CHAPTER FOUR.
mayfair calling.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1807.

THE NEW YEAR HAS KICKED OFF IMMEDIATELY FOR THE SEYMOURS. At long last, one of their daughters is engaged to be wed — and not just to anyone, either. Madeline will walk down the aisle to the future Earl of Colchester, becoming his countess. Now that she is stepping out of her life as the daughter of a gentleman, many arrangements are being made left, right and centre.

The trip to London is worth the frigid weather for making wedding arrangements. Two weeks from now, Madeline will be married, and there is much to do until then. The Seymour women are currently sat in their temporary living quarters until the wedding has passed, choosing flowers for the ceremony. Octavia is busy with Madeline, making sure she is well-equipped for the stark change her life is about to take on. Abigail is wide-eyed and excited about the whole celebration, whereas Jemima bores very quickly and tucks into the next chapter of a gothic novel rather advanced for her age.

Winifred is taking part in organising, too, but only physically. Her mind lies elsewhere.

Recently, Joseph Erstwhile has been mercilessly taking up her thoughts. She thinks herself silly for it — she has not seen him since the end of last autumn, when he left Hertfordshire again to start his military career. What was she expecting? Nevertheless, every day that passes without talking to him, Winifred feels a little bit heavier. Something about all of these wedding preparations for Madeline have just cemented how much she misses him...

Indeed, not as a friend at all, but much more than that.

The truth is that Winifred has grown intensely fond of Joseph. She has never known anything quite like it. As she has now learned, there is a reason why his voice is always like music to her ears; why one look she dares take into his blue eyes can soothe her anxieties, or why she feels she could talk to him all day, every day. His warm, affectionate nature is like a balm to her more serious demeanour.

... But surely he does not feel the same way. If he did, wouldn't he have stayed in Hertfordshire? Or asked her the important question? Winifred decides that lovesickness is her least favourite ailment of all. She feels pathetic.

Today's mail — which has been much more plentiful since the engagement — is brought in on a small tray with sealed letters on it. Octavia removes her attention for a moment from the bouquets she is arranging. "Winifred, dear," she asks distractedly, "could you see if we have received word about a date and time for the ceremony?"

"Yes, one moment..." Winifred gets up from her seat, setting down the ribbons in her hands. She walks over to the tray, sighing heavily as she flies through the stack of mail. "Here it is, Mama."

"Thank you, darling," Octavia takes the letter and opens it. She reacts loudly to the apparently inconvenient choice of date, but Winifred is now paying little attention to it... she is instead focused on the last letter in the pile:

It is addressed to a Miss Winifred Seymour. No one else. But how could that be? It is not Lettie's hand, clearly, and she cannot think of anyone else who would write only to her.

Unless...

Winifred walks over to the window, ripping open the wax seal and skim-reading the letter... her hammering heartbeat catapults into her throat. It is from Joseph. She reads it all in non-chronological order, only catching certain phrases and words through her delirious disbelief — he talks animatedly about being an ensign, his passion seeping through the pages. And he misses her. It is right there, in writing. Joseph then congratulates her on her sister's engagement, wishing her family the very best.

The letter feels so precious in her hands. She smooths her thumb over the handwriting, his scrawled hand becoming familiar to her.

"Who is that from?" Octavia asks, curiously.

Winifred whirls around, pinning the letter behind her back. "From... Lettie," she replies quickly. "She was just telling me about her Christmas."

Her mother hums, too busy with Madeline to inquire further, and gets back to work. The lie had to be told — young, unmarried men and women do not simply write to each other out of the blue. Not unless they are engaged, or similarly connected... so what does this letter mean for them?

Winifred carries it gingerly to her room, managing to slip out unnoticed. Her heart races as she rummages through her bureau for an ink-pot, quill and a fresh roll of parchment. Once she does, she lights herself a candle, its dim glow illuminating the blank page before her. The pen hovers uncertainly above it at first — it feels like she is about to bare her heart to him.

"Dear Joseph..." Winifred whispers out loud as she scribbles.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

MAYFAIR might as well be a lion's den in sheep's clothing. Upon arriving in her own carriage, Winifred feels a quietly brewing sense of unease at her surroundings. The city of London feels so much bigger than she remembers from her previous visits here; and on top of that, the flamboyant members of the ton swanning around her remind Winifred firmly of her status as an outsider. She self-consciously smooths her hand over her black cloak.

     It has been a long journey here, not so much in distance, but in the traffic — everyone of noble status is also flocking from their country estates to the city for the social season. Through her carriage window she spotted door after door where giant suitcases were being brought in by footmen, elegant families following in tow.

     What am I doing here? Winifred thinks to herself for a moment.

