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There had been a shift in Lydia’s friendship with Colonel Hunt, shortly after Sarah’s third birthday, but before the regiment went to Northumberland. They had gone from the occasional visit and chat to a regular friendship - her only regular friendship. It was inappropriate, she knew, but when she saw the marks of other women on her husband, she determined she didn’t care. 

Hunt would visit their lodgings, under the pretense (she liked to think) of visiting Sarah. He claimed he liked to check on all of the children of his officers, conveniently leaving out that thus far, Sarah was the only child. He would ask after their health, inquire about news from her family, share niceties, and go over Sarah’s letters. It was all very cozy, and Lydia had to try very hard to not picture them as a family. Although he never stayed for dinner. 

Lydia told herself that one day, he would. 

***

All she knew of her time in Northumberland was the cold and gray. A chill had sunk into her bones that no roaring fire could reach. She spent her days shivering and her nights clutching her daughter to her chest, trying to steal warmth from her, like a dirty thief and selfish mother. Lydia loved Sarah. She did. But the four year old was a bit of a bore to talk to, and the monotony of being a parent made Lydia’s mind feel as numb as her fingers and toes. 

And yet… she loved her so fiercely she thought she would die if she didn’t see her every day. It was a love she had only felt for Sarah. Nothing she felt for her mama or Kitty had ever come close. Still. She felt as though she was rather useless to her daughter.

She supposed she could be a better mother, if she had the income to do so. Which she readily told her sisters in her weekly letters, in the hopes of receiving some pin money. It wasn’t really pin money if she was using it for food or stockings, and perhaps something to stoke the fire with. But she couldn’t bear to call it anything but - it would be too depressing by half. 

Jane and Kitty sent regular fare, meager, but still they sent something as they passed along their love and care. Mary wrote back, pontificating on how the poor are just as proficient at parenting as the rich, along with a blanket that was more fit for a baby than a small child, which only made Lydia hate her a little more. How could Mary not know that her own niece was out of the crib? 

Lizzy did not answer at all. Lydia supposed she would have said the same thing as Mary, hidden behind her multiple governesses and wet nurses for her rich rich children who would inherit Pemberley. Wickham ranted when he saw she had ignored them, saying much the same as she thought, and Lydia felt rather disgusted that they were of the same mind on any subject at all. She resolved, however bitterly, to be less envious of her older sister. 

Hunt had thoughts on the subject himself. Of course. 

He had come to visit, to see how she and Sarah were settling in. Their lodgings were paid for this time by the army - taken directly from Wickham’s pay, which he railed against, but there were too few options this far north, and so his majesty’s army had handled the procuring of their housing. It was a comfort to Lydia, to know that she would have a home during their time there, and that her husband’s gambling would not render her in the hedgerows as long as he went to work. It was far too cold to worry about living on the streets. The money she begged from her sisters would be for food and warmth. (And for Wickham’s drinking, but she could not deny him that without making him far worse than he already was).

“A well-off or even wealthy parent cannot make amends for a lack of love, support, and education.” He proclaimed confidently, handing Sarah a colorful and whimsical book on letters that the little girl could not yet understand. Lydia feared that she would be abysmal at teaching Sarah to read, and that her daughter would grow up simple. 

The Colonel had offered to help teach her daughter to read, as he had helped with his youngest sister after their mother died several weeks after the fifth child was born. Apparently letters did not come easily to the baby of the family, and she relied on her brother, as she was embarrassed to read in front of the governess. He blushed at the sly grin Lydia had given him when he told that story. He was softer than he liked to let on. 

Lydia liked to hear of his life, and thought that it was nice knowing another who had so many siblings. She had learned the youngest sister (who had eventually learned to read quite well) had gone to Philadelphia with her banker husband, the oldest sister traveled every inch of the world with her own navy man, and the middle sister had died. His brother was managing the estate in Dorset. It seemed that Hunt looked up to his brother, and had no ill will that he lived a life of estate management whilst Hunt lived the unglamorous life of a soldier for a living. Lydia knew she would not have been so charitable. 

Lydia had accepted his offered tutelage, if only to spend more time near him. In another life, she would have written to Kitty that she was more than a bit infatuated with his strong shoulders and copper colored hair. But Kitty was married and would likely faint straight away in shock if Lydia told her she desired a man that was not her husband. But Lord! That hair! 

“La! But a wealthy or well-off parent can provide support and education with a wave of their hand! My sisters will have governesses and caretakers and their sons will go to universities. Their daughters will have good dowries to match with suitable husbands. Sarah is learning to read only by the charity of one individual man.”

“It is not charity, only practicality. What would someone say if they discovered our soldiers were so inadequate that their children could not read?” He responded gruffly, red flushing at his neck. Lydia bristled at his comment and raised her nose.

“I,” she said snottily, “am not inadequate - only impatient. You have the patience of a saint to teach a child their letters and teach grown men how to clean muskets or whatever it is Mr. Wickham spends his days doing.” He gave her a look of semi-admonishment. She met his gaze.

“Indeed. But my point remains. No amount of wealth will make up for a deficit of a mother’s love. Or a father’s love, but sometimes that cannot be helped. As long as you care for Sarah and teach her to be good and hard working, and do so on your own, you will have achieved far more than any wealth can buy you.” Lydia giggled at his attempt to be both earnest and stone faced. He looked like he was concentrating on a difficult puzzle.

“That sounds like something people with fortunes tell their servants to keep them from being so angry all the time,” she responded, giving him a withering look and shaking her head.

He laughed, that booming and all engulfing laugh, one where he threw his head back from mirth.

“You never fail to say something that will surprise me, or make me laugh. Now let’s get to our letters, shall we Little Miss Sarah?”

***

She watched him teach Sarah her letters. Watched her daughter learn to string words together from the pages of a book. Lydia wondered why Hunt chose to spend his evenings with her and her child rather than spending his time relaxing or enjoying other masculine pursuits. Her husband was off, likely gambling or drinking or in another woman’s bed, and here was this giant of a man, who was terrifying and battle worn, sitting at their little table for an hour each evening.

“As I told you, I come from a large family, and I often wish I could see them more, but we are scattered to the wind. Spending time with Little Miss Sarah is as close as I can come to seeing my nieces and nephews,” he said to her one evening after Lydia had (rudely) questioned why he was so good with Sarah and willing to spend his time in such a manner.

“Then why not make your own family? Find a wife and have your own children?” She asked boldly. Sarah happily practiced writing her letters, occasionally hopping up to warm herself by the fire. Sometimes the fact that her daughter tended towards silence worried her, but times like these made her grateful. Although at bedtime she would likely ask what making your own family was.

“I would never subject a wife to this sort of life. Moving and never settling. If I marry it will be after I retire.” He said, simple and matter of factly, he avoided her eyes.

Lydia didn’t even give a moment to think, “Many women would happily live that life. If my sister Kitty wasn’t married I would have suggested her to you, although her constitution tends to be excitable and nervous.”

“Many people, like your sister, do not have the constitution to be bound to a person such as myself for the rest of their lives.”

“La! I am certain it would not be the heavy burden you paint it as, Colonel Hunt,” she said, momentarily forgetting herself.

He gave her a withering look reminiscent of the one she had directed towards him a couple months earlier. “Mrs. Wickham, when a man has lived through battles, and killed for his king and country, he can never be the carefree boy he once was. To wed someone who is ignorant of the world and its evils would slowly drive me mad. I suspect if I do marry, it will be to a spinster or a widow.”

Instantly she pictured herself, not ignorant to the evils of the world, in her best dress at an altar, kissing Colonel Hunt. 

