Three days after Eleanor moved into the Pritchard household, the pains began in earnest.
She had been helping Mrs. Pritchard fold linens in the warm kitchen—against the older woman's protests, but Eleanor couldn't bear to sit idle—when the first real contraction seized her, so fierce and sudden that she gasped and doubled over, clutching the edge of the table.
"Mrs. Moore!" Mrs. Pritchard was at her side instantly. "Is it—"
"Yes." Eleanor breathed through the pain, just as Betty had told her to do. "I think... yes, it's time."
What followed was a blur of activity. Mrs. Pritchard sent her eldest son running for the midwife. Betty arrived within the hour, somehow having heard the news already—Eleanor suspected Sarah had sent word. The children were hurried upstairs with promises that they would meet the baby soon.
The labor was long. Longer than Eleanor had imagined possible. She labored through the afternoon and into the evening, through the night and into the grey dawn of the next day. Betty held her hand through the worst of it, wiping her face with cool cloths and murmuring encouragement. Mrs. Pritchard brought warm broth and spoke of her own four births, making it sound survivable, even ordinary.
But there was nothing ordinary about the pain, the fear, the exhaustion that made Eleanor feel as though she were being torn apart and remade.
"I can't," she sobbed at one point, when the contractions were coming so fast she couldn't catch her breath between them. "I can't do this. I want Julian. I need him—"
"You can," Betty said firmly. "You are doing it, Mrs. Moore. You're the strongest person I know. Just a little longer."
The midwife—a capable woman named Mrs. Shaw—examined her and nodded with satisfaction. "Not long now, dear. I can see the head. On the next pain, you push with all your might."
And Eleanor did. She pushed with strength she didn't know she possessed, pushed through pain that made her scream, pushed until she felt something give way and heard—
A cry. A small, furious, beautiful cry.
"A girl!" Mrs. Shaw announced, holding up a tiny, squirming creature covered in blood and vernix. "A healthy girl, and listen to those lungs!"
But before Eleanor could even reach for her daughter, another contraction seized her, so strong it made her cry out.
"What—" she gasped. "What's happening?"
Mrs. Shaw's eyes widened. "Bless me, there's another! Mrs. Moore, you're having twins!"
The next minutes were a haze of pain and effort and disbelief. And then, another cry joined the first—this one deeper, more insistent.
"A boy!" Mrs. Shaw laughed with delight. "Twins, Mrs. Moore! A boy and a girl!"
They placed the babies on Eleanor's chest, still connected by their cords, both of them crying and perfect and impossibly small. Eleanor looked down at them through tears—her daughter's face scrunched and red, her son's eyes squeezed tightly shut—and felt her heart expand so completely she thought it might burst.
"Angelo," she whispered, touching her son's tiny fist. "And Angela." Her daughter's hand opened and closed, grasping at nothing. "Hello, my darlings. Hello."
For that moment, despite everything—despite Julian's absence, despite her exhausted body, despite the uncertain future—Eleanor knew a joy so pure and complete that nothing else mattered.
Her children were here. They were alive. They were hers.
The days that followed were a exhausted blur of feeding and changing and sleeping in snatches when the twins allowed it. Mrs. Pritchard had given Eleanor two weeks to recover before beginning her teaching duties, and Eleanor was grateful beyond words. The twins were demanding in the way of all newborns, and there were two of them—when one finally fell asleep, the other would wake hungry or wet or simply in need of holding.
Betty came every day, helping with the endless washing of tiny clothes and linens. She would hold one baby while Eleanor fed the other, and they would talk quietly about inconsequential things, carefully avoiding the subject of Julian.
But on the eighth day after the birth, Betty arrived with news that could not be avoided.
"I've heard something," she said hesitantly, settling Angela into the cradle while Eleanor nursed Angelo. "About Mr. Moore."
Eleanor's heart stopped. "What? Is he—is he alive?"
"I don't know for certain. But Sarah's cousin works at the coaching inn, and she said a man matching Mr. Moore's description arrived on yesterday's coach from the capital. He went straight to your old lodgings, found them occupied by new tenants, and has been searching the neighborhood ever since, asking after you."
Eleanor's hands trembled so badly she nearly dropped Angelo. "Julian? Julian is here? In the city?"
"It seems so. Though why he didn't write, why he simply appeared—" Betty frowned. "Something isn't right about this, Mrs. Moore. If he's been in the capital all this time, why stop sending letters and money? Why leave you to suffer alone?"
