CHAPTER TEN.
moment of truth.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1809.

"HE WRITES ME PLENTY OF LETTERS," says Winifred, pouring her friend another cup of earl grey from the pot. She and Lettie are sitting in the drawing room at Highbourne on a chilly February afternoon. "Of course, if he is moving, he cannot write so frequently, but I have been quite amazed at how Joseph has kept up his correspondence."

"When did you last hear from him?" Lettie asks.

"Last week."

She stands up and walks to the mantelpiece, where his last letter lies; she had been reading it only this morning. Winifred smooths her thumb over the creases and his rushed handwriting. He had mentioned some harsh wintry conditions, but little else that he would want to worry her with. That is a concern of hers — Joseph has a habit of putting on a smile for show, so what if he is much worse off than he makes himself out to be?

     Distracting her from her worry for a moment, Lettie reaches out and squeezes Winifred's free hand. "Listen... I am in the area for a while, and I could use a place to rest my head."

     "For how long?" Winifred asks.

     "Oh, I do not know. A week or so. Whatever suits you."

     "It does not matter whether it suits me, you are the one who—" She pauses, noticing the determined glint in Lettie's eye. Suddenly it all makes sense. "Oh, I see what you are doing. You think I cannot be by myself."

     Lettie shakes her head, still playing along. "I simply wish to spend time with my most cherished friend. You do not have any other plans, do you?"

     Winifred lets out a weak laugh. When does she ever have plans these days? It takes everything to find herself something to keep busy with, now that Joseph is away fighting. She embroiders, she walks, she draws, she plays her violin, and much more. She has visited more family and friends than she would usually like, and yet she still returns home restlessly waiting for a letter to arrive. One evening, Winifred was so desperate to do something that she headed down to the kitchen, asking the cook if she could help him peel the potatoes for dinner. If this is what it is always to be like when he is away, then Winifred is in for a lot more anguished solitude than she first thought when they married.

     It could have been very different. Most military wives she heard of accompanied their husbands with the right permission, following them across the continent. But Joseph had insisted that she stay at home — in his eyes, the battlefield was no place for her, and he wished her to have some semblance of an idyllic married life. Winifred could not decide if she felt flattered or irritated by this.

     "You... you can have the guest room," she finally tells Lettie, patting her hand. It will be good to have the company.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

LIKE most mornings, Winifred wishes to start hers with a brisk walk.

     She awakens at dawn to have a wander about the grounds (on her own, which confuses one of the maids at first). With a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, the air is refreshingly crisp and cool before the summer sun can touch the ground. The skies and trees are alive with birdsong in cheerful choruses... oh, how she missed this while she was in London.

It gives her an opportunity to explore the grounds of Aubrey Hall on her own, without awareness of appearances. There is something rather freeing about being the only one out and about — there is this huge, sprawling house, and most are still asleep. The gardens are a countryside haven with emerald grass and rolling hills in the distance. Winifred bids good-morning to the staff who are already hard at work outdoors. Further back, there is the more forested area of the estate, where Kate and Anthony had disappeared to just yesterday during pall mall. You could be well and truly concealed from the rest of the world in here.

Winifred takes her sweet time, watching dappled sunlight begin to leak through the tree branches, hear the soft whisper of the breeze rustling their leaves. She comes across a rather muddy patch, so she goes around it, coming to a secluded spot where a wooden bench stands. Good, she thinks. I could do with a sit-down. Winifred thinks it looks like a rather scenic spot, situated next to a towering tree with a view back to the house. But the closer she walks to the bench, the more a tall, pillar-like structure made of stone in front of the tree reveals itself. Her heart drops... it might be what she thinks it is. Still, she thinks she should check. She circles around to stand before it and reads the inscription:

IN LOVING MEMORY
of
8th VISCOUNT
EDMUND BRIDGERTON
who died in May 1803
~
THIS MEMORIAL IS PLACED
HERE BY HIS LOVING FAMILY

What a beautiful spot for a memorial, she thinks. Peaceful and surrounded by nature; that is about the only comfort it brings her. Winifred knew the late viscount had died young, but seeing the year 1803 forces things into perspective. She thinks Anthony could have only been eighteen or nineteen when his father passed, suddenly forcing that burden onto him... and what about the rest of them? Benedict, Eloise, Colin, Daphne? She isn't even sure Hyacinth was born yet. Yet there is no mistake that Edmund's legacy and love still endures in the Bridgerton home.

Winifred stands quietly reflecting in front of the memorial, paying her respects. She glances down at the base of the memorial, where a faded bouquet of flowers lies. Lilacs. She cannot help but let her mind drift to Joseph. This memorial is eerily similar to the one that was put up for him. Admittedly, much to her own shame, she has not brought herself to visit it since the day of his funeral; it holds a strange disconnect for her. But now seeing Edmund's memorial, how peaceful and comforting it must be to have something to pay tribute to... Winifred suddenly wants to run home and find that last piece of Joseph.

Behind her, the soft padding of footsteps against the grass catches her attention. She feels her heart lurch as thought she has been caught doing something terrible. Whirling around, Winifred comes face-to-face with the new viscount, who seems just as surprised to see her as she is to see him.

"Lord Bridgerton—" she almost forgets herself, giving him a small bow. "I am so sorry, I was out for a morning stroll and I came by... I– I thought I was alone—"

"It's alright," Anthony nods curtly.

"I will leave and give you some peace."

"Please, Mrs. Erstwhile, that will not be necessary..."

