Lydia Wickham’s Christmas Wish
Lydia Wickham’s Christmas Wish
Tiffany Thomas
Lydia Wickham trudged through the slush and soot of Newcastle’s narrow streets, her skirts sodden and heavy with half-frozen muck.
A cruel wind bit at her nose and cheeks, red and raw from exposure.
She pulled her shawl higher around her chin, though it was no help.
The ends flapped uselessly in the gale, and her pelisse -too thin, with worn cuffs and only one button left- gaped open beneath.
She hated this place.
It was the beginning of December, and the slippers she had worn when she ran away from Brighton had long since lost their soles.
Her stockings were damp and full of holes.
She wore three petticoats under her dress just for warmth, but it wasn’t enough.
Nothing was enough here; not the layers, not the food, not the money, certainly not the company.
She glanced longingly into the window of a baker’s shop, where trays of tarts and sugared buns steamed gently behind the glass.
Her stomach growled as she paused and leaned against a low wall trying to catch her breath.
But the nausea that had plagued her all morning stirred again, and she swallowed hard.
Perhaps it was the fish stew from yesterday -though that had barely been more than bones and brine.
Or maybe it was just the smell of coal smoke and wet wool that clung to everything in this wretched town.
She closed her eyes briefly. Her head had been aching on and off all day, and the backache -well, that was probably from the hard mattress and the draft that slipped in under the door.
She pressed her hand to the small of her back and shifted her weight with a wince.
Nothing serious, just the usual discomforts of a miserable winter and a miserably cold flat and a miserably absent husband.
Still, she was so tired. Bone-deep, whole-body tired. Not sleepy, exactly, just… worn out as though her limbs were carrying a weight she hadn’t noticed before. She made herself move again, boots squelching with each step.
Only yesterday, she had written to Jane, Lizzy, and Mama -long, heartfelt letters.
She’d tried not to let the ink blot from her cold fingers shaking, but they must have seen the desperation in her handwriting.
She’d begged them to talk to their rich husbands, to ask if Mr. Bingley or Mr. Darcy could get Wickham transferred somewhere warmer.
Somewhere better. Somewhere with better pay.
Somewhere else.
“Move George somewhere warmer,” she had written. “And somewhere with better pay, so I don’t freeze to death or starve. I need new clothes. I haven’t even a proper winter bonnet.” She had tried to make her words charming and light, but the desperation had crept in like damp under a door.
They had to help her. Didn’t they?
A sudden gust of wind nearly knocked her sideways, and Lydia clutched her shawl more tightly.
Her teeth chattered, and the snow on the cobblestones seeped into her shoes again.
As she passed the milliner’s shop, she glanced at the display of fashionable bonnets and gloves and fur-lined pelisses -but only for a moment.
The memory of what she’d overheard there earlier in the day still burned in her ears.
Two other military wives had been chatting while she browsed, unaware of Lydia behind the curtain partition. At first, she hadn’t thought much of it. But then she heard her surname.
“My husband took all Wickham’s earnings again, can you believe it?” one had said, laughing. “He is hopeless at cards. Always thinks he has the winning hand.”
“I would wonder at why he even tries to play, but I know the answer,” the second had replied with a sneer. “It’s because he is miserable, that’s why. Says his wife is a fool and a flirt, always bragging about her sisters and that grand wedding dress, as if she weren’t a nobody married to a nobody.”
Lydia had frozen, her hands clenching around the too-expensive gloves she’d been pretending to consider.
“I admit her when she calls because she can be entertaining,” the first woman had said. “But I think it is time I cut her. I saw her batting her lashes at my husband last week.”
“Useless little thing, she is. All mouth and no manners, for all she brags that she’s the daughter of a gentleman. Can’t cook, can’t clean, and has no idea they only let her flounce about so they can laugh behind her back.”
Lydia had fled the shop, her head pounding and her throat tight. They had laughed at her. They all laughed at her.
Now she clenched her teeth and walked faster.
Their flat was up a steep alley, above a noisy public house and next to a fishmonger.
The smell never left. The windows rattled in the wind, the walls were cracked and yellowed, and the hearth only worked if coaxed by a miracle and good coal -neither of which she had.
The ceiling in the corner leaked when it rained.
She’d tried putting a bucket under it, but the bucket had a hole.