     Much persuasion was needed to convince her this trip was worth it. Even now, she still thinks she would rather be at home, with her predictable routine and her safety net. But she also realised that perhaps Madeline was onto something — getting away for a while could be good for her. And by stepping up to be responsible for her sisters, isn't that what she has been searching for? Something to make her feel a little bit less... useless.

     The Osbornes' home in Grosvenor Square is more compact than their sprawling country estate, but no less garish. Dark-bricked on the outside with tall pillars and narrow windows, it sits nestled between all the other homes that border this affluent neighbourhood.

Just a couple of houses down their street, Winifred notices a family all of women with flaming red hair, bickering amongst themselves as they ascend up the steps into their home. She catches the eye of one of them — the only quiet one, with copper curls clashing slightly with a bright pink dress. The girl looks over at her curiously until, upon being noticed, she busies herself and looks away.

"Penelope! Will you stop dawdling?" a voice, presumably her mother's, calls from inside the doorway.

"Coming, Mama!" Penelope blushes as bright as her dress, rushing up the steps into their home.

Lion's den, Winifred thinks once again with a shake of her head.

A flurry of footmen come out to carry her luggage inside, leaving her feeling awkward at all of the attention — she feels as though there is a tightly-packed schedule she has not been informed of. Winifred follows them inside to the spacious entrance hall, larger than it looks on the outside, with a polished chequered floor and polished banisters that ascend all the way up in a spiralling staircase. Already meandering towards her between all the valets and footmen is Madeline, with Octavia in tow, both looking as flustered as the other... like mother, like daughter.

"Oh, good, you're here!" Madeline chastely embraces her, two quick kisses on each cheek, while their mother does the same. "I hadn't expected all of you to arrive on the same day as us..."

"We're just being efficient, dear," Octavia insists.

"Yes, but I thought you would all scatter yourselves slightly when you arrived, that way we wouldn't tripping over trunks everywhere we went!"

"Are Abigail and Jemima here too?" Winifred asks, interrupting their flustered disagreement.

"Yes, they are just getting settled into their rooms. Which reminds me, we should get you settled into where you'll be staying!" Madeline looks around wildly, but her housekeeper isn't in sight, clearly trying to deal with something else hectic at the moment. "... Right. Well, I'll show you myself. Follow me."

Madeline leads the way up the winding staircase, Winifred following closely behind her, trying to take in her surroundings as they flash past her: ornate lamps on the walls, hanging chandeliers, lavish rugs imported from overseas. Somehow, she hadn't expected it to be so big for a home in the city... then again, this is the Osbornes they are talking about.

     Up on the landing, her calves burning from the steep climb upstairs, Winifred follows Madeline to an open door where footmen are dropping off her couple of trunks — her jaw drops slightly as she walks inside. This is considered smaller living? She has her own four-poster bed with curtains, all matching in a deep emerald colour. Near the window there is a vanity, and her clothes are already being unpacked from her trunk and hung in a shiny dark wood wardrobe. She even has her own fireplace, the mantelpiece being what she thinks to be marble.

     "I thought you might prefer having your own room, instead of sharing," says Madeline, slightly out-of-breath. "What do you think?"

     "It'll do," Winifred murmurs, her wide eyes not matching her understated response.

     "Good. I thought you would..." Her sister pauses thoughtfully, linking her hands in front of her. "I know this is all quite overwhelming for you. Just do what you can. This can be—"

     "I will be alright, Madeline. Really."

     Madeline nods, smoothing down her pelisse. A call from her housekeeper seems to alert her. "Oh, I had better run. Duty calls. Abigail and Jemima are downstairs if you wish to see them, and– oh yes! We will be having dinner at seven o'clock!"

     With that, she whisks away in a hurry, leaving Winifred to digest her new surroundings. It feels strange being somewhere completely new. Apart from her own home in Kent, and her childhood room when she spent Christmas in Hertfordshire, Winifred has not ventured far since she lost her husband. While it unsettled her, she does not feel as distraught as she expected she would feel... though there is still time for that feeling to surface. Nevertheless, there are traces of familiarity in this room; designs or decorations which she can just feel were influenced by Madeline.

     She sits rather helplessly as her trunks are being unpacked — she always feels awkward when things are being done for her like this — then, only when all the footmen and maids leave, does she get a moment's peace. Winifred sinks onto the edge of her bed with a sigh that deflates her onto her back. For a minute, she stares absentmindedly at the ceiling which she will have to grow accustomed to for the next few months. Then, getting up again, she wanders over to the window...

     Grosvenor Square is welcoming all the esteemed members of the ton, clearly. They are pouring out of carriages everywhere. Winifred is sure she will get to know many more of them than she already does (and that she would like to). The majority of them will, certainly, be titled: dukes, earls, viscounts, marquesses, barons. It is a crowd that the Seymours, a family of the landed gentry based firmly in the countryside, will not usually mix with as much.