"I don't care about the why." Eleanor was already trying to stand, though her body protested. "I need to see him. I need—"
"You need to rest and heal," Betty said firmly, gently pushing her back down. "You gave birth eight days ago, to twins no less. You're in no condition to go running through the city. And besides..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Perhaps you should wait and see what explanation he has before you rush to him. You deserve answers, Mrs. Moore."
Eleanor wanted to argue, but she was still so weak, and Angelo was still feeding, and Angela had just begun to fuss in the cradle. Betty was right. She couldn't simply leave.
"Will you go?" she asked. "Will you find him and bring him here?"
Betty nodded. "I'll go to your old lodgings, ask the new tenants if they know where he might be searching. But Mrs. Moore—prepare yourself. For whatever explanation he has, it may not be what you hope."
Meanwhile, in the city...
Julian Moore stood outside the boarding house where he'd sent his last letter to Eleanor, staring at the unfamiliar faces in the windows and feeling panic claw at his chest.
The journey back from the capital had taken three nightmarish days. Three days of sitting in cramped coaches, unable to eat, unable to sleep, turning over in his mind the terrible discovery he'd made just one week ago.
He had been walking past the public house near his boarding house when he'd seen Michael—his friend Michael, trusted Michael—counting a thick stack of banknotes and laughing with his companions.
"Easy money," Michael had been saying, loud with drink. "The fool thinks his precious wife has been receiving every penny, living comfortably with her father while he slaves away. Meanwhile, I've been keeping it all—well, most of it—and writing sweet little letters in her name. By now, she's probably moved on to some new protector. Women like that always do."
Julian had frozen in the doorway, his blood turning to ice.
It couldn't be. Not Michael. Not his friend.
But the next day, when Julian confronted him sober, Michael had confessed with shocking casualness.
"Don't look at me like that, Julian. You were sending money to a woman who clearly didn't need it—her father's a baronet, for God's sake! I saw an opportunity and I took it. Besides, I was doing you a favor. She probably left you months ago, went crawling back to her comfortable life. Women like her don't last long in poverty."
Julian had hit him. Actually hit him, knocking him to the ground in a blind rage. Then he'd quit his position on the spot, packed his few belongings, and taken the next coach home.
But home was empty. The landlord had rented the flat to a young couple, and neither they nor any of the neighbors knew where Eleanor had gone.
"Pregnant woman?" the landlord had said when Julian questioned him. "Yes, I remember her. Poor thing, tried to keep paying rent but fell behind. Had to ask her to leave, oh, must have been four months ago now? She was quite far along then. Don't know where she went."
Four months. Four months ago, when she would have been six months pregnant. Four months of thinking he'd abandoned her, of struggling alone, of—
Julian couldn't complete the thought. The possibilities were too terrible.
He'd been searching every street, every shop, every lodging house. He'd asked at the church, at the charitable societies, even at hospitals and workhouses—places so grim he'd felt sick just entering them.
Nothing. No trace of Eleanor anywhere.
Until a voice behind him said, "Mr. Moore?"
He spun to find a young woman in a maid's uniform regarding him with a mixture of recognition and wariness.
"I'm Betty, sir. Mrs. Moore's friend."
Julian felt his knees go weak with relief. "You know where she is? Is she—is she alive? The baby—"
"Both alive, sir. All three of them, in fact."
"Three?" Julian stared at her, not understanding.
Betty allowed herself a small smile. "You're the father of twins, Mr. Moore. A boy and a girl, born eight days ago. Mrs. Moore and the babies are safe and well, staying with a kind family who've taken her in."
Twins. Eleanor had given birth. Alone. Thinking he'd abandoned her.
Julian felt tears stream down his face without shame. "Please," he choked out. "Please, take me to her. I need to explain. I need her to know that I never—that I would never—"
"Come with me," Betty said, her expression softening slightly. "But Mr. Moore, you should know—she's been through hell these past months. Whatever your explanation is, it had better be the truth. Because that woman sacrificed everything for you, and nearly lost her life because of it."
"I know," Julian whispered. "I know."
As they walked through the city streets, Julian's mind raced with everything he wanted to say, everything he needed Eleanor to understand. But no words seemed adequate for the magnitude of what had happened, for the suffering she must have endured.
He had failed to protect her. Failed to protect their children. The one thing he'd promised—to take care of them—he had utterly, catastrophically failed to do.
What if she couldn't forgive him? What if the damage was too great?
The thought was unbearable. But he would face it, whatever came. He would kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness if he had to. He would spend the rest of his life making this right.
If she would give him the chance.