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The doctor had told them to keep any physical contact to a minimum, influenza was contagious, but when did Rebecca ever care about her own well being? She who went sailing in stormy weather, who drove at the highest speeds possible down the backroads, rode her father’s wildest mare after being explicitly told she’d never be tamed. If she could handle all that, she could very well survive staying at her sick daughter’s bedside.
Lydia’s head was in her lap, the girl having been in and out of consciousness for the last while. Exactly a week ago, she had come into the morning room to disturb her as she did every day; grabbing hold of her leg, hugging it tight, and saying how much she missed her; but Rebecca had noticed she moved much slower, and her face was practically transparent. She had gotten sick all over the carpet, and then she collapsed. Their family physician had been summoned, and had given her strict orders to stay in bed.
Her illness had worsened in the last few days, and Rebecca knew she was being faced with the threat of losing her. Her only child. She could not have another, not that she wanted another, but it just wasn’t fair. Lydia had just turned three last month, and the doctor had said that they needed to prepare for the worst.
Max had been immediately summoned home from his business trip to London, and he had offered to stay with her, but Rebecca couldn’t bring herself to leave Lydia. With her husband away and Nanny Simmons having been given leave to visit her younger sister in preparation for the birth of the latter’s first child, it had fallen to Rebecca to ensure her daughter was cared for in the last few days.
Thus far in Lydia’s life, she had been content to love her from a distance. To do otherwise would corrupt her beyond measure. She wanted better for her only child. Her child would be better than she ever was, and if it meant she had to take drastic measures to ensure that, then so be it.
But now she was ill, and it had given Rebecca plenty of time to think. As of now, she could not content herself with simply watching and enforcing. The poor thing needed at least a little affection while she was in this state. It was something she hadn’t been sure that she could give, but Lydia did not seem to mind, content with the smallest gestures.
She truly was a simple creature. Children that young often were. Rebecca was sure that she herself was an exception, though she wouldn’t call that a good thing.
Lydia’s eyes opened slightly. They looked heavier than normal, and they had lost much of their light. Even so, Rebecca was glad that she hadn’t fallen asleep again.
“Weebecca?” The girl’s speech was a little slurred.
Weebecca. That nickname came about a year ago give or take. Lydia had just learned her parents’ names, and she had had trouble saying Rebecca’s at first. The R came out more like a W. On one particular occasion, they were Beatrice and Giles, and Max had told his sister and brother in law about Lydia’s mispronunciation, as he had found it adorable. Giles had asked Lydia to say Rebecca, and when she replied with Webecca, he had said it sounded like Lydia was calling Rebecca wee.
Weebecca, Lydia had repeated, and the rest was history, even after she had learned to pronounce it correctly. Of course, everyone else thought it was the most precious thing. Rebecca herself had not agreed, at least not at first, but over time it began to warm her heart, just as it did right now.
“Yes?” she hummed.
Lydia turned her body so that she was lying on her back. She attempted to sit up, but gave up after a few attempts, resuming her position on her back. “Am I going to die soon?” she asked meekly.
The question was terribly morbid for a child of her age. It made Rebecca shudder that those words could come out of her daughter’s lips.
She brushed some of Lydia’s hair behind her ear. Even at three years old, her hair was already very long. Every time she and Max had tried to tell her that she needed a haircut, Lydia would cross her arms and say no. Nobody would ruin her hair. Rebecca thought that stubbornness was just like Max, but she couldn’t deny that she felt the same about her own hair.
“Of course not, Lydia,” she shook her head, the fact that her mind had wandered to the subject of hair having made her feel somewhat less mortified. “What makes you think that you’ll die?”
Lydia slowly blinked her heavy round eyes. “The doctor said I’m not getting better,” she frowned, shifting her weight a little.
Rebecca frowned as well, lifting her daughter into a sitting position, being sure to hold her up securely. “You will get better, darling,” she told her firmly. “You’ll see.”