She reached the splintering door, shoved it open, and slammed it shut behind her. The cold followed her in like an unwanted guest. The fire was out. The bed was unmade. There were crumbs on the chair, ashes in the hearth, and a pile of stockings she didn’t know how to mend.
She had tried to clean the place, once, but she didn’t know how. Back at Longbourn, servants had done all that. But here, there was no one except her to do it.
And she didn’t even know how to do anything.
With a broken cry, Lydia flung herself onto the hard mattress and buried her face in the flat, coarse pillow. Her sobs came fast and ugly, her whole body shaking with them.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Six months ago, she had eloped with George Wickham. She had believed herself to be in love-no, knew she was in love, down to her very soul. It had been thrilling, daring, wildly romantic.
And for a few golden weeks, it had felt like a fairy tale. Her handsome husband had kissed her hand, whispered sweet things, told her she was beautiful and clever and delightful.
She had felt so grown-up, so admired.
But once they arrived in Newcastle, everything changed.
He stopped calling her ‘my love.’ He started making pained faces when she spoke and mocking her. The charm that had once seemed so gallant now stung like vinegar. He said things with a smile that didn’t quite feel like jokes. And he stopped coming to her bed.
Then he started disappearing for hours, or even days. When he even was home, he rarely touched her. When she tried to kiss him, he turned away. He only called her ‘my dear’ now in the same tone Papa used when he was angry.
She had thought -oh, she had had so many thoughts. Maybe it was that he was tired. Or that officers were busy, or that marriage simply changes things. That she was eating too much and gaining weight and that maybe that made her less attractive to him.
So she tried eating less, but then she fainted in the stairwell one day -coming to with someone walking right past her, unconcerned by her wellbeing.
No one cared.
She didn’t really understand any of it. But she was beginning to realize one thing: George Wickham didn’t truly love her. At least, not the way she’d believed or wanted.
Not even a little.
She remembered how Papa had once called her ‘one of the silliest girls in England.’ At the time, she had thought him just teasing her and Kitty.
But maybe… maybe he was right.
She clutched the pillow harder, trying to smother the sound of her sobs. Her head ached, her stomach felt ill, and the flat was so very, very cold.
Worst of all, now she didn’t know what to do, and that made her cry harder.
Time passed with her unaware of how long she had laid there, tears on her cheek soaking her pillow. Eventually, though, her sobs quieted into hiccups. The room had darkened; the pale grey light from the single cracked window had dimmed to dusk.
Her stomach rumbled again, and her throat was dry, but she curled tighter into herself, shivering. The ache in her back was worse now -like a dull stone grinding into her spine. She didn’t want to move -not to fetch a glass of water, nor to attempt to build a fire, not to do anything at all.
“I wish I had never run away,” she whispered.
The words came without thinking, escaping her in a breath so soft even the peeling wallpaper seemed to lean closer to hear. She rolled onto her side, staring at the door across the room.
“I wish I had never left Longbourn. I wish I had never met Wickham. I wish I had never…” Her throat closed up. “I want to go home.”
Tears welled again, hot and helpless. “I wish… someone would help me,” she said, her voice cracking, “…just someone. Anyone.”
She buried her face in her hands. “I just do not want to be alone anymore.”
The wind rattled the windowpane, and somewhere below, a drunken voice bellowed out a garbled carol. The flat trembled faintly with the sound of boots on the stairs beneath her. But no one came to her door.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember what Christmas had been like back home.
The fire at Longbourn always crackled cheerily.
Mama insisted on trimming the parlor with evergreens, and Papa would make dry, sarcastic remarks about wastefulness even as he slipped Mary a coin to buy sugar for spiced cider.
Jane’s soft laughter, Lizzy’s teasing, Kitty’s squeals of delight. Lydia had always been the loudest of them all, demanding the biggest slice of cake, the first dance at the assembly, the most attention from whichever officer was near.
She had been happy then, had she not?
Or at least, she had thought she was.
The tears came again, quieter this time, slower. She tucked herself into a tighter ball beneath the scratchy blanket, the air in the room now almost as cold as outside. She was too tired to cry properly now.
So instead, she made a wish. Not loudly. Not even with hope. Just a thought -a silent little flicker, sent out into the freezing dark.