This podcast may not be for all listeners.
Listener discretion is advised. On a sweltering August afternoon
in 1901, two English academics stepped into what can only be
described as a terror in time. What happened to Charlotte
Moberly and Eleanor Jordan at the Palace of Versailles would
haunt them for the rest of their lives and challenge everything
we think we know about the fabric of reality.
The past isn't as far away as you think.
Come with me into the shadows of history where these two women
stumbled into what might be the most credible time slip ever
recorded. What they witnessed in the
gardens of Versailles would haunt them until their dying
days. Join me while I venture into
their unexplained realms of time travel.
Charlotte Anne Moberly was born in Winchester, England on
September 16th, 1846. Born into the shadows of
Victorian propriety, Charlotte emerged from a world where
daughters of clergy were meant to be seen and not heard.
The 10th of 15 children born to George and Marianne Moberly, she
grew up in the looming presence of the Winchester Cathedral,
where her father served as headmaster of Winchester College
before ascending to become a Bishop of Salisbury.
The weight of religious expectations pressed down on the
young Charlotte's shoulders like a winter coat.
While her brothers received formal education, she and her
sisters were taught primarily at home, a common fate for girls of
their era. But Charlotte harbored A fierce
intellect that refused to be caged by convention.
She devoured books in her father's extensive library,
often reading by candlelight long after the rest of the
household surrendered to sleep. These early years shaped her
with an iron hand. The endless succession of
siblings meant she often felt lost in the crowd, a ghost child
drifting through the corridors of their home.
Yet this very invisibility became her strength, allowing
her to observe, to think, to form the sharp mind that would
later lead her to become the first principal of Saint Hugh's
College in Oxford. But even as she rose to academic
heights, those childhood years in the cathedral shadow never
released their grip. Perhaps they explained her later
fascination with the supernatural.
After all, she had spent her formative years in a place where
the line between past and present, sacred and profane, was
always treacherously thin. Born into Victorian shadows in
1863, Eleanor Jordan emerged as the eldest of 10 children
destined to bear the weight of expectations that came with
being first. The suffocating propriety of the
era shaped her early years, as she navigated a world that
barely tolerated educated women. In 1883 she dared to matriculate
at Lady Margaret Hall in Oxford, a time when women were still
viewed as intellectual curiosities rather than
scholars. The crushing pressure to prove
herself culminated in 1886, when she became one of the first
women in modern history at Oxford to be examined like a
specimen under glass. She endured the unprecedented
scrutiny of being the first woman to undergo a Viva voce
examination. Her subsequent years were spent
in the stifling confines of various teaching positions.
She was a woman trying to carve out space in the suffocating
male dominion of academia. Fate has a peculiar way of
weaving dark threads together. In 19 ON Charlotte, Moberly was
the first principal of Saint Hugh's College and sought a vice
principal. This would bring Eleanor
Georgene directly to Charlotte. Eleanor was a figure who would
become both her closest confidant and fellow witness to
something that defied explanation.
Their first meeting carried all the polite formality of
Victorian academia, but beneath the surface lurked in instant
recognition, a sense that each had found in the other.
A kindred spirit who understood what it meant to exist slightly
out of step with the ordinary world.
With her penetrating dark eyes and reputation for scholarly
brilliance, Eleanor Jordain matched Charlotte's intensity.
Both women had fought through a male dominated academic
landscape, carrying battle scars that most couldn't comprehend.
Little did either suspect their professional partnership would
lead them to the impossible. That fateful August afternoon at
Versailles still lie ahead, waiting like a spider in its
web. Their shared experience there
would bind them together in a way that transcended mere
collegiate collaboration, forcing them to defend their
sanity against the world. Eager to dismiss them as
hysterical women, It seems that the universe had brought them
together for a purpose far stranger than running a woman's
college. Their meeting wasn't just the
beginning of a professional relationship, it was the first
step into a mystery that would consume them both until their
dying days. These two educated women decided
to visit the Palace of Versailles on a perfectly
ordinary summer day. They had no reason to expect
anything unusual that day. They were simply tourists
looking to admire the grandeur of French history.
But history had other plans. As they wandered the grounds,
admiring its beauty, something shifted.
The two women realized they were lost in the woods.
The air grew heavy and oppressive.
Both women would later describe an inexplicable sensation that
washed over them, as if the world had suddenly become
muffled and Gray. They found themselves in what
appeared to be a different version of Versailles, not the
tourist attraction of 1901, but something older, much older.
They encountered people in the 18th century, clothing but not
costumes or reenactments. These figures moved with an
unsettling authenticity. Paying no attention to the two
women, a man directed them down a path.
