PROLOGUE.
'til death do us part.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1813.

A SUMMER MORNING HAS NEVER FELT SO COLD. Winifred isn't quite sure what it is that chills her to the bone — the sun is splashing onto the gardens, waking up all the flora and fauna. The air is filled with birdsong and she lives to see another day. So why does she feel so numb?

No, she thinks again, of course I know.

The warmth of her husband is missing from this room. Isn't that why she is standing here today in the first place? Winifred has kept her stare firmly on a stain in the corner of the mirror. That should be cleaned. It feels trivial to think about right now, but the longer she can distract herself from the day ahead, the better chance she has of holding it together. Anything to take her mind off the tingling sensation in her fingertips. The nausea rippling through her. The heaviness of her head, which remains raised stoically.

Not everyone is as good at controlling their emotions. Ellen, the maid currently preparing her bonnet, stares at the floorboards with trembling lips. Winifred can only do her the decency of not addressing the elephant in the room, making it more difficult for them both.

Indeed, it seems everyone misses Joseph Erstwhile.

"Thank you," Winifred gently takes the bonnet from Ellen's hands — black and un-embellished, except for the lacy veil draped over the top, also in black. She had better get used to this colour. Noticing how her maid is struggling to keep it together, she nods politely. "I'll be alright from here, Ellen."

Her maid leaves the room with a small curtsy, just managing to mask her choked sob until she shuts the door. Then it is just Winifred alone. Glaring in the mirror, she fastens the bonnet over her head, hiding much of her brown hair beneath it. She pulls the veil over her face and the image is complete... this is her life now, it would seem. The woeful widow. Winifred can hardly recognise the young woman in the mirror. None of this feels real.

It is part of the reason why she insisted on attending the funeral today. She had almost missed it entirely. After all, no one wanted the hysterics of a fainting widow interrupting the solemnity of the occasion — her own grandmother had not attended her husband's funeral for that very reason. But Winifred was unshaken in her determination to be there, to be seen there, even if it meant barely piecing herself together. She would follow Joseph all the way to his grave. Wasn't that the promise they made when they said their wedding vows?

'Til death do us part.

... It just came so much sooner than Winifred dared to imagine.

Knowing there is nothing else she can do to put this off, she walks across the landing and carefully begins ascending the steps. The house already feels so much hollower on her own. When she gets nearer the bottom, hushed whispers between her parents begin to arise; it seems her attendance to the funeral is still in question, even now. The Seymours are also characteristically awful at keeping their voices down.

"How much longer is she going to be?" asks her mother, Octavia, sounding more concerned than usual.

"I told you, this was a poor idea from the start," her father, Charles, replies in a mumble.

"Oh, not this again..."

"I am simply being reasonable. I don't see what good being in attendance will do for Winifred's temperament."

"She wants to be there, dear. She wishes to say goodbye to Joseph, in... in whatever way she can. God only knows our poor girl has any other option."

"But if there were an outburst—"

"There won't be," says Winifred. Stood at the top of the staircase, she watches her parents whirl around to look at her. The pity that instantly floods their faces makes her squirm in her own skin. Is this how everyone shall treat her now? Her mother raises her chin in strength, whilst her father sighs sympathetically; he has always had a soft spot for Winifred in particular. On any other day, that would be endearing, but today she can barely look him in the eye.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Octavia asks, smiling weakly at her.

She swallows thickly, her mouth dry like sandpaper. "We are due at the church soon, are we not? We should hurry on there."

The Seymours exchange a saddened glance, noting their daughter's lack of open despair — but what would they rather have Winifred do? Crumble to the floor in howling sobs? Close herself off from the world until she withered away? Even if that is all she wishes she could do, Winifred will not allow it.

Anything she can control in this uncontrollable nightmare is, indeed, a blessing.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THE service was nothing like Winifred expected it to be. But in fairness, she didn't have traditional expectations going into it — wives hardly enjoy dwelling on the funeral of their beloved. Right away, she knew there would be no burial, for there was no one to bury. That soldier was somewhere in Spain, too far away to bring home to rest. It does not make Winifred's mission of trying to reconcile with this new reality any easier.

     Instead, their efforts to commemorate Joseph Erstwhile had resulted in a simple memorial service. The slab of stone sat atop a hill surrounded by green pastures; similar to the ones he used to run around as a child, and the same ones he enjoyed walking through with his wife. Thanks to the Erstwhiles having a longtime family friend in one of the local priests, he was able to conduct a respectable send-off for him.

    Winifred felt as though she mostly sleepwalked through the service. The words coming out of the priest's mouth felt as though he were talking about someone else entirely. No, that wasn't Joseph. He was coming back. Yet she was surrounded by a multitude of signs to wake herself up, to realise this nightmare was real after all. It made her feel sick to re-remember. Only one gaze towards Joseph's family, his father and brothers, and it cemented the loss — that is, if Winifred could even bring herself to look them in the eye.

     After the service concludes, everyone walks solemnly back to the home of the newly widowed Mrs. Erstwhile, where a light funeral dinner is conducted. Winifred sits numbly with a cup and saucer in her hand, watching all the guests help themselves to the tea, biscuits and cold meats on offer, as they exchange condolences and anecdotes about the late Joseph Erstwhile. Bits of hushed conversation slip past Winifred, whilst other mourners come to her directly:

     His childhood governess is barely keeping it together, blubbering over how he had been "such a delightful boy, who everyone loved." The governess goes on to express her deepest condolences towards Winifred, lamenting how no wife should be widowed at the age of only five and twenty.