Both of them stay frozen to their spots. Anthony seems to be drawn tight with restrained emotions; he stares past her shoulder at his father's memorial, as if it is some monster lurking in the woods. It is almost as though he has been working up the courage to visit it. Winifred slowly turns around to face it too, the pair of them now taking in the name of the late viscount etched into the stone. Should she say something? She cannot decide whether it would be appropriate or not. The last thing she wishes to do is intrude upon a rather personal moment for Anthony.

Luckily, before she has to think of something to say herself, the viscount does it for her.

"You said you were on your morning walk?" Anthony asks, searching for a distraction.

"Oh– uh– yes," Winifred nods. "I find the exercise a good way to start my day. And I should mention that Aubrey Hall has the most spectacular scenery for such an excursion."

"Yes, it does. Although it helps when the weather can co-operate, as it does today."

"Indeed..."

There is the silence again. Anthony links his hands behind his back, turning around to face her instead. "Do you suppose this attachment between your sister and Colin will proceed any further?" he asks suddenly. The question catches her off-guard, suddenly giving the air of an interrogation.

"Well," Winifred stammers, "I– I do not know, my lord. Only time will tell. They are certainly an amiable pair, and perhaps with enough time, they could nurture that into a stronger foundation, such as—"

     "Love?"

     "Yes, with a little bit of luck, love."

"I do not think that love is relevant in such an equation. It should not be. It only clouds one's mind with..." Anthony stops in the middle of his sentence, as if realising what he is saying, before sighing heavily; there seem to be internal challenges to this line of thinking. He seems to have eased off his sharper temperament as he speaks again. "I apologise for my bluntness, Mrs. Erstwhile."

She shakes her head. Clearly he is tense, his father's grave only a stone's throw away. "There is no need. I think I may return and have my breakfast, now... but thank you once again, Lord Bridgerton, for your hospitality this week. I trust that the Sharmas are just as appreciative as we are—"

"Did she say that? I mean, they?"

The words escaped Anthony's mouth quicker than he intended; they practically leapt out from him, desperately and ravenously wanting to hear more. Winifred furrows her brows at the viscount's strange behaviour. "No, my lord, it was simply an assumption on my part... good-day."

It still lingers in Winifred's mind as she walks away, back across the lawn to Aubrey Hall. She does not feel she can be the best judge of Anthony Bridgerton, since he behaves so strangely around her anyway, but his way of going about his courtship with Edwina perplexes her. His heart does not seem very much in it, unlike his meticulous mind... Kate, however, brings out a more undone version of him, just like in pall mall yesterday. They did return separately from retrieving their balls in the forest, but each covered in mud.

Rather suspicious, if you asked Winifred.

By the time she approaches the terrace, she spots such a familiar face sat alone at a table. Kate is taking great care in filling herself a pot of tea to enjoy in the morning air. Winifred feels a relief at seeing the woman who she is growing to know even better — she spots her, too, and they smile at each other in unison.

"Ah, good-morning, Miss Sharma!"

     "Good-morning. Out for a walk, I see?"

     "Yes, I have just completed it," Winifred ascends up the steps to meet her, delightfully rosy-cheeked from exertion. "The grounds are spectacular..."

     "Would you care for some tea?" asks Kate.

     "If you are making it, that would be lovely, thank you..." She lowers herself into the chair opposite Kate. Now being up close to the teapot and cups, Winifred notices the other unfamiliar components to the tea set, including what she thinks are small pouches of spices. She eyes them with interest as Miss Sharma gets to work crafting her special tea.

     "It is not the tea which you English are so accustomed to," Kate prefaces the process, sounding less concerned and more distasteful towards the English way of tea-making.

     "Then I am happy to be enlightened by your tastes."

     In truth, Winifred has tried some different teas before, introduced through having Silas as a brother-in-law. Steeped in the traditions of Persephone's side of the family, she had been pleasantly surprised by the potent flavours of black tea. She has a feeling she will receive the same delights with this concoction — Kate takes the spices, apparently pods of cardamom, and crushes them into their teacups to infuse them with flavour. A quick splash of milk and it could easily be disguised as a standard English tea... a touch of rebellion, on Kate's part.

     Winifred takes a tentative sip, her eyes widening at the taste. "Oh my, that is delightful!"

     "You see? Far superior to what most of you drink, in my opinion..." Kate suddenly falters halfway through a sip. "I apologise, I did not mean to speak out of turn—"

     "Please, you have nothing to apologise for," she shakes her head after keenly gulping down another mouthful of tea. The flavours are exquisite and instantly give her a smooth rush of energy for her day. Kate seems quite proud of her creation, but mostly guards it from the rest of the ton — she has a clear pride for her heritage and truly lets it flourish in private moments.

     "I suppose it is something to remind me of home."

     "Do you miss it?"

     "Deeply, yes... but I am comforted knowing that I am here to help my sister find a match." Suddenly, Kate frowns, her teacup hovering uncertainly by her lips. "Although in recent weeks, I even find myself questioning if my presence in England is truly worthwhile for Edwina's sake."

     "Your sister is very grateful for your presence, but I can understand your conflict. I often find myself wondering how I ended up here," Winifred thinks aloud, reflecting on how out-of-place she feels at these balls, given the year she has had. It feels completely incongruous to what is happening in her heart... but then again, is she not here for the exact same reasons that Kate is? To help her sisters.

     "I must admit," says Kate, "I admire your conviction for coping with this... bizarre charade which is high society, all while facing what must be an incredibly difficult period in your life. Your strength shines through."

     "Oh, I don't know about that—"

     "Judging by your sisters' behaviour, you are more of a role model than you know."

