CHAPTER ONE.
fallowing leaves.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1806.

     ON BEDS OF CRISP FALLOWING LEAVES, those from the local village and beyond have flocked to the town hall, for one of the plentiful local assemblies of the season. Refreshments are flowing from wines to teas, the air sweet with its aroma and the jovial tunes from the string quartet. Through the floorboards, the footsteps of the guests dancing rumble through, like a seismic happiness rippling through the room. All through the night these festivities shall continue...

Indeed, these are all ingredients for a good time. But Winifred is still waiting for the aforementioned 'fun' to begin.

She knows this is much more than just a party. After her eighteenth birthday in April, she became acutely aware that it was now her turn to present herself to potential suitors. Winifred is a woman ready to find a husband... in theory, that is, but never in practice. Of the many obstacles that have stood in her way so far, stubbornness and modesty to a fault have played a large part. And anyway, how is she to know who would make a good husband?

Still, she is not alone in her situation. Her older sister, Madeline, is still unmarried as the firstborn, and also shares a stubbornness when it comes to finding a match — although it is borne more out of a romantic heart than pragmatism. Love matches are hard to come by, and yet Madeline has hinged all her hopes on stumbling upon one. Therefore it's no wonder their parents decided Winifred should start being available too. Otherwise, who knew how long she would have to wait?

The Seymours, particularly Octavia, have a good go at getting their daughters to mingle. It is not so difficult for their third daughter, Abigail, who is already dancing and laughing with her aunt; if only she were older than fifteen right now. Instead, the elder half of the Seymour sisters are stuck in a corner, engaged in polite conversation with a gentleman and his son, who clearly has eyes for Madeline. The feeling, however, is not mutual. Winifred can feel Madeline's rose-tinted optimism slowly fading with every word that the young man speaks. They are not compatible in the slightest.

Madeline shoots her sister a quick glance. Save me, it cries.

I'm sure he'll go soon, she tries to respond, through a single glance. Winifred can only shrug and thin out her lips in sympathy.

With a sigh, Winifred casts her gaze carefully around the room, searching for her friend, Lettie. She met her a couple of months ago, and after finding a mutual struggle with the marriage mart in common, they decided to stick together. Between the beaming faces of dancers and the gentle candlelit chandeliers above, she tries to pick apart the crowd for any sign of Lettie. Up and down, far and wide she looks — the people part like the seas, in a lapse of crowdedness, and through the clear path Winifred does not find Lettie...

But she does find him.

Her gaze lingers upon the young man, perhaps a year or two older than she is. The flickering candlelight illuminates the clearly defined shape of his face, from the bridge of his nose to the line of his jaw. At first glance, one might think he was a stern figure, from the militant way he holds his posture. And yet everything else about him says quite the opposite. His expression is gentle, cheerful, as he listens to the conversation amongst his party on the other side of the room.

Most of all, the split second Winifred finds him, so does he.

She is caught off guard. His stare is not severe by any means, on the contrary, but it captures her completely. For a couple of seconds, he takes her in — then his lips quirking into a friendly smile, as though she were an old friend. She is so surprised by the expression that she fears she forgets to return it, remaining a serious, blank slate on the outside. Winifred wonders if she has mistaken his look to be directed at someone else. She would be tempted to check around her, but she can't bring herself to tear her eyes away from him...

The moment is fleeting. A group of people pass by, obscuring her view. Winifred stands on her tip-toes, desperately trying to seek him out again, but then he has disappeared.

She is only left with the warmth trickling through her veins, like the way the carpet in her room grows warm when the sun shines through the window onto it. It creeps up the nape of her neck, makes her heart flutter, fills her head with a pleasant fog for a few moments. What is this feeling? Winifred takes a deep breath, feeling the rush of the assembly hall's sounds and noises and smells returning to her. And, a split second later —

     "... Wouldn't you agree?" her mother is saying.

     A beat passes. Winifred blinks, palms sweating once she realises all eyes are on her in the group. "Pardon?" she asks, her voice flattened out.

     Some mothers might chastise their daughter for spacing out so blatantly. But Octavia lets out a lighthearted laugh instead, giving her a pointed glare. "How curious," she teases, "it is usually Madeline whose mind wanders, not yours."

