Lydia’s Story
It is a widely accepted reality that society does not truly respect a woman until she is someone’s wife. In my case, however, the exact opposite was true. Marriage made me a laughingstock.
“Look! It’s the Widow Wickham,” the boy and his friend taunted as I walked across the village green after dropping off a basketful of my prized vegetables at the nearby church. “Whaddya say? Are you up for a jig at the tavern?”
“A merry widow should want to dance the night away!” his companion laughingly called out as he trotted beside me.
Ignoring them, I kept a brisk pace. Spine straight.
Chin down so that the brim of my bonnet shielded my face.
Petty harassment wouldn’t break me. I was a mature woman of thirty-six with four almost-grown children.
I’d dealt with far worse than the jeers of schoolboys who were barely off the apron strings.
Even my own sister Elizabeth was loath to have me at her home for extended periods of time for fear my presence would stain the precious Darcy name.
All of respectable society was more than eager to judge me harshly now.
Yet in the beginning, when I was a young teen, few could fault me for immediately falling for George Wickham’s considerable charms. Many others had been struck by his impressive person as well. Including my sister Lizzy.
A dashing officer who wore his red coat and military prestige with effortless charm, Wickham’s good looks and excellent manners instantly enchanted me.
As a child of just fifteen, I knew nothing of men and was over the moon at the thought of becoming Mrs. George Wickham.
Having grown up in a respectable family, which included a matchmaking-obsessed mama, I had no clue just how far and brutal the fall from grace could be.
But I quickly learned.
“Get away from her!” a deep voice commanded.
The pestering boys immediately stilled. And no wonder, the man’s forceful voice was made for being listened to, for obeying without question, for reverberating from the rafters.
And, apparently, for rumbling through a person’s insides.
“How dare you insult a lady quietly going about her business?”
“She’s no lady, Vicar,” one of the boys protested. “You’re new to the village of Castleberry; otherwise, you would understand.”
Vicar? My face heated. If only the ground would swallow me whole. I’d gone to great lengths to steer clear of the new vicar, to avoid tainting him with the presence of the village’s most scandalous widow.
“There is never cause to treat a fellow human being with anything short of kindness and respect. We are all God’s children.” The vicar spoke calmly and deliberately, striking each word in a way that made even the most mundane term sound like the keynote in a symphony. “Be on your way now.”
“But, Vicar,” one boy dared to protest.
“That will be enough.” The vicar’s manner was firm. “Good day to you.”
The sounds of scuffling feet sounded against the dirt path as the boys scampered away. I finally lifted my chin, relinquishing the shield of my bonnet brim to have a look at my unlikely champion.
Kind eyes blinked back at me. He was olive-skinned, with luminous midnight eyes framed by thick, long lashes. And filled with such compassion that my chest swelled. It was rare that anyone in Castleberry looked upon me with warmth.
“Are you all right?” he asked. My cheeks were hot as I nodded.
Normally, I would immediately lower my gaze.
But it had been a very long time since I’d glimpsed such an arresting figure of a man.
It was hard to look away from the gentle strength of his gaze.
His eyes were set amidst the sharp planes of his face, including a strong nose that, on someone else, might appear a tad too prominent but, on this man, enhanced a perfectly imperfect handsomeness.
It took me a moment to realize what he held in his hands.
“I thought I would return your basket, Mrs. Wickham.” His tone was both kind and respectful as he held the straw receptacle out to me. “I’m glad to have the opportunity to thank you for your generosity.”
“All of these weeks, you’ve known the offerings came from me?” I took back my basket, which was now empty of the fruits and vegetables I’d just left on the church doorstep. “And you still accepted my donation?”
“Of course. Your very fine produce is put to good use every week to feed the poor families of our parish.”
I’d expected a pious man to reject any offering from a disreputable woman. “If you knew it was me, why have you not said anything?”
He smiled, and a dimple appeared in his right cheek. “You made it clear that you preferred not to be interfered with.”
He had the right of it. For the past several weeks, when I thought no one would be at the church, I surreptitiously left a basket of fresh produce from my garden.
As an avid gardener, I harvested far more berries, cucumbers, and tomatoes than I could ever hope to eat, since my children were spending the summer with Lizzy and Darcy.