     Which reminds me... she thinks, remembering that her sisters have already arrived, too.

     Winifred only has to descend one flight of stairs to find Abigail and Jemima. From there, she only has to follow the sound of their voices, bickering as usual. She turns into their room — just like Madeline said, they are sharing, except their room has deep purple bedspreads instead of green. Both of the girls are squeezed next to each other at the window, spying on the crowds below.

     "Who are they, do you suppose, Abigail?"

     "Which ones?"

     "The one with the squawking mother, of course!"

     "Well, I cannot tell you if you are blocking my view, can I?!"

     "You two should be more subtle if you are to keep spying on the ton," Winifred tells them. She walks over behind her sisters and they turn around, pleased to see her, although their attentions also seem elsewhere. Down below, they are spying on the same family she saw outside, all with flaming red hair.

     "Oh, Winifred, hello!" says Abigail feverishly. Nodding to the mother below, she says, "That is the Featherington family, I believe. They have had quite the turbulent year. Madeline has not told me everything, but all I know is that they seemed to be right in the middle of all of last year's scandal..."

     Winifred sighs impatiently. She is hopelessly out-of-the-loop when it comes to society gossip, much to her relief.

     "Who do you suppose lives in that house, with the wisteria? It looks rather inviting." Jemima, with her questions, gestures to the grand house standing like a beacon nearly opposite theirs. She is right, it does look warmer than the other homes, wisteria plants draped around the entrance.

     "I do not know," Abigail hums, dissatisfied. "We shall have to ask Madeline."

     "Yes, perhaps..." Winifred stares out at the house, too.

     A knock on the door grabs the trio's attention. A moment later, their mother is poking their head in, with a slight huff. "Your sister has requested that I stay out of her way whilst she organises things," Octavia shrugs, as if she could not possibly see why Madeline would be bothered by her motherly interference. She sits down at the end of one of the beds.

     Jemima, adjusting the sleeves on her dress, sighs loudly and collapses onto her bed face-down. "This is going to be a long summer..." she mumbles into her pillow.

     "Yes, a summer of opportunities," Octavia reminds them.

     "Well... I think it rather nice that we're all together, for once," Abigail adds quietly. "How often does that happen anymore?"

     She does have a point. After Madeline and Winifred were married, very rarely are the Seymours together all at once. Octavia softens and smiles fondly at her, patting the space next to her. "Yes, duckie, you're right," she says. She chuckles as Abigail blushes at the nickname and sits beside her.

     Winifred sits at the end of Jemima's bed, balancing it out like a see-saw of sorts. She has to admit, she does feel sorry for her. At least Abigail is eager to be settled down, growing more anxious with each year she has not found a husband. Jemima, on the other hand, has always loved being untethered, and now that she is 'out', Winifred can imagine that this whole situation is her worst nightmare...

     But none of this is expressed to her. Instead, she opts for firmness.

     "Come now, Jem. All will be well," Winifred drags her up to a sitting position. "Remember, you are most fortunate to be able to meet bachelors in this part of society. Many girls your age would bend over backwards for such a match."

     "I know, I know..." Jemima grumbles.

     Octavia realises her daughter's reluctance and gives her a sympathetic look. "Jemima, my dear... it is only your first year being out. If you cannot find a match during this London season, then that is quite alright. I was a few years older by the time I met your father. Besides, you should not settle for just anyone — this is for the rest of your life. The last thing I would want is for you to rush into something ill-advised."

     Jemima sits bolt upright, her eyes shining. "What– so, I don't have to get married?"

     "Not yet, if you are not ready," Octavia clarifies. "But that does not mean you should not try. Just... make the most of this opportunity, girls. They seldom come along."

     Abigail seems to grow quiet with this. Now in her twenties, she always seems acutely aware of trying to find a match. If anyone is prepared to launch themselves into this season, it is her. As for Jemima, who knows what she will get up to? Either way, Winifred knows it will be a challenge to chaperone them both — and there is no turning back now.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

WINIFRED wakes up as she always does, reaching across the bed to search for her husband.

When she does not find him, her eyelids are pried unwillingly open — but instead of finding the usual empty space of their bed at home, she finds the luxurious bedspread of her guest room. It all comes flooding back to her. Pulling herself up and out of bed, Winifred pads across in her nightgown to the window, peering out between a crack in the curtains. Surely enough, below her, Grosvenor Square is just beginning to awaken with life.

Something about it is... freeing. A distraction, at least, from her routine at home. She does not feel as heavy as she does this time in the morning, were she back in her own room. It gives Winifred a sudden lift of spirit. Maybe she can do this. The social season is the last thing she wishes to take part in, but maybe it will prove a good distraction after all.