     "I... thank you, Miss Sharma, that is very kind of you to say." Winifred is stunned by Kate's praise. They do not come from a place of obligatory sympathy, but rather a genuine want to express her admiration... she has learned by now that she does not mince her words. It is very stirring to hear such a thing. Kate's gaze relaxes over another sip of tea, and in that moment, they seem to know that they can truly trust and depend on one another during this season.

     The sound of footsteps behind them alert the pair, just as Eloise strides out to the terrace. Upon seeing them, they all murmur good-morning greetings to one another, before returning to what they are doing. The teenage Bridgerton slumps into one of the white wicker couches outside, her nose stuck in a book as usual. Kate sets down a teacup with a curious expression on her face.

     "Can I ask you something, Miss Eloise?" she asks tentatively. "About the pall mall game yesterday—"

     "Did I purposely make the third wicket two inches narrower than last year? Yes, I did," Eloise gives a curt, deadpan nod, which makes Kate and Winifred grin.

     "I fear I may have upset the viscount during our game," says Kate.

     The smile is suddenly wiped clean from Eloise's face. She shuts her book, a knowing sadness wearing down her usual energy. "Ah... you were near our father's grave?" she asks, and Kate nods; it must have been where their balls ended up when they were hit into the bushes. "Well, then his mood was not on your account. He rarely goes near if he can help it."

     Winifred thinks back on seeing Anthony at his father's grave just this morning. He looked practically allergic to the memorial, not wanting to get anywhere near it as he stood paralysed on the spot. No wonder he behaved in such a a way, if what Eloise said is true. She feels a sudden ache of empathy for him.

     "Actually, I saw the viscount there on my walk this morning," Winifred says.

     Eloise nods, somewhat surprised, but otherwise not thinking too deeply of it. However, it is Kate who reacts more instantly.

     "You did?" she asks quickly, her eyes suddenly alive and alert.

     "... Yes?" Winifred replies. Kate seems to realise her over-the-top reaction and clears her throat, washing it down with some tea.

     Even more suspicious...

     But now, it is Eloise's turn to ask a question, as she stands up with her book held to her chest. "Can I ask you something, Miss Sharma? Was it your choice you never married?" she queries, hovering on the spot. "My brothers tell me I have a habit of being rather direct. But everyone tells me it is fate worse than death to end up a spinster. Yet, you seem perfectly content with your situation."

     Kate sets down her tea, exchanging a knowing look with Winifred as she carefully chooses her words. "You must know, it is hardly ideal," she tells Eloise. "The world is not exactly welcoming to an unmarried woman."

     Winifred turns around in her chair to get a better view of Eloise; she is thinking of Lettie in all of her brilliance. "You know, a very good friend of mine has made it her wish to stay unmarried, and she remains one of the brightest, ambitious, most dynamic people I am acquainted with. Her life has not been easy, but she has still managed to flourish."

     "But, Mrs. Erstwhile... you married for love, didn't you?" asks Eloise hesitantly.

     A beat passes. She swallows thickly. "Yes, I did."

     "I suppose my fear is that... I shall have to lose my freedom, as limited as it may already be, if I were to marry."

     "That is reasonable," Winifred replies. She was not expecting to be imparting advice like this at such an early hour, but she tries her best to appear open to the girl. "I was very fortunate that my husband... he went out of his way to respect and embrace my thoughts, my feelings, my wants and needs. Of every good marriage, I believe that should be the strongest foundation. But you are unfortunately right, Miss Eloise, not every marriage can be so welcoming."

     She feels guilty for leaving her advice on a more dismal note, but that is the truth — Eloise's frustration is a very real thing. Without having met Joseph, Winifred wonders, would she have lived the rest of her life as a spinster? Married the first decent suitor who came her way? Sometimes she struggles to remember how she ever might have felt differently, because her life was so altered when she met him, the one. And even as a widow now, she is still lost on where she stands. It may have given her some practical freedoms, but at what cost? She is certainly not one of the affluent 'merry widows' sometimes seen in the ton.

     "There seems to be no place in society for us," Kate says quietly, "except at the edge of things."

     "That rather seems to be society's flaw, not a woman's," Eloise counters.

     Kate and Winifred both smile sadly at her, with a sense of pride at the girl's attitude. Indeed, it does.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THE families, mostly the women belonging to them, are all lounging in the drawing room one fine afternoon. Abigail is fondly watching Hyacinth and Gregory playing marbles on the rug together, while Anthony and Edwina share a perfectly composed conversation about their so-called mutual interests. Kate stares from far away, a watchful chaperone, and the two mothers talk warmly to one another. This seems to be the usual set-up for the families.

     But one member, Winifred notices, often gets overlooked. Francesca is always keeping to herself and playing the pianoforte in the background; she plays with such precision, deeply absorbed and yet completely at ease. Detaching herself from Lady Danbury's commentary on the viscount and Edwina, Winifred turns in her seat and watches the younger Bridgerton playing away. Once she finishes the song, she applauds her lightly.

     "Where did you learn to play like that?" Winifred asks her.

     Not accustomed to being centre of attention, Francesca blushes. "I have been receiving lessons in Bath," she replies, almost so quietly that Winifred cannot hear her.

     "Yes, I gather you are there quite often. Your teacher must be very good indeed... I must confess, you remind me of my sister."

     "Lady Osborne?" Francesca brightens at the compliment. "She is a maestro if I ever saw one."

     "Indeed," Winifred smiles at her.

     The teenager takes a deep breath, glancing back at her mother, before lowering her voice even further; Winifred has to lean forward to hear her better. "It is thought that being so proficient at the pianoforte will be attractive when it is my coming out," Francesca confesses. "I would assume my time will have arrived by the next season..."

