In the village of Stonebrook, nestled in the rolling hills of Yorkshire, nobody cared much for old Lydia. She wanted little to do with them—no, that’s putting it mildly. She despised them, and the villagers agreed on that much. Built like an ox, tall and broad-shouldered, she towered over most men, forcing them to crane their necks just to meet her gaze. But no one sought it. Greetings went unanswered, muttered curses her only reply as she trudged past, eyes fixed ahead. Or rather, slightly downward—given her height.
Lydia lived in the heart of the village, in an old timber-framed house her father had built. A towering fence enclosed the property, so high few dared peek over. She was quick to anger. One summer evening, a few drunken lads, curious about the recluse, clambered up for a look. Spotting them through the window, Lydia stepped onto the porch with her father’s hunting rifle and fired a warning shot over their heads. After that, her yard was left well alone.
Her homestead was thriving—chickens, geese, rabbits, two goats. The villagers whispered, “What does she need all that for? Her pension’s enough. She’s just greedy.” She slaughtered the animals herself, carted them to the market in town, and sold everything within hours. The money tucked into her coat, she returned to her sturdy house. Goat’s milk became cheese, made by some old secret recipe—expensive, but rumoured to have loyal buyers in the city. Her produce was faultless: plump rabbits, spotless poultry, eggs the size of fists. She never haggled, yet her goods always sold.
When talk of her arose, the elders recalled: Lydia had always been grim. Her mother died when she was still crawling. Left alone with her father—just as massive and unsociable—she grew up hard. Years later, he brought home a stepmother from the next county, but within a month, the woman fled, suitcase in hand, to the railway station. Some muttered Lydia had driven her off. So it was just father and daughter again. Then, when Lydia came of age, her father vanished on a trip to the city—murdered? Run off? No one knew. Lydia remained. Forever.
Marriage never came. “Who’d put up with the likes of her?” the village gossiped. Years passed, generations came and went, yet Lydia seemed frozen, untouched even by grey hairs—her head forever wrapped in a scarf, only a jutting chin, hooked nose, and thick black brows visible beneath, like stone carvings.
One winter night, the Johnsons’ cottage caught fire. Without a word, Lydia appeared with a firehook and helped battle the flames till the fire brigade arrived. She worked with such skill, pulling apart burning timbers, that the house was later rebuilt mostly from the old wood. The Johnsons thanked her. She only grunted and left without a backward glance.
When Lydia died, the headmistress of Willowbrook Orphanage, Margaret Hayes, arrived with three caretakers and a dozen children. The villagers, more curious than mournful, crowded into her yard. What they found was immaculate: the coops, the hutches, the goat pens—everything orderly, like something from a magazine. Inside the house—spotless, but barren. A table, a chair, an iron bed with a sunken frame, a lopsided cabinet holding a single cracked plate, a spoon, a knife, and a chipped mug. By the window, a worn bench, polished smooth by time. On the hearth, neatly folded clothes. That was all.
On the table lay an envelope, addressed in firm script: *To Margaret Hayes, from Lydia Margaret Whitmore*. The headmistress opened it and read the note torn from a notepad. Later, she told them: for twenty years, Lydia had sent the orphanage money—substantial sums that kept them afloat. The message read: *”The house, land, and everything in it, I leave to Willowbrook Orphanage. The children bear no guilt.”*
The villagers stood silent, staring at the empty house. Someone remembered young Lydia by the river, staring at the water as if waiting. Another whispered that maybe her father hadn’t vanished—maybe he’d fled, leaving her behind. And so she carried that weight, locking her heart away—until, at last, she gave it all to children who’d done no wrong.
