12. Hearts And Flowers

CHAPTER TWELVE.
hearts and flowers.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN
( May 1814 )
If the Ancient Greeks were members of the ton, they might have added to their Olympic pentathlon one additional event: the hosting of a country visit. This, of course, is the week of Lady Bridgerton's annual Hearts and Flowers Ball, the year's most coveted invitation in the country, and no event better designed to show the might and mettle of its host...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

BENEDICT Bridgerton: Student of Art...

He thinks it has a certain ring to it.

Although he may have been as high as a kite when he received that precious acceptance letter from the Royal Academy, the euphoria has remained with Benedict. It endured well-past the following morning, in which he woke up much sobered and perhaps a touch embarrassed at how he might have behaved (Colin's suppressed laughter every time they met eyes hardly helped this suspicion). But, alas! Benedict had expected the worst, and yet it seemed that he held much more worth than he could have imagined. They must have seen great promise in his work... him, as an individual.

His inspiration has sky-rocketed since the acceptance letter, so much so that he has even stepped up to the easel to get a head-start on his paint strokes before his first lecture. Benedict had set up an easel for himself in the small library and started painting the fruit bowl on a small mahogany table. Granted, he had hoped for some peace and quiet, until Anthony stormed in and slumped himself into the armchair — but it would take more than that to break the artist's stride, even more than a visit from his brooding big brother.

     Crrrunch!

     Despaired, Benedict peers around his easel and winces at Anthony biting a large chunk out of that glistening, red apple.

     "I was painting that..." he murmurs despondently, bowing his head.

     "Do you think all of this was a mistake?" Anthony asks, distracted, "Inviting the Sharmas out early? It has made the whole affair so fraught with difficulty..."

     Benedict has to fight hard not to roll his eyes. He is a man of much patience, but with his new spring in his step, he has little time for Anthony's strange behaviour that has persisted whenever the Sharmas are in their orbit. "First of all, I think you are forgetting our other guests," he says pointedly through his teeth. "And second of all, the whole marriage-mart business seems entirely too difficult to me..."

     With a loud clatter, he sets his paintbrush and palette down next to the easel.

     "But if one must participate in it, why not do it —" Benedict pauses, hopping over to the window, flinging it open and thrusting his arms in a clear gesture towards the outdoors, "— in the fresh air!"

     Anthony stays silent, still not gathering the hint to take his miseries outside with him. Realising this is the brother he shall likely be stuck with for the rest of the day, Benedict sighs. He might ask what were wrong, if it weren't for his many previous attempts which would just be deflected or swatted away like pesky houseflies. So instead, he looks out at the bright green pastures of the Aubrey Hall estate, buzzing with activity as preparations are made for the rest of the ton to arrive...

     Then, in the middle of it all, he spots Winifred.

     Benedict leans closer to the window for a better look, though still obscured from sight. She has a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and is walking back towards the house across the grass. It must be another one of her morning walks; something she does a lot, he has noticed. He is sometimes convinced that Winifred walked all the way to Mayfair instead of taking a carriage. Nevertheless, as he watches her down there, relaxed and strolling at her own pace, she seems rather contented and has done ever since arriving at Aubrey Hall.

It gives Benedict a strange sense of pride — to think that she possibly finds comfort in the same nooks and crannies of his childhood home that he did.

     He has been meaning to tell her about his acceptance letter, but has struggled to find the right moment. Between her sudden day trip to see her in-laws and his new indulgence in his art, Benedict has kept missing her. This morning at breakfast was almost an opportune moment, were it not for the distraction of Gregory and Hyacinth smuggling brioche buns and getting caught by Violet...

     The right moment will come, eventually.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

ADD the ton to any quiet country home, and suddenly it is transformed into a bustling venue for high society — this is certainly true for Aubrey Hall.

Winifred may still struggle with these large social functions, but at least she can breathe out here in the countryside. All of the guests have gathered on the lawn, music playing in harmony with laughter floating through the air. Refreshments pour as freely as the latest gossip from London.

     She has already been reunited with Madeline, Silas and Jemima, who have all been occupying themselves in the city at various events. Even Persephone has made it to the country (and still manages to have plenty of complaints). Apparently just the other evening they had all attended an opera, seated beside the Caldwells. Jemima had not cared much for finding suitors, instead chatting animatedly with Emilia about the performance afterwards. In all honesty, Winifred does not think any of them truly expect her youngest sister to settle down in her first year or so of being out — her love may be fierce and passionate, but most likely reserved for a select few special people.

     But it is someone else who she is scanning the crowds for. Soon enough, she sees Lettie discussing something with Lady Strachan as they walk down the steps and out into the gardens of Aubrey Hall. Winifred wringing her hands nervously in front of her abdomen. There is something she wishes to confess to Lettie; something only she might understand. She looks around at her circle of relatives, where she is currently stood between Abigail and Silas.

"Excuse me for a moment," she says quietly, slipping away. Abigail just smiles brightly at her and continues telling everyone about the energetic game of pall-mall at the weekend.

Lettie's dress is almost the same emerald shade as the grass surrounding them, a couple of her tight curls falling in thin wisps against her temples. She holds her head high with a confidence that Winifred has always aspired to have — on the other hand, she feels like a tightly-wound vessel of anxieties most of the time. Her friend grins at her as they reach the bottom of the stairs.

"I must say, Winifred, you really struck gold with a weekend spent at this fine place..." Lettie marvels at the sight of Aubrey Hall.

"Technically, it is Abigail who struck gold, but... yes," Winifred nods, then turns to the dowager baroness politely. "Hello, Lady Strachan. Did you have a pleasant trip from London?"

"A long one, most certainly," Lady Strachan replies, her amber eyes glowing. "Though I must go and thank Lady Bridgerton for the flowers she left me in my room. She is the only hostess in the whole ton who ever remembers my tastes. In the meantime, Miss Fitzroy, could you find us some refreshments for when we are seated?"

"Certainly, my lady."

Lettie releases the baroness from her arm, unleashing her to advance with wobbliness towards the gracious Violet Bridgerton. Now left alone with her, Winifred seizes her moment. "I must speak with you," she says.

"About what?"

"I can't... not here. Anyone could hear us."

Winifred nods over to a secluded nook behind the staircase, where no one could eavesdrop on them, except for maybe the footmen. Even with some distance put between them and the rest of the ton, she still lowers her voice as she recounts to Lettie what happened during her visit to the Erstwhiles — namely, Lance's completely unexpected proposal. She had been desperate to get this off her chest and she thought that Lettie Fitzroy, of all people, would be the best to explain it to. Her similar no-nonsense attitude and knowledge of all the context with her marriage, including things she had not even told her parents or sisters, made it all the easier... still, it does not lower her friend's shock when Winifred finally tells her the awkward punch-line:

"He WHAT?!" Lettie exclaims.

