Lydia Wickham’s Christmas Wish #3
She looked at Lydia kindly. “The first Christmas was not grand or pretty. It was cold, and dirty, and painful. A young woman, far from home, giving birth with no mother to hold her hand and no midwife to help her breathe. But she was not alone. God was with her.”
Lydia stared at the fire. Something inside her loosened.
“Being alone is the hardest part,” she whispered.
“But you are not alone, not really,” said Mrs. Odbody.
“You have your sisters to write you. You have me, if you like. And you have a child who will one day look up and call you ‘Mama.’” She paused.
“You do not need to fix everything overnight. You do not even need to know what comes next. But you can decide the kind of woman you want to be.”
“I do not know if I can be good,” Lydia said, barely audible.
“You can be kind,” Mrs. Odbody replied. “And that is a good place to start.”
***
The following morning, Lydia woke to the sound of snoring.
It rattled through the small room like a saw through wet wood, accompanied by the sour stink of stale gin and coal smoke. The grey light of morning seeped in through the cracked window, casting long shadows on the cluttered floor.
George was sprawled across the bed beside her, boots still on, one arm slung over his eyes. His uniform coat was draped across the foot of the bed, and his waistcoat hung crookedly from the chair. A half-empty bottle rolled against the wall with every gust of wind.
He had not said a single word to her when he had stumbled in the night before. She had pretended to be asleep, heart pounding, breath shallow. He collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, and within minutes, he had begun to snore.
Now, in the thin light of morning, Lydia sat up slowly, careful not to wake him. Her stomach churned- not just from the usual nausea, but from something deeper. Weariness. Resolve.
She looked at him for a long moment. His handsome face was slack with drink, his dark lashes resting on flushed cheeks. He looked younger in sleep. Less cruel. But he was not the charming man she had fallen in love with -not anymore.
Silently, she reached for his coat and rummaged through the pockets.
A few crumpled notes. A button. And three coins.
It was not much, but it was something.
For a moment, she held them in her palm, her thoughts flickering to a bit of ribbon she had seen in the shop window last week -a dusty-rose satin, just the right color for her hair.
She imagined tying it in a bow, catching her reflection in the looking glass and pretending, just for a moment, that she was still lovely and carefree.
But then her stomach turned again, sharper this time, and the image slipped away.
She tucked the coins into her own pocket and rose, wrapping herself in her thin shawl. The air in the flat was bitter. She pulled the door close behind her as she stepped out into the pale morning light.
The market square near the barracks was just beginning to stir.
Smoke curled from chimneys, and vendors huddled over crates of root vegetables and yesterday’s bread.
She used the first coin on a small sack of oats.
The second bought her a wedge of sharp cheese.
With the third, she hesitated… then bought a bag of dried apples.
Something nourishing. Something good.
As she turned back toward the barracks, arms full, she nearly collided with a woman just ahead of her.
The girl -young, not more than sixteen, like her- tripped on a loose stone and dropped her basket. Potatoes, a loaf of bread, and a hand-knit scarf tumbled into the brown slush at the side of the lane. She gave a small, distressed cry and crouched down, trying to gather everything quickly.
Lydia recognized her. A new bride. Quiet. Always sitting at the edge of the wives’ gatherings, never speaking unless spoken to. Her name was… Margaret? No- Marianne.
A few weeks ago, Lydia and her friends had laughed about her -about the plain bonnet, the awkward blush, the way she flinched whenever someone addressed her.
Ordinarily, Lydia would have smirked, maybe even whispered something to make the other girl blush harder.
But today…
Today, she crouched down beside her.
“Here,” Lydia said softly, reaching for the loaf and brushing off the worst of the grime. “It did not fall far. Still good, I think.”
Marianne froze. Her eyes darted to Lydia’s face, wary, confused.
Lydia felt her cheeks heat. “I know what I have been like,” she said quietly. “But I am not laughing, not now -I promise.”
