“George Daniel, would you listen to your mama and come back here this instant?” Lydia never used his full name unless provoked. The name of her husband did not linger sweetly on her lips as it once had. Her son was known by all as Daniel, but in moments like these the old name of George burst from her long forgotten vocabulary, bringing with it the tarnished memories and pains of ages past.

“Mama, please don’t vex yourself. Daniel will come soon.” Her second child, Julianne placed her head upon her mother’s shaking shoulders.

Lydia flung the door shut and strode into the room they called their parlour. For a moment she gazed at her reflection in the dusty mirror. The jollity and carelessness of Lydia Bennet had grown into the silent and worrisome wrinkles of Lydia Wickham. Or now SinClair as she called herself in London. She flung herself into the chair and mopped her forehead.

“Where is Fanny?” she cried.

Julianne lounged on the half broken couch. “She’s probably playing with Emma in a ditch somewhere.”

Lydia rose and poured a cup of tea. Her hand shook slightly as she handed a cup to Julianne. It was her day off from Raven House. No joy ever swept over her on such days. While she may not have the duties of a scullery maid to attend to, such chores she faced in her own room. The presence of her dearest children brought no consolation. A widow she was, abandoned and alone, with three mouths to feed in a city she now hated and amongst strangers.

“Why don’t you go and read, dear.” She stroked her daughter’s cheek. The pale face stared back at her, for a moment Lydia froze. The piercing eyes were almost like George’s. She blinked the thought away.

“Yes, mama,” said Julianne, quickly escaping out the room.

Lydia opened a cabinet door and lifted her cash box from beneath her sewing basket. She silently counted the notes. Her gaze travelled to the neatly bound envelopes dated from Pemberley estate. There had been no letter for over a month. Dared she acknowledge what she feared. No, while they had great dislike for her husband, they would not leave her penniless. She sighed. Without another check from Pemberley, she might barely survive the week.

The thought came upon Lydia not in a moment of drama, but in the quiet and most ordinary manner imaginable.

She was mending Daniel’s only decent shirt by the window, where the light was strongest, when the sleeve gave way beneath her needle for the third time. The linen was so worn that it would scarcely bear another patch. She held it up, frowning, and saw plainly what she had long endeavoured not to see: the cloth was finished. No skill of hers could make it serviceable for much longer.

At the small table, Julianne was copying out a hymn from memory, her brow bent with earnest care; Fanny and little Emma sat on the floor, contriving a game with three wooden pegs and a broken teacup. Their voices were hushed, as though instinct had taught them that loud merriment did not suit their present way of life.

Lydia laid the shirt upon her lap and counted silently in her head: rent, bread, coals, soap, and the few pennies for milk that Emma must have. The sum would not answer. It had not answered last week; it would not answer the next.

She had already done what she could. Raven House took all her strength for six days of the week. She rose before dawn, returned after dark, and yet the wages scarcely sufficed for their lodgings and the plainest fare. There were no ribbons now, no sweetmeats, no visits of pleasure—nothing but work, and still the want remained.

Her gaze travelled slowly from one child to another.

Julianne, nearly twelve, so tall and quiet, with hands already roughened from helping with the washing. Daniel, not yet ten, yet eager to be thought a man, forever running errands for the neighbours in hopes of earning a farthing. Fanny, restless and bold, though still very young; and Emma, who ought to know nothing but play.

Lydia’s throat tightened. She bent again over the shirt, though she could no longer see her stitches clearly.

“I cannot keep them all in idleness,” she thought. “Not when I am barely able to keep them at all.”

The notion shocked her, though it ought not to have done so. She had seen children younger than her own at work in the streets and shops of London—little girls carrying bundles of linen, boys sweeping crossings, apprentices standing long hours behind counters. At first she had pitied them; now she found herself envying their usefulness.

Julianne looked up. “Mama, you have pricked your finger again.”

Lydia started. A small drop of blood had fallen upon the cuff. She pressed it quickly with her handkerchief.

“It is nothing, my dear.”

Julianne hesitated. “Mama… Mrs. Turner said yesterday that the milliner on the next street seeks a girl to run messages. She asked if I might be allowed to try.”

The words were spoken with care, as though she feared to wound. Lydia felt the colour rush to her face.

“You are but a child still,” she said at once, almost sharply. “It is not a situation for you.”

Julianne lowered her eyes, but did not reply.

Silence returned to the room, heavy and accusing. Lydia knew very well that the offer had not been mentioned idly. The girl had observed their circumstances with more understanding than Lydia wished to allow. She was no longer the heedless creature Lydia herself had once been at that age; necessity had made her thoughtful.

After a long while, Lydia set the shirt aside.

“Julianne,” she said, her voice unsteady, “come here to me.”

The girl rose and obeyed. Lydia took her hands—so thin, so capable—and turned them over gently.

“You would not dislike it very much? To be employed, I mean.”

Julianne met her gaze with quiet seriousness. “If it would ease you, mama, I should like it very well.”

The simple answer struck Lydia more forcibly than any complaint could have done. She drew the girl closer and kissed her forehead.

“You are a good child,” she whispered. “Too good, perhaps, for such hardships.”

Fanny, who had been listening with ill-concealed curiosity, sprang up. “May I work too, mama? I can carry things, and run as fast as any boy!”

“Hush, Fanny,” Lydia said, though a faint, sad smile touched her lips. “There is time enough for that.”

Daniel had come to the doorway without her noticing. He stood very straight, as if determined to appear older.

“I can find work, mama,” he said eagerly. “Mr. Collins at the stables said I might help with the horses of a morning. He would give me a penny a day.”

A penny a day. Lydia closed her eyes for a moment. How proud he sounded of such a trifling sum, and how grievous that he must be.

When she opened them again, the struggle was ended. Pride must give way to prudence; affection must not ruin them all.

“My dear children,” she began, forcing steadiness into her voice, “we must all be useful now. It is the only way we shall go on comfortably together. Julianne may speak again to the milliner, and Daniel—you may try the stables, but only if the work is safe and honest. I shall make further enquiries for Fanny when she is a little older.”

Emma looked up, bewildered. “Must we work, mama?”

Lydia gathered the youngest onto her lap and held her fast.

“Yes, my love,” she said softly. “But we shall still be together at night, and that is what matters.”