Winifred is just mulling over this when the doors suddenly open, a pair of maids in identical indigo dresses walking in. All three of them start at the sight of the other — clearly they were expecting her to be in bed, whilst Winifred had forgotten they were coming in at all. "Good-morning," she says, once she catches her breath again.

Once she is dressed in a dusty mauve pelisse, Winifred starts to make her way downstairs. Even though everyone is supposedly in the house now, that doesn't stop it from feeling like a bustling hive. A small child whizzes past her — Adrian, she realises — and swings one leg over the top of the staircase banister. Now mounted on it, he starts sliding down with stunted speed, letting out a long "Whoopeeeeee!" of glee as he does.

Winifred panics. "Oh, Adrian! Be careful—"

"Get down from there, you impertinent little boy!" The commanding voice seems to rattle Adrian, his face suddenly paling as he removes himself from the banister at the bottom. "This is no way a future earl should be acting. Run along, now..."

"Yesmylady," Adrian blurts out all at once before running off.

Unable to avoid her now, Winifred ascends a few steps further, only interrupted by a maid furiously polishing the banister on which he slid down. At the bottom of the steps stands the stony woman that is Madeline's mother-in-law — Persephone Osborne, the Dowager Countess of Colchester. She is instantly recognisable as being related to her son, only by sharing some of their features. Except she does not have the same liveliness in her dark eyes... they are sharp, judgemental. Persephone's once-dark hair, now appearing like wiry steel, has been styled without a single strand out of place, just as immaculate as her pelisse the shade of red wine.

"Good-morning, my lady," she greets the dowager countess. "I– I did not know you were in Grosvenor Square, too."

"I have been here all along. Your arrivals were far too testing on my patience last night. Hmph..." Persephone looks her up and down, nose turned up. "I did not know that my home would be running wild with visitors this season, until a mere week ago. My daughter-in-law seems to have little comprehension for informing her elders in advance."

"Oh..."

"Where is your lady's maid?" asks the dowager suddenly.

Winifred blinks at her. "Pardon?"

"Your lady's maid. I did not see you arrive with one yesterday. If you are not travelling with your husband, you should be travelling with your maid."

"I do not have one, Lady Osborne."

Persephone's skin pulls tightly over her bones, as if horrified by the idea. "You do not have a lady's maid? That is unusual, most unusual indeed. Who dresses you? Who accompanies you?"

Winifred would really rather not have this conversation at all, let alone right now, but she does not see herself having any other choice — once trapped in an interrogation with Persephone, it is difficult to wriggle out of it again. "Well..." she starts carefully, tiredly, "I did not feel the need to have one. Even before my husband was... when it was just myself at home, it felt excessive to have a larger staff. I have two chamber maids, which perfectly suffice."

     "Hmph..." Persephone eyes her judgementally again. Then, after a painfully long silence, she turns towards the corridor. "I believe breakfast is being served."

     Once the dowager countess is out of view, Winifred exhales a large breath of relief. Behind her, she can hear the click of riding boots, and turns to see Silas descending down the stairs. "I did not know your mother was in London, too," she whispers to him. Upon the mention of it, she watches his expression sour — from what she understands, the Osbornes aren't exactly the most tight-knit of families. Madeline's stories from when she first joined it have certainly cemented that perception.

     "She insisted to stay... which I hardly see the point of, anyway, if she is going to critique everyone all the time," Silas says through gritted teeth; he takes a deep breath to calm himself again. "I apologise in advance."

     "For what?"

     "Anything. Everything. My mother cannot be here for the whole season, surely... the sooner she clears out, the better."

     "Do you think she will?" asks Winifred, falling into step with her brother-in-law as they walk to breakfast.

     "She has to. Often she'll spend some of the summer in the resort towns, for the fresh air. When she does, we shall instead be blessed to receive correspondence about how much she detests the countryside!"

     The bitter sarcasm is scathing. Still, when they walk into the dining room, Silas is all smiles as his wife and children are gathered there, too. He is even extra-polite to Persephone, who lowers herself into one of the armchairs with a grimace. "Good-morning, Mother," he gives a strained nod. "Did you sleep well?"

     "Barely," she replies coldly. Her eyes are cast over the pot of green tea being poured into a cup for her. With a single stretch of her palm, she halts the pouring when it is enough. As she takes a sip, the rest of the Seymours come downstairs, Octavia leading her daughters into the room.

     "Mrs. Seymour," Persephone says.

     "Persephone," replies Octavia, knowing the dowager hates being addressed by her first name.