     "Are you nervous?"

     Looking rather pale, Francesca nods. Winifred understands this completely. In fact, she sees so much of herself at that age in Francesca — very quiet, preferring to stay in the background and observe, although her intelligence and wit could not be understated. She would rather play the piano or read a book for her own satisfaction. So, she can imagine that for Francesca's coming out into society, having to perform and flaunt herself would be her worst nightmare indeed.

     "Well, I may not have had all the bells and whistles that you'll have as a debutante," says Winifred earnestly, "but I believe the same advice still stands: stay true to yourself. That way, you will remain at least a bit more sane."

     Francesca perks up at the advice, nodding thoughtfully before pursing her lips into a shy smile. Meanwhile, across the room, Anthony furrows his eyebrows after finishing his conversation with Edwina. "Has anyone seen Colin? Or Benedict, for that matter, they seem to have disappeared this afternoon."

"I saw them go into the nursery together... haven't a clue why," Daphne says, entering the room with baby Augie balanced on her hip.

"Benedict has been quieter than usual this weekend," Gregory shrugs, in the middle of launching a roll of ribbon at Hyacinth's head.

Winifred thinks back to the conversation she shared with Benedict last night, in the nursery that they speak of — she has a sneaking suspicion that his anxieties about the Royal Academy are only growing tenfold as the hours pass.

Daphne occupies the vacant seat next to her, bouncing her infant on her lap as he gargles with happiness. His mother is attentive to his every need, mopping the beads of dribble at the sides of his lips with a handkerchief, cooing as she does. Winifred watches Augie as though watching him from a window, taking in the happiness of both mother and son. It is not until Daphne notices her staring that she flashes her a kind smile.

"He is very vocal at the moment," Daphne giggles. "All incomprehensible gibberish, of course, but somehow we can completely understand each other... it is remarkable."

"Indeed, it is."

"Do you wish to hold him?"

Winifred feels her heart skip a beat. She hesitates at first, then nods. The handover of Augie feels like a huge responsibility as he is lifted by Daphne into her arms, cradled there. She might as well be holding a fragile china set for how delicately she tries to handle him. He is so small in her arms, yet so full of life, his chubby little legs squirming atop her lap. Unlike Abigail's method of lathering the cooing and loving thickly, Winifred simply holds him in silence, trying to grow accustomed to the feeling of a child in her arms. The longer she looks into his eyes, the more her heart aches.

"You are very good with him," Daphne says with gentle encouragement. "One would have almost thought you were already a mother."

She just shakes her head, wearing a bittersweet smile. "Thank you... but no, I never did have children."

And not for a lack of trying, either, Winifred thinks. Suddenly, she finds herself wondering what it would have been like if she had been widowed but with a son or daughter to survive her husband — a walking, talking, breathing piece of Joseph that she could always have. How would things be different now? Would it comfort her or haunt her?

Perhaps Daphne sensed the sadness in her voice, because when Winifred hands Augie back, her arms are already there to receive him. When he is back in his mother's arms gurgling away, Daphne gives her an empathetic look. She looks like she might say something else, her lips parted, but the words die on her tongue as Humboldt, the Bridgertons' butler, walks in with a sealed letter in his gloved hands.

"A letter for Mrs. Erstwhile," he announces.

Everyone in the room seems just as surprised as the other. Of course, Winifred is the most shocked. Did she hear that right?

"Are you quite sure, Humboldt?" Anthony asks, brows furrowed. "How did it reach Aubrey Hall?"

"I believe it was first delivered to Grosvenor Square, then forwarded here, my lord."

"Who is it from?" Kate asks, as Winifred takes the letter, still completely confused on how the letter reached her when she is not even a resident here. Shouldn't it have arrived at her own house? When she turns the letter over and recognises everything from the wax seal to the handwriting, she is even more perplexed.

"... I believe it is from my in-laws."

"The Erstwhiles?" Abigail stands up now. "What does it say? It must be rather important if it came all the way here."

Winifred tears off the wax seal, unfolding the letter and reading it to herself (something that is rather difficult to do when the whole room is staring at her). There is silence filled with anticipation as her eyes scan over it. When she is done, she folds it in her hands, feeling both concerned and confused by the message.

     "My father-in-law wishes to speak to me in person," she says slowly. "He says he is ailing, and there are some practical matters he wishes to be settled... apparently it is urgent."

     There are murmurs between the Bridgertons and Sharmas as they wonder what this means. Winifred is certainly left in the dark as well. Solomon Erstwhile had not elaborated on any details of the matter, only said that it was urgent and that, upon receiving this letter, she should visit them as soon as possible. It is an incredibly vague sentiment to ride on... but then again, what if it really is important? Conflicting options buzz around in her head, shattering the safety bubble of her established plan at Aubrey Hall.

     "Well, if that is the case, we understand," Violet nods sensitively. "Family takes precedence."

     "You will be leaving soon?" Abigail asks.

     "I... suppose so," says Winifred, still figuring it all out herself.

     "Do you need me to come with you?"

     "No, of course not..."

     But even as she says that, Winifred doubts herself. Abigail does need some sort of chaperone at Aubrey Hall — with their mother, Madeline or another relative not arriving at the Bridgerton home for another few days, who could possibly be a candidate? After expressing this doubt to the rest of the room, they try their best to offer advice.

     "Do your in-laws live very far away?" Violet asks.

     "No, only Canterbury," Winifred replies. "It is perhaps an hour or so by carriage."

