed awkwardly, while others sneered maliciously. Mrs. Featherstone covered her mouth with her fan, her eyes narrowed in amusement. Aunt Margaret nodded with satisfaction.

Eleanor stood there as if someone had splashed a basin of ice water in her face.

She saw a flicker of pity cross Sir Crawford’s face and several young waiters lower their heads. She watched the bubbles in her champagne glass burst one by one and saw the light from the crystal chandelier shatter into a million pieces.

"Excuse me, I must step away for a moment," she heard herself say.

Her voice was soft yet clear.

She turned and walked toward the exit of the ballroom, one step at a time. The sounds around her grew distant and muffled, as if separated by a thick layer of water. She walked steadily with her back straight.

When she reached the doorway, a waiter held the door open for her.

"Ma'am, would you like a car?"

"No, thank you."

She walked down the hallway, past the red-carpeted staircase and the ancient portraits. She kept walking until she reached a corner of the garden, far from the lights and music. There, she stopped.

The evening breeze blew by, carrying the scent of roses from afar.

She raised her hand to touch her face and found it dry.

She couldn’t bring herself to cry.

By the time they returned to the estate, it was well past midnight. William rested his eyes in the car as if nothing had happened.

Eleanor gazed at his delicate profile and suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of strangeness. Was this the boy who had given her the white rose? Was this the young man who had once told her, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll take you away”?

Perhaps those memories were nothing more than her wishful thinking.

Back in her bedroom, she took off her carefully chosen evening gown, removed her pearl earrings, and wiped off her elaborate makeup. The mirror reflected a pale, serene face.

She walked to the window and gazed at the rose garden in the night.

Tomorrow, she thought she would leave.

The moment she made that decision, she felt a strange sense of relief. It was as if a noose around her neck had suddenly loosened.

She slipped the sapphire ring off her finger and placed it on the dressing table.

Then, she took a small notebook from the nightstand drawer. It was a gardening journal she had kept before marrying into the family. Inside were records of how to cultivate various roses, along with sketches she’d drawn.

She turned to the last page and wrote in pencil:

William, I'm leaving. Not because I hate you, but because I can no longer hate myself.

When she finished, she tore the note from the page and placed it next to the ring.

Then, she began to pack her things.

She took only a few changes of clothes, her gardening notebook, and a white “Lady Moonlight” rose that she had secretly plucked from the bride’s bouquet on their wedding day—one of the last to bloom at Devonshire Manor.

At four in the morning, the estate was still asleep. Eleanor stepped out of her bedroom, carrying a small suitcase.

The hallway was quiet. She passed William’s room; the door was closed tight, as always.

She paused for a moment, then continued on her way.

She descended the stairs, passed through the hall, and walked past the family portraits. The Cavendish ancestors in the portraits looked down upon the fleeing duchess with cold, indifferent eyes.

She pushed open the side door and stepped into the rose garden.

Dawn had not yet broken, and the sky was the deepest indigo. The roses were still asleep, their petals glistening with dew. She walked over to the "Lady Moonlight," the oldest rose on the estate said to have been planted by William's great-grandmother.

She crouched down, pulled a small trowel from her bag, and carefully dug up a new offshoot from the root. She had grafted and nurtured it herself last year, and no one knew of its existence.

After wrapping the cutting in a damp cloth and placing it in her bag, she stood up.

The first faint glimmer of light was already appearing in the east.

"Goodbye," she whispered to the estate.

Then, she turned and walked toward a taxi waiting outside the side gate.