Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  “Would you like me to show you how to hold him, dearie?” Lydia turned and saw that the older woman was watching her. She stepped forward and picked up the tightly bound babe with practiced ease, then held him out for Lydia to take. The look of shock on Lydia’s face must have been apparent to the woman. “It’s all right. He won’t bite you.” She made to hand over the child in such a way that if Lydia did not take him, then he would most certainly fall to the floor. Grudgingly, she took hold of her son for the first time. He squirmed a little and she held him tighter. “That’s it,” the midwife said, moving aside and gesturing to the chair next to the crib. “Now, why don’t we sit down in the chair and give him a cuddle?” Lydia nervously did as the woman suggested. She smiled. He was indeed very beautiful. He made little suckling sounds as she sat down. “I think he’s asking you to feed him, Mrs Wickham.”

  Lydia was horrified. What a notion! She balked at the idea that she would suckle her own infant. “I don’t think so, Mrs Ennis.” She held the child out in panic to the midwife. “You take him. You do it.”

  The old woman shook her head and laughed so hard that her belly jiggled. “I can’t do it. I’m past all that, my dear. I only help bring them into the world now. It’s up to you to do the motherin’.”

  Lydia looked down at the now-screaming child. “What am I supposed to do?”

  The midwife smiled patiently at her. “Unbutton your gown and present yourself to his mouth. They usually know what to do from there. You’ll see.”

  Lydia stared from the babe to the midwife and back again. “Isn’t there another way to do it, one where I don’t have to feed my child like a common housewife?”

  The midwife raised her eyebrows and stiffened. “That’s what you are, isn’t it, Mrs Wickham? A wife and mother?”

  “How dare you! I’m a gentlewoman!” she huffed.

  “Don’t give yourself no airs and graces, my dear. Underneath it all, we’re all God’s creatures and all the same.” She smiled, regaining her compassion again. “Now, come on, before he starves to death.” She looked away and attempted to smooth her rumpled old dress, then moved away to change and tidy the bed linen.

  Lydia felt insulted. She knew the woman would not help her at all. She was busying herself around the room and deliberately not looking in Lydia’s direction. She saw she had no choice but to nurse the wriggling babe herself. Against her wishes, she slowly unbuttoned the front of her gown and brought the child closer to her body. Then she closed her eyes tightly. Nothing in the world could have induced her to watch the child feeding from her own bosom. The child wriggled his head, instinctively knowing what to do. Within an instant of the child latching on, Lydia’s eyes flew open wide. “Get it off of me! Get it off!” she shrieked.

  The midwife, who was putting fresh sheets on the bed, spun around and looked startled at Lydia. “What on earth is all that fuss about? He hasn’t got teeth, so he certainly couldn’t have bitten you!” She chuckled.

  “It hurts, it hurts!”

  “Don’t be daft and overreact! You’ll get used to it in no time at all.”

  “I don’t want to get used to it. I want a woman from the town to do it. Fetch my husband and tell him to go to the village.”

  The midwife huffed and shook her head. “As you wish, Mrs Wickham.”

  Lydia did her best to remove the child from her breast, but each time she pulled him away, he suckled harder. No matter what she did, the child would not stop. She assumed it was like leeches; all she had to do was to wait until he had his fill and he would then simply drop off.

  When the midwife returned, she was out of breath from climbing the stairs and her face had soured. “Mr Wickham says to tell you there will be no nursemaid from Scarborough, or anywhere else for that matter.” She sighed and looked with pity on the new mother. “You’ll have to muddle on as best you can, my dear.” She turned to leave, with a bundle of soiled linen under her arm to take down to Tess in the kitchen. “I’ll be back in the mornin’, after we’ve both had some sleep.” She placed a pot on the table as she departed. “Rub some of that honey on afterwards. It’ll make you feel better. And get some sleep.”

  “Honey?” Lydia asked.

