Lydia Mercer only found out at the very end of her life that she had spent all those years as nothing more than a stand-in.
She lay in a private hospital room, staring blankly ahead, while the words she had read in Theodore Cavendish’s diary the day before kept circling in her mind.
"It was never going to happen between me and you again. But she looks a little like you. For a moment, I lost my head."
She had borne his children, waited on his parents, worn herself out for that whole family her entire life, and in the end, all she had ever been was a substitute.
A substitute.
All this time, she had honestly believed he loved her deeply enough to marry a woman with a stammer. She had been grateful, so grateful she had nearly broken herself trying to be good to him.
And this was how it turned out.
What a joke.
At that thought, Lydia suddenly let out a laugh. It sounded dry and sharp in the quiet room. Tears slowly gathered in the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Theodore Cavendish... if your heart truly belonged to someone else, then why didn’t you go love her properly? Why did you have to drag me into it?
Just because she happened to resemble the woman in his heart a little, did that mean she deserved to suffer all this?
This time, she had been so angry she ended up in the hospital, and even then Theodore Cavendish had not once come to see her.
Outside the door, the nurses’ voices drifted in, one line after another.
"It’s the lady in this room, Professor Cavendish’s wife. Be a bit careful with her. She can’t speak, but she’s delicate as can be."
"Professor Cavendish is so famous in academic circles. Who would’ve thought his wife was mute? And just some housewife who barely knows how to read."
"What? Then how did Professor Cavendish ever fall for her back then?"
"Shh. Keep your voice down."
The gossip outside gradually faded, then went quiet.
Lydia covered her face without making a sound. After a long while, she finally reached out and pressed the call bell by the bed.
A young nurse hurried in. "Ma’am, do you need something?"
As soon as she said it, she glanced out of habit at the paper and pen by Lydia’s hand, waiting for her to write.
All the nurses here knew Professor Cavendish’s wife could not speak. Usually, if they wanted to communicate with her, they had to do it through writing. It was troublesome, sure, but she was staying in a private room, so no matter what they thought, they still had to serve her patiently.
Lydia Mercer did not reach for the pen. Instead, she slowly parted her lips and, with clear effort, forced out a few words. "Want... some water."
"Huh?" The young nurse froze on the spot, so startled her eyes nearly popped out. Her mouth hung open.
How could someone who never spoke suddenly start talking?
Lydia glanced at her and said, "Go pour it."
Only then did the nurse come back to herself. She hurried out in a panic, legs weak, almost tripping at the doorway.
The moment she got outside, she stammered to the head nurse, "Professor Cavendish's wife... she, she can talk!"
Inside the ward, Lydia drew in a long, deep breath.
She had not meant to frighten anyone on purpose. It was just that she had kept up the act for so many years, and she truly did not want to go on with it anymore.
It was not that she could not speak at all. She only had a stammer.
But every time Theodore Cavendish heard her speak in broken, halting bits, he would knit his brows, his whole face full of impatience.
Later, as his standing rose higher and higher, she began to feel that her flaw would only bring him gossip and ridicule. So when they went out, she simply kept her mouth shut.
After enough years passed, everyone came to think of her as mute.
She had told herself that was fine. A mute woman might win a little pity. A stammering one only got laughed at.
And so, in front of outsiders, she had not spoken a single word for decades.
Yet in that diary, he had written: Her voice sounds nothing like yours. Better if she stays silent. I do not want to hear her speak.
The ward door opened.
The one who came in was not the young nurse, but Theodore Cavendish, dressed in a neat Zhongshan suit.
He had aged well. Though he was nearly sixty, he still carried himself with quiet distinction.
Gold-rimmed glasses rested on his nose. In his hand was a cup of warm water. His tone was flat, almost casual. "People outside are all saying you spoke. You were fine all this time, so why start talking now?"
Lydia had always been mild and soft by nature, but when she spoke now, there was a chill in it. "Professor Cavendish... am I... mute?"
She finished the sentence with difficulty, each word catching on her tongue. The line sounded weak enough, yet her eyes stayed fixed on him without blinking.