The pain that shot through her chest at such a foolish, girlish, childish fancy almost made her lose her breath. Suddenly she wanted him to leave, worried he would look at her and see the way she longed for him, the way he would never feel for her. There was no reason he should care for her at all, past the general goodness of his heart. There was nothing good or lovable about her at all - Wickham had seen to that. 

She giggled hollowly, and changed the subject. It pained her to think she would never feel it, the warmth of real true love. 

***

Lydia touched the Colonel’s arm without thought, pointing to the jagged rip with a tut of her mouth. “La! I am certain that your housekeeper should manage such things, and is better than me, but if I have to see that hole in the elbow of your coat one more time I swear I will scream. Hand it over and I will fix it before you finish tonight’s story.” Hunt laughed, and shrugged off the moss green coat, handing it to her without hesitation. 

***

She waved the soft smelling satchel in the air, “My eldest sister sent me this tea, it has dried rose petals in it from her own glasshouse! I feel rather wealthy just saying that! Since Wickham will ask me to sell it, we must drink it before he gets the opportunity to do so - am I right in my secretive belief that you quite enjoy sweets?” The chuckle and guilty smile from across the table proved her right.

***

A giggling shriek left her lips, “Are you quite serious? You have never danced a quadrille!? I am not certain if you are the luckiest or unluckiest man alive. Come. Come now I won’t have you say no.” They were laughing too hard to master the dance, and she decided he was more fit for battle than the ballroom. He concurred. 

***

She tilted her head, unable to hide the disdain, “La! Who suggested that you wear a shade of orange so eye watering!? It is a… lovely color to be sure but it rather clashes with your copper hair - alright if you want your men to mock you, feel free to ignore my very expert fashion opinions.” 

There was a moment of silence, before he sighed. “My housekeeper said it made me look distinguished.” 

Lydia shrieked in mirth.

***

Two glasses, both of debatable cleanliness were sat onto the table whilst she pulled out the cork with her teeth, “And why shouldn’t we have a toast to celebrate your sister's birthday? Dead or not, someone must celebrate it for her. If not you, then who? You must celebrate the little things or life is so painfully boring!”  She missed the long look he gave her, the way his eyes followed the movement of her hands.

***

The rare ball with dancing and festivities had come up, a wealthy man and his wife who were bored - because Lord! North Umberland was boring! - had finally planned an event. They had even invited the officers, and Lydia’s husband had disappeared with cigars and cards to another room hours earlier. 

Unlike all of the other ladies of her age, Lydia was often left alone at these events. Most of the other ladies did not like her, and the tales of her inappropriate behavior and immaturity when she first began traveling with her husband and the regiment at age sixteen still stuck to her like syrup in her hair. Well. Those tales amongst other, less true, crueler words. 

Lydia knew what the other wives whispered about her, when she occasionally danced with men who were not her husband, not that Wickham would dance with her often. They called her a strumpet and a flirt and worried she would seduce their husbands like Wickham seduced tavern maids. Lydia had no interest in any man that would be untrue to his wife. She already had one husband who didn’t believe in the sanctity of matrimony.

There had been offers, oh yes, the men who knew she was miserable, the men who saw her young face and fine figure and hoped she would be desperate for some comfort, some pleasure. But she was not like her husband, who sought pleasure wherever he could find it. She was silly and flirtatious but not a heathen. And if her sisters found out? She would never see a red cent again. 

So she often found herself along the edges of the room, when she used to be a social butterfly. A girl who loved to giggle and gossip. It seemed that when not insulated in the warm embrace of Meryton and the girls she had grown up with, she was utterly alone. It felt like she was much like Mary used to be in that manner. Lydia could never fathom how her older sister could claim to enjoy it, especially not now that she knew how it felt. With an uncharacteristic moment of introspection, Lydia was hit with a wave of sympathy and guilt for treating Mary so coldly and childishly. 

Finally she was asked to dance. Of course it was with Colonel Hunt, who left her pink faced in a hot flush. It was the warm embrace of acceptance, tinged with desire. She was one of the only women he danced with, still, because she was the only woman unafraid to speak to him. Every woman had heard their husbands complain of his strict leadership and punishments, his barking commands. They all knew he had seen battle a few years earlier. There was a look in his eyes that knew death and wasn’t afraid of anything else. That made everyone afraid of him. 

Lydia felt invincible with him, because he had experienced great violence and came away unscathed, he was not a man who had gone through life easily and without strife. He understood suffering and fear. He had earned his way home to train officers and not fight anymore. He chose to live a life of relative peace training other soldiers when so many men thrived off of the violence.

Wickham often said he was excited for battle. That he craved it. Often said he would find glory in the field. Lydia knew he was a coward. 

It was why he didn’t leave her. His cowardice. Why he didn’t run off and go to Scotland even though freedom from the wife he claimed to despise was so close. She had pondered it for years. But she understood that he feared Mr. Darcy’s retaliation, feared that Mr. Darcy would send men after him to make things right. Worse, Wickham feared the lack of a backup plan. 

If he stayed with Lydia, there would always be someone willing to take pity on him - pay off his debts and chase away angry fathers and barkeeps - if only to keep Lydia (in actuality, Lizzy) from ruin and humiliation. If he had Lydia he still had a hold on Darcy, and he was not willing to let go. No. Lydia knew if he went to battle he would die in the mud, shrapnel or blade in his back, as he turned to flee the fight.

“For someone who talked of this ball for a fortnight, you are rather quiet,” Hunt interrupted her quiet simmering with a serious look of his own as they moved across the floor in the dance. She gave him a forced giggle and swatted his arm. He saw her through her facade at that moment, she knew, but he did not mention it.

“I am taking it all in! It is so grand and wonderful, I haven’t seen anything like it in ages. Even though everyone here looks so sallow and colorless - not fashionably so but sickly so- it’s so beautiful and lively.” Lydia smiled as she did a spin in time with the other women. She noticed the looks some of the ones sitting and relaxing gave her and felt her stomach do a turn of its own.

“I assumed you would attend more assemblies and balls when visiting those wealthy sisters of yours?” He responded, not knowing how his words wounded her. It seemed that even the splendor could not tear her mind away from her most sour thoughts and musings.

“La! They do not often have these sorts of things scheduled when I visit. Kitty is the only one who would indulge me, and she is the busiest of all with her work for her husband’s flock.” She did not say that her sisters wouldn’t waste a fine evening on herself. Did not say that Lizzy would never let her visit, not yet. She didn’t see why she would, and she didn’t know if she hated herself more for that or Lizzy. (It was herself, these days, it was always herself).

“Well that is a shame, I have never seen you happier than at a ball.” He responded, looking at her kindly. It edged on pity. 

Lydia felt a pinch of disappointment. It appeared as though he saw her the same way her family always had - flighty and foolish and altogether immature and childish. And while she was those things, she certainly didn’t want Colonel Hunt to think that. It was at that moment that Lydia was struck with the profound realization that perhaps nobody in the world truly cared about her, or even knew her.

The dance ended, and Hunt bowed to Lydia, and gave her a tight smile before returning to his corner. He was always watchful that his men remained respectful. He was always so strict and rigid, but truly good. That was the kind of man she should have sought out to marry. If she had married that sort of man, her sisters would love her, and Sarah would be cared for, and she would feel cherished and held. She did not marry that sort of man.

As she walked through the crowd, she heard a mean giggle, not unlike her own when she was five and ten, followed by “They are so painfully indiscreet, poor Officer Wickham.” A chorus of laughter erupted from the tiny group, who immediately silenced upon seeing her. She recognized them as Wickham’s friends and their wives.