She did not know if that was true, but how could she tell Lydia that? A grown woman would be afraid knowing she was at death’s door. A little girl like her would fare even worse. No, she could not tell her what could happen. And who knows, perhaps Lydia would indeed get better. In another week or so, it would be like she had never been ill in the first place. Rebecca smiled at the possibility.
“So if I go to sleep, I’ll wake up tomorrow?” Lydia yawned, she was struggling to keep her eyes open. Still, it was clear that she was scared.
Rebecca nodded, cupping her daughter’s face in her hand. “You will,” she said as gently as she possibly could. “You will wake up, Lydia, and you’ll feel better than you ever have before.”
Lydia giggled weakly. “And you can teach me the piano?” Her voice perked up just so.
She really did love that grand piano downstairs. Rebecca had begun to teach her a few chords, though her skills on the instrument were sorely lacking. Soon enough, she would have to hire a music master to teach her properly. No child of hers would go through life without cultivating her talents to the highest degree.
“Of course I will,” Rebecca said, hoping it would mollify her. When Lydia yawned again, she chuckled a little, laying her down so her head was on her pillow. “But right now, you should sleep.”
Lydia obediently closed her eyes as Rebecca tucked her under the blankets. “I love you, Weebecca,” the girl whispered.
Rebecca did not say it back. She couldn’t bring herself to. Instead, she kissed Lydia on the forehead and stroked her hair one more time. “Good night, darling,” she said.
That night, she prayed fervently that her little girl would live to see another day.
On the morning of December 30th, 1925, Rebecca woke up feeling lighter than air. She felt that way every year on Lydia’s birthday. Ever since her near fatal bout of illness nearly over a decade ago, she vowed never to let her daughter slip away. It had taken some time, but she had learned to love her openly. Nowadays, one couldn’t tell that there was a time Rebecca did not feel close to her.
Sometimes, she worried they were too close. Lydia wasn’t supposed to know about her marital state, how she and Max constantly tiptoed around each other until one of them broke down. Lydia especially was not supposed to know about the boathouse, but she had found out anyway. The strangest part was, her daughter didn’t seem to care.
“It’s not my business,” she had said at just 12 years old. “Besides, father doesn’t mind.”
Rebecca knew that the latter part was not true. Max did mind, he was just more willing to look the other way lately, less willing to fight her on it. Jack and Danny were the only ones left anyway. The two of them had known her all her life, long before she had even met Max, so she was relieved that he had learned to accept those affairs even if he didn’t like them.
Lydia was of the same mind. The only thing she ever raised an eyebrow at was the fact that she and Jack were first cousins, something Rebecca couldn’t exactly blame her for.
Even so, she was glad that the two of them could have those difficult conversations. It made talking about things like puberty or crushes or fights with friends that much easier. It meant the world to her that Lydia felt comfortable confiding in her. It meant she was doing something right.
As soon as she decided that she was presentable, Rebecca went to Lydia’s room. The door was already open, and Lydia was sitting at her vanity applying her favorite rose colored lipstick. She preferred lighter shades, something about how darker ones like the deep red that Rebecca wore would make her lips stand out too much against her pale skin. Rebecca didn’t quite understand that. Her skin was just as pale as Lydia’s and everyone loved her lipstick. They loved everything about her, so she saw no reason why they shouldn’t feel the same about Lydia, red lipstick or rose.
Lydia must have heard her coming in, for she turned around and smiled. “Good morning, mother,” she said brightly.
She had long since outgrown calling her Weebecca. Rebecca admittedly missed it. She missed when her daughter was still little enough to curl up in her lap or hug her leg, but she was terribly proud that she was growing up into such a lovely young lady.
Rebecca placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder so she could bend down to kiss her on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Lydialein,” she said.