     "Ah, so only a day trip, then?" Anthony suggests, and she nods.

     "In that case, I would be happy to step in as a chaperone," Daphne offers, handing her son over to the dowager viscountess to hold. "I know our acquaintance has only been short, but I am married, and therefore up for the role. Besides, I know Colin rather well, and can always offer you some advice if you wish. As long as Miss Abigail does not mind..."

     Abigail smiles warmly at her, which is all the confirmation they need that she trusts the duchess. With that, out of nowhere, there seems to be a loose arrangement in place — all of a sudden, Winifred will be reunited with her in-laws tomorrow. She can feel her complexion paling at the thought. It is not that she doesn't like the Erstwhiles. On the contrary, they are a tight-knit and loving family, so it is no wonder Joseph turned out the way he did when they met. But in light of his death, she has selfishly been putting off a visit to the in-laws...

     "Do you know what it could possibly be about?" asks Kate.

     "Perhaps, but it has been so long since we were together, it could be anything," Winifred admits.

     "When was the last time you saw one another?"

     Her mood clouding at the memory, she takes a deep breath.

     "... At my husband's funeral."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

"IF it is a clear mind you seek, brother, I may know how to help..."

     They are sitting in the old nursery together — Benedict, plagued with anxieties about the Royal Academy, and Colin being a self-proclaimed fount of brotherly wisdom after his return from Greece. Today his worries have been unbearable. He has visions of the proctors at the art school overlooking his application, laughing at why he would ever think himself worthy of their tutelage. Talentless. The word rebounds around his head to taunt him.

     So, desperate times call for desperate measures. He now eagerly awaits whatever Colin has up his sleeve... quite literally.

     Colin pulls out a small velvet pouch from his jacket and hands it over. The elder Bridgerton tugs the small string which opens the pouch, revealing a sort of powder collected at the bottom. It is unfamiliar to him and a rather unnatural shade of dusty indigo. Curiously, Benedict raises it to his nose and gives it a light sniff; almost immediately he is repelled by the smell, chucking the pouch back onto the table as he coughs.

     "Smells rather foul, does it not?" Benedict croaks, the stench still stuck to his throat. What on Earth is it?

     Colin gives him a knowing smile, taking back the pouch and scattering a minuscule bit of powder into each teacup. Then, giving it a stir, he slides one of the concoctions over to Benedict to drink. "It takes only the smallest of doses to feel the effects," he tells him.

     Still rather put-off by the smell, Benedict takes a tentative sip of his tea in unison with Colin. The aftertaste is rather unpleasant, albeit bizarre, but he feels no more alleviated after one sip. Unimpressed, he places his cup back on the saucer with a clatter.

     "Whatever is the point?" Benedict exclaims, pressing his fingers to his throbbing temples where all the anxieties reside. "I hardly think a tea will distract me from the momentous decision the proctors at the Royal Schools are making at this very moment!"

     "Or perhaps it will allow you to escape the thoughts that've been plaguing your mind. The doubts, the questions that seem to linger, no matter how far you go to escape them..." Colin trails off, a vacant look in his eyes. He almost seems jaded, his brother notices, and three and twenty is far too young an age to feel so dissatisfied already. It seems strange, after he chatted so much about his time in Greece and the adventures he had.

     Momentarily distracted from his own thoughts, Benedict tilts his head at him. "Are you quite well, brother?"

     Colin shakes off his doubts. "You will see. This tea is quite the elixir. On one occasion, in Paxos, I found myself meditating for hours upon a single blade of grass."

     Is that so? The thought shamelessly piques Benedict's interest. He has found his worries about the Royal Academy inescapable. What he would give for a mere few hours of freedom from this torture. No doubts, no fears, no second-guessing. Just a time where he can be unshackled from his insecurities. Suddenly, the repulsive powder holds a new appeal...

     Blast it.

     Benedict snatches the pouch and pours its entire contents into his tea. Before he, or indeed Colin can change his mind, he starts chugging the tea in desperate gulps until the cup has been completely emptied. Only when he collapses back into his chair does he feel an inkling of regret — if the smell was overpowering, the taste is even worse, Benedict fighting hard not to simply bring it all back up again.

     "Hell and the devil!" Colin chuckles in awe, knowing what he is in for and yet uncertain of the storm that awaits.

     "Ugh, that's bad..." Benedict groans. He presses his fist to his mouth, suppressing a jet of nausea shooting up his throat.

     Indeed, he is not sure that he knows what will come, either, the foul taste still clinging to his mouth and teeth... but as long as it involves ignorant bliss, he shall be quite contented.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

WINIFRED has her excursion all planned out — she has not needed to pack much, since it should only be a day trip to see her in-laws, but she will leave first thing in the morning. The sooner she can wrap up whatever it is the Erstwhiles need to discuss with her, then the sooner she can return to her sister and the Bridgertons. Naturally, it would have been expected that she would be worrying over this sudden detour of routine at the dinner table, but not tonight. She is completely distracted from what she should be worrying about...

Because there is definitely something amiss with Benedict tonight.

She is sat between him and Mary, so it is impossible to miss his strange mood. Winifred knew he was anxious about his application to the academy, but this is different. He seems... happy? Too happy. And sat in such proximity to him, she can see the light sheen of sweat on his brow, just as slightly unkempt as his hair and cravat. Somehow, she does not think it is just the raging fireplace behind them that has him looking so undone. Benedict's eyes are currently wandering around the room in an unfocused daze. She would be worried that he was coming down with a fever, if it were not for the nature of his sudden monologues at the dinner table.