The girl studied her for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly, her fingers trembling as she reached for the scarf.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Lydia helped gather the last of the potatoes, then stood and dusted her hands. Marianne gave her a tiny, hesitant smile.
And just like that, something warm bloomed in Lydia’s chest.
It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t even forgiveness.
It was… light. Like a tiny coal catching flame after a long, bitter night.
Mrs. Odbody had come with broth and kindness when Lydia had nothing but sorrow. And now, Lydia had passed that kindness on -just a bit of it. A handful of minutes. A loaf of bread, unstained.
She had not fixed her life. She had not fixed her marriage. She had not even made it through the morning.
But she had done one good thing.
And maybe that was a start.
***
In the days that followed, something strange began to happen.
It started with Marianne. After Lydia helped her gather her things, the younger woman had stopped her in the market two days later to offer half a loaf of bread- “Still warm,” she had said, blushing. Lydia had accepted it with a quiet thank you and a smile.
And after that, Lydia began to see things she had not noticed before:
An elderly man shivering outside the fishmonger’s shop with only paper-thin gloves. She offered him the dried apple she had been saving.
A young mother -barely older than Lydia herself- trying to calm a wailing child while balancing a heavy basket. Lydia reached out, offered to carry the burden a few blocks, and walked with her in easy silence.
She began to smile at the washerwomen in the alley. She began to greet the girls who cleaned the rooms below the tavern. She said thank you to the vendor who gave her the dry, bruised apples at a lower price.
It was not much -not really. None of it was grand or significant.
However, the glow in her chest warmed her more than any shawl ever had.
And then -the week before Christmas- Mrs. Odbody came calling again.
Lydia had just managed to get the hearth to stay lit when the knock came. This time, she opened the door quickly, almost eagerly.
“Good morning, dear,” said Mrs. Odbody, holding a wrapped parcel. “Just a little sausage and some barley. But I have also come to invite you somewhere.”
“Where?” Lydia asked, blinking in surprise.
“Not far,” the older woman said with a smile. “A group of women from the parish are meeting today. We are sewing clothes and preparing parcels for the poorest families -especially widows and orphans from the regiment. I thought… perhaps you might like to come?”
Lydia hesitated. “Oh…I- I do not really sew.”
“That’s all right,” Mrs. Odbody said gently. “We all start somewhere.”
Dutifully putting on her worn cape, Lydia followed the rector’s wife back to the parsonage, where the women gathered in a warm, sunlit drawing room. The air smelled of cinnamon and wool, and laughter echoed softly among the ladies.
Lydia was welcomed with cheerful nods and kind greetings, handed a cushion and a bundle of cloth. A woman sat beside her and offered her a needle and thread.
She stared at the little shirt in her lap, panic rising in her throat as she moved the needle in and out of the fabric. Her stitches were crooked and loose. Her fingers fumbled. She tried to keep her face composed, but her cheeks burned.
“Do you need help, love?” asked the woman beside her, a plump, middle-aged lady with a smudge of chalk on her sleeve.
Lydia opened her mouth, ready to say something flippant -something like, I do not know why I am even bothering to do such menial work- I am a gentleman’s daughter, after all.
But the words caught in her throat. She looked down at the uneven stitching and said quietly, “I was never taught.”
The woman smiled. “Then let us change that, shall we?”
And she showed Lydia how to make the first stitch again -slowly, patiently, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
That was the first time Lydia felt it -not just warmth, but also belonging.
Over the next few days, the lessons continued.
One woman taught her how to build a longer-lasting fire using smaller kindling. Another showed her how to scrub out the ashes without getting soot all over her dress.
A teenage girl taught her how to patch a stocking with neat, invisible stitches. A grandmotherly widow offered tips on removing stains from washing without wasting soap.
They took her in, not because she had earned it -but because she was willing to try.
And slowly, the flat began to change.
There was a fire in the hearth every morning.
Her few clothes were cleaner. The bed was made.