"Keep your voice down!" she whisper-yells back, wide-eyed as she seizes her friend's flailing hands.

Eyes still popped wide open, she demands, "Well, what did you say?"

"I said no! Obviously!" Winifred replies incredulously. "Lettie, you know I could never settle for such a thing, especially after..."

"I know, I know. And good on you for standing your ground."

She nods weakly, feeling the mortification of the moment creeping back into her system as she remembers it. It is not just the fact that Lance asked her, of all people, no matter how good his intentions were. It is not so simple to simply deny a proposal. Winifred felt paralysed in a position for a moment, one that felt so out-of-place that she was determined to steer well clear of it for as long as humanly possible.

Massaging her temple, she sighs. "I am sure that he meant well, wanting to look after me, but it was just..." Winifred pauses and shakes her head, "It made me absolutely sure of one thing. That I cannot, and will not marry ever again. No matter how dire things become for me, I will be not be swayed."

A beat passes.

"And what about... love?" asks Lettie, tentatively. "Would that change your mind?"

"I will not fall in love again, Lettie," Winifred says tiredly.

"Alright, but what if you did?"

"You are sounding oddly sentimental today—"

"What if you fell in love again?" Lettie asks again, this time more insistently.

If Winifred had not considered the question of re-marriage, she had certainly never even thought the one of falling in love again existed. Does she even have the capacity to fall in love again? It feels impossible. Nothing could possibly compare to what she had with Joseph... could it? It is one thing to imagine another future with a different man out of convenience, but even more difficult to imagine one where he filled her heart just as much.

... But perhaps Lettie has a point. If such an incredible fate passed by her, would she watch it leave or jump at the opportunity?

"I suppose, for the sake of argument... a true, deep love might be the only exception," Winifred finally replies, not wholly convinced by herself. "But I highly doubt the chances that would happen to me. Besides, does lightning ever strike twice?"

Lettie shrugs. "You tell me. You are the one who was so blissfully wed."

"How odd, because you have been waxing such poetry about romance and second chances these last few minutes—"

"Come now, I am not that cynical! Now, I must go and grab some refreshments before the baroness grows impatient. I shall get you something as well... stay right where you are."

With a friendly laugh between them, Lettie disappears, leaving Winifred alone at the foot of the back staircase of Aubrey Hall. Fiddling with her gloves again, she tilts her chin to the skies, closing her eyes to feel the warmth of the sun on her face for a private moment. It re-charges her temporarily, the touch of the rays trickling down her shoulders and arms. She almost thinks she is completely alone, until—

"Mrs. Erstwhile!"

She jumps, eyes bolting back open again. But when she sees who it is, she relaxes again; it is only Benedict Bridgerton. He walks towards Winifred with an eager smile, as though unable to contain himself. She does not know what he is so excited about, but he has been in this mood ever since her return from the Erstwhiles, and it has been rather infectious.

"Mr. Bridgerton," Winifred greets him, then gazes out at the lawn covered in guests. "A little busier than usual, is it not?"

"Yes, you could say that," he sighs, not sounding too keen. "Everything has been so hectic since the ton's arrival, that I have barely had the chance to speak with you."

She turns to him, as if slightly surprised that it is that important that Benedict should speak with her. "That is true. I think the last time we spoke properly, it might have been that Sunday evening before I left..."

Benedict suddenly appears sheepish, perhaps experiencing the same chaotic memories of him clearly intoxicated during the meal. She can practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him. Winifred doubts that he will address it, but to his surprise, he does: "Mrs. Erstwhile, just for... peace of mind, shall we say... I would like to apologise for any strange behaviour on my part during that night. Truth be told... I mean, I was rather—"

"High in spirits?" Winifred suggests, with a wittiness usually only reserved for her closest of friends.

His greenish-blue eyes widen in alarm, but are accompanied by a self-deprecating half-smile. Is he blushing too? "Yes, I suppose that is one way to phrase it. I must confess, I was rather torn during the wait for a response from the Royal Academy, to see whether I had been accepted or not. Actually, that is what I have been meaning to tell you about..."

Winifred tilts her head, studying his expression carefully. Benedict seems to be pausing to say the words himself, but she already reaches the conclusion on her own — between the twinkle in his eyes and his upbeat mood ever since her return, she fills in the blanks. Nevertheless, she wishes to be absolutely sure.

"You were accepted, weren't you?"

Benedict beams at her, unable to contain himself anymore, and Winifred swears she can physically feel her spirits, posture and smile lift on his very behalf. "Oh, that is incredible news! Congratulations, Mr. Bridgerton!" she tells him emphatically. Just from the conversations they have shared, she could gather how badly he wanted this, and to her, a piece of good news like this deserves to be celebrated.

"I begin next week, immediately upon our return to London," Benedict blurts out.

"Well, they are very fortunate to have you there. I am sure you will learn a great deal."

"Learn a great deal about what?" Lettie's voice suddenly enters their sphere, slicing through the conversation they were just sharing. She has two glasses of lemonade in her hands, one of which she hands to Winifred. "I heard such a delightful commotion on my way over here..."

Thinning her lips with a sigh, Winifred gestures between them both. "Mr. Bridgerton, this is my friend, Leticia Fitzroy."

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Fitzroy," Benedict says.

"Mr. Bridgerton was just telling me that he has been accepted to the Royal Academy of Schools, as a Student of Art," Winifred tells her, keeping her eyes on Benedict to gauge his reaction; he does not mind it being shared, and simply smiles broadly again at the mention of his acceptance.

Lettie suddenly gains a spark as she hears the news, pressing her fingertips to her lips midway through a sip of lemonade. "In that case, some congratulations are due! I did not realise you had a talent for the arts, Mr. Bridgerton. You share that in common with Winifred..." she takes another sip, then casually adds: "After all, my friend here has always been a very keen and very brilliant illustrator."

A shock of unwanted attention grips her. Winifred freezes on the spot, shaking her head sharply. "Lettie—"

"Is that so?" Benedict latches onto this new information with sudden intrigue.

"Has she not told you about her sketchbook?"

"No, I think she kept that little detail rather quiet..." he says, turning to her with a newfound fascination. Winifred can feel the nape of her neck flushing hot with being put on the spot.

