Lydia’s Story #5
“Papa was.”
“Who told him?”
“I did. When Darcy asked for my hand, I explained to Papa what Darcy had done for our family.”
“What did Papa say?”
“That we owed Darcy a great debt, but I insisted to Papa that he must never mention it to anyone, least of all Darcy, who didn’t want anyone to know of his kind act.”
“I see.” I was mortified. Especially about Papa, who’d never really had much use for me. To the end, he saw me as a silly girl who’d tarnished the family name. Lizzy was always his favorite and remained so until the day he died.
Throughout my marriage, the one thing that sustained me at least a little was the fact that Wickham fancied me enough to wed me, that he chose me over my more sophisticated older sister. I’d held on to his desire for me no matter how badly our marriage turned out.
Now I didn’t even have that.
I did not leave my cottage for the next several days.
I barely managed to get out of bed most mornings, and I napped a great deal in the afternoons.
I couldn’t bear to see anyone. I did not know how I would face Lizzy or Darcy again.
Years ago, I had thought my humiliation was complete, and now that Lizzy revealed the truth, shame and embarrassment overtook me.
On the fifth day of my self-imposed exile, a firm knock sounded at the door. I ignored it, but the tapping persisted for several minutes.
“Mrs. Wickham, are you in there?”
I recognized the voice. It was the vicar. I couldn’t bear to face him or anyone else. “I am fine,” I said through the door.
“Are you certain?” he said. “I have been worried.”
Michael Haddad was concerned about my absence?
First, he tried to keep me from coming near his precious church, and then he worried when I obliged him.
I had had it with all men. Wickham. The vicar.
Even Darcy. I resented him for helping me.
For knowing of my humiliation and keeping it from me.
I could not abide being pitied by Lizzy and Darcy. I abhorred how it made me feel.
“There is no need to worry about my well-being. My thanks to you for coming by. Good day,” I said firmly.
I peeked through the window and watched as he walked down the walk, pausing at the gate to look back at the house. Then he continued on his way, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
But he came back the next day and the day after that. Apparently, there was no discouraging him. On the third day, I finally relented and faced him.
Surprise lit his face. “You opened the door.”
“It not as if you gave me any choice.”
“I’ve been concerned about you.”
“Why? I am perfectly well,” I lied.
He cocked his head. “Forgive me, but I do not believe you.”
I huffed. “You, sir, are impudent. A gentleman would take a lady at her word.”
“Your garden tells a different story.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is overgrown and looks like it hasn’t been tended to in at least a week.”
I peered out at my garden and was aghast by what I saw.
The plants showed signs of stress, growing tall and thin, sure indications of overcrowding.
I chastised myself for wallowing about a transaction that was long in the past—even if I had just become aware of it.
Meanwhile, my prized garden, the one place where I excelled and was the envy of my neighbors, had suffered.
Another gardener might not be alarmed by a little overgrowth, but I kept my garden in pristine condition.
That’s why it was the model of the neighborhood.
Eight days of neglect had taken a toll on my plants.
I hadn’t given the garden much thought while I came to terms with Lizzy’s revelation that my husband was forced to wed me. But now I could think of nothing else.
I grabbed my work bonnet off the nearby hook. “Well, I must remedy that posthaste before everything is ruined.”
He followed me into the garden. “Surely a few days of neglect won’t destroy everything.”
“Stressed plants will never produce as well as ones that are cosseted. I have hours of work ahead of me.”
“Hours?” he said dubiously. “It doesn’t look that overgrown.”
“It is late summer, which means the weeds are out in force. I must tend to them immediately.”
“Tell me how I can help.” He shrugged out of his somber black tailcoat, leaving just his white linen shirt and waistcoat. I tried not to notice how finely formed he was, with wide shoulders, a trim waist, and the athletic thighs of an expert horseman.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I started with pulling the weeds around my cucumbers. “You don’t know the first thing about gardening.”
“Surely you can direct me.” He rolled up his sleeves, just slightly, baring strong forearms generously dusted with dark hair. “It is the least I can do, given how generous you’ve been to the community.”
I averted my eyes. How had I never before noticed how attractive a man’s arms could be? “Can you identify a weed?”
“Naturally.” He watched my progress. “I can assume that task.”