They passed a woman in the gardens dressed in a light
colored skirt, white fichu and straw hat, the fashion of Marie
Antoinette's era. Later, they would become
convinced it was Marie Antoinette sitting near the
Petit Traynon. Their innocent afternoon stroll
through Versailles turned into something far more unsettling.
They crossed what seemed like an ordinary bridge, a modest wooden
structure spanning A burbling stream.
They passed a quaint circle building with its pillars and a
low wall, and then wandered through gardens hemmed in by
towering trees. When Charlotte and Eleanor
compared notes later, they realized something chilling.
They had experienced the same inexplicable events, but with
subtle, terrifying differences. What one saw clearly, the other
only saw partially. It was as if they had each
caught different glimpses through the same crack in time,
a crack that shouldn't exist. While their observations
differed, both remembered one item, a plow.
The women learned that Louis the 16th kept a plow at the Petit
Trianon, which was sold during the French Revolution.
The two women would go on to write a book about their
experience, published under pseudonyms entitled An
Adventure, but the publication would bring them nothing but
ridicule and professional skepticism.
The academic world wasn't ready to accept that the two of its
own had wandered into August 10th, 1792.
When Charlotte returned in 19 O2 to the exact location, desperate
to retrace their steps, she found nothing.
The bridge had vanished, the pavilion gone without a trace.
Even the wooded area where she had walked had seemingly been
swallowed by time itself. But here's where it gets truly
spine tingling. When they unearthed A yellowed
map from 1783, there they were. Every single landmark exactly
where the women had encountered them.
Somehow, they had walked through a Versailles that hadn't existed
for over a century. That cold day in 19 O2, the
woods of Versailles held another secret for Charlotte.
Lost among the bare winter trees.
Once again, she caught something in the wind, the ghostly echoes
of distant music. Light and repetitive, the melody
drifted through the frozen air like a musical phantom that
refused to fade. Haunted by the mysterious tune,
she carefully transcribed 12 bars from memory.
But when she shared these notes with a music expert in 1907, his
revelation sent shills down her spine.
The composition was no modern piece.
It belonged to the 1780s and its style unmistakably anchored to
that distant era. Even more disturbing were the
conversations with the Versailles caretakers.
Their firm declarations deepen the mystery.
No bands were permitted in the park during winter's cold grip.
And even if they were the designated performance area live
far beyond the earshot of the Petitreanon, the music Moberly
heard that day should have been impossible.
It somehow crossed the barrier of Time itself.
Those ancient melodies had found her.
The proof came seven years later, buried in the yellowed
pages of Time. In 1908, Moberly and Jordan's
hands trembled as they turned the brittle pages of Madame
Ilove's journal. This wasn't any dressmaker's
journal. These were the private records
of Marie Antoinette's personal seamstress.
And therein, faded ink lie validation of their impossible
encounter details matched with chilling precision.
The summer of 1789, as revolutions simmered in the
streets of Paris, Madame Elauf had created just a handful of
garments for the doomed queen. 2 green silk bodices, large white
fee shoes draped carefully over her shoulders, and a skirt with
the faintest tinge of yellow. Charlotte's blood ran cold.
The outfit matched thread for thread for the spectral figure
they glimpsed in 1901. MO, really.
And Jordan never wavered from their story.
They went to their graves, insisting on the truth of what
they'd witnessed that August afternoon.
Some say they stumbled upon a residual haunting, a moment in
time replaying itself like a cosmic record stuck in a groove.
Others suggest they experienced a time slip, a momentary overlap
between then and now. The more scientifically minded
proposed mass hysteria or false memory.
But I I think we may have to leave this one in the
unexplained realms. So I must ask you, dear
listeners, what if time isn't the rigid forward March we
assume it to be? What if it's more like a piece
of fabric, and sometimes that fabric develops wrinkles or
folds? Places like where yesterday and
today brush against each other like silk on silk.
I wonder if the Versailles sits on a temporal thin spot,
essentially a place or a moment where the physical and spiritual
realms are thin. Though in my discussions with my
exploratory friends, my show ambassadors, quick shout out to
them. You 2 are my muses, gifted to me
by the universe. Namaste, my friends.
Anyway, we chatted not long ago about time travel simply being
remote viewing. It's always been kind of my
belief you have to let us know what you think.
But as you drift off to sleep tonight, consider this one of
time isn't a river flowing in One Direction, but an ocean with
the depths we've barely begun to fathom.
Until next time, I'll leave you with a quote from Charlotte
Moberly's writing. Some doors, once opened, can
never truly be closed.