"It is not the same—"

But as Winifred tries to brush it off casually, Lettie interjects once more: "Ah, you will have to excuse my friend. Modesty has always one of her greatest virtues, often to a fault. Winifred can sketch almost anything with an incredible likeness. Trees, leaves, a fawn in the garden..." Lettie then pauses with a mere glance between the pair. "Anyway, I think the baroness requires my attention, so I will let you two connoisseurs carry on. Once again, congratulations to you, Mr. Bridgerton. Good-day to you both!"

And just like that, Lettie sweeps off again. Nicely done. Winifred remains frozen on the spot, her jaw hanging slightly open. She can feel Benedict staring at her; he folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head at her with a slow, crooked smile.

"Please do not look at me like that," she lets out a weak chuckle. "It really is not that remarkable."

"Nevertheless, my curiosity is piqued. All that talk of art... I suppose it all makes sense."

"But it is wholly different."

"How so?" Benedict challenges her lightly, and they begin walking along the grass together, edging nearer to the mass that is the ton.

Winifred pauses, searching for the right words. Yes, she may have an interest in art, but she has never felt it so strongly as Benedict does. She does not live and breathe it like he yearns to. For her, her sketches are the same thing. Her wooden box of sketching tools had been a gift for her eleventh birthday, and ever since, she had simply utilised it. Winifred would sit in the garden and draw the trees, or the leaves fallen from them. She would notice every little crack and detail in the slabs of stone on the terrace. Then, as her skill developed, she could watch a finch perched on the wall and memorise it so perfectly that she could re-create it on paper. Her drawings could, indeed, bear an incredible likeness to the subject.

For Winifred, it was all about detail. A therapeutic hobby? Certainly, but she does not consider it art.

Benedict's sketches were different. They jumped out of the page, from the shadows to the lines. In them was an innate freedom and expressiveness that captured her attention instantly.

... But all of this, Winifred struggles to articulate to him. Especially when they are so surrounded. "For me, sketching is more of a hobby, and my drawings are hardly comparable to yours anyway. They are far more... literal. I have no wish to commit myself to the pursuit of making art, not like you do."

"Hmm. I will be the judge of that, one day," Benedict narrows her eyes at her with faux suspicion.

"Well, that is too bad, because my sketchbook was misplaced a while ago," Winifred replies.

(That is a downright lie. Winifred never misplaces anything, let alone her precious sketchbook. It is true, however, that she has not picked up a pencil in a long time... not since Joseph died.)

Luckily, this lie seems to throw Benedict off her trail for the time being. "If you ever find it, let me know. Even if seeing your sketches knocks my self-esteem down a peg or two."

The two of them soon depart again, the Bridgerton wandering off to join in a conversation Anthony is having with the Sharma sisters. Winifred, meanwhile, notices that her relatives have splintered away into other groups — Abigail is with Colin and Eloise, Jemima and Emilia are stood admiring a moving statue painted in metallic gold, and Madeline has left her husband to discuss something with Lord Featherington and some other gentleman. Her eldest sister seems to have an extra lightness in her step as she breezily walks over to Winifred.

"Everything alright?" asks Madeline. "I thought I would leave Silas for a little bit, those gentleman have started speaking of some precious gem stone mines in Georgia..."

Winifred raises her eyebrows with mild interest, before replying, "And you thought I would be more diverting company?"

Giggling, Madeline gently bumps her sister's arm, making it extend out so they can link together and walk slowly. As they do, Silas steals a glance past his shoulder for a moment, making eye contact with his wife — they share a smile that would be much more akin to the giddiness of newlyweds. Now Winifred is very curious. Of course the couple have always loved one another, but Madeline had said herself that recently they had struggled to make time for just the two of them... now that seems to be a doubt of the past.

"I was very glad to hear that your time at Aubrey Hall has been satisfactory so far," says Madeline, with a more sisterly responsibility now.

"Yes, it certainly has been..." Winifred nods; she had conveniently omitted the detail of her impromptu trip to see the Erstwhiles. She did not want to mention it and complicate things today. "The Bridgertons are very good hosts. I certainly know Abigail has enjoyed it. She required this time without Jemima, I think, to allow herself to care for her own needs."

"How do you think things are coming along with Colin?"

A beat passes. She casts her mind back to last night, and what she overheard between Daphne and Colin, those words which she admittedly agreed with.

"They are very... amiable," Winifred settles for.

To this, Madeline lets out a small hum of dissatisfaction. They have stopped walking and are standing only a stone's throw away from Abigail, Colin and Eloise as they discuss something unintelligible about printing presses and Lady Whistledown. Winifred watches them talking, still just as friendly as always, although it is true — there is not a certain spark, so to speak. But is it really that important? Their mother has always told the Seymour girls that love could grow from the hard work you put into it. From her marriage, she certainly knew that to be true as well.

     However, her sister still seems less convinced these days. "I thought you were all invested in Colin and Abigail," she prods Madeline, "so what has altered your opinion so?"

     "Well, they do seem very sweet together, and with time they could grow closer, but..."

     "But what?"

     "The answer is right in front of us."

     Quizzically, Winifred stares at the 'answer' in question — Penelope Featherington is bounding at full-speed towards the trio, her bright red curls bobbing around her shoulders. She has traded her usual yellow and pink frocks for a tasteful pale green one, a shade which suits her exceptionally well as it brings out the glow in her eyes as she stands beside Colin.

     "Don't you see it?" Madeline implores, urging her to look closer. "The way she looks at him?"

     They both try and subtly examine them from afar again. Indeed, Penelope's gaze does linger on Colin with a certain wistfulness, just like that day in Regent's Park. Her whole body seems to turn towards him, like a daisy turning its head towards the sun in its cycle. Winifred had her suspicions at the time, but this is just further proof that Penelope harbours quite longing feelings for him — but is that really such a threat?

"I see what you mean," Winifred agrees, "but it is merely an unrequited infatuation. Colin clearly does not feel the same way."

Madeline just pauses, squinting at the couple again. She does not seem so convinced of the latter point.

"Oh, come on now, Mad. You are forever the hopeless romantic. Now you are just seeing things that are simply not there."

"I am not, I promise!" Madeline insists, resting her case. "Perhaps the young Mr. Bridgerton does not realise it himself yet, but if you really took the time to notice the way they speak with one another, you would come to the exact same conclusion. Besides, who else calls her Pen? I just... do not wish for Abigail to end up in a match where the affections may never quite be returned in the same way."

Winifred still finds it difficult to believe her sister's observations, pegging it down to her romantic sensibilities, but she nevertheless follows the thread of discussion about the couple. They walk away and lower their voices once more, as she returns her memories to the conversation she overheard between Colin and Daphne last night. There was some details that surprised her... ones that she wonders if Madeline might know more about. Lettie had only hinted at Marina winning the Bridgerton boy's affections, but had never spelled out the fact that they were engaged.

