Lydia Wickham’s Christmas Wish #2
Please, God, she thought, just send someone. Anyone at all.
She did not know who she meant. A kind stranger. A sister. An angel, maybe, if such things were real. She didn’t even believe in miracles -not really. But she wanted to. Just for tonight.
She pressed her forehead to the pillow and whispered one last thing into the empty room:
“Please, just help me to have a happy Christmas.”
***
A few hours later, a knock at the door pulled her from a deep, dreamless sleep.
Lydia blinked groggily, disoriented in the dark. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The room was cold -colder than before. Her nose and fingers stung. She had fallen asleep in her dress, curled like a cat on top of the blanket rather than beneath it.
The knock came again, firmer this time.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes with stiff fingers. “Who- who is it?” she croaked, her voice thick with sleep.
“Clarissa Odbody,” came a voice from the other side. “I have a bit of broth for you, dearie.”
Lydia stared at the door in disbelief. Mrs. Odbody?
A vague memory stirred -gray hair tucked under a sensible bonnet. The rector’s wife, was she not? She had stopped by to introduce herself and invite Lydia to church their first week in Newcastle. The matron had even reminded her a little of Hill, the Longbourn housekeeper.
Lydia blushed a bit at realizing she hadn’t actually attended Sunday services in the long months she’d lived there. What must the woman think of me?
Another knock, gentler now. “I won’t stay long; I simply wished to check on you.”
Lydia stood unsteadily, her joints aching from the cold and the lumpy mattress. Her skirt rustled as she shuffled to the door. She hesitated. She was embarrassed -mortified, really. The flat was a disgrace. She was a disgrace.
But the wind howled outside, and her stomach twisted with emptiness, and there was something warm and steady in Mrs. Odbody’s voice.
She opened the door.
The older woman stood bundled in a heavy cloak and knit scarf, a small pot wrapped in cloth cradled in her arms. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind, her eyes kind and sharp all at once.
“Oh, my dear girl,” Mrs. Odbody said softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “It’s colder in here than out.”
Lydia moved aside, flushed with shame as the woman’s eyes took in the bare hearth, the rumpled bed, the half-washed dishes. Mrs. Odbody said nothing, simply setting her bundle down on the small table and unwrapping the pot.
“I have some mutton broth and a bit of bread for you. Nothing fancy, but it is warm.”
“I did not-” Lydia’s voice cracked. She tried again. “That is, we do not -George and I do not usually… go to church.”
Mrs. Odbody smiled gently. “I know. But that has never stopped me from checking in on someone.”
There was silence for several long moments, and Lydia did not know what to say, unsure of why she was trembling -whether from the cold or the sudden warmth of being seen.
Mrs. Odbody ladled some broth into a chipped bowl and handed it over. “Sit, child. Eat. You are shaking like a leaf.”
Lydia obeyed without thinking. She sat at the edge of the chair and cupped the bowl in both hands. The warmth seeped into her fingers, into her chest. She took a tentative sip. It was delicious. Salty. Rich. Real.
She hadn’t tasted anything that good in months.
Mrs. Odbody pulled the other chair close, watching her over the rim of her spectacles. “Do you want to talk, Lydia? They tell me I am a very good listener, if I do say so myself.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. No one called her that here. It was always Mrs. Wickham -with either disdain or smugness.
“How do you know my name?”
Mrs. Odbody’s smile turned wry. “I’ve been the rector’s wife here for thirty years, dear. I know all of my husband’s flock -even the ones who do not sit in the pews.”
Lydia looked down at her lap. Her hands were shaking slightly, but the broth didn’t spill.
“I- I think something is wrong with me,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Odbody reached out and gently covered Lydia’s hand with her own. “Then let us figure it out together. Tell me, my dear- what is troubling you?”
Lydia swallowed another spoonful of broth, trying to steady her voice. “I am just so… tired, ‘tis all. And cold, I suppose. Everyone is cold, though. And hungry. It is not such a big thing.”
Mrs. Odbody did not reply but simply waited, her hand still resting lightly on Lydia’s, as if to say I have time.
The silence stretched, not awkward but patient.
“I thought-” Lydia faltered. “I thought being married would be different.”
Mrs. Odbody tilted her head gently. “Different how?”
Lydia stared into the bowl. The steam was beginning to fade.
“I thought it would be like a story, or a play, maybe. That once I married George -Mr. Wickham- that everything would be exciting, glamorous, even.”
She gave a weak laugh, but it caught in her throat and turned into something more brittle.