(Of course Wickham still had friends - the sort of men who felt perpetually unlucky and victimized, slave to circumstance and cruel fate, and their wives who loyally ignored their faults as long as they treated them with kindness. Lydia figured she also would’ve ignored Wickham’s faults if he was kind to her. She also supposed she too was angry at fate, but she was not like Wickham, she blamed herself so heavily that it felt as though she had a weight around her neck). 

She recalled her own cruel words and gossip of the past, and ducked her head, feeling rather like she deserved it all, like she was being punished for being a mean little fool when she was young. It felt like every day of her life was divine punishment for being a flighty idiot, for running off without a care in the world, without thinking of her family. Well, they won. They were all she thought about from the moment she woke each morning, until she fell asleep at night.

***

“I have heard a tale that you and the esteemed Colonel Hunt,” Wickham said the name with a sarcastic sneer, “are having a torrid affair.”

The words jolted Lydia out of her quiet sewing. She was putting a new hemline onto an old dress in the effort of retaining a semblance of fashionable appearances. Sarah was asleep in her (their, as Lydia rarely shared a bed with Wickham) room down the hall. While the words were shocking, Wickham said it with a bored sort of disinterest. 

He was always the most dangerous when he pretended he was calm. It was like he took joy in tricking her. It had been a quiet few months other than his general nasty insults and yelling when her sisters sent too little money. On her face Lydia could still feel the phantom sting of his palm from the last time he felt she deserved a reminder of her place. It did not stop her impertinent retort.

“And what if we are?” she prodded dangerously.

Wickham laughed sharply, his heavily lidded eyes barely sparing her a glance. “I cannot tell if you are being stupid or attempting a jest. Hunt would never touch you.”

“Then why are you hearing word of an affair?” she asked snidely. Lydia knew she was pushing him, but for some reason, she deeply wanted to.

“Because the fool pities you and spends far too much time ensuring that you do not end your life by dashing yourself off of a cliff side into the sea like his idiot sister.” He took a sip of his whiskey, a bottle he had won in a game of cards.

“A pity for you that he keeps me from that,” Lydia said with acid lacing her words. Her mind was racing though, wondering if what he said about Colonel Hunt’s sister was true or just a cruel farce. His family did indeed live near the sea in Dorset.

“A pity indeed,” he responded darkly. “But back to the original conversational subject, of why he would never put a hand on you - the man won’t spend a dime on a bought woman or take a mistress or wife. So either he does not like women, lost his cock in a battle injury, or he has no interest in spoiled whores like yourself.”

The words knocked the air out of her. But only for a moment. “A spoiled whore?” Lydia asked, rather foolishly. Perhaps he was right, and she was stupid.

“Used up, ruined. The wife of a man he hates. You’ve become repulsive to myself and everyone around you. I notice how none of the other wives invite you for tea or card parties. Your parents and sisters do not even love you enough to send you money to ensure you do not freeze or starve. You are useless to everyone who knows you. And I do wish you would save us both the trouble and throw yourself into the sea.”

The words cut into her, sharp and painful. Petulant tears threatened to fall from her eyes, but she grit her teeth, refusing to let them escape. Her fingers curled into fists and she stepped towards him. She wanted to hurt his pride, make him feel as small as he made her feel every day of her life. 

“If I died,” Lydia hissed, “why would Mr. Darcy ever bother paying your debts ever again? Without me you would be hanging from the end of a rope for your debts or dead by the hands of a scorned father or husband. You need me more than I will ever need you.” 

It was impulsive and foolish and she knew it would not end well but she did not care, she could not care. It did what she wanted. It got a reaction.

His fist met her face and she tasted blood. It was the first time he had hit her with anything but an open palm. Blood poured from Lydia’s nose and busted lip. She gave him a nasty crimson grin that made him take a step back, a flicker of something foreign in his eyes. He retreated out the front door, and Lydia knew on some level that the spoiled whore had won that battle. Even if being bound by matrimony meant he had won the war.

***

“Her name was Clara, and she had only just married at eight and ten.” Hunt spoke with a forced casualness about his sister after Lydia announced to him that she had heard the rumor and begged for clarification. He knew the story was safe with her, that while she once gossiped and giggled, now she was a confidante that would never laugh at him, not in the case of something like this. 

“She said that her new husband was cruel and hurt her. She wrote to me that within three months of her nuptials a darkness had blanketed her life. She had always been prone to dramatics, and I confess… I did not take her seriously.” Hunt flinched as the words left his mouth, and she saw that his mouth was pinched in shame.

“I promised to look into the man when I returned from battle. I was powerless then, barely three and twenty, at the beck and call of my commanding officer.” He paused, as if chasing bad memories, guilt. 

“I was not permitted to leave the battlefield. Our father, the only one near enough to come to her aid, also did not believe that he was a true brute, as he had been our neighbor for years and was considered good and affable by the men of our town. Henry was visiting our sister Mary and her husband in India. Before either of us could come check on her, she walked into the sea and never came out.”

Colonel Hunt went quiet as he strolled with Lydia in the marketplace whilst his housekeeper collected a basket. His face had been impassive as he told the story but Lydia could feel the agony, it practically radiated from his chest. She imagined the pain she would feel for the rest of her life if Kitty walked into the sea, and Kitty barely loved her anymore.

A bitingly cold gust of wind billowed down upon them and Lydia desperately wished she had better clothes, although with that story in mind she kept her complaints to a minimum. But Lord, how the snow drifts melted into her shoes! An early snow storm had come in mid-November, and she was not prepared. A shiver ran through her and she tightened her muscles in an effort to stop the shaking. She was relieved that Sarah was with Hunt’s cook, learning to make bread, instead of shivering in the blustering winds.

“I am truly sorry, Colonel. How long ago did that happen?” Lydia asked, knowing he would not want to talk about the emotions of it all. He seemed relieved to go back to pure fact.

“A decade this spring.” He answered.

“I know it is unchristian of me to say, but I hope she is at peace. She deserves it. Regardless of the circumstances of her passing.” Lydia could not imagine a benevolent God sending someone to eternal damnation for leaving the painful life he forced upon them. (Free will be damned, Lydia thought spitefully, thinking of her own bad choices and poor manners and wishing she could blame it on something besides herself).

Hunt glanced at her once, twice.

“How do you-“ he paused and clamped his mouth shut. As if he thought better of his question.

“Colonel?”

“I just suppose I struggle to understand how someone would find the strength to withstand such suffering in their life. I don’t condone what my sister chose and I certainly loathe to accept it, but the other option seems just as bleak. If she was with us still, it would still have been ten years of suffering that I could not save her from, unless I dueled the man. It isn’t like myself and the battlefield. I fought and succeeded. I was sent home with honors and thanks. Now I am of a higher rank and am rewarded. There are no thanks to a woman married to an unkind man. No escape except abandonment or death. It is endless. There is no retirement.” 

Lydia twitched at the implication of his words. She carefully smoothed her face. “I certainly don’t know, Colonel. I am not a strong woman myself.”

“I think you are.” He responded.

“What happened to the husband?” Asked Lydia, changing the subject.

“He remarried less than a year later.” The Colonel responded.

“Oh,” Lydia said, feeling the hopeless injustice of it all wash over her. But Hunt gave her a sort of sad smile.

“Shortly after the second wife gave birth to her son, he died in a hunting accident with her father. I think that fate ensured punishment was handed out. I think fate always does.”

They walked on in silence. Lydia figured that fate did give out punishments, and she was living hers. She ignored that he gave her far too much to take home, food and fuel and tea, so that she and Sarah would not go hungry or cold. She wished he would go home with her, instead. 

