The next morning, Eleanor woke to find Betty asleep in the chair beside her bed, still fully dressed, as if she'd been keeping vigil through the night.
The sight of it—this loyal woman who had once been her maid, now her friend, sacrificing her own comfort out of pure devotion—brought fresh tears to Eleanor's eyes. But she blinked them away. She had cried enough yesterday. Today required action, not despair.
"Betty," she said softly, and the young woman startled awake.
"Mrs. Moore! Are you well? Is it the baby?"
"No, no. The baby is fine." Eleanor struggled to sit up, and Betty rushed to help her, propping pillows behind her back. "But you shouldn't have stayed all night. You'll lose your position if your mistress discovers you were gone."
Betty waved a dismissive hand. "Mrs. Crawford is visiting her sister in Bath for the fortnight. I'm not needed. Besides, where else would I be but here with you?"
Eleanor took her hand and squeezed it. "What did I ever do to deserve such friendship?"
"You treated me like a person, not a piece of furniture," Betty said simply. "When you were a girl in your father's house, you learned my name, asked about my family, thanked me for my service. Do you know how rare that is? You saw me, Mrs. Moore. And I won't forget that."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment before Eleanor spoke again.
"I need to find work, Betty. Something—anything—that I can do in my condition. Perhaps washing or mending—"
"In your state?" Betty looked scandalized. "Mrs. Moore, you're about to give birth any day now! You should be resting, not—"
"I don't have the luxury of rest." Eleanor gestured around the small room. "I have five days to find somewhere to live and some way to support myself and a newborn. Rest is a privilege I cannot afford."
Betty was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. Then her face brightened slightly.
"My cousin Sarah works for a merchant family—the Pritchards. They're not nobility, but they're wealthy and respectable. Good people, by all accounts. They've been looking for someone to help with their children's lessons. Reading, writing, basic arithmetic. Nothing strenuous."
"Betty, look at me." Eleanor gestured to her swollen form. "What family would hire a woman in my condition?"
"One that knows quality when they see it." Betty stood decisively. "You were educated far better than most governesses. You speak French, you play piano beautifully, you know literature and history. And the Pritchards aren't the sort to judge harshly. Mrs. Pritchard herself came from humble origins, married for love rather than station. If anyone would understand your situation..."
It wasn't much of a hope. But it was the only hope Eleanor had.
"Would you ask your cousin? Today, if possible?"
"I'll go right now." Betty was already gathering her shawl. "You stay here and rest. Try to eat something—there's bread and a bit of cheese in the cupboard. I'll be back before noon."
After Betty left, Eleanor tried to follow her advice and eat, but her stomach was knotted with anxiety. Instead, she found herself at Julian's desk, running her fingers over the papers he'd left behind—half-finished articles, notes for stories, drafts of letters to publishers.
She picked up one of his pens and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
My dearest Julian,
I don't know if you'll ever receive this letter. I don't know if something terrible has happened to you, or if—as my father suggests—you have chosen to leave us. I cannot, will not believe the latter. But I must be honest: I am frightened.
Our child will be born soon. I can feel it—the baby has dropped lower, and the pains come more frequently, though not yet in earnest. I should be preparing a nursery, washing tiny clothes, anticipating our child's arrival with joy. Instead, I am preparing to lose our home and wondering how I will feed this baby once it arrives.
I went to my father yesterday. He offered help, but only if I agree to give up on you, to accept that our marriage is over. I refused. I will always refuse. Whatever has happened, wherever you are, you are still my husband. You are still the father of this child. And I will wait for you, even if the waiting breaks me.
But Julian, I am so tired. And so alone. And so very, very frightened.
If you can read this, if you can come home—please. Come home to us.
Always yours,
Eleanor
She folded the letter carefully, but she didn't seal it. There was no point. She had no idea where to send it. Julian's last letter had come from an address in the capital, but who knew if he was still there? The thought that he might have moved, might be trying to reach her even now, while she sat here despairing, gave her a small flicker of comfort.
Betty returned just after noon, slightly out of breath but smiling.
"They'll see you! This very afternoon, if you're able. Mrs. Pritchard was very interested when Sarah told her about you—a gentleman's daughter fallen on hard times, educated and cultured. She said she admired a woman with courage enough to follow her heart."
Eleanor's own heart leaped with hope. "Truly?"