"This room is exceptionally well-lit... have you noticed, Col?" Benedict whispers, awestruck.

Colin says nothing, suddenly finding the venison on his plate highly fascinating. Violet blinks uneasily at her son's antics, whilst Kate is trying harder to fight a smirk.

"The twinkle of the candles, it is as if– as if..." he trails off, as if frustrated that no one is as stunned as him. "We sit among the stars!"

Benedict makes a wild hand gesture to emphasise his point, almost catapulting Winifred's spoon across the table in the process. As if it was nothing, she simply re-aligns her dessert spoon next to her plate. Oh, he is definitely intoxicated, she thinks to herself.

"What is wrong with you?" Eloise asks her brother, more curious and amused than anything.

"I was just telling Benedict how brilliant the stars were in Greece," Colin interjects casually, while Benedict beams at him in a daze.

The rest of the dinner table take this as a moment of peace from his strange behaviour, having their own conversations. Winifred is just taking a small sip of wine to wash down a bite of food when Mary turns to her. "Are you ready for your trip tomorrow, Mrs. Erstwhile?" she asks her, concern etched into her features.

Winifred turns to her, just glad she does not have to look at Benedict spiralling for a moment. "Yes, I think so. It is just rather unexpected."

"I know that in-laws, or indeed families are not always a pleasure to deal with."

"That is true... although I am fortunate enough to be on good terms with most of mine."

"Oh, that is a relief," Mary chuckles nervously, scrunching her napkin in her lap. "It is something to be cherished. My relationship with my own family, the Sheffields, is far more... strained."

Winifred nods slowly. She remembers hearing about how Mary had fallen in love with Kate's father, joining him in India and becoming estranged from her family back in London — how fortunate she is to be close to her parents and sisters, knowing that she could count on them if she really did need their help (not that Winifred would ever admit that, anyway). She is unsure of what to respond to Mary's story with, so she turns back in her seat, just as Colin is still extrapolating about a celestial event in Greece.

"It was a revelation," Colin is saying, "made all the better by the knowledge that I may have been the only Briton to see it in decades."

"Mmm... mmm!" Benedict moans, for no apparent reason, while chewing his food.

His hand clumsily reaches forward for his wine glass — which Winifred already thinks is unwise, seeing how he is already so loopy — but instead of closing his fingers around it, they simply knock into the side and spill wine into the ornate food dishes and the white tablecloth. There are a few cries of alarm and surprise at the sudden mess made. Benedict falls back into his chair and claps his hands to his face, giggling as his dilated pupils peer over them at Winifred; she has to fight incredibly hard not to crack a smile at the sight.

"Benedict, dear," Violet says in a low voice, "you alarm our guests."

"It's quite alright, Lady Bridgerton," Kate tucks her chair in with a grin, catching the eyes of Winifred, who just shakes her head at her. If you start laughing, so will I, she tries to tell her telepathically.

"Perhaps, it is time for a toast?" Lady Danbury clears her throat and raises her fork to her glass, the chime of her tapping silencing the table.

     Just in time, a footman arrives with a new glass of wine to replace the spilled one, but does not escape before Benedict absentmindedly caresses his arm. Winifred exhales sharply through her nose at the sight, though manages to compose herself enough to quietly thank the confused footman as he steps back once more. Abigail, who is sat on the other side of Colin, exchanges a perplexed glance with her sister at the whole exchange.

     "A good idea," Violet says tiredly, raising her glass for the toast. "To... cheer our guests!"

     "Or to tend to other pressing matters?"

     A silence falls over the table. Even the clatter of cutlery cannot be heard, as it is clear what Lady Danbury is insinuating — a chance for the viscount to make a proposal to his guest. But this opportunity does not seem to jump out as quickly as she expected. Anthony's jaw clenches, his gaze wandering over to Kate, while Edwina's eyelashes flutter hopefully. Benedict, on the other hand, is oblivious and starts raising his glass to his lips before Winifred quietly tells him, "Not yet."

"My..." Kate clears her throat, looking for a way out, "I believe my sister and I have grown rather weary—"

"A toast. Yes." Anthony stands up, much to Kate's incredulity. "My sincere gratitude to the Sharmas, Miss Abigail and Mrs. Erstwhile for joining us. It has been splendid having you all here to witness what is now my second annual loss at pall mall."

Some light laughter spreads around the table, dispelling the tension for a brief moment.

"Not to be repeated, I assure you. And my special gratitude to Miss Edwina. It has certainly been a privilege to truly make your acquaintance these past days. In fact, I believe there is a question I would like to ask you." As he announces this, everyone goes silent around the table, waiting with bated breath. The proposal everyone has been waiting for! "I should like to, uh... I should like to..."

He stumbles over his words. Edwina, still seated, is gazing up at him like her entire life depends on this moment. From the other end of the table, Kate is staring so intensely that even without looking at her, Anthony seems to falter. Something is abundantly clear to Winifred in that moment — there is an undeniable connection between the viscount and the other Sharma sister. That spark, in question, that precedes either a festering passion or a great love. Sometimes both. She wonders if they have noticed it, themselves. Kate and Anthony certainly put up a good fight, if nothing else.

Perhaps that is why, unlike the rest of the table, Winifred feels a twisted sort of relief when Anthony veers away from a proposal.

"I should like to ask you to please refrain from telling anyone back in London about yesterday's loss. I fear the harm to my reputation would simply be too great," Anthony chuckles awkwardly, not wanting to look at Edwina, who appears completely shattered by the lack of a proposal. The viscount raises his glass half-heartedly. "Um... to the pleasant days ahead."