     Meanwhile, another guest tentatively asks Winifred what will happen to her living situation, now that her husband is no longer here to support her — but not before her own mother swoops in and swats the question away, as if it were a pesky housefly. Octavia stays with her daughter and notes her attempts to remain stoic and composed, as though she were balancing her entire emotional state on a pair of stilts.

     "Are you alright, dear?" her mother asks.

     Winifred just shrugs. It's a question that is too loaded to answer; she worries that if she tried to formulate a response, she might crumble right here. In truth? More than anything, she is exhausted. She weakly lifts the teacup to her lips, sipping the liquid which has now gone cold.

     "Here, have some more tea," Octavia hums, pouring her daughter a new one. "It will calm your nerves."

     "I do not need calming, Mama, I am quite well," Winifred insists with a quiet firmness.

     "If you say so..."

     A beat passes between them. Her mother sits next to her on the bench, watching the guests mingle together out on the lawn. Sunlight bursts through the gaps in the trees and dances on the grass in dappled shadows. It could almost be a rather beautiful scene, if Winifred did not remember why they were all here in the first place.

"The weather has certainly co-operated today," says Octavia, searching for words of comfort. "I think it was a splendid idea to bring all of the guests outside, don't you?"

"Mhmm," Winifred just murmurs.

She can let her guard down slightly, if at all, in front of her mother — but it goes right back up when a guest starts approaching them. Winifred straightens herself and clears her throat, setting down her teacup. The older gentleman with wisps of silver in his air walks over with a slight gait: Mr. Ratliff, as he was called, had a son who was also fighting in Madrid. He and Joseph had been relatively good friends.

"Mrs. Erstwhile," he greets her with his nasally voice and a small bow, "I am afraid I will have to be leaving shortly. But I must thank you for inviting me, it was a most touching tribute."

"That is quite alright, Mr. Ratliff, I am very glad you could be here," Winifred replies courteously.

Before he leaves, the gentleman has more to offer in his version of comfort. After all, there is nothing Mr. Ratliff loves more than muting about the glory of serving king and country. "I'm so terribly sorry about your husband. The poor boy... but alas, he is a hero! A soldier's sacrifice for his country on the battlefield is most noble indeed. You should be very proud, Mrs. Erstwhile."

Proud. The word sits in her throat like a pebble, choking her words. All Winifred can do is nod politely. Once Mr. Ratliff walks away, she lets out a shuddering sigh. This is going to be a long afternoon.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

WINIFRED never knew you could feel ill purely from grief — but if her current state is anything to go by, it might be possible. Now behind closed doors as the evening draws to a close, her head aches and throbs behind her eyes with the weight of unshed tears. She leaves herself the task of peeling off her clothes, shedding each layer of black, crawling into her nightgown...

     There is no one else in the room, but her and the candlelight.

One palm flattened against her temple, Winifred turns to look at the bed. This has been the worst part of every night since Joseph's death so far. As usual, it is laid and smoothed out, without a crease in sight... but that is too perfect. Usually by now, Joseph would have been sitting up on his side — on the right — sleepily talking her ear off about something trivial. Not tonight, however. It has in fact been many months since anyone slept on that side, with him away wherever the war goes on the continent.

It's just that Winifred assumed he would eventually return, to her.

The last candlelight in the room is distinguished with a sigh. She drags her aching, heavy body into the bed — on her side, the left — and pulls the duvet up over her breast, knuckles curling over them. No one shifts in the space next to her, the sheets moulded to the shape of a body she knows so well. No one reaches over and clasps her hand, fitting the curve of their bodies together. No one softly breathes beside her.

At last the day catches up with her. Winifred lets out a choked gasp, salty tears slipping down her temples and into her ears. It feels cold. Sleeping alone had been one thing, when she had trained herself to focus only on the funeral as a milestone. But what now? Right now, the future without her husband feels aimless.

And the only person she feels she could talk to about it all, is the very same person who is missing.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Well, we're certainly off to a rather melancholy start. If it helps your emotions in any way, the trajectory of this story should be that it gets happier as we go along. The prologue just had to be a little more somber because it's the immediate aftermath of Joseph dying (and would it be me if I didn't go hard on the depressing stuff?). I'm intending the first few chapters of this book to be exposition that introduces Winifred and some of the supporting characters (yes, perhaps including some certain Bridgertons as well) — even that is limited though, since as I understand it, the widow would be in "deep mourning" for the first six months and not be partaking in social activities. But fear not, the lighthearted vibes of Bridgerton will soon kick in!

How are we feeling about the period drama and/or regency vibes, dialogue and setting-wise? The style is a bit new for me, but I'm enjoying it so far.

Also while I'm here, I just wanted to thank you for the outpouring of love this fic has received upon publishing it. I wasn't expecting it at all, but I appreciate every bit of it!

Thank you for reading, and I hope you have a lovely day.

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

(*yes, I'm going to channel my inner Lady Whistledown for these author's notes, because why not?)

PUBLISHED: 23/09/2023