***

As the winter grew even colder Lydia received a trunk from Philadelphia, with no name or return address, full of warm hand-me-down dresses and gently worn boots. A fur lined bonnet. Lambskin gloves. The only woman in Philadelphia she knew of was Colonel Hunt’s sister, Rose Wittiford, who fell in love with a rich American banker when he was on a trip to visit his cousin.

It was clear that Colonel Hunt was not the only tall member of his family, as it actually needed to be hemmed! Lydia did not even have an address to write back in thanks. When she wore his sister’s dress the next time she saw him, he said not a word, except he smiled fondly at her, and Lydia wished that life had not been so cruel to him, for he was such a kind soul. When she tried to ask for an address he simply shook his head and continued teaching Sarah arithmetic.

***

“I wish Colonel Hunt could visit Auntie Kitty with us,” lamented her daughter’s high sweet voice. The carriage rumbled along towards Derbyshire (they would not be seeing Lizzy). Kitty had written to her that since Georgiana had married before the most recent holiday season, it would be likely that she and Wickham would be permitted to come to any Christmases that Georgiana was absent for. Lydia would pretend to not care, to not get her hopes up. She very much doubted she would be receiving an invitation. But how sweet it would feel to see them all together again, a family. She gave her daughter a kind smile. 

“He is not family, my beloved, but I do wish he could come.” Replied Lydia after a moment. She ran her fingers through her daughter's soft curls. She pictured Colonel Hunt’s bright hair sitting across from her. To distract herself, she began reading to Sarah from a book of nursery rhymes, and felt her heart glow with warmth as her child fell asleep.

***

She was rejuvenated by her visit to Kitty. She came back to Northumberland with a skip to her step and perhaps a few pounds extra on her bones. Her sister had exclaimed over how well behaved and darling Sarah was. Lydia took pride in her child but knew most of the credit was meant for Colonel Hunt. The trip had warmed her heart and gave her the life she had so desperately craved, if just for six weeks in the springtime.

“Mama, when can we visit again?” Asked Sarah.

“We will be visiting your Aunt Jane next, in the late summer.” She responded, and she kissed her daughter on both cheeks. Sarah giggled and crawled into her lap. Lydia began telling her a story, making it up as she went. She always had to be careful to ensure that the heroine had happy endings, even though that never happened, not in real life. Summer was only two months away. She would survive. 

***

Lydia counted the number of times she touched James Hunt as the weather grew warm, because until then, she could not recall him ever getting close to her except to dance, and to let her poke the arm of his coat to point out a tear. Lydia would close her eyes and picture the moments in her head, a sequence that made her entire body tremble, only a little with desire, but mostly a deep yearning to be touched with gentleness by a man. 

His knuckles brushing hers as they read to Sarah. An elbow bumping elbow as they walked through the market. Their legs knocked into each other’s under the dining table as they chatted about their day. She stumbled once, after going three days without eating (so as to save money to buy a new day dress to visit Jane with), and he caught her, his hands steadying her waist. But all of it paled in comparison to one dance, different from the rest, two days before she was due to visit Jane.

It was at an assembly, but the night had grown atrociously humid, her hair had grown curlier and more unkempt. She wore a coral colored dress, and gloves that she had dyed a sweet buttery yellow to hide the stains of age. Hunt was wearing the moss colored coat she had mended so long ago. The music was just okay, there was an admitted lack of talent in small towns like theirs. Wickham was openly flirting with a widowed woman who lived some five miles away and had a small amount of wealth. In truth, Lydia wished he could get some money from that woman, whether that be from flirting or sharing her bed. 

Lydia did not care if she looked inappropriate. She had stopped caring about the other officer’s wives. They would never like her, so damn what they said about her.

She and Hunt spoke all evening. He told her stories of his sisters, his rich laugh making his officers around him jump in surprise. It was so rare to hear him laugh, he was so painfully serious that he challenged Mr. Darcy. Several times, she closed her eyes and just listened to the soft evenness of his breath.

Lydia could even recall the scents - she had drank mint tea all day, to calm her anxious stomach, and had picked bouquets of honeysuckle on a roadside with Sarah, one small bunch was still in her hair. Colonel Hunt always smelled of the cedar wardrobe he kept his clothing in, a pinch of sandalwood, but he did not smell like a dandy. No, he smelled how a good man ought to smell. Clean and masculine and like home .

Hunt had removed his gloves at some point, his bare hand palm brushing where her dress ended and her skin began. The entire dance, there were moments, moments of his calloused fingers dragging along her skin, and she was on fire. She would carry the memory for years, until it was so foggy it seemed like a dream.

***

Her visit with Jane was good. Sarah got to be happy, and that was all that mattered. Lydia saw the way that Jane became quiet and sad and was eager to make her laugh. Jane took them  both shopping, and bought them lovely dresses, and Lydia fantasized about being able to do that, without thought. It was odd, though, how sad they both seemed. 

***

Christmas at Pemberley was grand. Lydia read so in Jane’s letter. Jane wrote sparingly of the grandeur, she had tact. Her mama wrote short and effusive praises of her clever and rich Lizzy. Her father did not write at all. Kitty hardly mentioned Pemberley, she wrote so excitedly of her husband, her ‘gentle Sam,’ and his Christmas Mass. It amused Lydia, made her give a little giggle whenever she saw what Kitty wrote - it was somehow both so unlike the Kitty she knew, and exactly like the Kitty she knew. It gave her a bit of warmth (and jealousy) to know how Kitty was safely ensconced with a warm hearted man. Unbidden, she thought of red hair. 

Mary sent a bible verse, and wished her a happy turn of the year. Lydia was surprised to see the well wishes, and wondered if her words of advice before her wedding had made her soften to her. She wrote well wishes in return. 

Lydia spent Christmas with Wickham and Sarah. Playing the happy family. He had won some money, and was wearing fine clothing and drinking a higher quality drink. He was in high spirits, laughing and giving Sarah the only attention she got from him each year. The next day he would ignore his daughter again, she knew. He kissed Lydia’s cheek and complimented her curls, and Lydia could just pretend she was happy, for the sake of her daughter. Wickham was excellent at pretending to be the man she had fallen in love with. But she would never be fooled again, she had learned so long ago that he only was kind to get what he wanted, and then turned around to be cruel the next day.

She did not get her husband a gift, and he did not give her one either. Sarah received a few baubles, little things Lydia could scrounge together. It was a meager day, compared to what her sisters were experiencing, so far away, not thinking of her at all. Indeed, it would be a marvel if they ever even contemplated inviting her, regardless of what Kitty insisted. The emptiness, the distance from her family and any friends, hit her so painfully she thought her heart would stop from the weight of it all. 

Two days later, when she handed over a painstakingly embroidered pair of men’s gloves, thin and poor quality, cheap but what she could afford, the gentle look of surprised delight Colonel Hunt gave her was a thing of Christmas miracles. 

***

“We will be leaving Northumberland in under a quarter of a year, at the beginning of springtime. I wanted to tell you before the letters of announcement were sent.” Colonel Hunt said, giving her a small smile. He knew how she hated Northumberland, knew how she shivered and froze in the cold biting winds that came off the sea. Her face warmed, to know that he wished to tell her before anyone else. She pushed her feelings of tenderness down, and kept the conversation moving to what she truly wanted to know. Tangible things. 

“Where will we be going, Colonel?” she asked, thrumming in excitement. 

“Bath, Mrs. Wickham.” He answered, his pale eyes shining. 

The shrieks of excitement that left her mouth would have shattered a weaker man’s eardrums. But the Colonel just smiled. Lydia had wanted to see Bath for her entire life, and now it would finally happen. If only Kitty could visit! 

“I know that you do not make the decisions, Colonel, but I rather feel as though you made this happen,” she said once her shrieking excitement had died down. 