  “Hmm… it’ll soothe you and stop them cracking,” came the answer from the direction of the stairwell.

  Lydia’s eyes opened wide as she mouthed, stop them cracking.

  George Wickham entered the bedroom after the midwife departed. Now that she was gone, he assumed it was safe to visit Lydia and the babe. However, as he entered the room and Lydia saw him, she hurled such a tirade of abuse in his direction that he retreated back down the stairs to the parlour again. Why doesn’t Lydia want me to see her suckling our child? To Wickham, it was something natural, and his wife’s reaction was incomprehensible. Mayhap she is embarrassed to be seen thus. I am certain it takes some getting used to. He convinced himself that was the case and that Lydia’s comparative newness to motherhood was to blame for her outburst.

  After a while, he heard the floorboards creak and assumed Lydia had finished nursing the child and it was safe for him to return to their room. Once there, he stood over the sleeping infant in the cradle as Lydia climbed into bed. She turned her back to him and he frowned. “What is it, my dear?” he asked her without taking his eyes off the babe’s angelic face.

  When there was no answer, he crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and kissed her hair. “He’s beautiful. You did a wonderful job, Lydia.” A sniffle alerted him to the fact she was crying. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

  “It was horrible. Truly horrible.” She shifted position and he held her in his arms.

  “I have heard tell that birthing is,” he said as sympathetically as he could.

  She sniffed, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and stared at him. “Well, yes, that was awfully horrid too, but I meant feeding him. He was so hungry, and it hurts so much. I doubt I shall ever recover enough to do it again.”

  His look of sympathy hardened. “Lydia, the babe has to be fed.”

  “Then get a woman from town to do it, please, darling George,” she whined.

  “And where, pray, are we to find the money to pay for a wet nurse?”

  “Money!” Her temper flared up immediately. “That’s all it ever comes down to, doesn’t it? Have you no compassion for your wife?” She burst into tears and he rolled his eyes at her.

  “We simply cannot afford it on what I earn, my dear.”

  “I’d wager Jane or Lizzy will have wet nurses. Why cannot I? I am their sister; I am just as worthy as they are!” Her crying grew louder.

  “Shh, please, my love.” Wickham tried to soothe her unsuccessfully. “You’ll wake the boy.” This only made Lydia cry even harder. Wickham was at a loss for what to do. There was no way they could make their funds—which were only a fraction of those Jane and Elizabeth enjoyed—stretch to enable the engaging of a wet nurse. She had to understand that. “Mayhap you should get some sleep and we can discuss this again in the morning, when you have had a chance to calm down.” Almost as soon as he said it, Wickham knew it was the wrong thing to say. Lydia unleashed the usual you don’t love me nonsense and cried for a full half an hour before falling asleep from exhaustion.

  Wickham sat by the crib and watched the babe some more, then, as quietly as he could, undressed for bed—hoping to have a few hours’ sleep before he had to leave for the castle. He could not help a grin from spreading across his face; he was a father. He had a son. As he put his nightshirt over his head, he wondered what they would call him. He wanted to call him George, after himself and his father, but he was certain that Lydia would opt to name him after her father instead. It did not truly matter what they named him; they were certain to have more children and, God willing, more sons, too.

  As he fell asleep, he muttered the name he felt certain they would call their firstborn son: “George Wickham.”

  How many times the babe awoke in the night crying, Lydia did not
know, but she was beginning to suspect there was something wrong with the child. She sat and stared at its little red, screwed-up face and bunched fists.

  Wickham stirred behind her in the bed. “For goodness’ sake, Lydia! Pick up the child and feed him so I can sleep!” He turned over and faced his back to her.

  Lydia arched her eyebrows and pointed her nose in the air. “I am not feeding him again. I have made up my mind.”

  Wickham sighed and turned over to face her. “Well, someone will have to,” he snapped. “At least pick him up before we have the neighbours pounding on the door!”