     Now that everyone is here, a very hungry little Camille reaches across and grabs a brioche bun from the basket, sinking her teeth straight into it. Jemima copies the four year-old and helps herself to her breakfast. Often, breakfast should be a more relaxed affair, in the breakfast parlour or sometimes even in the drawing room... but not in this house. The meal begins quiet and tense, the only sound being the clatter of cutlery and some whispered conversation. The table displays an array of toast, butter, eggs, cold pork, bread rolls and conserves, like marmalade or jam.

     It is Silas who finally breaks the silence. "So, anything on the agenda for today?" he turns to Madeline, "I saw you receiving some invitations this morning."

     "Actually, yes..." Madeline straightens up, relieved that the topic has been opened. She sets down her cutlery to speak; although Persephone looks like the last thing she wants is hearing her daughter-in-law talk, she silently listens anyway. "We can get off to an immediate start in meeting some people, even before the first ball of the season. Do you remember I told you about the Bridgertons?"

     There is a murmur of familiarity around the table; it had slipped Winifred's mind, but it rings some bells now.

     "Well, the Viscountess heard we were coming, and she invited us to visit them tomorrow afternoon, at their home. They live just opposite us... she said she was especially excited to see you, Mama," she smiles at Octavia.

     "Do you know the Bridgertons already?" Abigail asks.

     "I knew Violet when I was much, much younger. Her father used to join the hunt on my family's land," Octavia reminisces. "Goodness, I have not seen her in years. She was always a very kind-hearted and generous girl—"

     "Far too generous for her own good, if you ask me," Persephone mutters.

     Ignoring her, Octavia continues. "And I am sure that has extended to her children. She does have so many of them, after all, doesn't she?"

     "Eight, in total," Madeline confirms.

     "And the three eldest, I seem to remember, are sons... three unmarried sons. The firstborn is a Viscount, no less!" she grins at her two youngest daughters, getting very opposite reactions; Abigail perks up while Jemima rolls her eyes.

     "Dream on, Mrs. Seymour," Silas scoffs with an amused grin, "if I know anything about the Viscount, it is that he is not inclined for the world of matchmaking. You should have seen him last year, trying to arrange his poor sister's marriage... as for himself? Not exactly the settling-down type, if memory serves me."

     "That isn't what I heard..." Madeline teases quietly.

     Silas raises his eyebrows, confused, so he leans in closer as his wife tells him something in closer confidence — perhaps a rumour she is not quite sure of yet. When he has heard it, Silas leans back, looking to be in absolute disbelief. Winifred, meanwhile, has no idea where to cut in or contribute. She simply feels like she is being pulled along for the ride.

"Well..." Silas blinks with a shake of his head. "I stand corrected."

     "So, what do we think? Should we accept the invitation?" Madeline asks, ignoring the surprise on her husband's face.

     "Definitely do, my dear," Octavia replies, before any of her daughters can protest.

Well, Winifred thinks, there goes my hope for a gentle start...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THE wisteria house turns out to belong to the Bridgertons. It is the first thing you notice about their home, almost directly opposite the Osbornes in Grosvenor Square. It hangs in bright purple hues across the doorway and from below the windowsills, brightening the house to look far more inviting than all the others. Winifred is instantly reminded of the country. Even Abigail comments on the floral decorations, cooing, "Ooh, how lovely!" as they walk in behind the butler. Luckily, they left the dowager countess at home at her request, so Silas and Madeline lead the way for the other Seymours.

     "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Winifred suddenly mumbles to her mother.

     Octavia tilts her head, confused. "Whatever do you mean?"

     "Am I not going to... dampen the mood?"

     It is Winifred's way of asking, Will I just be the widow in the corner who makes everyone feel miserable?

     "Oh, my dear, you will be warmly embraced no matter how you feel or behave, trust me," her mother reassures her; while distracted, she seems heartbroken that her daughter would even suggest such a thing. "And if anyone would understand your situation, it is the dowager viscountess."

     Dowager viscountess. Those words sink into Winifred... so Violet is a widow too, then.

When they all go inside, the next thing Winifred notices is the staff — they all seem rather happy. At least, for the most part, they buzz around contentedly serving this family. Maids, butlers, footmen, the housekeeper, everyone. She takes it as a good sign about the Bridgertons. How the household staff act usually says everything you need to know about their superiors.

     Through a grand, well-lit ballroom, they are led through tall archways with light blue curtains, to the winding staircase that leads up to the drawing room. The Seymour girls crane their heads around in awe, trying to drink in every detail of the place. Winifred notices that everywhere there are vases, filled with freshly-picked flowers that leave the home in a pleasant, refreshing fragrance.