"Did Colin get engaged last year?" she asks. "I overheard something, about him and Marina Thompson..."

     "Oh, yes! That was quite a whirlwind," Madeline blinks, as if still stunned by the whole ordeal. "It all happened so quickly, they had barely even danced together before Colin had announced their engagement to the whole ton. But then, well, Lady Whistledown revealed everything... I heard from one of our maids that they were planning to elope in Gretna Green before the news broke that Miss Thompson was already with child and it was not his. I believe the father of the child had died on the battlefield. It was safe to say that hearts were broken."

     Winifred shakes her head slowly at this news. Perhaps she should have made the connection earlier, but in her defence, there have been so many things to catch up on in the ton — things that she could usually not care less about.

     "Anyway, Miss Thompson was wed very soon afterwards. The Featheringtons tried to keep everything under wraps, understandably, but he seemed like a good enough gentleman. Sir Crane, I believe his name was—"

     "Crane?" Winifred splutters, stunned.

     "... Yes? I think they live rather near Aubrey Hall, actually."

     Could it be him? It must be. It has to be.

     "Would that by any chance be a Sir Phillip Crane?"

     "Why, yes, I think you are right," Madeline remarks, surprised. "How do you know him?"

     "His brother, George... he and Joseph were friends in the army," Winifred replies, still completely taken aback at the connection.

     It all comes flooding back to her now. Now that she can fill in the blanks of the story, she realises that Marina's lost love must have been George Crane, who Winifred faintly remembers hearing of also dying around the same time Joseph did in Spain. She had been too deep in her grief to react in any way; she had been numbed to it. But now, as Winifred re-remembers it, she experiences a fresh remorse for both of the men now lost. On top of it, there is a sudden compulsion to know how Phillip is doing — they had gotten along well enough on the few occasions they met (and now that she thought about it, she had been meaning to drop by and visit until news of Joseph's death de-railed all of her plans...).

     Perhaps most unexpected of all, Winifred feels a strange empathy for Marina, this woman whom she has never met.

     "That is... quite the coincidence," says Madeline breathlessly.

     "Yes. Well, thank you for conveniently leaving all of those details for a later date," Winifred replies. "When was I meant to discover them? The day of Abigail's wedding?"

     "I am sorry, I simply did not think it was that important."

     "You thought that was not an important factor, but a simple teenage infatuation was?"

     Madeline sighs sharply. "I do not think Colin should be so harshly judged for wanting to protect Miss Thompson. Yes, it was impulsive, but I am more concerned with whether he is dedicated to Abigail now."

     Winifred flinches. You're being too strict again, she reminds herself internally. But she finds her reasoning perfectly acceptable — in her pragmatic mind, she concludes that Colin does not seem ready for marriage, especially after his encounter with Marina last year. The young man could do with some time to find his identity before settling down with anyone. Abigail, on the other hand, is well-aware that she wants to settle down and have a family.

     But as Winifred knows well enough, being ready for something does not make it come to fruition any quicker.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1811.

     ON a chilly February evening, Winifred decides she is sure... she thinks.

     Or at the very least, it is time she told her husband. The fireplace crackles in the drawing room as she walks in on Joseph, who is sat next to it with some papers in his hands, looking through. He glances up at her with a warm smile. "Hello, darling," he greets her, "I was just reading some letters from Lance. I hadn't had the chance to until now. It sounds as though he is really starting to flourish in London."

     Winifred hums to signify she heard him, while circles around to an armchair, slowly lowering herself down. But the truth is that she could not care less about whatever Lance is up to in the city. She is much more concerned with however she will break this news to him — or her suspicions, rather. Her thumb slowly strokes her stomach absentmindedly. Should she just... come out with it? No, no, she would have to be more discreet, surely. She does not want to overwhelm Joseph with the news. Easing into the subject should be the solution.

     "Joseph... have I seemed different lately?" Winifred asks him.

     "In what way?"

     "My... body. For example, these bouts of nausea I have been having. And, of course, the weight gain—"

     Joseph sets down his papers with a sigh, tilting his head at her. "Fred, my love, we went through this last week. You are as beautiful as the day I met you. A slither of extra weight is hardly anything to worry about."

     "Except what if it is?" Winifred tries suggesting more pointedly.

     Her husband simply shakes his head; clearly he is not following the same thread as she is. Starting to grow impatient with this game — not helped by her building state of a delicate stomach, tender breasts, intolerance to strong aromas and countless other symptoms — Winifred blurts it out before her mind can catch up to her:

     "Joseph, I am with child."

     That caught his attention. Joseph is so startled that he almost drops one of Lance's letters into the fire by accident. His head snaps up in astonishment, his jaw slackening as he searches her facial expressions for any indication of the truth. When she does not dispute what he just said, Joseph looks more hopeful, glowing like the embers in the fireplace. "Are you... quite certain? I– I mean, you have not had your monthly course? You aren't just late again?" his voice trembles slightly, full of hope.

     "What I think is that you should call a physician," Winifred replies, before adding as a confident afterthought, "but it would only be to confirm what I already know... yes, I am quite sure."

     Time seems to slow down. Joseph leaps up to his feet and walks over to her, excitedly cupping her face in his hands and pressing a long, loving kiss to her lips. Winifred has already melted into it, and by the time they pull away, his unbridled joy has rubbed off on her to replace all the burgeoning doubt from before. They grip each other's hands tightly and let out triumphant, shaky laughs.

     "We're having a baby... WE'RE HAVING A BABY!!!"

     Now Winifred is really laughing, as their housekeeper walks in and seems stunned to speak. "Is everything alright, sir?"

     "Everything is wonderful," Joseph bounds over to their housekeeper, clasping her hands in his and shaking them. "We're having a baby, Mrs. Blyton!"

     Still flabbergasted by all the energy, Mrs. Blyton looks to Winifred for confirmation, who just nods.

     "Well, congratulations to the both of you! Should I call the physician?"

     "Indeed, that would be wise," Winifred thanks her.

     "And we can clear that south-facing room, Mrs. Blyton, because I think we shall be needing a nursery..."

     Joseph meanders back to the sofa, taking Winifred's hand in his and kissing her knuckles. "See, I told you it would happen for us," he whispers to her, an earnest smile stretches across his face. Only then does it really hit her — this is not some far-fetched fantasy, but at last, their reality that they have both longed for after years of trying.

