Lydia Wickham was destitute in more ways than one. Some of her own understanding, for even a young woman of nineteen with little wit to speak of could not miss the way she no longer appeared in society, or the haggardness of her appearance as she looked into the glass, nor the fact that her husband no longer worked but came home to herself and her two children only to spend a few hours sleeping and return to cards and drink at dusk.
The ones she did not understand or perhaps did not care to notice were the ways her husband's attentions strayed to other women, the way she went to bed without him beside her, the way, surely and slowly the fact that Wickham no longer loved her, and probably never had, broke her heart.
Despite all her troubles, Lydia Wickham had become quite a hail young woman, with strength to carry on when her husband was requested that he kindly never show his lying self again, thank you very much. She had born a great deal as he had commanded her to choose one of her gowns, sturdy like, and nothing else, She had silently born it as he sold all their possessions and removed them to a one room hovel in a back alley of the slums. She had given birth to their first son there, shivering in the cold of winter as the women of the neighborhood had clucked and cooed over her through the great pain that had brought little George screaming, quiet loudly, into the world. As she held him to her breast, in the wonderment a mother feels towards the great love of a child, she looked up to meet Wickham's eye as he turned a ducked through the door. He gave her no comfort; no tenderness was passed between then as they gazed upon the miracle that was their child. The love she had hoped for at the birth of their son never came, and she wondered if perhaps it ever would.
The women had been quite kind to her that winter, supplying food and clothing, perhaps used by their own babes at one time, though that winter was harsh and supplies hard to come by. Most had been seized by pity of the young, beautiful woman and her situation in life. They had looked at their own men and had thought that perhaps God had blessed them in one way.
She had survived, not in comfort, but through it all she learned a great deal from the kindness of the tough women around her. She saw them every day, working hard to support their men and children and was given strength anew. She was not a fast learner but she took her time getting to know each woman and learning the way to economize a kitchen, or turn a new-born-babe clothing into those of a thriving toddler. She had truly never learned anything useful as a girl. Instead of chopping wood she had darned bonnets, instead of scrubbing floors she had gathered flowers and learned the best secrets to beauty. There was a time when she had held those women in her contempt, but now she envied them in their knowledge of a hard life lived.
It was then, as she tried desperately to keep her family together, herself almost eighteen and her son a half a year old that she conceived her second child.
When she had come to Wickham with the news his face had hardened and he had left, naught a word said to his wife. She did not see him for many days.
At the beginning she had written to her sisters for help in her situation, asking them for all they could spare to support herself, her husband and child, and the new babe soon to come. She had waited and hopped and believed they would send aid, but weeks turned into months and no letter arrived. She reflected bitterly on the past and believed perhaps they were right in not providing relief.
It was not until one fateful night that she had awoken quite suddenly, little George in her arms, sleeping like an angel, her belly swollen with the growth of her child, by a loud noise. Sitting up she looked over to see Wickham occupying the only chair of the residence stairing sullenly into a small fire he had created with the kindling she would have used for the morning meal. Silently she detangled herself from the small fingers of her son and rose, walking over to her husband. He rested his head in one hand and in the other he clutched several pristine pieces of paper. She peered over his shoulder and spied the beautiful script of her older sister Jane accompanied byt the broad and gentle of her sister Elizabeth. A small cry of surprise and happiness escaped her as she beheld their replies, all was not lost.
Wickham, hearing her, rose to his feet and hid the letters behind his back. She looked at him in disbelief.
"Wickham, please, those letters, they are from my sisters, are they not?"
He peered out at her with unfeeling contempt. She feared that look more than anything.
"What letters?" He asked, sneering down at her as he the letters into the small fire, lighting up the four walls and her son sleeping quietly on the bed, only Wickham's face was cast into dreaded shadow. Lydia had cried out in mourning as she watched the parchment flake into black nothingness. He gave one last apathetic glace at her as he turned his back on her and left his wife kneeling before the fire, disbelief written in all her features.