     At this, Madeline perks up. Even she had been elsewhere. "Mama—"

     "Mr. Eastleigh was just telling us of his passion for playing the violin..." Octavia trails off, as if the conversation was going nowhere anyway. There is clearly not much else to say beyond that. At this point, her husband checks in, pledging to save his daughters from a more undesirable match by exchanging some pleasantries.

     After a few more minutes of painful small talk, when the gentleman's son has disappeared, Madeline turns to her sister, an altruistic twinkle in her eyes. "What were you staring at, sister?" she asks sweetly.

     "Nothing," Winifred replies simply.

     "Come on, you were staring at something. Even Mama noticed, and you know after nights like these, she can hardly remember what happened for being giddy with one too many glasses of wine."

     "Just let it go, Mad, it was noth—"

     "Mr. Seymour?" says a disembodied voice, belonging to the host of the event. An introduction seems to be imminent; Winifred can sense it, from the way Madeline tenses up and practically shrinks into herself. More than any of the sisters, she tires from the relentless matchmaking effort from their mother. It only becomes clearer when Octavia starts nudging her daughters, alerting their attention to whoever has just turned up; she even summons young Abigail from the dance floor. Here goes nothing...

They turn around.

Winifred's heartbeat lurches up into her throat.

The young man from before is right here, standing face-to-face with her.

Surrounded by him are three other men, who contain such a likeness that they must be his family. The host goes on to introduce them: "May I introduce Mr. Solomon Erstwhile—" he pauses, surprised by the sudden bow that the oldest man takes; slender and silver-haired, his cravat hiding most of his neck, Madeline fights hard to suppress a giggle. "— and his sons, Mr. Hugh Erstwhile, Mr. Laurence, and Mr. Joseph Erstwhile."

Joseph... the name makes a home in Winifred's memory, matched with his face. He stands out from his brothers, more youthful and boyish, compared to his two somewhat elder brothers, who seem more composed or weary. But make no mistake about it — Joseph possesses all the charm and chivalry of a well-raised gentleman.

"An absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Seymour," the boys' father says, appearing more and more to be quite the eccentric character.

Before Charles can open his mouth to respond, the host is moving on to introduce the Seymours. "As you clearly know Mr. Seymour, this is his wife, Mrs. Seymour, and their daughters: Miss Madeline Seymour, Miss Winifred, and Miss Abigail Seymour."

On cue, the three sisters curtsy politely. When Winifred rises again, she is eye-to-eye with Joseph once more. Now she is closer to him, she can make out the hue of his eyes — a pure cornflower blue. His cheeks appear a shade ruddy, from the considerable warmth of the hall. Growing shy, Winifred averts her stare, instead letting it burn into the floorboards as she watches the shadows of the candlelight.

"Our youngest, Jemima, is at home with her governess," Octavia explains away.

"She's rather too young to be staying up so late!" Abigail chirps.

Teasingly, Madeline whispers, "And it's only by sheer luck that you've managed to attend yourself..."

The two families seek to have already clustered together in a circle, Mr. Erstwhile remarking on how the Seymour name seems to be echoed around the village and the local area, revered and respected by all their tenants. Winifred tries her hardest to pay attention to the story, of how the family has travelled to just outside Hertfordshire to visit family — but with Joseph stood next to her, she feels as though her attention span skims across the subject like pond-skaters on water. The air feels charged with anticipation... but of what?

"Do you enjoy assemblies such as these, Miss Winifred?"

She looks to Joseph, first attaching his voice to the slowly-materialising image of him — it's deeper than she expected for a young man, but not commanding in any way. He manages to be soft-spoken yet energetic. Then, realising she has not uttered a single word, Winifred formulates her thoughts.

"They are joyous occasions, I must admit," Winifred replies. Then she does not know why she elaborates; perhaps because he emulates such an ease of spirit, that she feels she can jump the hurdle of small talk immediately. "... It might be a sole observation of mine, but I find it true that some things do not keep the same novelty once you grow older. They have a different feeling entirely."

"Yes, I wondered why you seemed so quizzical when I spotted you across the room. And what feeling do you think they have now?"