     They are going to have a family.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

FROM what she can tell of the guests descending downstairs, all the ladies at the Hearts and Flowers ball seem to be dressed in pastel-shaded gowns with floral motifs. Winifred used to think that dressing more plainly was a way to blend in — but if being with the tone this year has taught her anything, it is that in high society, it makes her stick out like an unembellished sore thumb. She might as well be waving a flag that says "Hello, over here! I am a new widow!" to everyone. In keeping with her half-mourning attire, Winifred has dressed in a simple silk violet dress, although she allowed Abigail to tuck some small flowers into her hair to adhere to the theme.

     Before going downstairs, she wishes for a couple of minutes just to herself. She means to look for a small book she had brought with her to Aubrey Hall, but turns her room upside down to realise she cannot find it. Ah, Winifred soon realises, I must have left it in the library. The Bridgertons has said that their guests were most welcome to have a look inside. So she goes there, intending to find an empty library, but instead pushing the door open to reveal a familiar face:

     "Oh, Miss Sharma!"

     "Mrs. Erstwhile!"

     Kate straightens herself up again, having just been slumped against the window before the door swung open. She does look stunning — she glows like a rose-tinted jewel, strands of her hair falling around her face, and a glittering miniature tiara sitting atop her head. Winifred suddenly feels self-conscious about her own appearance when stood opposite her.

     "Ah, there it is..." Winifred chuckles self-deprecatingly, plucking her small book off one of the ladder steps. "I had just misplaced my book, rather unusual for me. Would you prefer to be alone?"

     "It is alright, I just... needed some time before heading downstairs... the viscount is enough induction for a headache, without introducing the rest of the ton into things as well."

     A headache? Winifred thinks. She cannot help but think that a 'headache' of a person would not make you gaze out of the window longingly, or grow flustered when you both reached for the same brioche roll at the breakfast table. Not to mention the two of them had seemed incredibly charged with bottled-up tension after yesterday's hunt (which Kate had insisted she join, despite Anthony's objections; Winifred had admired her determination). She has noticed this time and time again between the pair, and now she cannot ignore it...

     "Is this because of your feelings for the viscount?"

     Just as gobsmacked as each other, the two women stare wide-eyed. Winifred can hardly believe she just blurted that out; however, she does stand by what she said. Meanwhile Kate seems like a deer caught in a hunter's line of fire — frozen and unable to move. Without saying a word, Winifred tries to somehow let the Sharma sister know that she can trust her, that she does not intend to chastise her if this happens to be true.

     "I... it is not as simple as that, I..." Kate stammers. "Did you really think it was... so obvious?"

     "It depends on who is looking," Winifred tries reassuring her, whilst exhaling a sigh of relief. She had made quite a shot in the dark there, and oh, how awkward that could have been if she had miscalculated. "But, Miss Sharma, I did not mean to put you on the spot. It was simply an... observation."

     Kate scrunches her face in frustration. "I do not know what is happening to me. I never planned for any of this."

     "I'm afraid that is usually how such feelings work. Very inconvenient indeed."

     "I will not let this ruin Edwina's chances. I cannot let that happen. She deserves far better."

     Pulling out a chair for them both, Winifred lowers herself down into one of them thoughtfully as she tries to choose some worthy advice to ease Kate's distress. "Now, I would never consider myself a love expert, but I was married for six years, so I would like to think that I learned something of value during that time. Whatever your feelings for the viscount are, fleeting or not, I fear that hiding them like this could backfire... especially with your sister included in the mix. Perhaps telling the truth would ease things—"

     "No, absolutely not! I made a promise," Kate declares, sounding desperate.

     Winifred draws back, confused. "A promise? What kind of promise?"

     With a shaky sigh, Kate goes on to explain the hidden reasons for the Sharmas being here in London — when Mary married for love and left to live with her husband in India, her parents, the Sheffields, disowned her and thus embroiled their daughter in scandal. They could not care less whether Kate marries or ends up a spinster, as she is not their biological daughter. Therefore it is Edwina who they are more concerned about. In an agreement they have made in secrecy with Kate, if Edwina can marry to a man in the nobility with a title, the Sheffields will write their biological granddaughter back into the inheritance.

     "... So you see, if I foil my sister's best chances, I could never forgive myself," Kate concludes the explanation, sounding completely torn.

     Leaning back into her seat, Winifred blinks at her. "Right. Well. That does complicate things significantly."

     "Precisely my point."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Only Lady Danbury. She coaxed it out of me."

Well, Winifred thinks, that does not surprise me one bit.

     In truth, she now struggles to find a loophole for Kate and Anthony that completely avoids some betrayal somewhere. Winifred feels helpless, having offered advice only to retract it again. "I am so sorry, Miss Sharma, I wish I could be of more help," she gives a pathetic-feeling shrug.

     "Please do not worry. I know it is a lot to process." Then, managing a smile, she adds: "But please... call me Kate."

     Winifred lips curl slightly, perking up. "And likewise, Kate, you may call me Winifred."

     Now plucking up the courage to re-join their families, Winifred and Kate leave the cosiness of the library, heading to the ballroom where the Hearts and Flowers gala is being hosted. The banisters and ceilings have been draped in pale roses and wisteria, perfuming the room in a fresh, floral fragrance. The dance floor is a sea of peaches and pinks as ladies twirl with their partners, while the small orchestra plays in the heart of the room. Mounted candelabras on the walls give the ballroom a warm, intimate glow underneath the brilliance of the chandelier lights — it seems appropriate with the Bridgertons as the hosts, considering how welcoming Aubrey Hall has been.

     Winifred locates her own sisters, all dressed in varying shades of pastel colours. The evening then proceeds to pass by as most other balls have done so far. Abigail and Colin share a dance, of course; though something seems to be altering between them. Perhaps it is the presence of prying eyes, wherever they are walking, pressuring them to make something of their half-courtship soon.

Jemima actually seems to be having far more fun. She even takes to the floor for a group dance, accepting the hand of a young gentleman when he asks her to. People step in and out of the circle, weaving around each other and switching partners — Jemima and Emilia always make sure to grin at each other whenever they pass with a different male partner.

Poor Eloise is not so lucky. Violet nudges her into dancing with a Lord Morrison, and minus her laboured dance steps, things seem to be going decently well between them. But soon enough, it becomes clear that they are far from compatible — the young Miss Bridgerton looks horrified at something he said and breaks apart from their dance before it has ended. Of course, it attracts gasps from people surrounding them. Winifred is stood right next to the staircase as Eloise storms up them, and she feels a burst of sympathy as she notices the girl's face desperately fighting back hot tears. She wonders whether she should go after her until Violet beats her to it.

"I invited Lord Morrison specifically for you," Violet tells her innocently. "He is known to share your rebellious spirit."