“I would like to believe that my opinions had some part in it, but I am not a very powerful or great man.” He responded with a dry chuckle. 

“You are the greatest man I have ever known,” Lydia said earnestly. 

***

In Bath, she felt like a new woman. She laughed more readily, and smiled more widely. It was the closest she had been to Hertfordshire in two years. It was the closest she was to happiness in seven. While she knew it was inappropriate, and so did he, she embroidered several handkerchiefs for Colonel Hunt to commemorate his sister Clara’s birthday, and together, with Sarah and quite watered down wine, they had a toast, which had become a yearly occurrence. 

If it weren’t for Wickham, she would have been considered a truly happy woman. 

***

Lydia carefully styled her daughter’s hair, and made sure her clothing was well kept, and not a soul who saw them could have ever thought that they were so on the brink of losing all that they had. In Bath, she actually cared how people looked at her. 

***

She had told her husband no. He rarely asked for his marital rights, and when he did in seven years she had never said no, even when she truly would have preferred to say no. But she had said no for the first time since before they were married in that stupid church in stupid London. And while he did not force the subject, Wickham did not bother to ensure that her injuries were not clear and obvious. He marred her pretty face with a split lip, and blackened cheekbone. Open palm, but with the force of a humiliated man. 

Then he went and disappeared for three days. She wished he would just have the grace to die. (He would not for another seven years, but Lydia knew not that she was halfway done with her suffering).

When he returned, he demanded they attend a public assembly, to lift their spirits, he claimed. He crudely added that she always seemed more willing to warm his bed after a lively evening. Lydia balked, wondering why he would want to show off her face, grotesque as it was. But that was the reason. He wanted her to be embarrassed in front of all of the other wives, any new women who could possibly befriend her. He wanted the men who propositioned her to see she was not a pretty girl. He wanted to humiliate her, and make her afraid to show her face. 

Lydia put on one of the winter dresses sent from Philadelphia, as the weather had just gotten a chill to the air, and she did her hair, and got a neighbor to watch Sarah for the evening with a promise of hemming a gown for free. If she was to be paraded, humiliated, it would be with her chin held high and a shrill laugh on her lips. 

When they walked into the assembly, her husband left her almost immediately, joining his new Bath friends. They weren’t aware of his gambling or drinking or lying yet. Everyone here loved him. And she was so busy with Sarah, and keeping their meager apartments, that she had no idea where to start making friends. The other soldiers’ wives were so close with one another it felt like she was a permanent outsider. 

She would always retreat back to Hunt. Some of the wives thought she deserved a firm hand from her husband. Believed that she was a whore having an illicit affair and flaunting it. Their mean stares, Lydia could handle. But Lydia avoided the pitying eyes of the other women who did not know her as they spied her injuries.

Lydia confidently strode to the drink table for Bath mineral waters. Healing properties. She scoffed as she took a sip, pulling her shoulders back. She recalled being young and having good posture just for the sake of showing off her figure. She giggled to herself at the memory, savoring the mere thought of a simpler time. Lord! Did three and twenty feel ancient! 

Across the room, she saw Colonel Hunt. She was a bit surprised but she knew she shouldn’t be. If his soldiers were in public, so was he. He kept them in line. But he often looked like he was dying to leave and be alone, she felt that Hunt definitely desired to be in control of his men more than other higher ranked officers. 

She did not want him to see her, because he would pity her. The part of her that was still six and ten imagined him killing Wickham on her behalf, a romantic duel at dawn for her honor. For her love. But if he would not do it for his sister, could hardly believe his sister, he could not do it for her. He cared for her, on account of Sarah, but he did not love her. Not at all. A wave of bitter hopelessness hit her, making her bruised face throb. 

He began to walk towards her, but Lydia felt a soft hand on her arm first. She turned to see a petite woman in her early forties looking at her with crinkled eyes and concern on her face. Her blonde hair was fine and soft like Jane’s and her eyes were a dark brown, like Lizzy and Mary. She was short and slender in the same way Kitty was. Lydia was struck with a painful longing to see them. “Would you like to sit with me and my ladies, darling? You look rather lost.”

Hunt paused, and waited for her nod, and returned to his corner, and Lydia was taken into the soft embrace of a gaggle of local Bath women in their forties. They cooed and awed over her, and Lydia felt a great weight of fear and loneliness lift from her aching shoulders.

***

“Lillian’s husband is a physician, so she gave me some salves and compresses for no charge at all. She insisted she would not have it. She even invited me to tea next week.” Lydia said excitedly to Hunt when he came to go over Sarah’s numbers. Lydia was far better with numbers than her letters, which she assumed was from all the penny pinching she had to do. But she liked to let Hunt do it. She wanted any excuse to see him.

“Is there anything I can do?” His voice took on a desperate quality she had never heard. The guilt and self loathing in his eyes led her to believe it was his guilt over Clara causing such a reaction. 

“La, Colonel Hunt! There really isn’t. Many women get disciplined by their husbands daily. I have only received marks a few times since we married. It could be worse. He could be crueler and more brutish.” She kept her voice light, desperate to make him not worry, but there was nothing she could say.

“It is not right, Mrs. Wickham.” 

“How can it be wrong if the Lord’s good book says a husband has the right to do so?” Lydia whispered, feeling that hate that lived so neatly in her chest roar in fury. There was a reason she had abandoned the pretense of belief.

“Lydia.”

They made eye contact. Lydia shook her head, slow, sad. “There is nothing we can do, except endure. And if you try to stop it, and hurt yourself or your future, I swear to God, I will never forgive you. You have to retire so you can finally fall in love and have the family you deserve.” 

He jerked back as if slapped, but nodded.

***

Lillian invited her to tea once a week, and insisted that Sarah be brought along. She had her own adult sons, one of whom had a baby boy. She loved children, and was glad to have them nearby. The warm embrace of female companionship and guidance left Lydia feeling a sense of completeness for the first time in years. She knew the friendship was borne out of pity, but Lydia had grown accustomed to pity, though she loathed to admit it. All of the good things in her life had been borne from pity. 

It would be over all too soon, but Lydia chose to savor it while it lasted. 

***

“You have been the best of friends, Colonel Hunt,” Lydia said meaningfully, as she watched him avoid her eyes. 

“Besides my brother, and perhaps Richard, who I hardly even write to anymore, I have precious few friends. You have been an endlessly entertaining and comforting companion for these last several years. If I could, I would suffer Wickham for years to keep you safe in my view. But I cannot. I have no control of his position and they wish to be done with him.” Colonel Hunt spoke with sorry and apology saturating his tone.

Lydia had seen this coming for years, and knew that every time Hunt insisted on allowing Wickham to remain, he was hurting his own credibility. Even if bribed by Mr. Darcy, she believed that the army would reject keeping Wickham on. She shook her head jerkily. 

“Thank you for warning me, Colonel. I will get my finances in order and write to my family. You have done more than enough.” 

“What will become of you and Sarah?” he asked. 

“La! We will survive. If I cannot find a way to keep us housed and fed, I will send her to live with my sister, Jane. While my mama and father would not be so gracious, Lizzy and Mary would never, as they are too high and mighty, and Kitty is far too busy - but she would - Jane would gladly take Sarah and ensure she had all of the joy life can offer.” Lydia felt a bit silly, comforting him of all things. She gave a pathetic giggle and flipped her hair, a sad attempt at normalcy.

“And you? If you cannot find a way to remain housed and fed?” he asked, almost incredulous, looking at her with trepidation. 

“I. Will. Be. Fine. La, Lord knows attractive young ladies have a thousand options.” Lydia said, walking towards him with purpose. But she did not know if she would be fine. Did not know at all. Hunt’s eyes had a look of wild fear in them, she had been surprised he had the capability to feel fear. 

