Eleanor sat up in her bed. “Would you like more tea?” one of her maids asked. “No.” The word barely audible against her faint breath. “I want to write,” she mumbled, “get me my quill.” The maids rushed to her side with quill and parchment, fear in their eyes. They knew that Eleanor was in pain and that writing would only cause her more, but they would not deny the frail young women her wish. When she was healthy, Eleanor would write daily to her friend Fredrick. She would wait by the window for the postman to see if Frederick had written back yet, and twirl around in delight when…