But Eloise shakes her head fiercely, voice strangled with soft sobs threatening to surface. "My rebellion is not some party dress I put on to play a part, Mama, and it's certainly not some accomplishment I've developed, like singing or painting to help me attract a suitor. I... know I am a disappointment to you. So just allow me to take my leave and go to bed."

Winifred sighs as she watches the girl sprint upstairs with a stifled cry. For someone like Eloise, with clear convictions that go against the grain of the ton, this she clearly struggles with the often-suffocating world of the marriage mart.

She gazes around the ballroom, wondering how the Sharmas are getting on. Anthony is with them, talking to the two sisters and holding out his hand; the immediate assumption is that he is asking Edwina. But it is Kate who ends up taking his hand. This throws Winifred for a loop, as she watches him lead her to the dance floor. What in God's name is going on? Already people are staring, Lady Danbury most knowingly of them all.

"Enjoying the party?" Benedict's voice suddenly appears at her side — but she ignores it, too distracted.

"Why has your brother just asked Miss Sharma to dance?" she implores.

"Why should I know?"

"... Because he is your brother?"

"I stopped trying to understand Anthony's logic a long time ago," Benedict says after a nonchalant sip of wine. "I am sure he has something up his sleeve."

"Yes. Something, indeed..." Winifred lets out a slight scoff, as they turn together to watch the next dance as it begins.

Kate and Anthony completely suck all the air out of the room with a single look. Their stares are intense as they circle each other to the deep tones from the violins and cellos, before their hands meet in the middle. They twirl each other around, hands fused together as tightly as their eye contact, until Kate's shoulder is nestled against Anthony's, their lips tilted up within dangerous proximity. It is as though they have created their own bubble, no one else in sight...

Just dancing on their own. Winifred remembers that feeling.

The more she looks, the more she realises she did not need Kate to confirm anything about her feelings towards the viscount — anyone paying enough attention can see it. The dance just proves it. Winifred is even more certain that Anthony burns just as fiercely for her as she does for him. She swears he has not blinked since he took Kate's hand, nor have his eyes left a single part of her being. He looks at her as though she is a complete anomaly in his plans, something he never could have considered... and yet he is transfixed.

All Winifred can think is that the sensible option would be honesty. Deal or no deal with the Sheffields, proposing to Edwina now would foretell a life of misery for all three of them.

Soon, they seem to become aware of people staring, and are muttering something amongst themselves. Their conversation gets more heated, Anthony pulling back with some kind of maddened betrayal. His entire body has gone rigid as he storms off the dance floor, leaving Kate stood on the spot, silently seething. She manages to mask her fury for the time being, nodding gracefully to a concerned Edwina (who seemed totally oblivious to the couple's tension) before running after Anthony.

"I am sure Whistledown enjoyed that," Winifred sighs weakly.

"Whistledown is not here," Benedict retorts in a carefree manner.

"How can you be certain? With how much she knows of the ton, would it not make sense for her to be one of them herself?"

"In all honesty, I care little for what she does or does not write. And I know deep down, you do not, either."

Winifred glances nervously around, catching sight of her sisters a couple paces away. "I only care if it concerns my sisters," she replies, thinking back to the edition of Whistledown that had been published when they arrived at Aubrey Hall last week. "She even thought of mentioning Abigail, and that invitation was meant to be in the strictest confidence. Then again, if someone cared enough, anyone could have eavesdropped and heard it..."

While busy nervously wringing her fingers, she hears a gentle clunk behind her. She turns to see that Benedict has placed down his wine glass on a table behind and has a secretive air about him. He looks at Winifred earnestly and asks, "... Would you like to go somewhere where no one could? I know a perfect spot."

For a moment, she thinks the idea is very unwise. She should not be slinking off into the darkness during a ball; even if she has been married, so there is no maidenly virtue to protect anymore. But it takes just as short of a time for Winifred to decide that she is already rather tired of tonight... and that, of the many people in this ballroom, Benedict Bridgerton is in the minority of those she is not tired of.

So, she nods in agreement. Yes. Benedict does not say another word, simply darting his gaze pointedly over to a set of doors at the corner of the room, where everyone's backs are turned. He seems to be suggesting that she goes first. Winifred follows his instructions, trying to meander as discreetly as possible through the crowd, pretending that she is simply looking for a better view. The music swells as she presses her back to the wall next to the door. Then, when everyone else is distracted, she swiftly opens it and slips outside, shutting it behind her.

Winifred now stands in the corridor, alone, the music and chatter muffled peacefully behind the door. She fiddles with her lilac gloves anxiously, removing them for a moment and pulling out the fingers again. She is just pulling them back up over her arms when Benedict joins her. The door clicks shut behind him, and he whirls around to look at her. They both let out a mutual, relieved sigh of sorts.

"Are you sure this is alright?" Winifred asks, still feeling bad for ditching her sisters and the ball which she was invited to by Violet herself.

"Not to worry," Benedict reassures her breezily. "I've slipped in and out of parties at Aubrey Hall countless times over the years. It will be as if we never left."

He has a good point. And if this is his ancestral home, she supposes it makes sense that Benedict would know all the good escape routes. If it were anyone else, Winifred might question him more, but he puts her at ease. They fall into step as they slowly walk down the hallway, paintings lining the panelled walls and gently lit by the mounted candelabras.

As she steals a glance at him, Winifred cannot help but wonder why Benedict enjoys her company so much. It genuinely puzzles her. He strikes her as the party-enjoying type, taking in simple pleasures whenever they greet him, and yet he would rather slip out of a perfectly good ball to stroll quietly with a lonely widow? There is, of course, the explanation that he simply pities her... she hates pity. However, now they are here together, she tries to create conversation between them.

     "You must be very eager to return to London and start at the Royal Academy," Winifred says, piercing the silence.

     Benedict smiles; not even crookedly, just a genuine, fully-fledged expression of joy. It is so pure that she cannot help but relax.

     "I am. And I believe I still have you to thank for taking the plunge." When she makes a scoffing noise, he re-enforces his point: "No, truly, I do. I am quite serious. Your insight and encouragement that day at Somerset House was... well, just the kick in the right direction that I needed."

     "Well... I am glad I could be of some service. Though isn't it something you have wanted for a very long time?"

     "... I suppose so, yes. And it is about time I did something to prove myself, like Colin is doing with his travels."

     Benedict says this while sounding unsure of himself. As they keep walking, he sighs deeply, chewing his lip in absorbed thought. Suddenly, he seems to speak straight from the heart:

     "Every time I walk into a room, I feel as though the heads turning are only because I am a Bridgerton. They expect something. In truth, I do not care much for debutantes because all they care for is that I am a second son, and whether that is good enough for them. That is all I am. But... for once, I cherish the thought of walking into a room with my own accomplishments, and being recognised for that merit alone. Something for myself, not for the Bridgertons."

