Through the Rain
Preparing the carriage did not take long.
The coachman had assumed the torrential rain meant no one would need to go out, but the moment word came that the young lady of the house was leaving, he scrambled to ready the carriage, breathless and flustered.
Eleanor apologized to him for how hard he had worked, so hard his clothes were soaked clean through. The coachman just laughed it off, said it was nothing, and shook out his raincoat as he hurried up to the driver's seat. With Hin's help, Eleanor stepped onto the footboard and settled inside, and the carriage shot forward at once.
"Hyah!"
The ground outside had been churned to mud by the relentless rain, and by the time they had crossed it, the wheels were caked thick with filth.
Even the best-kept road betrayed them now and then—a hidden stone would jolt the carriage violently, and when the wind drove the rain sideways, the sound rattling through the shuttered windows made it seem they might shatter at any moment. Hin, who had pulled back the curtain to peer outside, felt a flicker of worry cross her face.
"Miss, the rain is getting worse."
"I know."
"Was the physician telling the truth? If it were only a simple cold, Lady Viscountess couldn't possibly still be burning with fever all night."
Instead of answering, Eleanor clasped her hands tightly in her lap and closed her eyes.
She did not believe in gods. But prayer was all she had left to offer now.
In her past life, Viscountess Belvoir had died around this very time. How had she forgotten that so completely? Drowning in a rising tide of dread, Eleanor kept praying, over and over. If she did not—at the very least that—she feared her heart would never know a moment's rest.
Hin, seated across from her, saw Eleanor at her devotions and wisely held her tongue. Instead, every time the swaying carriage threw Eleanor off balance, she caught her firmly and set her back in place.
"Are we still far?"
"Shall I ask the coachman?"
As Hin moved to slide open the panel that connected to the driver's seat, Eleanor caught her hand and shook her head.
"No. You'd have to open the window to ask, and with all this rain he'd never hear you. Besides, you'd be soaked through."
"I don't mind! Or—I could just shout from here. He'd probably hear that."
Eleanor shook her head again, more firmly this time.
"No, it's all right. We're not far now. A little longer and we'll be there."
"Yes, miss. Don't worry. Lady Viscountess is strong, isn't she? I'm sure she'll be fine."
"Yes. She'll be all right."
Hin wrapped her hands tightly around Eleanor's trembling ones. Only when Eleanor's anxiety had been stretched to its very breaking point did the carriage finally come to a stop.
Eleanor did not wait for Hin to open the door. She flung it open herself and leapt down. The coachman scrambled out with an umbrella at the sight, but Eleanor was already running, heedless of everything.
"Miss!"
The coachman and Hin shouted after her in unison, but whether they called or not, Eleanor was already cutting through the pouring rain. In an instant she stood before the manor's front door, where she paused to catch her ragged breath and lightly shook the rain from the hem of her drenched dress.
After her husband's untimely death, the Viscountess had moved to the outskirts of the capital, dismissing every servant except the handful of maids and attendants who had served her since childhood—and for the rest, she had personally sought out new positions elsewhere before letting them go.
The Viscountess's manor was an ordinary two-story house, remarkable neither for beauty nor for shabbiness.
Rain streamed down Eleanor's brow and blurred her vision; a bone-deep chill had settled into her whole body. She raised her numbed fingers and knocked on the door.
In the brief moment she waited, Hin came sprinting up in a daze, umbrella in hand, and held it over Eleanor's head. The rain had fallen on her so mercilessly that she was soaked from head to toe—yet Hin fussed not over herself, but over Eleanor, whose dress was more waterlogged than her own.
"Miss! Are you all right? You're drenched! What if you catch a cold?"
"I'm fine. This won't kill me."
"Miss! You mustn't go around saying my mother is going to die!"
Eleanor nodded as if to say she understood. Hin was a good girl in every way—except for how relentlessly she nagged.
But still, no answer came from within. Eleanor knocked several more times, yet the entryway remained silent.
"Why is no one coming? Surely it can't be that no one's home. Let me try, Miss."
"No. I'll do it again."
As Eleanor raised her hand for another knock, Hin stopped her and pounded on the door herself, harder than Eleanor had. This time the blows were rougher, more urgent. Still, no response from inside.
