The Fault of English Air
Lydia was a plain and unassuming girl. Even her mother admitted that nature had not been kind to her looks. “With that face, it’ll be hard to find a husband,” her father would sigh.
Thin hair, a prominent nose, large teeth, a small chin, and skin prone to irritation—none of it worked in her favour. Yet, despite her appearance, Lydia had a gentle, kind, and patient nature.
It might have seemed she didn’t care about her looks. But she did. She knew she wasn’t pretty. What could she do?
“Never mind, love,” her mother would say. “Happiness isn’t in beauty. God makes a match for everyone. You’ll find love, you’ll have a family. It’s the soul that matters, and yours is good. The right man will see it.”
But souls must be noticed first, and no one paid Lydia any attention. At most, eyes flickered past her. Young men preferred fair-faced girls with doll-like features.
Lydia chose psychology as her profession. Beauty wasn’t necessary here—if anything, it was a distraction. Her sincerity, empathy, and quiet wisdom drew people in. Soon, she was a sought-after therapist. Her parents helped her buy a flat. Life was steady, but her heart remained untouched.
One day, a man brought his grown daughter to a session. The girl, recovering from a bitter divorce, had come reluctantly. But after two visits, she was eager to return. Her father, grateful, lingered to thank Lydia.
“You’ve worked wonders with Emma. She’s herself again, smiling, hopeful. All thanks to you. You’re a marvel,” he said warmly. “Have dinner with me?”
Over the meal, he confided, “I raised Emma alone. Her mother left us for another man, went off to America. I never remarried—didn’t want to upset her. Spoiled her, I admit. Now she’s grown, and I’m still alone. I hope she’ll marry again, give me grandchildren.”
“You’re a good man,” Lydia said. “You’ll find someone.”
“And what of you? Might I interest you?” he asked suddenly.
Lydia faltered. She hadn’t expected this. Mr. Bennett—Edward—took her silence as hesitation.
“I mean it. At my age, there’s no time for games. I’m fond of you. I can provide for you. Think it over,” he said before leaving.
She told her mother later.
“Don’t overthink it,” her mother urged.
“But I don’t love him.”
“Love fades. Do you think your father and I still feel as we once did? We’ve weathered storms, nearly divorced. Yet here we are. It’s easier, growing old together.”
Lydia considered it. What awaited her? Loneliness? Young, handsome men weren’t for her. Divorced, weary ones—that was her lot. Edward was kind, stable, though much older. She agreed.
On their wedding day, with careful styling, Lydia looked radiant. Edward beamed with pride.
He proved a devoted husband—gentle, attentive. “Liddy,” he called her, and nothing else. Their life was quiet, warm. She’d return from work, tired and cold, and he’d bring her warm milk, tuck a blanket around her. What more could she want?
An old schoolmate came to see her—once the prettiest girl in class, pursued by countless boys. Now she had two children by two men, married to a third who resented her past, despised her children, and lived off her earnings. Should she leave? But who’d take her, with three children?
So it went. Beauty was no guarantee of happiness. Lydia had no complaints. Her husband adored her. Children? She’d wanted them, but feared they’d inherit her looks. And none came.
Then, three years in, Edward fell ill. His heart had long been weak; now, cancer joined it. Lydia nursed him patiently, but he grew bitter, irritable in his despair.
Surgeries, chemotherapy—she endured it all. Emma visited occasionally, blaming Lydia. “If he hadn’t married you, he’d be well. You’ve worn him out.” She came not to help, but to scrutinize.
“Leave Liddy be,” Edward would chide. “She does more than her share. You might visit more often.”
Emma would scoff. “I’ve my own life. He chose you—you care for him.”
One day, Edward pressed tickets into Lydia’s hands. “Go to Cornwall. Rest. You’re exhausted. Emma will tend to me.”
“I can’t. What will people say?”
“Who cares? I’m sending you—you’re not abandoning me.”
“But if you worsen—”
“Emma’s here. Doctors, ambulances. Go.”
She resisted, then relented. She was weary, and her guilt weighed on him.
She called daily, straining to hear his tone. He sounded cheerful, insisted all was well. She pretended to believe him.
In Cornwall, she wandered, breathed the sea air, savoured fresh seafood. Once, in a café, a handsome local sat beside her, offered to show her the coast. His intentions grew clear; she fled through the back door, lost on narrow lanes until a cab rescued her.
“You’re English?” the driver asked.
Relieved, she chatted freely. He, too, was glad for familiar company. Divorced, he lamented—women here weren’t like home. He drove her to her hotel, promised to show her the cliffs the next day.
They spent the day together. Against her will, Lydia realized she’d fallen in love. That night, she stayed in Thomas’s cramped flat—his Cornish namesake.
The days flew. At the airport, he begged her to stay. She couldn’t—it would kill Edward. He pressed his address into her hand.
On the plane, she tore it up. No temptations.
Edward and a nurse waited at home. Emma had hired help after a single day.
Still, no children came. So when Lydia felt sick, she assumed she’d eaten poorly. Edward insisted she see a doctor.
She returned glowing. “I’m fine,” she said. But each day, she bloomed. Edward knew before she spoke.
“I don’t blame you. I’m glad. Wish I could raise him with you.”
“How do you know it’s a boy?”
“Emma drained her mother. You’re radiant.”
“Forgive me. But you sent me—”
“Exactly. I don’t blame you. Name him after me. He’ll be mine.”
She clung to him, weeping. In that moment, she almost believed she loved him. How could she not?
He weakened daily. Yet Lydia felt reborn, bustling despite her pregnancy. If guilt flickered, it was faint, smothered by joy.
She cut back on clients but couldn’t stop entirely. One day, unease gripped her—she nearly cancelled.
“Go, Liddy. I feel well,” Edward said.
She believed him. Returning, she saw the ambulance and knew. Her heart lurched; her legs turned to lead.
The nurse babbled excuses. Lydia heard nothing. Edward lay still, distant. She collapsed beside him, sobbing. They pulled her away, gave her sedatives.
After they took him, she found a letter under his pillow. “Liddy…” She couldn’t read past the tears.
He forgave her, repeated the child was his, willed her the flat and savings. Emma got the cottage and half…
At the funeral, Emma shrieked accusations: Lydia had killed him, her betrayal had broken his heart. She’d take everything.
Three months later, Lydia bore a son. To her relief, he resembled neither her nor Thomas. As if nature, repentant, had lavished him with beauty.
“Must’ve been the Cornish air,” she’d say.
Perhaps it was the air, or fleeting love, or Lydia’s unbitter soul. With age, her harsh features softened.
Her son was her joy. And joy, as they say, beautifies any woman.