     She looks to her right as she walks upstairs, where a giant painting of the three eldest sisters is mounted on the wall — one of them is the picture of elegance and beauty, one seems unsettled and desperate to move even in art, and the third seems understated but sure in herself. Winifred's gaze pans across, and she sees a painting of just two children this time, a boy and a girl. They must be the two youngest Bridgertons.

     Then she looks to the painting on the left, of the three sons...

     Winifred does not intend to slow down, but she does, grinding eventually to a halt in the middle of the staircase while her family keep walking up. On the left, there is a brother with a boyish features, in stark contrast to the brother on the other side of the painting, whose chest is puffed out and his chiselled features drawn with duty and power.

     But it is the middle brother who catches Winifred's attention.

     Her chin is tilted upwards as she stares at the Bridgerton thoughtfully. She cannot for the life of her figure out why — she searches for reasons in his relaxed posture, his pale green eyes, or the thin line of his lips — but he almost looks... familiar. No, Winifred thinks, he couldn't be. Because where could she possibly have met him? She would remember if she had met a Bridgerton, surely. She does not forget things so easily. A memory is slowly starting to come into focus now... one she had nearly forgotten about... and, now that it is, the stern-looking brother is starting to seem familiar too...

     "Winifred! Are you coming?" Octavia's voice echoes down the stairs.

     "Hm? Oh, um, yes! Just a moment..." Winifred calls after her. She shoots the painting one last quizzical glance, before lifting her petticoat and bolting up the stairs to meet the others. His face is still etched in her memory, starting to come into focus, although not surely enough that she wants to assume she has met him.

     "There you are," Octavia sighs when she arrives, "I hadn't a clue where you'd gone."

     "Apologies, Mama, I was just... admiring some of the paintings," Winifred says, still in deep thought.

They are all stood outside the drawing room, waiting to be introduced. There is plenty of noise from inside; chatter, piano-playing and thumping footsteps muffled behind the door. The butler goes to open the door, and the sudden attention from their guests sends a wave of realisation over the Bridgertons — they stop slouching in their seats, reading a book, or in the case of the little ones, chasing each other around the room.

     There are so many of them, Winifred can barely keep count. She matches each one to the paintings she just saw, nameless for now, but all in different positions: one daughter sat at the pianoforte, another tearing her eyes away from a pamphlet, and sitting there on a nearby armchair...

     Oh!

     It hits her like a lightning bolt. The gentleman in the painting who she couldn't place seemed only vaguely familiar before, but now that he stands up in front of her, it seems clear as day. Winifred met him on a walk one day, last autumn when she was still in her deepest mourning, and she gave him and his brother directions. It took seeing him in person to remind her of it — there is the way he sits in his chair, the crookedness of his slight smile, and the ease in his demeanour compared to other family of his... none of that can be captured the same way in the painting.

     "The Earl and Countess of Colchester, Mrs. Seymour, Mrs. Erstwhile, Miss Abigail Seymour, and Miss Jemima Seymour..." the butler forgets to draw breath while introducing them to the Bridgertons, letting out a quiet gasp for air when he gets to the end.

     The mother, Winifred assumes is Violet, rises from her seat and steps forward looking delighted. "Octavia!" she jumps straight to informalities, greeting her old friend, "I cannot believe how long it has been... in fact, how much time do you suppose has—"

     "Dear Violet, do not talk too much of time," Octavia interjects jokingly, "I feel old enough as it is."

     Violet laughs cheerily. "Of course, I know the feeling. And Lady Osborne," she adds, turning to Madeline, "it is so good to see you again."

     "Likewise, Lady Bridgerton," Madeline replies with glowing eyes. The Bridgertons were one of the first families she met after marrying Silas and stepping into the ton, and it would seem that the dowager viscountess tried her best to take the newcomer under her wing.

     Winifred does not know where to look. Her glance keeps landing on the brother she recognised, with the creatively-tied cravat and ruffled sleeves — and now he is looking at her, too. Does he recognise her as well? If he does, he is keeping quiet about it, instead seeming to study her in deep concentration.

     "You know, Octavia, when I first met your daughter," says Violet, "I knew the two of you must be related... she was the spitting image of you when we were only teenagers."

     "In all but personality, yes," Octavia hums, diverting her gaze instead to Jemima, who is not paying attention.

     "Mama! Are you going to introduce us or not?" the youngest girl exclaims excitedly.

     "Hyacinth!" Violet hisses, but not with the venom that Persephone used just the other day; there is an endeared cadence to it. With a small sigh, she turns to her guests and remarks, "Well, since you have now met my youngest, may I introduce the rest of my children: Anthony, Benedict, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory and, indeed, Hyacinth. I'm afraid you have just missed my other two — Colin is still on his travels and Daphne is busy fulfilling her duties as duchess, I am sure..."