"... I'm not sure yet."

"Well, until you figure it out," says Joseph, almost with a slight mischief about him, "I would love to hear more about your... keen observations."

She can't help but crack a smile, surprising herself at how naturally she brightens up in his company. It becomes clear, then, what has been gripping them about one another since their first glance across the room — curiosity. A yearning to unravel the spark they felt with this stranger. All at once, it is as though all the cheers and stomps of dancers, all the white noise of chatter and clinking glasses, it all fades away... and what is left is the glorious feeling, that she and him are the only two people in the room:

Just Joseph and Winifred.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     THEY say that time heals all wounds. So, Winifred supposes that is what she is doing.

She has spent most of the last four months alone. In deep mourning, draped in black, no visitors are entertained — there is little else for Winifred to do, except to get by. She wakes up every morning on her side of the bed, and forces herself to get out of it. She eats breakfast, lunch and dinner. She makes sure to spend time in the garden and remember its beauty. Then, just when she thinks she might be feeling better, she goes to bed alone, and remembers it all over again.

     The house practically lies in dead silence without Joseph. It was one thing when he was away fighting, but now there is a strange limbo where Winifred has yet to accept he won't be coming back. If he was home, he could always be heard, whether it was his boots up and down the stairs, a cheerful whistle to himself, or the conversation he made with the household staff. The sound of raucous laughter use to bounce off these walls...

     But not since he left. Winifred isn't sure how to salvage it again. She has to admit, whilst she felt completely lost in the beginning, she can feel herself starting to grow restless. It is no wonder, when she just sits here, that her mind cannot help fall down a dark hole. She knows she should occupy herself with something... but what? The answer has not presented itself...

     Until after today.

     It is about two o'clock in the afternoon, in late September, when there is a quick knock at the door — it gives Winifred and her maid a sharp jolt, not used to receiving any kind of visitor over the last few months. Whoever could it be? She stops midway through her embroidery; it was just as well, anyway, as the clouds now covering the sun block the light through the window.

     A few moments later, the butler comes scurrying into the drawing room, slightly out-of-breath. "There is..." he pauses, inhales, "there is a Miss Fitzroy to see you, Mrs. Erstwhile. Shall I let her in?"

     Lettie. Who else would it be? Winifred sighs and nods, setting aside her embroidery. "Of course, let her in," she insists, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. There is a sense of relief at who the surprise visitor is — with anyone else, she might have to put on a brave face, but historically with Lettie, she has felt the freedom to behave as what comes naturally to her. Usually, that rule would apply more to Lettie, what with her strong-willed personality.

     Winifred follows her butler through to the entrance, where he opens the door. Surely enough, there stands Lettie, petit in stature but bold in character. Her velvet, crimson cloak brushes the steps as she ascends them, rushing straight towards her friend.

     "Miss Leticia Fitzroy—"

     "Yes, thank you," Lettie cuts the butler off in his introductions, not finding them necessary. "Hello, you..."

     Winifred responds, but it becomes muffled in the fabric of Lettie's cloak resting on her shoulder, as she is pulled into an embrace. The sigh of relief is practically squeezed out of her. Oh, how she had missed her. In vowing she would receive no visitors for a while, Winifred had not considered just how much she might miss the company of others. However, the trouble with welcoming everyone in, was that for every gem of a person, you also received five distant acquaintances who would merely rub salt into the wound without meaning to.

     Lettie Fitzroy is one of these gems. Her best friends are few and far and between, but Winifred chooses her circle carefully and loyally.

"What are you doing here?" asks Winifred, breaking away from the hug; but the two women still hold onto each other's hands.

Scoffing, Lettie replies, "Come now, that is no way to greet an old friend."

"I'm sorry, it's just that... I'm not... I'm not really expecting anyone at the moment."

"I only came to see how you are coping with everything," says Lettie, earnestly this time. "I will be travelling next week, after which I'm afraid I might not be able to see you for a while, so I thought this the most opportune moment for a drop-in. Unless you'd rather have me leave—"

     "Don't be silly, we'll make you some tea," Winifred interjects, firm but tired.