Deciding that enough was enough, Eleanor was about to swallow her rudeness and let herself in—when, on a sudden impulse, she pressed her ear to the door. From within came the faint stirrings of someone moving. Without thinking, Eleanor grabbed Hin's arm and stepped back a single pace.
And sure enough, the door opened. Rather urgently, at that. For a moment, something struck Eleanor as odd. The person who emerged was a middle-aged woman.
"Young mast—… Who might you be?"
The woman who opened the door wore relief on her face at first—until she saw that the faces before her were strangers. Then her expression shifted at once, and she bristled with wariness.
Before Eleanor could say a word, Hin swiftly stepped forward, tucking Eleanor protectively behind her back. She moved so quickly that even Eleanor faltered for a beat.
The middle-aged woman looked between the two of them, and her expression softened.
"Where have you come from?"
"From the House of Grand Duke Prihoson. And this is our lady."
"The Grand Duke Prihoson's house? Might you be the princess?"
The woman's gaze swept up and down Eleanor's rain-soaked figure, but Hin cut it off at once, lifting her chin with a firm nod. Eleanor knew this side of her well—Hin guarding her like a mother hen bristling with suspicion.
At the mention of the Grand Duke's house, the wary look drained from the woman's eyes, and she soon stepped aside to usher them in. Again and again she bowed her head to Eleanor, apologizing profusely for failing to recognize her.
Reassured by Eleanor's words that it was no trouble, the woman closed the door once the two were safely inside. The howl of the wind and the drumming of the rain fell away to nothing. The woman straightened herself and made her introductions properly.
"I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you have come, my lady. I am Coel, wet-nurse to the young Master Harry."
As the wet-nurse introduced herself, Eleanor gave a small nod. At the sight, Hin hurried forward to stand in front of Eleanor.
"Ma'am, you're making our lady uncomfortable. Why are you crying?"
"F-forgive me. I'm just so glad… You cannot imagine how I've worried, fearing my mistress might not survive."
"Is Lady Viscountess truly in such grave condition?"
At Hin's question, the wet-nurse nodded again and again as she led them inside. Past a small sitting room and a narrow corridor, a large room opened up directly ahead.
"Here we are, my lady."
The wet-nurse opened the door. The cramped room was thick with nothing but heat. For an instant, the temperature was so fierce Eleanor mistook it for a blazing hearth. Then she realized—the heat was coming from a person.
Startled by the sweltering air, Eleanor stood rooted at the threshold for a heartbeat before drawing near the bed pushed against the wall, where Viscountess Belvoir lay gasping out shallow, fragile breaths.
"Teacher?"
Up close, her condition looked dire.
The face that was always so pale had flushed a burning red all over; breathing through her nose seemed a struggle, for a dry rasp kept escaping her parted lips. She looked so fragile she might stop breathing at any moment.
Frightened out of her wits, Eleanor took the Viscountess's limp hand in both of hers and sank down onto her knees beside the bed.
She called to her softly, once, twice—and at last, the Viscountess's eyelids began to tremble. Feeling someone holding her hand, she laboriously lifted her lashes.
Her unfocused pupils soon found the figure seated at her bedside, and a faint light flickered briefly back to life in them.
The corners of the Viscountess's mouth lifted, ever so slightly. And a little strength—just a little—returned to the hand Eleanor held.
"…Eleanor. My dear student has taken a long road to see me."
"Teacher, please hold on just a little longer. I've sent for the Grand Duke's own physician, so don't you worry."
At Eleanor's words, the Viscountess only smiled—a faint, fading curve of the lips. That smile alone was enough to tell Eleanor just how perilously close she was to the edge. Eleanor's eyes reddened.
To Eleanor, Viscountess Belvoir had never been merely a governess. She had been her teacher, and at times, something like an aunt. Even when Eleanor learned the secret of her birth from the maids' whispered gossip, it was the Viscountess who kept her from turning bitter and crooked.
The thought that she could not—would not—lose her a second time made Eleanor's grip tighten. And the frail fingers, so devoid of strength, tapped gently against her knuckles as if to comfort her in return.
"I am quite all right. Don't worry, Miss Eleanor."
"All right? How can you say you're all right when a single word costs you this much breath?"
Startled by Eleanor's sudden outburst, the Viscountess said nothing for a moment—but in the end, she only smiled again. And in that smile, there was far more warmth than weariness.