Pleasant days? We shall see about that after this, Winifred thinks. But she still toasts with everyone else, who all look rather off-put by the dampened excitement; Benedict is the only one still grinning like nothing has happened.

     Once the dinner has concluded, Winifred is keen on getting an earlier night if she can, especially if she is to rise early the following morning. She and Abigail link arms as they walk up the staircase to their room, quietly discussing what went on at the dinner table.

     "That was awful," Abigail grimaces.

     "I know..."

     "Did you see poor Edwina's face? I think she was close to tears. No wonder, because I was so sure the viscount would propose just then."

     "Whatever his reasons were, the sooner he can settle them, the better," Winifred says, thinking to herself about the clear connection between him and Kate. Of course she feels awful for Edwina, but she hopes this shying away from a proposal will be an opportunity. Anthony will either come to his senses and propose to her with a clearer mind, or he will face his feelings for Kate head-on if they are more than passion.

     Either way, she dreads what tension it may bring over these next few days...

     "Have you seen this staircase, Col? Down and down and down... it is never-ending..."

     "Good God—"

     "And it spins! How curious... is it spinning for you too?"

     The conversation taking place on the landing becomes clearer as the ladies arrive, matching faces to the voices. Benedict is leaning over the banister, peering down at the staircase, while Colin hovers behind and tries to pull him away from the edge. Still intoxicated, clearly.

     "I told you it only took the smallest of doses to feel the effects, and then you went and emptied the whole damn thing," Colin whispers to his brother with deep, embarrassed regret. "You could have at least been merciful enough so as to spare me a drop, brother. That was the last of it which I had brought home from Paxos—"

     "Off to bed, Mr. Bridgerton?" Abigail interjects.

     Colin freezes on the spot at first, as if he has been caught red-handed. Then, slowly, he rotates to face her. Benedict remains goofy as ever, swaying slightly on the spot as he admires a nearby candelabra.

     "Ah... Miss Abigail," Colin greets her hesitantly. "I suppose, something like that."

     "Is your brother quite well?"

     "Oh, he is... he is alright... simply... high in spirits."

     He's certainly high on something, Winifred thinks.

     "Well, we shall have to bid you goodnight," Abigail says. "We are retiring early. Actually, Winifred is retiring early, because she is leaving first thing in the morning."

     "So soon?!" Benedict suddenly exclaims, sticking out his bottom lip in a sad pout.

     Trying to look as composed as possible, Winifred replies, "I will be back tomorrow night at the latest. I am visiting my in-laws for an urgent matter, and they live not too far away from Aubrey Hall, so things should be resolved by the end of the day. But Abigail will remain here with the rest of your family."

     "Very well," Colin looks to Abigail, giving a faint mischievous smile. "I simply hope we shall not bore you all day."

     "I think there is little chance of that," she says, distracted by Benedict fiddling with his sleeves.

     "In that case, we will give you two some peace. I think it would be wise if Benedict retired to bed soon as well. Good luck on your trip, Mrs. Erstwhile."

     "Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton."

     Colin gives them both a very gentlemanly bow, as expected. Then Benedict proceeds to bow as well — only much lower, so low he is practically at a right angle, with an extra flourish of his arms on his way down. It catches the girls so off-guard that they both have to choke back a loud laugh. His mortified younger brother then drags him away from them, keen to keep the intoxicated Bridgerton in hiding before any more suspicion is aroused.

Once alone in their room, they get ready for bed. They are removed from their dinner dresses and slip into the comfort of their nightgowns. Their hair is undone, Winifred's braided down her shoulder whilst Abigail keeps hers tied up to keep it tidy. The younger sister crawls into bed first, hugging her pillow as one cheek is pressed to the top of it. Winifred takes one last glimpse out of the window before padding across to her bed, clambering under the welcome warmth of the blankets.

"Colin and I conversed well tonight, I thought," Abigail murmurs, as if it is an achievement she awaits approval for. "Even with all the... distractions."

"I am glad, duckie," Winifred says. She reaches over, cupping her hand to blow out the candle next to her bed, but is stopped by her sister's sudden question:

"Do you still disapprove of him?"

Incredulous, she sits back in bed, glaring at Abigail. "I have never disapproved of Colin Bridgerton."

"But you were so critical when he first arrived in London," she points out, "so sceptical about his intentions."

Winifred sighs, remembering her perspective well. There is a pleading look in her sister's eyes, wide and desperate for answers. So she treads carefully and sheds her thoughts. "I apologise if I've been too harsh. I have no doubts that Colin Bridgerton is a decent and worthy man. However, he does not strike me as the type who is seriously considering settling down and finding a wife at the moment. He is still young, as are you, though you may believe me. And... I was concerned, in the beginning, that you were only rushing into something with him because you wish to find a husband sooner rather than later."

"I am not!" Abigail protests, with surprising fierceness.

"Good! So long as you are sure," Winifred backs off, brows furrowed. She huffs and leans over to extinguish her candle, but is interrupted once more:

"It's just that you have hardly made it easy for Jemima and I."

A beat passes. Now she is very confused. Slowly, Winifred returns to her seated position again, and asks, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Sighing heavily, Abigail rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. "Madeline and Silas had this whirlwind romance, and you and Joseph... well, you were perfect together. I have grown up watching how loving both of your marriages have been, therefore how could I aspire for anything less? But seeing Edwina tonight just reminded me of this simple fact — wherever I look, no matter how hard I try, that kind of love eludes me. It would seem that such luck never happens thrice to a family."

Winifred is speechless. Hanging onto her sister's words, she lowers herself to lie down and stare at her across the space between their beds as she continues confessing.