“I wish things were different.” Was all he said in response. 

Lydia felt the space between them, wished for the comfort of an embrace. 

“I do too.”

***

When the letter came and Wickham left, Hunt visited immediately. 

“How long does he have to be gone to declare him dead and myself a widow?” Lydia asked, giggling. Things were soundly falling apart but she was positively giddy that he had been gone for ten days. She felt fear of hunger and losing her housing, but no fear of anger or retaliation. 

“I am not quite certain -” Hunt said slowly, watching her with caution, “but could you not beg for a divorce on grounds of abandonment?” 

“La! As if I could get granted something that even the wealthiest of women are denied.” Lydia poured herself a whiskey, almost took a drink, thought better of it, and handed it to Hunt. He sipped without pause. She made efforts to heat up a pot of water to steep mint leaves in.

“I have more than enough money. Allow me to help you.” He said sternly, as though he had any control over her or Wickham anymore. She was no longer technically the wife of his officer. She was just the wife of an unemployed gentleman of dubious morality and no skills. 

“No! I shan’t have it. If anything I should be paying you for all of your years of being a governess to Sarah.” Lydia giggled again, wondering why on earth she was rejecting his offer of money.

“Every moment I have spent here was of my own free will. I did not want any payment. Your company was payment enough.” 

“La! Can you not take a joke, Colonel? What do I have right now if not my good humor and spirits?” Lydia wobbled a bit, feeling a bit faint even as she insisted she was well. She took a sip of the hot mint water and savored the flavor. 

“I will be by tomorrow, I will have my housekeeper prepare a parcel of food as well as a bundle of wood for your fireplace.” He stood, a look of purpose on his face, and she noticed that his whiskey was empty. 

“Considering that the debt collectors will be coming any day now, I would suggest you visit early before they come, or in the evening after they give up. I can only pray that my sister’s wealthy husband takes care of this for us.” Lydia sighed, the manic energy leaving her body. She felt exhausted suddenly. 

Hunt nodded sharply, and left. Lydia sunk down, her weight sagging against the wall of her apartment, and buried her face in her hands.

***

“We shall be alright, my darling,” Lydia insisted, holding Sarah on her lap and reading from a botany guide out loud. She didn’t understand half of it, but it was better than listening to the angry and violent demands on the other side of the door. The hack she had hired to take them to Hertfordshire was not scheduled for ten more days - to avoid the higher prices of the busy season. Wickham had been gone for four weeks. 

She hoped he was dead. But hopefully somewhere he could be located, and declared dead, so that she could be free. It was a fantasy that lulled her to sleep at night. But she knew he was somewhere drunk and hiding. And the thing that got her out of bed in the morning was waiting for Hunt to appear. 

He had stayed true to his word and brought them food every day. He brought a few toys for Sarah, including a soft cloth doll that she had kept glued to her side in the days since. She was too afraid to leave the house, as there were debtors waiting around every corner. If she was not careful, there would be hell to pay. But Hunt ensured they were safe and fed. 

Lillian did too, although she sent the parcels and letters via her housekeeper - her husband did not want her to risk being exposed to debt collectors and solicitors who would bother her and ask questions. Her letters were full of kindness and cheer. Lydia decided she would write to her, regardless of where she went, for the rest of her days (and she would). 

***

A parcel Colonel Hunt brought to her, with five days left before the hired carriage would arrive, contained a blue ribbon. It was not the color of her own eyes - no, the rich sapphire she and Jane possessed could not be captured by a ribbon - but it was the soft blue of the sky in the morning. She looked at it, and gave him a wide smile. 

“La! Sarah will love this,” she said, imagining the ways she would weave it through her daughter’s hair. “Thank you so much.”

Hunt’s face turned that delicious shade of pink she had been fantasizing about more regularly since her husband had departed. “I thought - perhaps, well, that you may want it. I realized that you have not bought yourself anything in quite some time, and my sister’s trunk did not have any baubles or ribbons or lace…” he trailed off. 

“How thoughtful!” Lydia exclaimed, a surge of love and a deep yearning coursing through her veins. If he was her husband, she imagined she would climb onto his lap and kiss him for such a thoughtful gesture. And to think, she had once received ribbons from officers regularly! How long ago those years seemed. 

“Truly, it is nothing, just a gesture of kindness,” he insisted, but he blushed even darker. 

She wove his gesture of kindness through her hair, the ribbon standing out against her dark strands. Her fingers moved expertly, and within minutes it was neatly pinned, framing her face but letting a few curls escape. 

“Oh mama, you look so pretty!” giggled Sarah, and she held her in her lap, thinking that perhaps things would be okay, if only for that moment. 

***

“This is the address of my home in Hertfordshire, should you ever be in the area.” Lydia said, biting her lip and handing the carefully written information to Hunt. Their fingers brushed. “Or if you should happen to be in need of a good laugh.” She smiled gently, her entire body thrumming.

He took her hand, and squeezed it tightly. He embraced Sarah, and then he left. Lydia Wickham would not see him for nearly seven more years. 

***

They were thrown from their lodgings at six in the morning, into the cold and frosted streets. There was a taste of spring in the air, she could feel that much from the southern winds. The hack would come in twenty minutes, just before the sun rose. Just before the debt collectors came. Lydia and Sarah rode away from Bath, from Hunt, and from the morsel of hope she had greedily consumed. 

***

Wickham had not died. Of course not. He had laid in wait, until Mr. Darcy paid off debts and hid scandals to keep his own reputation clean. He came back, and they went to London together, because her parents would not have her. The words of her husband, how not a soul cared for her, rung in her ears. Away from Hunt and Lillian, away from Kitty and Jane, she truly was alone. Sarah was all she had, and Lydia had to be strong for her daughter rather than the other way around. 

***

She heard tale, early on in their years in London, that Colonel James Hunt had gone to battle. Some woman’s brother was under his command and she had mentioned it so offhandedly that she could not have known how it knocked the very air from Lydia’s lungs. She thought of it for months, it kept her awake at night. It bothered her and gnawed at her, that Wickham was safe and Hunt was not. 

Until she saw him again, after more than five season’s turn and her prayers for him had faded into a sad memory. So he had survived after all. There he was, in the Cheapside park, walking with a small child. He had a cane, and his beard was full and beautiful, a vibrant hue of copper. But she could not be so certain it was him, it was from a distance, after all. 

Then she saw him again, weeks later at the same spot, with Sarah reading by her side, growing and beautiful and tall like she had been at nearly thirteen. In between her work she had found time to steal away, hoping upon hope to see him again. Confirm in her heart that he was safe and alive, back on his home soil. Her confirmation came clearly, as he walked with a lovely blonde woman that was dressed in fine dove gray clothing and holding the hand of a small child. 

Lydia had prayed to the God she did not believe in that he would safely escape, return to England and be happy. Retire. Marry a kind woman and have a child or two, he deserved a daughter. He had his daughter. He had his wife. It pained her to her core, made her feel as though she was dying more than she ever felt with Wickham, even when his hand met her flesh. Not a single one of her husband’s cruel words hurt her more than the sight of James Hunt with the family she prayed he would get. 

But still. Even if James Hunt lived without her, she had wanted him to live. It was enough. 

Although she did not know it, that was what true love felt like. 

***

The End (But not really) 

She had thought she would never speak to James Hunt again, not after seeing him in the park those sixteen months earlier. At first she had returned regularly for three months after her first sighting, like some sort of obsessed fool, to punish herself by watching him, content and quiet, with his wife and child. It had felt like twisting a knife in the wound, the way her hands would shake and tears would well at the realization that her hopes and dreams for a happy life with him were well and truly gone. But for three months she went. Until the social season ended and he disappeared. She wondered if he was going to his wife’s family home or to visit his brother in Dorset. 

