**10th November**
They never understood her in Little Wellingham, that quiet village nestled in the Yorkshire dales. Old Lydia was avoided—no, more than avoided, truly despised. She wanted nothing to do with folk, and folk wanted nothing to do with her. A towering woman, broad-shouldered and strong as a plough horse, she loomed over most men, forcing them to crane their necks just to meet her eyes. But none dared. She never replied to greetings, just muttered under her breath and kept walking, head held high—though for her, it was barely a lift.
Her cottage stood in the heart of the village, an old stone house her father had built. A tall, solid fence wrapped around it, so high that few ventured a glance inside. Lydia had a temper, they said. One summer evening, a few lads, drunk on cider, climbed the fence out of sheer curiosity. She spotted them through the window, stepped onto the porch with her father’s old hunting rifle, and fired once above their heads. Not a word spoken. After that, no one trespassed again.
Her farm was no small thing—hens, geese, rabbits, two goats. The village gossiped. *Why so much? The pension would’ve been enough. She’s just greedy.* She butchered the animals herself, carted them to market in the nearest town, sold everything by midday. The money went straight into her bodice before she retreated home. From the goats’ milk, she made cheese—aged, sharp, rumoured to fetch a fair price from city buyers. Her eggs were large, her rabbits plump, no tricks in her trade. She never haggled, yet her stock always sold.
When folks spoke of her, the elders remembered: Lydia had always been sullen. Her mother died when she was still crawling. Then it was just her and her father—just as hulking and silent. A few years later, he brought home a stepmother from the next county, but the woman lasted a month before fleeing with a suitcase to the train station. Whispers said Lydia drove her out. So it was father and daughter again—until he vanished. Gone to the city to trade, never returned. Dead? Run off? No one knew. Lydia was left alone. For good.
She never married. *Who’d put up with that?* the village tittered. Years passed, people came and went, but Lydia seemed frozen in time. Even her hair stayed untouched by grey—always hidden under a scarf, only her heavy jaw, hooked nose, and thick black brows visible, like stone carvings.
Then, one winter’s night, the Williams’ cottage caught fire. Without a word, Lydia appeared with a firehook, fighting the flames alongside them until the fire brigade arrived. She wrenched burning beams apart so deftly that most of the house was salvageable. The family thanked her. She only grunted and walked away.
When she died, the matron of St. Agnes’ Orphanage, Eleanor Whittaker, arrived with carers and a dozen children. The villagers, more curious than mournful, crowded into her yard. What they found was pristine order—coops, hutches, a goat shed, all neat as a picture. Inside the cottage? Stark emptiness. A table, a chair, an iron bed with a sagging frame, a lopsided dresser with one cracked plate, a spoon, a knife, a chipped mug. By the window, an old bench polished smooth by time. On the stove, folded clothes. That was all.
On the table lay an envelope, labelled in firm script: *Eleanor Whittaker, from Lydia Margaret Hargreaves.* Inside was a torn sheet of paper. Later, Eleanor told them: for twenty years, Lydia had sent the orphanage money—enough to make a real difference. The note read: *The cottage, farm, and all possessions go to St. Agnes’. Children bear no blame.*
The villagers stood silent, staring at the bare walls. Someone recalled a memory—young Lydia by the riverbank, staring at the water as if waiting. Another murmured that perhaps her father hadn’t vanished. Perhaps he’d abandoned her. And she, sealing her heart away, carried that weight all her life. Until, at the end, she gave it all to children who’d done no wrong.