  Lydia huffed at the injustice of it all. Why everything was her fault and responsibility was beyond her. She was certain that Jane would not have to suffer the inconvenience of a broken night’s sleep because of an infant who thought himself continuously hungry. She grudgingly climbed off the bed and picked up the child. He immediately nuzzled towards the breast to which she unconsciously held his face. She flinched and pulled the child away from her body a little. The memory of breast-feeding her new-born infant was still too fresh in her. She exited the room when the child resumed his wailing and Wickham tutted in frustration.

  What was she to do? She knew, full well, that her husband would not bend with regards to hiring a wet-nurse. She sighed. “I suppose I have no choice.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’ll have to feed you myself.” She began to unbutton her nightgown. “Otherwise you’ll starve and I’ll be blamed unjustly for another infant’s death.” She shook her head and then closed her eyes tightly as she tentatively offered her nipple to the babe’s mouth. “Ooh,” she whined as the hungry mouth clamped onto her breast, “I’m never having another child so long as I live.”

  The usual manly jibes followed the wave congratulations Wickham received from the other officers when he returned to duty in the castle later that morning.

  “You look like you haven’t slept in months!” One of them laughed and clapped him on the back.

  “Anyone would think you birthed the child yourself, Wickham. Just look at the state of you!”

  The men joked with him despite all being genuinely pleased to hear his good news.

  He laughed and shook it all off as friendly banter, but he certainly was exhausted. He did not wish to speak ill of Lydia and shame her, but if she had seen to the babe as soon as it awoke, then he would have had a good night’s sleep. As it was, he slept only between feeding and changing. He wished one of Lydia’s family members lived closer to aid her during this time. He saw too clearly now that she was not cut out to be a mother. He frowned. Mayhap it would be better if Lydia and the child went to Longbourn for a visit.

  “Listen up, men!”

  Wickham snapped out of his musing at the sound of Colonel Sullivan’s voice as he entered the officers’ mess hall.

  “We have a new group of recruits coming this Saturday.” The men cheered. “And…once again, it is my excellent duty to inform you all that we have been called to the continent.” He smirked and the men cheered even more loudly.

  “Does that mean we’ll actually be sent to fight?” Poynter asked.

  “It seems quite likely this time. The new reinforcements are a sure sign. We’ll have to train them up for a while, but once the castle can be left in their hands, then I am assured that we will march out and be shipped across the English Channel.”

  “To where, sir?” came a voice from the back of the newly white-washed officers’ mess.

  Sullivan smiled and shook his head. “You know full well that I cannot tell you such information. It will be on a need-to-know basis.” A couple of the men groaned with disappointment. “However, it would be best to prepare your families for the eventuality, nonetheless. Let’s hope that with God’s grace, this infernal war will be over soon and Boney will be back in exile.” He nodded to the men, who voiced their agreement and saluted as he departed the room.

  So, that was it, then. The call had come once again, and this time it seemed far more concrete. This was just the kind of good news the men needed, and each officer’s spirits rose as they spoke excitedly about going to fight, and one by one hurried off to tell the men under their command.

  Wickham smiled and joined Poynter and Turpin by the doors as they exited. The wind was high that day, and he pushed his shako hat further onto his head.

  “Well, that is good news, and no mistake,” Turpin declared.

  “Aye, it’ll do us good to see some action for a change,” Wickham agreed.

  “What say you to a little celebration this evening, to wet the Wickhams’ baby’s head and wish us God’s speed to war?”

  “Poynter, you took the words right out of my mouth.” Turpin turned to Wickham. “What say you? Will Mrs Wickham permit you to spend a shilling or two, considering the motivation?”

  He grinned. “I believe she would indeed.” Wickham knew he would get an ear bashing for certain over spending precious money on alcohol when Lydia desired a wet nurse, but she was just going to have to learn to deal with things on her own. After all, he was soon to depart for foreign lands, and goodness only knew when he would be back again.

