Winter came early that year, and with it, a cold that seemed to settle permanently into their small home.
Eleanor's condition worsened before it improved. The nausea that had begun as occasional waves became a constant companion, leaving her pale and weak. She could keep down little more than dry toast and weak tea, and even those sometimes betrayed her. Julian watched helplessly as she grew thinner everywhere except her slowly rounding belly, his worry etched deeper into his face with each passing day.
Their savings—never substantial to begin with—dwindled with alarming speed. Without Eleanor's piano lessons, they had lost nearly half their income. Julian took on every writing commission he could find, working late into the night by candlelight, his fingers cramped and ink-stained. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
By January, they were two months behind on rent.
Mr. Blackwood, their landlord and the bookshop owner below, was a kind man. But even kindness had its limits.
"I'm sorry, Julian," he said one grey afternoon, standing uncomfortably in their doorway, hat in hand. "I've tried to be patient, but I have my own bills to pay. If you can't bring the rent current by the end of the month..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
After he left, Julian sat at the table, his head in his hands. Eleanor watched him from the doorway of their bedroom, one hand on her swollen belly—four months now, impossible to hide.
"There's a position," he said finally, not looking up. "In the capital. A friend wrote to me about it weeks ago. Clerical work for a publishing house. The pay is... it's more than double what I make here."
Eleanor's heart constricted. "The capital is three days' journey away."
"I know."
"And the position—how long?"
"A year. Maybe longer." Finally, he looked up at her, and she saw the anguish in his eyes. "Eleanor, I don't want to leave you. Especially not now, not when you're... But I don't see another way. We're drowning here. And when the baby comes—"
"When the baby comes, I'll need you here." Her voice was steadier than she felt. "Julian, I can't do this alone."
"You won't be alone. Betty has promised to look in on you, and Mrs. Henderson said she'd help when the time comes. I'll send money—every penny I can spare. And I'll write, every week. Every day if the post allows it." He stood and came to her, taking her hands. "It's only for a year. Just one year, and then we'll have enough saved that we can breathe again. Maybe even afford a better place, somewhere with a garden for the child to play in."
Eleanor wanted to argue, to rage against the unfairness of it all. She had chosen this life freely, yes—but she had chosen it with Julian beside her, not three days' journey away. But when she looked at his face, saw the desperation there, the guilt already eating at him for even suggesting this, she couldn't add to his burden.
"One year," she said softly. "And you promise to come back?"
"I promise." He pulled her close, as close as her belly would allow, and held her as if he could memorize the feel of her in his arms. "Eleanor, I would walk through fire to come back to you. A year apart is nothing compared to a lifetime together."
She wanted to believe him. She tried to believe him. But as she stood in his embrace, feeling their child move within her for the first time—a flutter like butterfly wings—she couldn't shake the cold fear that had settled in her chest.
Julian left on a February morning when the world was grey and bitter cold.
They stood at the coaching station, their breath forming clouds in the frozen air. Eleanor had insisted on coming despite the chill, despite her condition, despite Julian's protests.
"Six months," she said, placing his hand on her belly. "When you come back, you'll have a son or daughter to meet."
"I'll be thinking of you every moment." His voice was rough with unshed tears. "Both of you. And I'll write as soon as I arrive, I promise."
"I know." She smiled, though her lips trembled. "Go. Go and make our fortune, Mr. Moore."
He kissed her then, a long kiss that tasted of salt and goodbye, before climbing into the coach. She watched until it disappeared around the corner, until the rattle of wheels faded into the city's noise.
Then she walked home alone, one hand on her belly, telling herself that everything would be fine. That this was temporary. That love could survive a separation of mere months.
The flat felt impossibly empty without him.
For the first month, everything went according to plan.
Julian's letters arrived regularly, sometimes two a week. He wrote about his work at the publishing house, about the boarding house where he stayed, about how much he missed her. And true to his word, money came with nearly every letter—not a fortune, but enough that Eleanor could pay their back rent and buy proper food for the first time in months.
My dearest Eleanor,
I've just returned from another long day of reviewing manuscripts and ledgers—tedious work, but it pays well. I find myself thinking of you constantly. How are you feeling? Is the baby moving more now? I picture you sitting by our window, reading or writing, one hand on your belly. I wish I could be there to feel our child kick, to share in these moments with you.
The city is busy and loud and thoroughly overwhelming. I miss our quiet village, our simple rooms, the sound of your voice reading poetry aloud. I miss you with an ache that grows rather than lessens with each day.
My friend Michael—you remember I mentioned him, the one who told me about this position—has been very kind. He's promised to deliver this letter and the enclosed money personally on his trip back home next week. It will be faster than the regular post, and I trust him completely.
Only eleven more months, my love. I'm counting every day.
Yours always,
Julian
Eleanor pressed the letter to her chest, smiling through tears. Eleven months. She could endure eleven months.
But in March, the letters began to change.
They came less frequently—once a week, then once every two weeks. The tone remained loving, but something felt... different. Distant. And the money, which had been so regular, became sporadic.
Eleanor tried not to worry. Perhaps Julian was simply busy. Perhaps the post was unreliable. She wrote to him constantly, telling him about the baby's increasingly vigorous movements, about spring beginning to show in the garden, about how much she missed him.
My darling Julian,
I haven't heard from you in three weeks. I tell myself there's a simple explanation—that your letters are delayed, that you're well and thinking of me. But I confess, fear creeps in during the long nights. Are you eating properly? Are you safe? Is the work too demanding?
Our child is very active now. Sometimes I feel as though there are two babies rather than one, so constant is the movement. Mrs. Henderson jokes that we're having twins. I wish you were here to feel it, to share in this wonder.
Please write soon. Even a few words would ease my heart.
All my love,
Eleanor
By April, a month before the baby was due, the money had stopped coming entirely.
Eleanor stared at the small pile of coins on her table—all that remained of Julian's last payment, received six weeks ago. It was enough for perhaps another week of food and fuel, no more.
She picked up the most recent letter from Julian, dated three weeks earlier, and read it again, searching for some clue, some explanation.
Dearest Eleanor,
I hope this letter finds you well and that our child continues to thrive. I'm sorry I haven't written more often—the work here has been relentless, and I'm often too exhausted to put pen to paper by evening.
I'm pleased to tell you that I've received a small promotion, which means better pay. I'm sending extra money with this letter, which should help as you prepare for the baby's arrival. I've also written to Mrs. Henderson, asking her to spare no expense in securing a good midwife for your lying-in.
I think of you constantly. You and our child are my entire world.
With all my love,
Julian
But there had been no extra money. In fact, there had been no money at all with that letter. And the one before it had contained only half the usual amount.
Something was wrong. Eleanor could feel it in her bones, a cold certainty that grew with each day of silence.
She placed both hands on her swollen belly—enormous now, so large that Mrs. Henderson had indeed begun to insist it must be twins—and made a decision.
Tomorrow, she would go to her father.
Pride be damned. Fear be damned. Whatever had happened between them, he was still her father. And she was still his daughter, now carrying his grandchild. Surely, surely he would help.
She had to believe that. Because she had nowhere else to turn.
That night, Eleanor dreamed of Julian. He was walking away from her down a long, fog-shrouded street, and no matter how loudly she called his name, he didn't turn back. She woke with tears on her cheeks and a pain in her chest that had nothing to do with her pregnancy.
"Come back to me," she whispered into the darkness. "Please, Julian. Come back."
But the only answer was the wind against the windows and the distant sound of the city awakening to another cold, grey dawn.