“Very well.” I stepped aside, moving over to the tomatoes. “You may weed so that I may focus on pruning.”
He immediately took my place, pulling the weeds with the necessary care, the cords in his forearms flexing.
The weather wasn’t overly warm, but I certainly felt heated.
Forcing myself to concentrate on the tomatoes, I trimmed and tied back the plants to train them to grow in the proper manner.
Mostly, we worked in amiable silence, with the vicar asking the occasional question about his task.
I was a little sad when it came time for Mr. Haddad to take his leave after a couple of hours.
“My thanks for your help,” I said.
“It was my pleasure,” he said, rolling down his sleeves, covering those lightly muscled forearms. “Will you work in the garden again tomorrow?”
“Most definitely. There is much work to do.”
He surveyed the rows of plants. “Is there?”
“I am very particular. More so than most gardeners.”
Amusement lit his eyes. “I am beginning to see that.”
To my surprise and delight, he came again the next morning, insisting on being put to work.
He returned again the following day, and I began to look forward to our time in the garden.
We worked side by side, sometimes in silence, other times chatting about Meryton and his five brothers and sisters.
He told me about each of his siblings and spoke fondly of his nieces and nephews.
He asked me about my children and appeared genuinely interested in my answers.
“Why did you become a vicar?” I asked on our second afternoon weeding and cropping together.
He paused, looking out over the garden. “I felt a calling, and I cherish developing meaningful relationships with my parishioners. It is an honor to be of service to people during the most significant periods in their lives—such as marriage, illness, and death.”
I admired his commitment to good works. Michael Haddad was a truly decent man. “If only my late husband had had a calling beyond gambling and carousing.”
His understanding gaze met mine. “Was your marriage very difficult?”
“It was.” Again, I noted how easy it was to talk with Mr. Haddad.
Perhaps it was on account of his being a vicar accustomed to hearing people’s problems. He listened without judgment, which, in my experience, was exceedingly rare.
“Darcy, my sister’s husband, saw to it that we were married after I was foolish enough to run away with Wickham. ”
“You were very young and, I imagine, quite sheltered from the machinations of scoundrels like George Wickham.”
His defense of my reckless youthful actions warmed my insides. “It is ironic that Darcy made certain that Wickham married me to save my family’s reputation,” I remarked. “But Wickham turned out to be such a disreputable character that being his wife was perhaps even more damaging to my good name.”
“I am truly sorry you’ve had such a difficult time.”
“My union with Wickham gave me my children, so I cannot regret it.”
Later, when I set him to work on the squash, he said, “My mother would covet your squash.”
“Then you must take her some once they are ripe.”
“Oh no, these small ones are perfect for kousa mahshee.”
“What is that?”
“It’s my favorite Arabic dish. Squash stuffed with seasoned rice and meat cooked in a tomato broth.”
“That sounds delicious,” I said. “You must pick enough to take to your mother.”
“One day,” he said, “I will ask Mama to prepare some for you to taste.”
I couldn’t imagine the vicar telling his mother he wanted to bring her food to me. But I was touched all the same. We were developing a friendship, and I appreciated every moment of the conversation and companionship we enjoyed as we worked among my plants. It was nice to have a friend.
By the third day, we’d managed to clean up the garden to my exacting standards.
“It gives me great satisfaction to see you regularly in the company of your plants again,” Mr. Haddad said as we finished up. “I was extremely worried when you did not deliver your basket of produce.”
“Men!” I said, exasperated. “There is no pleasing you.”
He blinked. “It is not a matter of pleasing me. I know how fond you are of your garden. I became alarmed when I saw it was not being cared for. I thought you might be sick or hurt.”
“I didn’t deliver the produce because you told me not to.”
He looked affronted. “I most certainly did not.”
“There’s no need to try to spare my feelings. I am well aware that I am not the most respectable woman in Castleberry. It is understandable that you do not want me anywhere near the church.”
“Everyone is welcome at church. I wish you would come. Not just to drop off the produce, but to attend my sermon on Sunday.”
He seemed so earnest in his manner that I was taken aback. “But you came to pick up the produce so that I would not be seen at the church.”
He shook his head. “That was not the reason at all.”
“What other motive could there be?”
“I came because I wanted an excuse to call on you.”
“You did?” I frowned. “Why?”