"Truly. Sarah says Mrs. Pritchard is a romantic at heart. Apparently she eloped with Mr. Pritchard against her own family's wishes, though they've reconciled since. She said—and these are her exact words, Sarah swears—'Any woman brave enough to choose love over comfort deserves a chance.'"
For the first time in weeks, Eleanor felt something like optimism stir in her chest.
The Pritchard house was in a respectable but not fashionable part of the city, a solid brick building with window boxes that must be cheerful in spring, though now they held only bare earth. Betty accompanied her, supporting her arm as they climbed the front steps.
Mrs. Pritchard herself answered the door—a woman of perhaps forty, with a kind face and shrewd eyes that missed nothing. She took in Eleanor's condition with a single glance but showed no shock or disapproval.
"Mrs. Moore," she said warmly. "Please, come in. You must be exhausted from the walk."
She led Eleanor to a comfortable sitting room—not as grand as her father's house, but warm and welcoming in a way his had never been. Three children of various ages peeked around the doorway, curious, until Mrs. Pritchard shooed them away with fond exasperation.
"My apologies. They're terribly excited at the prospect of a new teacher. Their last governess left to be married, and I've been teaching them myself, but I'm afraid my French is atrocious and my knowledge of literature ends somewhere around nursery rhymes."
Eleanor found herself smiling despite her nervousness. "I'm honored that you'd consider me, Mrs. Pritchard. Though I should be honest about my situation—"
"Your cousin has told me everything," Mrs. Pritchard interrupted gently. "Your marriage to a man society deemed unsuitable, your financial struggles, your husband's current absence. And your condition is rather obvious." She smiled. "But Sarah also told me about your education, your character, and your determination. Those qualities interest me far more than society's opinions."
Eleanor felt tears prick her eyes. "I cannot promise I'll be able to start immediately. The baby—"
"Is due very soon, I imagine." Mrs. Pritchard's eyes were understanding. "Here is what I propose: You may have one of our rooms in the servants' quarters—larger than most, with good light and its own small fireplace. It's not much, but it's warm and safe. You'll take your meals with us and rest until after the baby is born. Once you've recovered and the child is a few weeks old, you'll begin teaching my children. In exchange, you'll have lodging, food, and a small salary. Does that seem fair?"
Eleanor could hardly believe what she was hearing. "Mrs. Pritchard, that's more than generous. It's—I don't know how to thank you—"
"Thank me by being well and delivering a healthy child." Mrs. Pritchard reached over and patted Eleanor's hand. "I know what it's like to be cast out for following your heart, Mrs. Moore. My own family didn't speak to me for two years after I married Henry. They thought I'd married beneath me—he was a merchant's son, you see, not a gentleman. But we built a good life together, and eventually my family came to see that love and character matter more than social position."
"They reconciled?"
"Eventually. After our first child was born, actually. Something about a grandchild softens even the hardest hearts." She smiled sadly. "I hope the same will be true for your father, in time. But in the meanwhile, you'll have a home here. You and your child both."
Eleanor couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They spilled down her cheeks as she gripped Mrs. Pritchard's hand.
"I don't deserve such kindness."
"Nonsense. We all deserve kindness, especially in our darkest moments." Mrs. Pritchard stood and offered Eleanor her arm. "Now, let me show you to your room. You look ready to collapse, and we can't have that. The children would never forgive me if something happened to their new teacher before they even met her properly."
The room was small but clean, with a narrow bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and—most importantly—a cradle in the corner.
"It was my youngest daughter's," Mrs. Pritchard explained. "She's seven now and has no need of it. I hope you don't mind it being used."
Eleanor ran her hand over the smooth wood, imagining her own child sleeping there. "It's perfect. Everything is perfect. I still can't quite believe this is happening."
"Believe it. You're safe now, Mrs. Moore. You and your baby both."
After Mrs. Pritchard left her to rest, Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed and placed both hands on her belly. The baby was quiet for once, perhaps sensing that the terrible anxiety of the past days had finally eased.
"You hear that, little one?" she whispered. "We have a home. Not our home with Papa, not the home I wanted for you. But a safe place, with kind people. We're going to be all right."
For the first time since Julian's letters had stopped coming, Eleanor allowed herself to believe it might be true.
That night, she slept more soundly than she had in months, and she dreamed not of Julian walking away, but of Julian walking toward her, his arms open, his face full of love and joy at the sight of his child.
It was only a dream. But for now, it was enough.