  “Right, that settles it then,” Poynter declared, pulling his red tunic straight. “See you both in the Red Lion later tonight.”

  Wickham nodded and headed off towards the castle grounds. He was to supervise the bayonet practice that morning and knew the exercise would take his mind off the knot that had begun to form in the pit of his belly. He was going to war.

  Lydia sat with her mouth open wide at the news her husband delivered to her that evening soon after he arrived home. She was prepared to berate him for arriving home late. Then, when she saw he was the worse for drink, she decided to take him to task over his bald-faced overspending of their extremely limited money. However, he shushed her fairly sharply and demanded that she sit quietly and listen to what he had to say before she let loose with whatever barrage she was preparing for him. She was shocked at being spoken to in such a manner and sat down, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at him until he finished speaking.

  “…and so, my dear, it could well be within a month that I shall set sail for the continent and to war,” he finished, looked at her.

  Lydia was not entirely certain that she heard him correctly. “You are going to war?”

  Wickham nodded.

  “To fight against Napoléon’s forces?”

  He nodded again.

  Lydia’s eyes welled with tears. She could not help herself. All of a sudden, her mind showed her images of her husband’s mutilated dead body lying in the mud on some God-forsaken foreign field. “What will I do without you?” she cried and reached out for him.

  He held her tight whilst she sobbed.

  “Oh, my dear, dear Wickham. What shall we do if you are killed?”

  He laughed her comment off. “My dear, I have no intention of being killed. Do not think the worst. I have not left these shores yet.”

  “Please, don’t leave me!” she wailed into his redcoat.

  “Lydia!”

  She looked up into his face to see that he was not amused at her wailing. “I do not want to lose you.” She pleaded with him not to go and stared into his eyes whilst her lip trembled.

  “My dear, I have a duty to the King and my regiment. I must go, but I cannot deny my concern for you and our little Georgie.” Wickham watched Lydia’s face as she digested the words and he smiled a little.

  “Georgie?”

  “Well, we have to call him something. So why not name him after his brave soldier father?” Wickham beamed. Lydia smiled through her tears and nodded in agreement. That was easier than he planned, and the news of his impending departure to war was perfectly timed. He hoped she would easily give in and not cause a row over the child’s name. Now he had his wish. A man wanted his first-born son to be named after himself, and that was that. “So, what do you think?”

  Lydia sniffed and wiped her nose on a lace handkerchief. “Yes, I suppose you are right. It
is rather sweet.”

  Wickham decided to press the issue home. “And every time you say his name, it will remind you of me.”

  He knew Lydia would never be able to resist such sentimentality.

  “Oh, my dearest George. What a perfect idea!” She smiled and he watched as she fairly skipped over to the crib that now stood nearby the fireside and stood over their sleeping child, her curls bouncing as she went. It seemed her grief at his imminent departure was temporarily forgotten. “Our dear son, named after his heroic father, Lieutenant George Wickham.” She giggled and looked up at him. “Yes, I like that very much indeed.”

  Wickham grinned and hugged his wife tightly. There were moments when he could have quite gladly throttled her, and then there were moments like now when he suddenly remembered why he was attracted to and endeared her so much. She was a sweet thing. Flighty, yes, but sweet. He looked down at the child in the crib. And she has just given me the most precious gift in the world.

  Lydia sniffed again. “My dear, were you telling the truth when you said that you were concerned for us?”

  “Yes, of course I was.” He looked at her and, to his dismay, she started to weep again. Why are the precious, endearing moments so fleeting?

  “I wish you would not go.”

  “Lydia, we have been through this already. I cannot neglect to go; that would be desertion, and I would be called before a firing squad and shot. Would you want that end for your husband?” He pulled a sad face and lifted her chin so she looked into his eyes.

  She shook her head. “No. That would be shameful.”

  He winked at her. “Then how about you write to your dear mama and ask if you might visit with them whilst I am away?”