     Alphabetical, Winifred notices about the naming of the children, how convenient. She makes a mental note of Benedict's name, finally being able to match it to the face. He still doesn't seem to place her yet — if it is taking him this long, she doubts he will ever reach that conclusion. It was only a fleeting moment, after all... she would have forgotten it completely, had they not reunited like this by such strange circumstances.

     She can now place his brother from that day, too, Anthony — the Viscount Bridgerton, no less. Winifred is slightly horrified that she didn't know who he was. Had she known, she could have addressed him properly! He is the picture of a man carrying many burdens and responsibilities on his shoulders. Anthony checked a pocket watch when they first came in, and does it again before anyone has sat down. However, he loosens up slightly when Silas walks over to greet him, locked in a handshake between old friends.

     "Good to see you again, Colchester," says Anthony.

     "Likewise, Bridgerton," Silas says with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So... is it true? That this is the year Anthony Bridgerton finally settles down and finds himself a wife?"

     "You mean finding a suitable viscountess? Then yes, although the search so far has been gruelling to say the least..."

     "Rather clinical way of going about it, don't you think?"

     "It requires pragmatism, if you ask me," Anthony clenches his jaw. "I am not interested in anything further."

     "Well, if even Hastings could be so lucky in love, then any of us could be..."

     Madeline suddenly leans in closer to Winifred, whispering near her ear: "They're old friends from their Oxford days. The Duke of Hastings, too. He married Daphne Bridgerton last year."

"Please, be seated! We do have many of them," Violet announces with a smile.

Since there are so many of them in the large drawing room, they splinter off into groups to converse, making sure certain young ladies are chaperoned where necessary. Winifred ends up sat by one of the large fireplaces, opposite Abigail and her mother, with Violet sitting in a nearby armchair. Jemima is at the other end of the room with Madeline, where Benedict is trying to pry Eloise away from her pamphlet. Still no memory of her at all. Oh, well...

The atmosphere is remarkably relaxed. So often, Winifred has visited people, even friends or family, and it has been painfully awkward or punctuated by silences. With the Bridgertons, this is not the case at all — there is always something going on. But more importantly, the environment feels mostly warm and loving, even while guests are there. Winifred feels herself, slowly but surely, beginning to relax. She stays completely silent during the current conversation, revolving around the missing Colin Bridgerton and his tour on the continent:

"... And how far is he travelling?" asks Octavia.

"Oh, I've lost track," Violet laughs, "but I know he has spent quite some time in Greece."

"How invigorating!" Abigail remarks in awe. She seems enraptured by Colin's adventures.

"Do you wish to travel too, Miss Abigail?"

"Well, I– I suppose so... I have become fluent in Italian, and I am slowly brushing up on my French, too," she says sheepishly, "but I have never been so far away from home."

"That is understandable. I do worry about Colin, sometimes, but I suppose the independence could be good for him."

Winifred mostly nods along whilst staying silent. She does not feel that she has anything to contribute yet. A few minutes later, however, eleven year-old Hyacinth skips over to her seat with a tray in her hands. The girl holds them out like a gift. "Would you care for a chocolate candy?" she asks brightly.

"Oh... thank you..." Winifred, though slightly surprised, peers into the box of assorted chocolates.

"They are all very delectable," says Hyacinth, "but I wouldn't worry about the truffles—"

"She's only saying that because she favours the truffles most of all!" Gregory, the second-youngest, calls from across the room.

"Gregory! I am not!"

"Isn't it true, Benedict?"

The brother, who had been listening to Silas and Anthony's conversation, turns slowly around in his seat with a sigh. "Do not drag me into this, let alone our poor guest..." Benedict looks pointedly at Winifred. Now she hears his voice, it only confirms even further that it was definitely him she spoke to on that autumnal walk.

"Well, lucky for you, my taste is rather plain and simple..." Winifred plucks one of the thin dark chocolates from the tray instead, giving her a smile. "Thank you, Hyacinth."

     She pops the chocolate into her mouth, feeling it melt on her tongue, and catches the eye of Benedict again. He gives a small shake of his head at his younger siblings' antics, and Winifred feels her lips curve into a smile. He returns it slightly, but then he looks at her like that again... like he is concentrating to figure something out. Before the stare can linger too long, she can hear Violet asking her a question.

     "Sorry, Lady Bridgerton," Winifred apologises, shielding her mouth with her hand as she chews, "would you mind repeating the question?"

     "I was just asking if you, yourself, have travelled very far to get to London?" Violet repeats in a friendly manner.

     "Not too far..." she swallows the chocolate. "I live just outside of Maidstone. My husband is– I mean, was part of the regiment there..." Winifred trails off, feeling a hollow emptiness grow in her chest. Not now, she thinks. She begins to wring her hands on her lap, feeling the cool metal of her wedding ring against her skin.