All of Lydia’s life, she had struggled to come up with a nickname for her. It was odd to her, as nicknames always came easily. Luckily, Max had plenty for both of them. That man was obsessed with the German language, he freely admitted that he always had been since his childhood, and most of his nicknames for Lydia had come from that. Schätzchen and Spätzchen, though sweet enough, sounded far too similar for Rebecca’s tastes. There was also Lydchen, which Rebecca thought sounded too similar to liedchen. Little song was a terrible nickname in her opinion. To his credit though, Max had come up with Lydialein, which had a ring to it that Rebecca loved, so she had stolen it for her own ends. It was another thing that Max chose to look the other way about.
“Thank you,” Lydia stood up. She was wearing a yellow dress with a little flounce in the skirt, one with long sleeves due to the typical winter weather. Rebecca had always thought yellow suited her, especially because it accented her hair, which she still insisted on keeping long despite most girls her age, most grown women as well, cutting it just above their shoulders. It reached just down to her waist, close to the length Rebecca’s own hair was 20 years ago.
“How do I look?” Lydia asked, her brown eyes giving away the fact that she was hoping Rebecca would approve.
And oh, she certainly did. “You look wonderful, darling,” she answered with a fond sigh. “You’re 16 today. How do you feel?”
Lydia laughed. “I don’t feel too different from yesterday,” she told her, “but I am excited.”
“As you should be,” Rebecca tutted lightheartedly. “Tomorrow, you’ll attend your first ball.”
Lydia smirked at this statement. Manderley’s New Year’s Eve ball was no simple affair. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as grand as the costume ball hosted in the autumn, but Rebecca had made a point of making the estate the center of Cornwall’s social scene in the decades she had been its mistress, and that meant hosting plenty of gatherings. Having been raised to join those very things, she knew her daughter would not only fit in, but she would shine. She would start out small, attending events hosted either at Manderley or at the Lacys’ home, which would eventually lead to a season in London once she turned 18. Rebecca had a feeling that every young man in England would fall at her feet for a chance to court her when that day came.
Give it five, six, seven years and perhaps she would be in this very same room getting Lydia ready for her wedding day. Perhaps she would never marry at all. It wasn’t as frowned upon for a lady of fortune to be a spinster. However, she was in no hurry for that.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Lydia said.
“And your dress is finally ready,” Rebecca continued. “I was worried that the adjustments wouldn’t be finished in time, but we’ll stop at the dress shop to pick it up when we go to St. Ives after breakfast.”
It had become a yearly tradition for them to spend the morning in St. Ives on her birthday, just the two of them, while Max was at the office with Frank. As soon as they returned home, Max would be finished with his work and promptly steal her away for his own time with her until dinner was ready and the three of them came together.
“I can’t wait to wear it for real,” Lydia was practically bouncing on her tiptoes. “Silver is the perfect color to ring in the new year.”
Rebecca squeezed her daughter’s hand. “It most certainly is,” she agreed. “You’ll be glowing, I just know it.”
“Well, let’s go and find out for ourselves,” Lydia grinned as she made her way out of the room with a spring in her step.
Rebecca caught up a moment later and steered her towards the grand staircase. “Breakfast first.”
Rebecca carried the German chocolate cake up to the dining room with both hands. It was the one time every year she went into the kitchen and actually made something herself. When Lydia was younger, Max would join her, and they would put their heads together to make something edible, unlike the sad burnt gingerbread men they made for Christmas the year before Lydia was born. About ten years ago, he stopped with the excuse that he was a useless cook, but she insisted on doing it every year.
By now, she had perfected the recipe according to Mrs. Rutherford, and that was high praise. Mrs. Rutherford, though a sweet old lady, was very particular when it came to cookery.
Max was already seated when she arrived. They greeted each other cordially, but stiffly. For the last 12 years, they hardly knew what to say to each other. It was far better than the heated arguments they had gotten into early in their marriage though, so she wasn’t complaining.
“How was St. Ives?” he asked her as she set the cake down in the center of the table.