At that point, Lydia had given up, and gone back to her life of dull resignation. She had well and truly accepted that she would never be free from Wickham. Accepted that she would be chained to him for the rest of her life - when she was given a gift from whatever deity it was that callously directed the world. She was given the freedom from her husband in the form of his sudden death. Drunkenly crushed beneath a box of fabric bolts in Uncle Gardiner’s warehouse where he had begrudgingly worked for the last several years while Mr. Darcy quietly paid most of his debts to keep them from the poor house. A life of toil and work that he resented her for. And now George Wickham was good and dead. 

Lydia’s freedom could not even be soured by the knowledge that she would never have James Hunt. She was content to be a widow and live with Jane, who had kindly and lovingly offered, for the rest of her days. She had accepted she would never see James Hunt again.

But here he was at Lizzy’s dinner party, accompanying Colonel Fitzwilliam (retired) and his wife. Of course, his own wife was on his arm, blonde and dainty and shy and everything so decidedly not Lydia. Mrs. Beatrice Fitzwilliam did not seem to know the level of suffering she was feeling, as she barreled forwards with the introductions. 

Beatrice smiled, her face animated and beautiful as she introduced Lydia to the couple behind her. Lydia could have murdered her. Until, “and this is Richard’s oldest friend, Brigadier General Hunt, and his sister by law, Anne Hunt, who was widowed some three years ago.”  

The world stopped as everyone around her continued to chat amiably, moving past the introductions. Long dead dreams rose their crypts like the villains in Kitty’s favorite romance novels. Lydia actually felt the earth grind to a halt, and she nearly tumbled to the ground. 

A shrill giggle broke from her lips and she found herself steadying as her dark blue eyes met his light blue. She giggled again, and again, and she tried to stifle it, her hand over her mouth as she stared at Brigadier General Hunt. To her joyous surprise, he began laughing with her. That beautiful booming laugh that kept her warm in Northumberland. She felt several pairs of eyes on her, shrill Lyddie interrupting the dinner party, but good Lord she did not care!  

“Whatever is so funny, Lydia?” asked Lizzy, approaching her with a slightly nervous look on her face. She likely assumed Lydia had finally lost her mind, or had done something ridiculously inappropriate. 

“It’s - it’s Colonel Hunt!” Lydia gasped, finally gathering herself and looking back at him. Anne Hunt had a shy little grin on her face as she glanced between the two of them, and Lydia was filled with a sudden warmth to know that she knew about her. He had spoken to this woman - his brother Henry’s widow - about her. 

“I apologize, Brigadier General Hunt,” Lizzy started, putting a comforting and cool hand on Lydia’s arm to calm her down. But Lydia could not be calmed. 

“Oh no need to apologize, Mrs. Darcy, Ly- Mrs. Wickham and I are quite familiar. Her husband was under my command for years. I am sorry for your loss, by the way. I heard Mr. Wickham passed some three months ago.” Hunt smiled politely at Lizzy before turning his full attention to Lydia. 

Another laugh ripped from her throat before she could stop herself and he bit back a chuckle as well, mirth glittering in his eyes. It felt like the world had stopped only to revolve around him. “Thank you, Colonel - ahem, Brigadier General Hunt, uhm, for your condolences.” She paused, more giggles threatening to burst forth, and glanced at Lizzy, who seemed mildly perplexed but pleased that Lydia was not causing trouble. 

“Elizabeth, you said there will be dancing tonight, yes?” Beatrice cut in, with a raised eyebrow and knowing eyes. Lydia could have kissed her.  

“Indeed, half a dozen shorter dances.” Lizzy confirmed, her mouth twisting into a sly smile of understanding. 

“Splendid! Enough for everyone to enjoy. With your battle injury, do you still partake sir? I know Richard loves to use his arm as an excuse to bow out.” 

“Indeed I do,” replied Hunt, and then he directed his gaze to Lydia. “We have quite a bit of catching up to do, do we not?”

Lydia nodded at him, her face glowing.

“Then would you do me the honor of a dance so we may have the opportunity? There is so much to discuss.” 

“Of course.” Lydia said, taking his arm, and the world felt right. 

As they walked away from the group, she heard Anne Hunt say with a relieved sigh, “I have not  heard him laugh since Henry died.” 

*** 

Six months later, on the lawn of Pemberley, Lydia found herself alone with him for the first time in eight years.

“I have never mourned George Wickham for even a moment, if I may be honest with you.” Lydia admitted, and she paused, thinking of the brave girl she once was. She took a deep breath and continued “And if I may be so bold, I mourned the loss of you far more. The thought of never seeing you again filled me with agony. When I thought… when I thought that Anne was your wife, and that Henrietta was your child… I thought I was going to die at the sight.” 

“Why is that, Mrs. Wickham?” he asked, although his eyes told her that he knew the answer. 

“Because I have loved you for the last decade of my life, and I knew you would never love me in return,” she replied breathlessly. 

“You’re a brave little thing, Lydia Wickham. Foolish but brave,” he whispered, echoing their first private conversation. Her heart stuttered, a wondrous feeling, that he could remember something so small from a conversation they had nearly a decade and a half ago. 

“Why foolish, Colonel - Brigadier General Hunt?” A giggle slipped out as she said the wrong title, and he looked at her fondly before continuing. 

“Because I have loved you for just as long, and I came here to Pemberley for the express purpose of asking for your hand in marriage - if you’ll have an old soldier like myself.”

Hot tears welled in her eyes, but before they could fall, his calloused palm cradled her cheek, his thumb gently brushing it away. She leaned into his touch, savoring how softly but firmly he held her. Her fingers went up to his copper hair, his beautiful hair, and tangled in the soft strands.

He brought his face to hers, and they kissed on the lawn of Pemberley. When they parted, he gave her a look of utter amusement, a laugh in his own mouth. 

“Whatever is so funny, Brigadier General?” Lydia asked pertly, still tasting his lips on hers. 

“Good Lord, please call me James.”

***

“She has a meager dowry.” Her father said, somehow managing to look both amused and bored. 

“Yes, I understand that.” James replied, ramrod straight, a military man to his core. 

“And you will be her second husband.”

“I am well aware.” 

“She has a child, who I assume she plans to continue raising.”

Lydia heard Hunt’s teeth audibly grind. “Indeed.” 

Her father sighed, clasping his hands together. 

“I rather question your sanity in asking to wed Mrs. Wickham.” 

Her fiance barked out a laugh, although it was rather mocking, and his voice turned cold as his hand reached out for hers. Lydia gripped it as he spoke.

“I rather question your belief that your opinion of Lydia is of any consequence to me. I merely sought permission out of politeness and expectations, but in truth I wanted to meet the gentleman who so callously abandoned his daughter at sixteen.”

She watched as her father flinched, taken aback for just a moment. Outbursts from mama he was used to, Kitty’s weeping, Jane’s acquiescence, Lizzy’s impertinent commentary, Mary’s sullen pontificating, and Lydia’s shrieking rants of a fifteen year old girl from time gone by. Her sisters’ husbands were always polite. Mr. Bennet was not accustomed to grown men challenging him. But James Hunt was not finished. 

“For years I thought her father must be dead, because no self respecting parent - no self respecting gentleman would give up on his child living in such dire straits, not if he had honor.”

“You do not understand the circumstances in which,” her father began, but James cut him off with another laugh. 