     But Violet seems to notice her discomfort. "I see," she says quietly, with a tinge of sadness. There is an empathy in the blue of her eyes, an understanding that Winifred has not found in anyone else yet. It is both jarring and intensely comforting, without a word that needs to be said. I've been there, she seems to say. Violet knows better than to push her more than she wants, so she diverts from the subject of Joseph... meanwhile, over her shoulder, Benedict seems to have reached some sort of epiphany, his eyes widened slightly.

     Before he can do anything about it, however, everyone else has started gathering around the pianoforte, where Francesca has been learning and perfecting a piece from Madeline on the pianoforte. They all gather and listen to her playing, enjoying the music immensely. When Winifred looks around, it seems that everyone gets along — Silas is with his long-time friend, and Jemima has been chatting away with Eloise for the last ten minutes. She cannot help but notice the tender look that Silas gives Madeline as she plays, feeling a burst of satisfaction in her chest that it seems he was good for her, after all.

     "Your sister is very talented."

     Benedict, she realises, is stood right next to her. His arms are folded across his chest as he wears a crooked smile. Winifred nods proudly and looks back to her sister. "Yes, she is..." she replies.

     "And you have a talent for giving directions to lost strangers, I seem to recall?"

     Winifred turns to him fully this time. After a pang of confusion, the penny drops.

     "So you do remember me..." She narrows her eyes at him. "I was starting to think you had no recollection of me, or that I was going mad."

     "Well, I was not sure in the beginning, but I overheard you talking about Highbourne and thought that it had to be you. It is a very small world, is it not, Mrs. Erstwhile?"

     "It certainly is," Winifred's gaze drifts back to the piano, as does Benedict's.

     "I am just sorry that I did not recognise you sooner," he admits sheepishly, "because clearly you realised it more promptly than I did."

     She shakes her head, dismissing him. "I cannot blame you, Mr. Bridgerton. I, too, would not remember a demure widow I met on a walk one day."

     "I do not recall any demure widow, but I do remember you," Benedict replies without missing a beat.

He caught her off-guard. Winifred's gaze snaps back to him, faltering slightly. She does not know why it startles her so much — perhaps because she is so used to being seen as the widow, even among her peers, and Benedict simply sounded so genuine about seeing straight past it. She fails to find a response to what he just said, but luckily, she does not need to. He mercifully changes the subject, shifting on the spot.

"So, I hear you are to accompany your sisters for the season?" Benedict asks; more out of courtesy, than his own interest in the topic.

"Yes," she nods, feeling more prepared for this conversation.

His brows fly up as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Good luck..."

How reassuring, Winifred thinks to herself.

"Although I think I am as clueless as my sisters are, walking into all of... this."

     "Well, they are not alone." Benedict looks over at Eloise, whose posture is being commented on by Violet. "This will be her first time too. She is debuting in front of the queen tomorrow."

     "She is?"

     "Yes, and she could not be more miserable about it."

     Winifred has to admit, it does put things into perspective. Maybe Jemima can hold onto that thought when she complains about the social season: At least she does not have to curtsy in front of Queen Charlotte, adorned with feathers and jewellery.

As Francesca finishes playing and there is light applause, Winifred says, "Well, I suppose we will bump into each other again, sooner or later."

     "I suppose so, yes," Benedict says, his voice creeping up a notch as if he has just realised it, too.

     Winifred turns back to the pianoforte as Francesca starts playing again. The Bridgertons all seem rather pleasant from what she has seen — though she hardly expects the rest of the ton to be as welcoming tomorrow...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

I don't know what has possessed me this month, but I'm in a DEEP Bridgerton phase, and I guess I've had more time to write in some of the gaps during the holiday season? The season 3 release date announcement definitely helped my inspiration massively. Anyway, there might be a little pause now, as the holidays are coming up and I've also been stopped in my tracks with a bit of a head cold... ah well.

Anyway, we FINALLY met the Bridgertons, and Winifred and Benedict have officially reunited! I was nervous about getting all the Bridgerton family behaviour/dynamics right; if some didn't appear in this chapter, they will soon enough. It was just a VERY crowded drawing room and I didn't have time to include everyone just yet. I hope Winifred and Benedict's first (proper) meeting didn't too underwhelming, although it is a teensy bit intentional — their connection will slowly grow the more time they spend with each other.

(And one more tiny detail: I imagined Persephone, the dowager countess, to be portrayed by Michelle Yeoh)

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Constructive feedback is appreciated, as always. In the next chapter, the social season kicks off with the Danbury ball!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 17/12/2023
EDITED: 25/05/2024
RE-EDITED: 05/08/2024