     He might have gone on further, had he not realised just how much he had been talking. Benedict seems sheepish; but Winifred did not mind it at all. She had listened intently as he expressed himself so openly, hands slicing and gripping the air in gestures trying to make sense of his own feelings.

     "I apologise, I went off on rather a tangent—"

     "Not at all," Winifred interjects. "It is not easy being second-born and trying to find one's place."

     With a look of realisation dawning on his face, Benedict replies, "Of course. I suppose you would know something about that."

     "In one way or another, yes... except my sisters and I have nothing to inherit. That is in the hands of a distant cousin."

     Benedict shoos away a couple of footmen who step forward to the patio doors, instead opening them by himself and letting Winifred walk through first. The warm evening air on this early summer night envelops them, comforted even more by the blanket of twinkling stars above them. He seems to be leading them down the steps, so she follows him, gingerly lifting her skirt so she does not trip herself up.

     "I should put things into perspective," Benedict seems to think out loud, turning to look at her. "I have never been truly burned in my life, Mrs. Erstwhile, and yet I stand here telling you about my trivial woes. You have had to endure far worse pain."

     After a moment's hesitation, Winifred stops in her tracks and replies: "Well, that is not entirely true, is it?"

     She seems to have the Bridgerton rather confused. Instinctively, her gaze stretches out into the darkness, across the lawn to where she knows his father's memorial is hidden somewhere in the trees. Benedict follows her line of sight and seems to put two and two together — his shoulders droop slightly, his light and easy demeanour disarmed completely.

     "Oh..." he mumbles sadly.

     Why did you bring up his father like that? Winifred thinks to herself. It is clear that Edmund's untimely death left a mark on the whole family, and Aubrey Hall is haunted by his memory. It just slipped right out of her. And yet, she feels confident enough that she has not offended Benedict. For all his quiet reflection, he also seems to be pausing in anticipation, waiting for what exactly it is she wants to know.

     "I passed his memorial the other day, on a morning walk..." she pauses, careful to choose her words. "I did not realise how young you all were when it happened."

     "I was sixteen," Benedict croaks.

     "I am so sorry."

     "Do not be," he shrugs regretfully, "it was years ago."

     "Time does not ease such pain any less," Winifred replies, her words soft and earnest as they go straight to Benedict's heart. She, of all people, knows that.

     Benedict folds his arms across his chest, now turning fully to face the space where he knows his father's memorial stands. She respectfully turns to face that distance with him. "He was stung by a bee. It was all rather sudden, really... no goodbyes. My mother was never the same, and neither was Anthony."

     She nods solemnly. What an awful thing, she thinks to herself. To lose a father, mother and a brother all in one day. The life as you knew it forever altered. Such pain is enough with just one person. Now Winifred feels awfully guilty for even touching the subject, almost certain that she has ruined Benedict's good mood — but somehow, as his face is turned up to the stars, he almost cracks a smile as he chuckles softly to himself.

     "One time," he says, the smile spreading, "my father put glue in my shoes as a practical joke."

     The comment surprises her so much, Winifred lets out a slight laugh. "Did he?"

     "Yes. I can safely say that he rather enjoyed the little prank. I, on the other hand..."

     Benedict starts strolling again, and she walks alongside him. The mood has lightened again with each step they take. They stay close to the walls of Aubrey Hall, the party still audible above them, and therefore not straying too suspiciously far. Winifred is lost in thought and grins to herself; however, her partner notices, tilting his head in playful curiosity at her. "What is it?" he asks.

     "I was just trying to envision our fathers left alone in a room together," she admits.

     He cocks an eyebrow at her, amused. "And what is your father like?"

     "Decidedly sterner than yours was, I think. Pranks were certainly not on his agenda in our childhoods," Winifred recounts fondly. "But he has his own ways of showing love... he always let us explore his library as much as we wished. Nothing was off limits; if there was something we did not understand, he would take the time out of his day to sit with us and explain it."

     Benedict hums fondly. Then he slows to a halt, signifying that they have arrived. Around them, tucked neatly away is a small bench against the wall, framed by trellises with flowers crawling over them and a small fountain with trickling water. It is simple, tasteful and private enough to give the illusion of being alone. Winifred feels serene immediately.

"This is it," he confirms.

"It's lovely," she tells him, wandering over to the bench.

"I used to see my parents sit out here on particularly bright days. They could be talking here for hours."

One by one, they take a seat on the bench, a sizeable space yawning between them. Benedict turns in his seat, the soles of his boots scuffling against the stone slabs as he faces his body towards her. "Anyway..." he picks up the conversation again, "what else do you enjoy, besides reading and sketching?"

"Aren't you talkative tonight, Mr. Bridgerton?"

"I think it comes from the fact that, if we keep talking, I have an excuse not to go back in there."

At the mocking distaste in his voice, Winifred exhales softly through her nose. Her hands rest in her lap as she thinks about his question. "Well... uh... I am sure you have gathered that I adore a good walk. Not just for the exertion, but for all the surrounding nature too. I also played the violin when I was younger, though I have been a few years out of practice. Apart from that, all the usual things, I suppose... embroidery and other ladylike pursuits. I am afraid I'm rather dull."

"I find that very hard to believe," Benedict counters without missing a beat.

She misses the compliment entirely. Suddenly, she feels infinitely frustrated. Not because of him, but because of... well, everything. It presses a button she did not realise she had.

"Actually, these days I find it difficult to... to recall the things which I used to love. Ever since... since..." Winifred is unable to spit out that dreaded word, and takes a breath to recompose herself. "At my husband's wake, I heard so many attempts at comfort from people. Plenty of condolences, some telling me how proud I should be of his sacrifice in battle, others asking if I would still live at Highbourne now that I was widowed and alone... everyone, everywhere, was telling me how I should feel."

"And how do you feel?" Benedict asks, ever so softly.

She stares into the distance, only one word creeping into her mind.

"... Numb," Winifred murmurs. "Truly, I do not think I feel a thing."

Of course, that is only the tip of the iceberg. She knows deep down that she must somehow access that wounded, grieving part of her. But she cannot do it. It feels frozen away behind ice. Unreachable. Winifred doesn't know if she made it that way or if something else did. She could never begin to find the words to express it...

Yet, somehow, it is as if Benedict reads her mind.