“I thought he loved me.”
Mrs. Odbody still said nothing. Her thumb rubbed softly against the back of Lydia’s hand in quiet comfort.
Lydia’s voice dropped. “At first, he did. I think. He called me his darling. He brought me ribbons. Told me how I was the best of all my sisters.” She bit her lip.
“But now he barely comes home. When he does, he is tired, or he says he is. And I try- I try to make him smile, or make him tea, or… or…” Her cheeks flushed.
“But he acts as if he does not want me, and he tells me I am getting fat.”
Tears began slipping down her face without permission.
“I tried to be better. I stopped eating so much, but then I felt faint. And I tried cleaning, but I do not know how. No one ever taught me, and I just made a bigger mess. At home, we had Hill, and everything just… got done.”
She swiped at her eyes. “And the other wives -they laugh at me. I heard them. They think I am a fool. They said horrible things about me, things they say they have heard George tell their husbands.”
Her voice trembled. “And I have been feeling so ill lately. Perhaps it is the weather. Or maybe the stew? Or- or I could be dying.” She gave a weak, miserable laugh that crumbled before it even finished.
Mrs. Odbody leaned forward just enough that Lydia could smell lavender soap and wool.
“My dear,” she said softly, “you are not dying.”
Lydia looked up. “How do you know? It is all just so odd. I feel… heavy… and sore… and everything smells strange. I cry all the time, and I do not know why.”
Mrs. Odbody gave her hand a light squeeze. “I think you do know. Or at least, some part of you suspects.”
Lydia opened her mouth, then closed it again. The heat from the broth now felt like it came from inside her chest, not the bowl.
“No, it is not possible,” she whispered. “I mean, I am married now and all, but I cannot be with child.”
Mrs. Odbody smiled -not unkindly. “It would not be the first time a new bride misunderstood the signs.”
Lydia stared down at the nearly empty bowl. “If I am…” Her voice caught. “I do not know how to be someone’s mother. I don’t even know how to be someone’s wife.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and one slid down her nose and into the soup. She braced herself for what Mrs. Odbody would say next. What can she say? I am a foolish, sixteen-year-old girl who is playing dress-up in her mother’s jewels.
“No one does, at first.” Mrs. Odbody’s voice was gentle, causing Lydia to look up at her in wonder.
“Becoming someone new does not happen in a moment,” the older woman said.
“Not truly. A wedding is one day. A marriage is every day after. And motherhood…” She smiled faintly.
“Motherhood is not made in the cradle. It’s made in the hard moments.
The ones like this, when you feel lost and afraid, and you show up anyway. ”
Lydia blinked, her throat aching again. “But I am not strong. I am not smart. Lizzy is the clever one, and Jane is the nice one, and Mary is the good one. Papa always said I was the loud one. The silly one.”
“Well, I do not know your father,” Mrs. Odbody said, “but I do know that even silly girls can grow.”
She stood and moved to the hearth, her eyes flicking to the dead embers.
She took a small bundle of kindling from her basket and crouched down, coaxing the ashes with practiced hands.
“You know,” she said as she worked, “you remind me of a little of a girl I once knew, long ago. She was all chatter and lace and mischief. The very picture of thoughtlessness. Everyone said she would come to nothing.”
Lydia sniffled, intrigued despite herself. “Did she?”
Mrs. Odbody turned and offered a smile. “She became a midwife. Raised four boys and two girls, ran the parish pantry, and once delivered twins in a snowstorm with nothing but a lantern and a pot of hot water.”
Lydia blinked, “Really? You did that?”
“Really,” said Mrs. Odbody. “I still do not know how to keep a tidy cupboard, but I know how to hold a hand and look someone in the eye. That is worth more, I think.”
The fire sputtered, then caught with a little flame. A faint glow spread across the room.
Mrs. Odbody returned to her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me, Lydia- what do you remember about the Christmas story?”
Lydia blinked. “What?”
“The Nativity. Christ’s birth. You must have heard it read once or twice.”
Lydia shifted, caught off guard. “Well… there are angels. And shepherds. And- and a baby. And the wise men bring gifts.”
“And where was He born?” Mrs. Odbody asked gently.
“In a stable. With animals.”
“Not in a palace?”
Lydia frowned. “No.”
“Did His mother have everything she needed? A nursemaid and warm fire, a cradle of silver, embroidered blankets?”
“No,” Lydia said slowly. “Just straw.”
“Just straw,” Mrs. Odbody echoed. “And yet, that was the night that changed everything.”