“I certainly know the circumstances in which she lived for years after her mistake. You know nothing about the punishment she endured, the price she paid. I will marry her, regardless of your opinion or blessing, her feelings carry more weight than anything you could tell me.” He turned to Lydia, and gave her a gentle smile. 

“I apologize for my outburst,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. 

Lydia smiled, a giggle bubbling up. “I rather enjoyed it.” 

“By God, you are perfect for her.” Mr. Bennet muttered, leaning back in his chair. “You have my permission - not that you require it or even desire it.” 

Lydia gave her father a kiss to his wrinkled forehead and a sad smile. 

“This one is the right one.” Mr. Bennet said. She nodded.

***

“A moment, if I may?” 

Lydia looked up to see the sweet and sad face of Anne Hunt hovering over her shoulder. She gave her a smile and patted the seat next to her in welcome. They had not spoken much in person, but Lydia had written to Anne for the past six months after their first meeting at the dinner party - mainly so she could check in on James. It had been the only proper way to keep tabs on her Colonel when she had still been in mourning. But now that she and James were engaged, she assumed she ought to truly befriend the mother of her future niece. 

“I am so put out that your visit will be ending so soon!” Lydia lamented before Anne could open her mouth. “But I suppose I must be patient - I am just so anxious to settle into Dorset with James, Henrietta, and yourself.”

Anne’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly, and a breath of relief slid from her lips before she could stop it. Lydia’s mouth fell open rather uncouthly and she earnestly grabbed Anne’s hands in her own. 

“Did you think I would ask James to send you and Henrietta away!? La! I could never bring myself to do that! We shall be sisters, and our daughters will be cousins.” 

There was a wobble to Anne’s lip. “It is not always expected for the new mistress of a home to allow for the widow of the previous owner to stay, regardless of relation. I feared we would be sent back to my mother and father, or put in the dowager cottage on the edge of the property. Or even - Henrietta becoming his ward without my involvement.” She clutched Lydia’s hands tightly and gave her a tremulous smile. “I am so relieved he is marrying a woman like you.”  

It felt odd to Lydia that she was somehow older than Anne, who was all things elegant and classy, and married to a gentleman who was even older than James. The solemn air that hung around her only made her seem older still. But Lydia supposed it was her turn to be the comforting elder female, whatever that meant. 

“I only ever contemplated separating myself from Sarah when I was at my most dire straits. To give her a better life. I would never - on my life, separate a mother and her child who loved each other. And I know how terrible the world can be to us. To women. I could not live with myself if I did not watch after you as James watched after me.”

Lydia paused, feeling tears building in her own eyes, but she barreled on, her voice growing a bit shrill with emotion. “If I had been left completely alone, I certainly would have perished from sadness or had to give Sarah to my sisters to raise as their ward. James saved me. How could I not pass along that love and gratitude to someone as dear to the Hunt family as you?” 

Anne sniffled delicately and wiped her handkerchief across her nose. She smiled, a watery chuckle escaping, “It is a little funny, but James told me that you saved him .” 

***

Her fiance was so gentle with her. It was quite the contrast from the commanding gentleman who barked orders for over a decade. It was an even bigger contrast to her previous husband. As they walked the halls of Pemberley - unchaperoned, as she was too old and used for such nonsense - James held her arm in his so confidently. Like he was proud to be seen with her. But then again, even when it was improper, he never once acted ashamed of her in the slightest. 

They spoke of everything they missed in the seven years apart. She had briefly been afraid that he would be a completely different man. With his battle injury, Henry’s death, and caring for his brother’s widow and child, afraid that the man who kept her from losing that thin shred of hope she clung to in Northumberland and beyond would be gone. 

He was changed, because how could he not be, but her Colonel Hunt was still there. Now with silver streaking at his temples and peppering into his beard and a slightly more tired look to his pale blue eyes. The loss of a second sibling had certainly only increased his reserved and quiet demeanor. She was determined to tease joy and laughter back into his eyes. Internally, she wondered if she would ever feel as though she had properly repaid him for all he did for her. Although Anne had claimed otherwise. 

“You said that you have loved me for just as long, do you know when it started?” Lydia asked, after they had fallen into a comfortable silence that she was familiar with from all those years ago. She had a feeling her mother and sisters would think she was being too forward, but she knew that he never cared. Not once. It was what made her feel so utterly safe and comfortable with him.

“There were many moments that I thought I might love you, from the moment you approached me, all bravado and giggles to demand I follow your orders. You were captivating,” he admitted, his neck and cheeks turning a shade darker. It was the delicious pink she had fantasized of so deeply so long ago. And now he was hers. She let out a content sigh and rested her face head against his shoulder as he spoke. 

“But I knew without a shadow of a doubt,” he continued,  “when you toasted Clara’s birthday with me. I had spent that day alone every year since her death. Wallowing, guilt ridden. Drunk or thinking thoughts too dark to entertain. You had snuck the date out of me months before and held onto it, and then you would not allow the day to go by uncelebrated. And you would not allow me to be alone. For the longest time, I had held such shame, and fear, regarding that day. You somehow made it all go away, you made so much of my unhappiness just… disappear. And then you kept doing it. Kept making me happy when I had thought I had forgotten how to be.”

“I had been worried I was being immature and flippant, as I am wont to do,” Lydia replied, her gaze turning up to his face. She gave him a little smile. 

“Perhaps it was a bit flippant, or silly, but Lord knows I am a serious man who needs such a person in his life. I hardly laughed until I met you.” 

“Hardly laughed? How on earth did you befriend Richard then?” Lydia teased, knowing that Colonel Fitzwilliam rarely took anything seriously. 

They stopped walking, having reached the art gallery. Lydia still had to bite her tongue to keep from making a comment on her sister’s exuberant wealth. He turned to her, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her again, as he moved his walking stick out of his way. But he did not, instead he pulled her into a tight embrace. 

It was just a hug, but she felt the way he curled around her, engulfed her, the way that all of the tension drained from his shoulders, and she knew that he felt she was his home too. Perhaps they had saved each other, and the only thing they owed one another was a calm life together. 

***

Lydia watched with a proud smile as James introduced Sarah to several of his - no, their neighbors, as his daughter. Her beautiful girl was glowing, practically bouncing in joy as she followed him around the room, excited and safe and loved. It had only been a week since their nuptials, and Lydia and Sarah had settled in quite nicely. Fox Hollow Park was an aptly named piece of land. The home was not extravagantly sized, indeed it was perhaps a single room larger than Longbourn, but it was well kept and well lived in, and early in the morning, half a dozen foxes could be seen scurrying about on the lawn.

The property sat on beautiful acres of woods that James allowed gentlemen to pay to hunt on. She had been a bit surprised to learn he did not hunt on his own land, but discovered that he had no desire to kill anything, ever again. Lydia observed the beautiful woods through the sitting room window as she sat comfortably near the fire with Anne, who she had become quite good friends with. While all things nervous and easily worried, Lydia thought she was a lovely companion. After they had come to an understanding, an easy friendship had followed. 

A natural, all encompassing sense of joy that she had not felt since she was a little girl radiated from her very being. At that moment, a servant entered the room to announce that dinner was served. Lydia felt rather fancy to have any servants at all, although they had no more than half a dozen. When the guests moved to the dining room, her husband offered her his arm. On the elbow of his moss green jacket, she recognized the delicate patchwork of her own hand from more than a decade earlier. 

As they tucked into their meal, all laughter and warm sunshine coming through the windows, Lydia squeezed her daughter’s hand. It was all very cozy, and Lydia looked around at their friends and her family. James smiled at her all throughout dinner. For years she recalled desperately wishing for him to stay for dinner, thinking it was just a foolish fantasy. 

And now they had the rest of their lives for dinner.