Rebecca took her seat and began chatting away. “Oh, it was wonderful,” she grinned. “Lydia and I went to the serpentine rocks.”
She narrowed her eyes when Max gave her a puzzled look. Yes, she went to Kynance Cove in the dead of winter, what about it?
“Then we got ice cream. She ordered the strawberry flavor as usual. You know how she is,” Rebecca continued. Max had said her name, but she pretended not to hear him. “Then we went shopping. The tailor finally finished the alterations on her dress for tomorrow. It looks stunning. She can’t wait for everyone to see it. I understand why you wanted it to be a surprise. You will simply lose your breath.”
“Rebecca,” Max said her name again, this time more sternly.
“Max, must you constantly interrupt me?” Rebecca scoffed. What on earth was his problem? “But anyways, she should be coming down any minute now. She always takes a while to change when she wants to look nice.”
She looked to the doorway, hoping to see her daughter come through. Lydia was nowhere to be seen, but no matter. If she didn’t come down in the next few minutes, Rebecca would go and check on her.
“Rebecca,” Max said for the third time. His eyes dropped, and his tone had softened. He was not smiling as she was. He looked…
“Rebecca, Lydia’s not coming,” Max told her.
Rebecca just laughed. “What are you talking about, Max? Of course she’s coming. Just give her another minute or two.”
Max came over to her and knelt down at her side. “Rebecca, Lydia died 13 years ago. Don’t you remember?” He didn’t speak to her like she was crazy. He spoke with pity, like she would break if he so much as touched her the wrong way. And all the while he was trying not to cry. Rebecca hated it.
“You mean…” her mouth hung open.
“When she caught influenza,” Max’s voice broke. He grabbed onto her hands, holding them tightly.
He was right. She knew he was right. That very night she had asked if she would die, she had succumbed to her illness. She had fallen asleep only to never wake up. Rebecca had stayed by her side that entire night, having fallen asleep in a chair just a few feet away from her bed.
She could still vividly remember the sound of her own scream when she tried to wake Lydia the next morning only to find her stiff and cold. Max had come running only to break down in tears himself at the sight of her. He hadn’t been able to stop pacing until he realized someone needed to call the coroner, and after that he had paced some more.
For the first year after her death, she was faithful to him for the first time in their entire relationship. It wasn’t because she had developed a guilty conscience, but because she was too caught up in grief to care about seeking out her lovers for comfort. She didn’t care to seek out comfort from anyone. Maxim tried his best, as did Danny, even Jack in his own annoying way, but no one could get through to her.
But then Lydia turned up alive and well one day as if she’d never left. They all told her it wasn’t real, but she never listened. Lydia aged as if she was still alive, so why would she be dead? She didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want to believe her only daughter had been taken from her at just three years old. She didn’t want to believe that she was gone before she could truly be a good mother to her.
She hadn’t been a mother to her. It was all an illusion. Her mind had played this same trick on her for 13 years and she went along with it knowing deep down that it wasn’t real. She wanted it to be real. Lydia was such a sweet girl, so talented and beautiful, perfect in every way. She hadn’t appreciated her nearly enough while she was alive, so the idea of her getting another chance to do so had been more appealing than words could describe.
Her little Lydialein. She deserved to grow up, to live a full life.
“Max,” Rebecca whispered her husband’s name, “She doesn’t feel dead.”
“I know. I understand,”
Rebecca let go of him, standing abruptly. “You understand?” she laughed darkly. “I don’t think you do, Max. I really don’t think you do.”
Max shook his head, approaching her carefully. “Rebecca, I know you miss her. I do too, more than anything, but you can’t go on like this. You need to let her go.” Again, he talked to her like she was to be pitied.
It made Rebecca see red. He couldn’t do this to her. He wasn’t going to just sit there and tell her to let her own child go, 13 years or not. “How dare you! Don’t you ever fucking say that to me again, Max! Do you hear?” she shouted, raising her arm to slap him.