     The two friends link arms and walk into the drawing room together; the widow, trying her best, refrains from leaning too much of her weight on the guest. After some tea is made, they catch up on the months past since Joseph's funeral, which Lettie had regretfully missed. To her relief, there is an ease just like there has always been — they found that simple friendship from the moment they met.

Growing up in the same village, their camaraderie was cemented when their searches for husbands both began simultaneously. While Winifred struck gold early with Joseph, Lettie was much more allergic to marriage; she does not care if the world sees her as an old maid or a spinster. To her, the sacrifice of potential lifelong love is not a difficult one, because it is rarely a factor in marriage anyway.

The only catch to her chosen fate, of course, is that it leaves Lettie searching for other means of taking care of herself. With no husband, she turns to an occupation — a subject which Winifred delves into willingly. Anything to avoid the elephant in the room, just for now...

"How far are you travelling, then?" Winifred asks.

"I'm moving to Bath," says Lettie.

"You're moving? I thought it was only a trip."

"Well, if all goes well, I should settle in quite nicely there," she explains, delaying every sip of her tea as she speaks. "There is a Dowager Baroness living in Bath. Since her husband died, she lives alone, and I believe she is estranged from most of her family. Therefore, she has sought out a female companion, preferably with good eyesight and nimble fingers for needlework... and I have volunteered myself for the role."

     Surprised, Winifred sets down her teacup. "I never knew you had connections in Bath."

     "You can scarcely call it that..."

     "Isn't it a bit far to go for such an occupation? I assume you aren't getting paid."

     "Good grief, you're beginning to sound like my aunt, Winifred..." Lettie sighs, a coy smile on her face; the kind that always appears when she feels she has finally figured something out. "My mother shared a mutual friend with the Baroness. Anyway, I don't see my options being much more fruitful at home. I might as well branch out... and parading around a resort town sounds rather pleasant."

     "Well," says Winifred, setting down her teacup with a raised eyebrow, "it sounds like you've got all your affairs in order."

     Lettie scoffs. "I wouldn't go that far," she replies, "although it shall certainly be more successful than putting myself out on the marriage market, if any man would dare to have me..."

     Both of them giggle; if you could call it that, on Winifred's part. It is more a sharp alteration on her breathing for just one, fleeting moment. She feels heavy in her seat. Her chest tight. None of that has changed since she received that dreaded letter from Madrid. And, to her dismay, not even a visit from Lettie Fitzroy can amend that. Before she can sharpen up her demeanour again, Lettie is already switching the subject.

     "Anyway," she starts, rather carefully, "I've been here the best part of half an hour, and yet I haven't asked you what I originally meant to..."

     Here it comes.

     "... How are you coping with everything?"

     A beat passes. Lettie pauses, cringing at herself, then shaking her head.

     "I apologise," she sighs. "There is truly no way of asking that question, without sounding patronising—"

     "No, you're not patronising at all, you could never be..." Winifred insists, attempting a smile this time; it feels a shred more genuine than the last one. The truth is that she is happy Lettie visited. More than words could express. But now it is her turn to shed some light on her life. "I am well, given the circumstances. I haven't been receiving visitors since..." Since the funeral. "You are the first, anyway, in a long time."

     Lettie exhales softly through her nose. Leaning forward, brows knitted together with worry, she asks: "You have enough money?"

     "For now, yes. I have my dowry, and Joseph left me his commission... among other things."

     "And you are eating well?"

     "Yes—"

     "Do you get enough sleep—"

     "Lettie, I am well. I am taking each day as it comes," Winifred emphasises, half-frustrated but just trying to reassure her friend too. The last thing she needs is to be fussed over. In my own time, she thinks, I will get things in order.

     "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry..." Lettie's gaze falls down to her lap. "It's just that... you're..."

     "Not myself?"

     Lettie looks up again, swallowing thickly.

     "... I know," Winifred says. "I'll be alright. I just... I just need time. But you must write to me from Bath."

     "Oh, you know I will! That doesn't mean I shan't miss you. Perhaps you could visit."

     "Yes, perhaps..."

     "But just take care of yourself. Will you promise?"