The air didn’t smell quite so sour. She boiled oats with more confidence.
She even shared her food with a girl down the hall whose husband had left weeks ago and had not returned, wondering if one day that would be her.
Kindness, Lydia discovered, was a curious sort of thing.
It did not shrink when it was divided. It grew. It multiplied.
Each small act made the next one easier. Each lesson learned made her more capable, more connected, more… herself.
Not the flirt. Not the fool.
Just Lydia.
And for the first time in her life, that felt like it might be enough.
***
“You are truly going to church services?” George scoffed from the bed, one boot half-on, his cravat tossed carelessly on the floor. He reeked faintly of the previous night’s drink and the cheap scent he always used when he was planning to go out. “How festive.”
Lydia pulled her shawl tighter around the small bump protruding from her belly and adjusted the plain ribbon in her hair. She had taken extra care with her appearance tonight -not because she wanted to impress anyone, but because she wanted to feel like herself, a better self, a growing one.
“It is Christmas Eve,” she said calmly.
“Oh, I know what night it is,” he muttered, reaching for his coat. “But unlike some people, I would rather spend it with lively company. I have had enough of your newfound virtue and tea-drinking friends with red hands and soft morals.”
Ignoring his vitriol, she bent to fasten her second shoe.
Wickham snorted. “Honestly, Lyddie, if it weren’t for the way you fill out your gown, I’d think I’d married your sister Mary by mistake. All you do these days is read scripture and talk about orphans.”
Lydia flinched. Just once. But then she exhaled -slow and steady.
She stood, smoothing her skirts.
“That would have never happened,” she said quietly “for Mary would have seen through you much sooner than I did.”
His eyebrows shot up, and for a moment he looked genuinely surprised. But he shrugged it off, grabbed his gloves, and put on his coat and hat.
“Suit yourself.” he muttered. “Enjoy your sermon. I will be with people who actually know how to have fun.”
He slammed the door behind him.
Lydia stood still for a moment, her hand on the chair for balance.
The words hurt. Of course they did. But the sting did not linger the way it used to. Not when she had other words, better ones that filled the empty spaces he left behind.
She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stepped out into the cold, walking quickly to the little chapel that she had only ever seen from the outside. Her stomach twisted in knots, wondering how she would be received.
The church was lit with candles and fir boughs, the scent of pine and wax mingling in the stillness. People greeted her at the door -not with surprise, but with warmth. Marianne waved from a pew, and Lydia slipped in beside her.
When the hymns began, she sang softly at first, then with more confidence.
O come, all ye faithful… joyful and triumphant…
The voices rose around her, echoing off the stone and wood. Lydia closed her eyes and let the music wrap around her like a quilt. No one here laughed at her. No one here called her silly. They had all welcomed her. They had helped her. They treated her as if she were worth the space she occupied.
And maybe… just maybe… she was.
Mr. Odbody’s sermon was simple, but Lydia hung on every word.
“The baby Jesus was born not into wealth, nor comfort,” he said, “but into hardship, into need.”
A gentle fluttering came from her midrift, and Lydia gasped and looked down. She pressed her hand against the tiny life that was moving inside of her for the first time. Observant as ever, Mrs. Odbody looked over at her and mouthed, “The quickening?”
Lydia nodded joyfully, her heart swelling with love as the sermon continued. “The baby Jesus came not to crown the worthy, but to redeem the broken. To seek out those who are overlooked, who are laughed at, who are lonely.”
Lydia’s eyes stung again -but this time, with satisfaction and contentment.
She had not become a different person overnight. She still did not know how to make a perfect stitch or bake bread that didn’t burn. Her husband was still distant and cruel at times, her flat still small and cold.
But she was not alone.
Not anymore.
As the final hymn began, she lifted her voice with the others -higher, fuller.
He appeared, and the soul felt its worth.
And as the bells rang out and the candles flickered, Lydia Wickham smiled.
Her Christmas wish had come true: it would be a happy Christmas for her after all.