Each week, I returned early the following morning to retrieve my empty basket, thoughtfully placed exactly where I’d left it, not far from the church door.
“Your donations have helped to feed hungry people in need. You could have sold that produce to improve your own situation,” he noted.
My cheeks burned. “Few people will want to purchase food tainted by scandal.”
“Food is food.” He quirked a smile, drawing my attention to his beautifully molded mouth. “And none of us is without sin.”
I could not imagine this angelic-seeming man doing anything sinful. “Not even you?” I could not resist asking.
He laughed outright. “Especially not me.”
The vibrant sound stirred something sinful in my belly. I was aghast at my carnal response. The way my body responded to a man of God surely confirmed my proclivity for improper behavior. After all, a handsome man had been the source of my downfall before.
In the early years of my marriage, I followed my husband’s unfortunate example, enjoying drink and cards and dancing with abandon, living beyond my means, cementing my disgraceful reputation, even though I abandoned all carousing by my twenty-fifth year, more than a decade ago.
“Some of us,” I said tartly, “particularly of the female persuasion, are held more accountable than others.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Very.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Michael. Michael Haddad.”
Michael Haddad. Why did the name sound vaguely familiar? “I’m Lydia Wickham.”
“I know who you are.”
My face burned. Naturally, he’d heard of my wretched past, which unfortunately followed me into the present.
“I can only imagine what you’ve been told.” Since Wickham died, more than one man assumed I’d eagerly entertain male companions when my children were away. “Believe what you will”—I despised the defensive edge that crept into my tone—“but most of what you’ve heard is untrue.”
I usually didn’t bother to defend my soiled reputation.
I’d grown accustomed to keeping to myself, spending hours in welcome solitude tending to my garden, especially as my children grew older and passed more time at Pemberley with Lizzy and Darcy.
As the years went by, I became indifferent to the townspeople’s low opinion of the outrageous Mrs. Wickham.
But not this time. Strangely, I couldn’t abide allowing the handsome young vicar to hold me in low regard.
He studied me. “I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t remember me.”
I blinked. “Remember you?”
“We have met.”
My gaze narrowed. “Truly?” He was not a forgettable man. “I think I would remember.”
“It was a long time ago. When we were children.”
My eyes rounded. “We were acquainted in Meryton?” The market village was near Longbourn, my father’s estate, where I grew up with my four sisters.
“We didn’t exactly know each other. It would be far more accurate to say I admired you from afar.”
“Me?” This splendid specimen once thought highly of me?
“Everyone knew of the five Bennet sisters of Longbourn. But you were the one who caught my attention. You were so lively and energetic.”
“That feels very long ago.”
“You are still much the same.”
I laughed at the absurdity of that observation. “You are too kind.”
“Would a vicar lie to you?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. At the age of thirty-six, I no longer had the patience to temper my words. “Anyhow, thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“It was the least I could do.” And then he added, “I was happy to return the favor.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You came to my rescue once.”
“I did?”
“It was after church. I was new to the neighborhood. I had no friends and was feeling very left out. You were among the children playing cricket on the green. The other children would not let me play. But you insisted that I be included. You said you would quit the game if I could not play.”
“Did I?”
“I believe you said something to the effect of, ‘The more, the merrier.’ ”
“That does sound like me.” Well, it was what the original Lydia would have uttered. The one full of joy and laughter, who was always up for a bit of fun. A child who had no idea what the world did to silly girls who made rash decisions.
“I was instantly smitten,” he told me.
All of a sudden, a memory floated back to me. Of a short, scrawny, dark-haired child who’d followed me around for a bit. Michael. “Goodness,” I said. “I believe that I do remember. But you were such a small boy.”
He laughed. “As you can see, I have grown a little since then.”
He certainly had. I could never have imagined that slight, narrow-faced boy I’d barely noticed could transform into the fine model of a man before me.
“May I see you home safely?” he asked.
He wanted to walk me to my cottage? “I appreciate your gallantry, but I am not in need of protection.”
“Are you often accosted by Peter and Matthew?” he asked, referring to the young tormentors he’d just run off.