     Winifred tightens her lips into a smile, touched by how insistent Lettie is. She doesn't think she has ever seen her so persistent like this. "I promise," she replies.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WHEN Joseph used to wake up on his birthday, he would be a ball of energy. Like his wife, he was an early riser, but he would rise especially at the crack of dawn just to breathe in the fresh air, and to feel the morning dew on the grass. All day, he would be in good spirits, and everyone else would be pulled into his orbit of euphoria...

     It is this milestone, rearing its ugly head when she wakes up alone, that moves Winifred to get out of the house. The side of his bed is cold, yes, but outside it looks glorious — a crisp, mid-October morning. Loud and clear, as she touches his empty pillow, she can almost hear Joseph's voice. "A day spent inside on such a beautiful day would be wasted, don't you think?" And, as always, she finds herself agreeing with him wholeheartedly.

     So, that afternoon, she dresses snugly in her widow's weeds, securing her bonnet over her head; Winifred lets the thin veil fall over her face. A pair of ebony gloves are pulled over her hands, and a similar black shawl hugging the small of her back. She makes a brief announcement to her housekeeper that she will be going for a short walk. Will she be needing company? No, she tells them. This one is for herself.

Winifred had thought she would visit Joseph's memorial. It would be high time, after all. It's a little over four months since he passed...

She has no regrets of stepping out once the sun hits her face — indeed, it was a good idea to soak in this autumnal bliss, before the cold weather set in and the roads muddied too much. Winifred advances briskly along the path, feeling a little more alive with each step and each stretch of her legs. She had always been fond of walking since she was a girl. Good for the body, even better for the mind. Then she enjoyed them even more when Joseph joined her, and they strolled as husband and wife.

Rolling hills of Kent's fading greenery surround her. The fresh air colouring her cheeks and the tip of her nose rosy, Winifred looks around at the fallowing leaves on the trees, dipped into golden yellow on the verge of darker autumnal hues. As she takes them in, it dawns on her that, indeed, things are changing. The seasons continue to change without her husband.

... Maybe one day, Winifred will have to make peace with that reality.

She is starting to recognise the gradual ascent to the hill, where Joseph's memorial sits. The familiar churchyard is materialising ahead of her. Before she even realises it, Winifred's steps become more laboured, until she grinds to a heavy-hearted halt in the middle of the path. Paralysed. Her heart sinks. All she can see in front of her is the sea of black from a funeral procession.

But she is almost there.

If she could just...

No. She can't do it.

It isn't as though Joseph is there, anyway. There is no one to visit.

Winifred turns on her heel, making haste in the opposite direction. Her mouth has gone dry and her skin has grown clammy with a cold sweat. She charges further and further away, until she is sure she has put enough distance between her and... that. Deep breaths. Then she pulls her shawl more snugly around her torso.

Redirecting her route, Winifred decides to take a turn about the surrounding paths. After having to lift her petticoat above one muddy puddle too many, she decides to stick to the clearer roads. She strolls at her own pace along a vast road covered with trees, blanketing the ground in autumn shades. The afternoon sun bursting through the branches illuminates the golden hues of the turning leaves.

Up ahead, two gentleman on horseback are gently trotting towards her — they must be in the area for the hunting season. With the first frost imminent, Winifred is often used to seeing groups of men going out in groups to catch fair game. Some of her neighbours a couple of towns over often offer their land to those traveling in from the city. As she nears the men, her head bowed, she cannot help but eavesdrop on their bickering:

"— We are not lost, brother," says one of the men, "we have taken this route many a time in the past."

"So is that why we've gone in circles for the last ten minutes?" teases the other man, evidently the amused brother. "Are you distracted by the scenery, perhaps?"

"Just follow me and do not ask questions. We have ample time to reach the Rochesters."

     The two men cease their conversation once they are in close proximity with Winifred. It takes one simple glance to know she is a widow, drenched in black. There is a mumbled exchange of respects between them, a mere "Good-afternoon", before they have all walked past one another. Winifred thinks little of it, until she continues to catch more of their conversation:

     "Or..." says the second brother, she thinks, by his more relaxed tone, "we could simply ask someone for directions."