Max grabbed her by the wrist before her hand could make contact with his face. His reflexes were so quick that she hadn’t realized it had happened. It had happened before. Sometimes she had been successful in her attempts to hit him when he said something particularly cutting about Lydia’s death.
He rarely ever meant any harm by it. She knew that, and it only made her more angry. Why was it that he was the stable one? He was usually the first one to get emotional of the two of them. It should have been her. Why wasn’t he the one who saw their daughter every day only to be reminded of that horrible day? Maybe if he did, he would really understand.
“I’m sure this is at least partially my own fault. I thought celebrating her birthday, letting you make these cakes every year would help you,” Max said, letting go of her arm. “But it’s making things worse.”
Rebecca’s shoulders slumped forward. She looked down, as if making eye contact with him would kill her. “It is, Max,” she muttered. “It is…”
Max sighed, taking her hands again, no doubt so she wouldn’t try to hit him again. “There has to be something that can be done to fix this,” he said.
“I doubt anything short of a lobotomy could fix this,” Rebecca was not joking in the slightest.
Max’s expression hardened. “Don’t even suggest such a thing. Lobotomies go wrong all the time. It would leave you worse off than before.”
“Of course you would say that,” Rebecca mumbled under her breath. “You know, most husbands in your position would cart their wives off to an asylum if they even hinted at the things I do.”
Max frowned, holding her face gently in one hand. “You know me better than that, Rebecca. I’m not that kind of man. There has to be another way.”
“Just like there was another way when Lydia took ill,” Rebecca retorted sarcastically. “Did you know I promised her that she would live?”
Max stuttered a reply that she didn’t quite catch.
“The night she died, she asked if she would wake up the next morning. I told her that she would. I told her she would feel better, and I lied. I lied to her, Max,” Rebecca continued shakily. That was it, the guilt that she had carried with her for so long.
She lied. She promised something that she knew might not be possible. If she hadn’t, would Lydia still be here today? Children had survived much worse before. She could have lived. She could have. But she didn’t.
All of a sudden, Max’s arms were wrapped around her. He was holding her close, something rare between them. “You may have lied,” he said, “but you gave her comfort in her final moments. She knew she was loved when she passed. That was the best you could have done, and you did that, Rebecca.”
Rebecca murmured a reluctant agreement. Yet again, he was right. Of fucking course he was. “She was far too young to die…”
Max only held her tighter. “I know she was,” he whispered. “But she wouldn’t want you to feel stuck like this forever.”
“She would have wanted me to love her. You know how much she admired me. She would have attached herself to me if I had let her,” she let go of Max and took a single step back.
Max chuckled, no longer looking piteously. “I believe you. You forget she was just as attached to me.”
For the first time since Max brought her back to earth, Rebecca smiled. “She had so much love to give,” she sighed.
“Indeed she did,” Max agreed. “And you know, I think your visions of her are close to how she would have been now. She loved playing the old piano. Perhaps she would’ve become a world famous composer.”
Rebecca’s smile widened. “She is in my mind.” Realizing what she said, she corrected herself. “I mean, I think she would have been as well.”
Max didn’t say anything. Thank god, Rebecca thought. It gave her own thoughts a chance to simmer inside her.
“She used to call me Weebecca,” she reminded him wistfully.
“Weebecca,” Max snickered. “She inherited the ability to give nicknames from you.”
“You had four nicknames for her alone,” Rebecca told him dryly. “For once, I’ll give you the credit.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” Max said. He led her back to her seat, then went back to his own. He was just about to sit down when his eyes landed on the cake. He picked it up, and handed it to Robert, who had been standing in his usual place.
“We won’t be needing this. Bring it down to the servant’s hall and share it amongst yourselves.” Only once Robert was gone did he sit.
Rebecca watched the young footman go, and there in the doorway a moment later stood Lydia, practically glowing.