The walk to her father's house on Baker Street had never seemed so long.
Eleanor paused every few steps, one hand pressed to her aching back, the other supporting her enormous belly. The baby—or babies, as Mrs. Henderson insisted—seemed to protest every movement, pushing against her ribs with what felt like tiny fists and feet.
She had dressed as carefully as her limited wardrobe allowed, trying to look respectable despite her condition and circumstances. But she knew what she looked like: a woman visibly with child, no wedding ring visible beneath her worn gloves (she'd had to sell it two weeks ago for food money), her coat barely closing over her swollen form.
The servants would gossip. The neighbors would stare. And her father...
She pushed the thought away and climbed the familiar steps to the front door.
The butler who answered—Thompson, who had known her since childhood—couldn't quite hide his shock.
"Miss Eleanor—that is, Mrs. Moore—" He recovered himself, his professional mask sliding back into place. "I'm afraid Sir Charles is not receiving visitors today."
"Please, Thompson." Eleanor's voice came out more desperate than she'd intended. "Please tell him I'm here. Tell him... tell him I need to speak with him. It's urgent."
Something in her face must have moved him, because he stepped aside. "Wait in the blue sitting room. I'll see if he's available."
The sitting room was exactly as Eleanor remembered it—the same heavy curtains, the same portrait of her mother above the fireplace, the same cold elegance that had characterized her entire childhood. She lowered herself carefully into a chair, feeling her baby shift and settle inside her.
From her position, she could see the portrait clearly. Her mother, young and beautiful, painted the year before Eleanor was born. Before the pregnancy that had ended one life to give another.
I wonder if you were frightened too, Eleanor thought, looking at the painted face. Did you know what was coming? Did you regret your choices?
The door opened. Her father entered, and Eleanor's breath caught.
He had aged. It had been only two years since she'd last seen him, but he looked a decade older—his hair thinner and greyer, new lines etched deep around his mouth and eyes. He stopped when he saw her, his gaze traveling from her face to her belly and back again.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"Father," Eleanor said finally, rising with difficulty. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Sit, Eleanor. In your condition—" He gestured, his voice gruff. "You shouldn't be exerting yourself."
She sat gratefully, and he took the chair across from her, maintaining a careful distance.
"Where is your husband?" The question was pointed but not unkind.
"Working. In the capital. He found a position there, with better pay." Eleanor kept her voice steady. "He's been sending money, but... the letters have stopped coming. The money has stopped. I don't know what's happened, and I'm—" Her voice broke despite her best efforts. "I'm frightened, Father."
Sir Charles's expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes. "How far along are you?"
"Eight months. The baby is due in a few weeks, perhaps sooner."
"And Moore left you alone? In this condition?"
"We had no choice." Eleanor lifted her chin, some of her old spirit returning. "We were behind on rent. I was too ill to work. He found a position that pays well—enough to support us, to give our child a decent start. He didn't want to go, but—"
"But he went anyway." Her father's voice was hard. "He left his pregnant wife alone and penniless."
"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" Sir Charles leaned forward. "Eleanor, you threw everything away for this man. Your home, your security, your place in society. And now, when you need him most, where is he? Writing you letters that have conveniently stopped coming?"
"Something has happened," Eleanor insisted. "Julian wouldn't abandon us. He loves me, he loves our child—"
"Love." Her father's laugh was bitter. "Love doesn't pay for food or shelter, Eleanor. Love doesn't ease a difficult childbirth or keep an infant warm in winter. You chose love over security, and now you're here, heavy with child and desperate, begging for help from the father you rejected."
The words hit like physical blows. Eleanor felt tears spring to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"You're right," she said quietly. "I am here begging for help. Not for myself—I made my choices and I'll live with the consequences. But for your grandchild. This baby had no say in any of this. Please, Father. I just need help until Julian returns, until I can understand what's happened—"
"And if he doesn't return?"
The question hung in the air between them, terrible and cold.
"He will," Eleanor whispered. "He promised."
Sir Charles stood and walked to the window, his back to her. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled, businessman-like.
"I will help you. On one condition."
Eleanor's heart leaped with hope and fear in equal measure. "What condition?"
"You will stay here. In this house. The child will be born here, with the best medical care money can buy." He turned to face her. "But you will wait no longer for Moore. If he wanted to be here, he would be. You will accept that the marriage is over—whether through his abandonment or death, it makes no difference. And when you've recovered from the birth, we will find you a suitable match. Someone who will give the child a proper name and future."