     "Who would we—"

     The other voice cuts himself off abruptly. He has come to realise whatever his brother is suggesting. All of a sudden, Winifred gets the feeling that she is being watched.

     "No, we cannot," he decides tensely. "She is clearly in mourning."

     "And should that make her any less of a knowledgable person?"

     "It would be improper, brother."

     "Very well, then... let's circumnavigate the village once more, shall we? Maybe we'll be lucky if there are any pheasant left."

     "Do you find yourself amusing?"

     Winifred can't listen to this anymore. The blatantly obvious answer to their problems are in plain sight, and the more she hears them bicker, the more it irritates her. With a sigh, she turns back around, lifting the veil from her face and draping it over the back of her bonnet. "Excuse me, gentlemen, did you require some help?" she slices through their conversation, craning up her neck to look at them on horseback.

     A beat passes. The two brothers exchange a glance, surprised that she approached them, before the sterner-sounding one replies, "Madam, thank you for the offer, but I can assure you, we do not need help—"

     "Actually, we've been turning circles around the local area for the last ten minutes, with no clear route," admits the other sibling, smiling crookedly at their predicament. He has an ease about his character that leaves Winifred dropping her tensed shoulders; there's no need to play pretend. "We were going to join Sir Rochester for the hunt next week."

     "If you are looking for the Rochesters, you are headed in entirely the wrong direction," Winifred says plainly.

     The stubborn brother's expression drops, his features knitted together with his sharp glare. Meanwhile, the other brother shoots him a look of I told you so. As a mild breeze sweeps through, rustling the crunching leaves around her feet and the horse hooves, Winifred directs their attention by pointing her gloved hand down the road.

     "Head back to where you came from, to the village centre. When you reach the pond, take a left by the inn, and keep following that road until the fork in the path. There, you can go left again, and you should be on the right track."

     "Thank you," says the second brother emphatically, the hue of his pale green eyes catching the sunlight.

     Winifred gives him a polite nod. When she does, she finds him gazing at her a moment's longer than she anticipated. And, for whatever reason, she lingers for a while too. Then another breeze blows, chillier this time, and Winifred feels herself shiver. She should start heading home before the chill worsens; the change in the weather can be rather volatile this time of year. It prompts the first brother to furrow his brows at her.

     "Madam, don't you have a carriage?" he asks, as if the sight of Winifred walking alone is obscene. "The wind is particularly bracing this afternoon."

     "No, I quite enjoy a brisk walk," Winifred gives them a small curtsy before she sets off. "Good-day, sir."

     Parting ways, Winifred walks off down the road again, her gloved hands inter-locked at her abdomen. But as she pushes her feet past the blankets of leaves, she finds her mind wandering to the interaction just past — something about the second brother left her feeling... she doesn't actually know what she felt. All she knows is that the uneasiness in her heart, after fleeing from Joseph's memorial, was able to take a backseat briefly. It compels Winifred to look behind her, watching the two men grow more and more distant on their horses...

... If she had waited a moment longer before turning back again, she would have seen Benedict Bridgerton glancing over his shoulder, with his own flicker of curiosity about her.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

While this chapter definitely hurt my heart to write in parts, I like to think it was bookended with some more hopeful scenes: at the beginning with the flashback of Winifred meeting Joseph, and of course, at the end where (you probably guessed it), Winifred and Benedict unknowingly meet for the first time! It was only a brief interaction, seemingly unimportant at the time, but their paths will soon cross again. Anyway, what did we think of chapter one? I'm still trying to adapt to the writing style, although it's getting easier as I go.

Speaking of flashbacks, I'm thinking of including one per chapter for a while, to give you guys a glimpse into Winifred's life with Joseph, and so you can see just how lovely he was... I don't know whether that will be at the beginning or end of chapters, or how chronological the flashbacks will be, but I'm just going to play around with it.

As always, with historical accuracy (and even geography), I'm trying my best to be accurate and somewhat consistent. Then again, I remember that Bridgerton has people dancing in sparkly dresses to 'thank u, next' and suddenly the pressure is off 😂 I'm trying to just get the basic, overarching aspects of the regency era correct.

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for reading, and please vote and comment if you can!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 14/10/2023