"I always adored the idea of having my own family..." Abigail's voice turns into a slight croak, like a broken dream. "A husband who I loved wholeheartedly, who loved me just as much, and a brood of our children running about the house. Jemima thinks I've gone completely mad." She rolls over again to face Winifred and asks, "Is it pathetic that such a life is what I dream of the most?"

"Not at all," she shakes her head sternly. "It does not matter what Jemima thinks, if it is what you wish for."

Abigail smiles sadly, her eyes shimmering. "It is. Sometimes I wonder, if I could just skip through time to the happy ending, then all would be well. I would not have to keep searching tirelessly, only to be disappointed time and time again..."

She had no idea her sister felt this way. Apart from her ardent wishes to have a family and husband, along with Abigail often being concerned she would end up an old maid, Winifred never knew from what place it stemmed from — now that she does, she feels an ache of sympathy, and also a responsibility to relieve her of at least some of her sister's worries. But something in her worries that she might get it wrong. From experience, she always thought Madeline was better at the emotional advice, while Winifred handled more practical matters. So, she chooses her words carefully.

"Abigail..." Winifred says slowly, "if it is any consolation, Joseph and I were not perfect. I could list a great number of strains in our marriage. But, yes, love did persist. And that kind of bond is not something you can simply search for in a ballroom, or fill in a dance card for."

"That is becoming apparently clear to me," Abigail mumbles.

"Convenient as it would be, you cannot actively go looking for it. Such feelings have a habit of creeping up on you, most times... but that is not to say you can never find it," she quickly tries to add a positive spin. "In fact, I am adamant there will be someone out there for you, Abigail. Just you wait and see."

"Not Colin Bridgerton?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I cannot give you that answer. Mama is right, though. Love can grow in time."

Considering this, Abigail fluffs her pillow a bit, still seeming uncertain. She blinks away a teardrop that has threatened to dribble down her nose and onto the sheets. Noticing this, Winifred feels a pang of responsibility once more. There is one point that she failed to mention, which she feels should take larger precedence over the first.

"But Abigail?"

"Mmm?"

"Listen to me carefully — you do not need a man to make you feel whole," Winifred tells her firmly, her stare unmoving. "You are the loveliest, most generous person I know, and no one should take that away from you. When you fall in love with someone, it will be because you see everything in them, the light and the dark, and choose to love them anyway. Do not sacrifice any of yourself."

     They stay silent for a few moments. Abigail's lips are slightly parted, her hand swiping away another tear from her rosy cheek, seemingly moved by her sister's advice.

     "My, I did not know you could be so profound," she sniffs.

     "I think it was the wine," Winifred deadpans.

     Both of them grin, the elder sister reaching her hand across the gap. The younger Seymour meets it in the middle and they squeeze each other's hand; a silent I love you. There is a sense of satisfaction in Winifred's heart — that perhaps, as a sister, she has hopefully done something right. She has noticed that Abigail already seems less burdened after their talk, yawning as she fluffs her pillow again and gets comfortable.

     Winifred prepares to finally blow out her candle third time lucky. Yet once again, she is interrupted, this time not by Abigail, but by a loud warrior-like cry that suddenly pierces through the night:

     "YOU SHALL ALL BEAR WITNESS TO MY TALENTS!"

     Benedict's exclamation from what must have been the nursery window turns into a joyous sob, followed by Colin hissing "It's the middle of the night!" scoldingly. Abigail leaps out of bed and flies over to their own window, tearing open the curtains and trying to get a better glimpse of where the sound came from. A few moments pass, while Winifred seems suspended in time, sat up in bed and staring at the moonlight pouring inside.

     Then, still gazing outside, Abigail remarks: "I say, do you suppose Mr. Bridgerton is quite well?"

     She does not know what causes it — the innocence of her remark, or simply how ridiculous Benedict has been tonight — but Winifred sharply bursts into a fit of giggling. It is only made worse by her sister's clear confusion about what is so funny, and she laughs harder, to the point where Abigail has to join in as well. Soon, they are crumpled on her bed in breathless hiccups of laughter; their sides splitting, their eyelashes wet with tears... they are so delirious, they have forgotten why they began laughing in the first place. By the time they have caught their breath, her mind is completely scattered and high on their wave of happiness...

     Winifred cannot remember the last time she had felt in such high spirits.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

A U T H O R ' S
N O T E

—

Dearest readers...

FYI: Winifred is 100% this text post ⬇️

This has got to be one of, if not my favourite chapters so far — if nothing else, I had the time of my life writing high Benedict, it's one of my favourites moments from season 2! But overall I enjoyed writing so many little moments in this chapter: Winifred finding Edmund's memorial, Kate making her own tea for her, and especially that conversation with Abigail at the end. I love Abigail with my whole heart, and I think sometimes Jemima (as great as she is) can steal her thunder a bit. So I hope these Aubrey Hall scenes are shining a much-needed light on her.

Speaking of shining a light on underrated characters... Francesca spoke?! Whoa! Honestly, I think she and Winifred have a lot in common, I like to think in season three they'll interact way more (because Hannah Dodd's casting hopefully means more screentime for her). Also after having discovered from Francesca's book that their stories are very similar — I genuinely had no idea, while coming up with Winifred's backstory, that this was the case — it makes even more sense for them to become close in the future.

The biggest thing to mention is that with this chapter, we are now halfway through Act One! HUH?? That's bonkers to me. In the next chapter, we properly meet Joseph's family, and perhaps get more backstory on his childhood...

Thank you for reading!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 21/01/2024