Eleanor managed not to laugh. "No, they cannot."
"Will you write to us?" James asked. "About Uncle Aubrey? So we know he's still not dead?"
"James!" Liz appeared, looking harassed. "Stop asking your aunt about death. It's morbid." She turned to Eleanor with an apologetic expression. "I apologise. They've been obsessed with mortality since losing Spots last spring."
"It's quite alright." Eleanor stood, ruffling James's hair. "Yes, I'll write. And I'll tell you all about Uncle Aubrey's progress."
Liz linked her arm through Eleanor's and whispered, "Promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise me you won't close yourself off completely. That you'll give him these remaining days to prove himself. And if he fails, then you leave with no regrets. But if there's even a chance..." Liz's eyes were bright. "If there's even a chance he might become the husband you deserve, don't throw it away out of fear."
"I'm not afraid," Eleanor protested.
"Yes, you are. You're terrified. And I understand why." Liz's smile was sad. "But sometimes the bravest thing we can do is hope. Even when hope seems foolish."
"Mama!" Catherine's voice carried across the entrance hall. "The carriage is ready!"
Liz sighed. "I have to go. But write to me. Every day if you need to. And Ellie—" She wrapped her arms around her sister. "If you need me to come back, if anything happens, just send word. I'll be here within a day. Michael's familybe damned."
"Thank you." Eleanor's throat felt tight. "For being here now and all those other times."
"That's what sisters are for." Liz kissed her cheek. "Now come say goodbye to Michael before the children riot."
Michael was easier, a warm handshake and a knowing look. "Good luck with your husband. I suspect he's going to need it."
"And why is that?"
"Because winning back a woman like you, after the way he's behaved?" Michael shook his head. "That's the work of months, not days. But perhaps he'll surprise us both."
The children demanded one more round of hugs, sticky fingered embraces that left Eleanor's dress rumpled and her heart aching. She watched them climb into the carriage, their small faces pressed against the windows, hands waving frantically.
Liz was the last to enter, pausing on the carriage step to look back at Eleanor.
"Remember what I said," she called. "Hope is not foolishness. It's courage."
Then she was inside, the door was closing, and the carriage was pulling away down the drive. Eleanor stood on the steps, waving until they disappeared from sight, until the December wind made her eyes water and her nose turn red.
Or perhaps that was tears.
She wasn't entirely certain.
Mrs Williams appeared at her elbow with a shawl. "You'll catch your death, my lady. Come inside."
Eleanor let herself be shepherded back into the house, the sudden silence almost oppressive after three days of children's laughter and noise. The entrance hall felt cavernous. Empty.
She climbed the stairs slowly, her legs heavy, and made her way to her private parlour—the small sitting room she shared with Aubrey.
It was just her and her estranged husband now, and the weight of that reality settled on her chest like a stone.
She pushed her eggs around her plate, unable to eat. The toast grew cold. The tea turned bitter.
Liz's words echoed in her mind: Hope is not foolishness. It's courage.
But was it courage to hope that Aubrey might stay? That these past few days of attention and apology and undeniable physical attraction might translate into something real? Something lasting?
Or was it simply setting herself up for another devastating disappointment?