Eleanor felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room.
"You're asking me to give up on Julian? To marry someone else?"
"I'm asking you to face reality. The man is gone, Eleanor. Whether he meant to leave you or not, the result is the same. You're alone, with a child coming. I'm offering you and your baby safety and security."
"In exchange for betraying my husband and my own heart." Eleanor stood, though her legs trembled. "No. I can't do that."
"Can't?" Her father's voice rose. "Or won't? Eleanor, be sensible for once in your life! You have a child to think of now. What kind of life can you give this baby? Poverty? Struggle? The stigma of a missing father?"
"A life built on honesty and principle!" Eleanor's hand went protectively to her belly. "The same values Julian and I have always held. Yes, we've struggled. Yes, we've been poor. But we've never compromised who we are. And I won't start now, not even for comfort and security."
"Then I cannot help you." Her father's face had gone cold again, closed off. "I won't watch you throw your life away a second time, and I won't support you in this... this martyrdom to a man who has clearly abandoned you."
"Julian hasn't abandoned us!"
"Then where is he, Eleanor? Where?"
She had no answer. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the ticking of the mantle clock.
"If you change your mind," Sir Charles said finally, "my offer stands. But only if you're willing to be reasonable. I can't help someone who refuses to help themselves."
Eleanor walked to the door, each step an effort. She paused with her hand on the frame and looked back at her father.
"When Julian returns—and he will return—I'll remember this conversation, Father. I'll remember that when I needed you most, you offered help only on the condition that I betray the one person who has never betrayed me."
"He has betrayed you," her father said quietly. "You just can't see it yet."
The walk home was endless. Eleanor's back ached, her feet were swollen, and the baby seemed to be trying to kick its way out of her womb. Twice she had to stop and lean against a wall, waiting for a wave of pain to pass.
Not yet, she thought desperately, placing both hands on her belly. Please, little one, not yet. Not like this.
When she finally reached her building, she found Betty waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
"Mrs. Moore!" The maid rushed to her side. "Lord, you look ready to drop! Here, lean on me."
"Betty." Eleanor gripped her arm gratefully. "What are you doing here?"
"Mrs. Henderson sent word that you'd gone to your father's house. I came to wait for you, in case—" She stopped, reading the answer in Eleanor's face. "He refused to help?"
"He offered help. On conditions I couldn't accept." Eleanor let Betty guide her slowly up the stairs. "I'm on my own, it seems."
"You're not alone." Betty's voice was fierce. "You have me, and Mrs. Henderson, and half the neighborhood who've come to respect you and Mr. Moore. We'll figure something out."
But when they reached Eleanor's flat, even Betty's optimism faltered.
Mr. Blackwood stood at the door, and his expression was apologetic but firm.
"Mrs. Moore," he said gently. "I'm sorry, but I can't wait any longer. I need this space for paying tenants. I've given you more time than I should have, out of respect for you and your husband. But business is business. I need you to vacate by the end of the week."
Eleanor felt her knees buckle. Betty caught her, holding her up as the world tilted and blurred.
"A week?" Eleanor heard herself say. "Mr. Blackwood, please, the baby is due any day now—"
"I know, and I'm sorry. Truly sorry. But I have my own family to think of." He looked genuinely pained. "If there's anything I can do to help you find another place—"
"With what money?" The question came out sharper than Eleanor intended. "I have nothing. No rent money, barely enough for food. Who will take in a woman about to give birth?"
Mr. Blackwood had no answer. He simply shook his head and retreated down the stairs, leaving Eleanor and Betty standing in the doorway of the small flat that would soon no longer be home.
Inside, Eleanor sank into a chair and finally let the tears come—great, wrenching sobs that shook her whole body. Betty knelt beside her, holding her hands, saying nothing because there was nothing to say.
Through her tears, Eleanor's gaze fell on the small stack of Julian's letters on the desk. The last one, three weeks old now, sat on top.
I think of you constantly. You and our child are my entire world.
"Then where are you?" she whispered. "Julian, where are you?"
The baby kicked hard, as if in response, and Eleanor placed both hands on her belly, trying to find comfort in that movement, that proof of life continuing despite everything.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she would find a solution. Tomorrow she would be strong again.
But tonight, she allowed herself to break, just a little, in the gathering darkness of a home she would soon have to leave.