"I am hardly qualified to be giving you advice, and feel free to ignore it completely, but... perhaps you should not try to neglect it? The memory of your husband, I mean, and everything you shared together." With a tenderness leaking into his voice, Benedict adds: "Besides, if it made you into the woman you are today, then... that is all the more reason for it to be cherished, not numbed away."

Winifred stares at him in awe. She had not expected anything in return, let alone such comforting words. It is difficult to recall the last time someone had said something that really touched her heart. What's more, it felt like a weight lifted from her chest — just for a few minutes — to open up in such a way, which she usually steers away from, and to be met with such patience and understanding. Winifred could not have said this to anyone else, not even her family or friends. Something is easier about opening up to a stranger, someone without all that history... but not just anyone.

It really strikes her, then. How remarkable Benedict is. Listening and simply being a shoulder to lean on is an underrated asset, and he has an innate talent for it.

What's more, he seems to know just how to bring things back down to Earth. Benedict clasps his hands together and leans back somewhat comically in his seat. "Well, well, well," he muses, "we certainly know how to have a simple conversation, don't we?"

"Oh God, and don't I know it..." Winifred groans, her face in her hands. "I am sorry, Mr. Bridgerton, do not feel you had to listen to all of that."

"There is no need to apologise."

"Actually, there might be, because I have hardly been good company recently, and I am acutely aware of it—"

"On the contrary," Benedict reassures her, "the most riveting conversations I have had so far this season have been with you."

There he goes again. It is so simple, but it lifts her spirits right up out of whatever dark cave they were hiding in. Without a shadow of doubt, when she reflects on this social season thus far, Winifred can honestly say the same for Benedict. She gazes at him, filled with gratitude she wishes she could articulate, as he reluctantly glances up at the bustling arched windows of the ballroom behind their heads.

"Do you wish to go back inside yet?" he asks.

"... No."

"Me neither."

They both know what that means. Equally hesitant, but knowing they should return before they arouse suspicion, Winifred and Benedict rise from their seats and make their way back inside — although there is nothing to stop them from taking their sweet time.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

AFTER a night of highs and lows at the Hearts and Flowers ball, the ton are packing their trunks to leave Aubrey Hall, including the Seymours and the Sharmas. Winifred had missed much of what had transpired last night — apparently, while she and Benedict had been enjoying the peace and quiet, there had been a sudden engagement between Prudence Featherington and Lord Featherington after they were caught in the orangery. She would question the match, but she is frankly too tired or uninterested to do so.

Everyone else is returning to London, but Winifred has other plans. She thinks it is about time she went home. Spending time re-charging in the countryside has made her realise she is not quite ready to return to the city just yet. Besides, she has been away from Highbourne long enough. Her sisters all agreed it would be sensible for her to catch up on things at home before re-joining the ton.

At their carriages, parked behind the Sharmas, Winifred hugs her sisters goodbye before their journey starts. Abigail walks forward and squeezes her particularly tight — in the shell of her ear, she hears her whisper, "Thank you for everything last weekend..."

She means their heart-to-heart. Sighing, she squeezes Abigail back, letting her re-join the rest of them. Jemima says a simple "See you later" before hopping into the carriage next to her sister. Their squabbling can already be heard from inside.

Madeline now embraces her, kissing her cheek. "I miss you already," she teases.

"Nonsense," Winifred chides, "you shall not miss my nagging."

They giggle, Madeline taking Silas's hand as he leads her up into the carriage. Winifred then walks alone to the next one, behind them, which will split off into the route eastwards towards Highbourne instead of London to the west. She glances back at the entrance to Aubrey Hall — under the draped wisteria, the Bridgertons stand on the steps to see off their guests. Her gaze falls onto Benedict, who was already looking at her anyway. She nods at him, as a silent "Thank you," and he smiles back softly...

She thought that would be the end of things.

Oh, how she was wrong.

Suddenly, Anthony comes storming down the steps, making a bee-line for the Sharmas; they, meanwhile, have been reflecting on their weekend, Edwina trying to take her losses with a smile. Kate had just solemnly turned to her sister, a brief glance at Winifred. She had given her a nod of encouragement. "Edwina? There is something I must tell you—"

"Wait!" the viscount barks.

Both sisters turn around, Kate looking breathless. "Lord Bridgerton..."

"Might I speak with you?"

"Of course," Kate says earnestly.

"That was meant for Miss Edwina," Anthony charges straight past her, not even looking her in the eye.

Wide-eyed and innocent, Edwina pays little attention to her sister cast aside. "... My lord?"

In one swift motion, his knee plummets to the ground, his hand plucks a small box from his pocket, and opens it to reveal a shimmering engagement ring. Winifred feels her jaw drop and does not bother to hide it.

Oh, good grief...

"Miss Edwina Sharma. Will you marry me?"

"Yes..." Edwina laughs breathlessly, "Yes! Yes! I shall be your viscountess. I shall marry you."

Just like that, Anthony slips the ring onto her finger before he can change his mind. He still refuses to so much as glance at Kate — she, on the other hand, is fighting a mix of heartbreak and betrayal on her face, hidden behind a mask of happiness for her sister. The duty has been fulfilled. Edwina will marry into the nobility. But she and Winifred both know there is far more to it than that.

Oh dear...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN
( May 1814 )
Dearest gentle reader,

While much occurred at the Bridgerton country visit, this author feels not all is fit to print. Especially when so much is already known by far too many members of the ton. But if you thought we would reach the end of this journey without this trusted author finding a truly delectable morsel of gossip, then you are sorely mistaken. While Prudence Featherington seems to have secured her match, it was not the only occurrence of note...

Anthony Bridgerton is now betrothed to Miss Edwina Sharma. Victory, indeed.






.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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


Dearest readers...

This was quite a long chapter so if I comment on everything, this author's note could be as long as the wait between season 2 and 3... but how did we find it? This was such a fun chapter to write, and having said that, I will go into depth about a couple of things:

First of all, BENEDICT & WINIFRED!!! I feel like they grew a lot closer during this chapter, they gravitate towards one another more and more, even if they don't realise it. That whole scene with them at the ball where they snuck out just warmed my heart so much, with how they opened up to each other. Also, the little reveal that Winifred likes to sketch in her own time as well 🤭 hold that thought! I'm hoping to include more Benedict POVs as this fic goes on, it's just a matter of figuring out which scenes I want to do that with, because I love writing his perspective so much.

Second of all, the mini flashback where Winifred is pregnant... well, we can see that she clearly does not have a child all this time later, so we can take an educated guess at what happened. This will be expanded on more in the following chapter. That's all I'm saying for now.

As always, thank you for reading! Any constructive feedback is greatly appreciated.

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 17/02/2024

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