CHAPTER FIVE.
best behaviour.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1807.

     HEYWORTH HOUSE IS JUST AS JOSEPH REMEMBERS IT. He has thought of this place many times since he left Hertfordshire, imagining Winifred sitting there and reading his letters to her... mostly, he admits, he just thinks of Winifred. But at long last, he is back.

     Although his arrival did not go quite the way he thought it would have. For starters, none of the Seymours were home, except for Charles — Winifred's father. The rest of the girls were in Clifton, apparently, visiting an aunt of theirs. Luckily, Charles was just the man Joseph was looking for, since he had a very important question to ask him...

     ... The immediate aftermath is met with silence. Joseph sits in a leather chair in Charles's study. All the shelves are lined with book spines collected over many years, encyclopaedias and atlases, biographies and other important writings among them. Outside the window, the pale petals of a blossom tree are in full bloom. Yet, as cosy as this atmosphere could be, Joseph suddenly feels very hot after breaking the news to Charles — he finds himself sweating anxiously in his bright red army uniform.

     "So... you wish to marry my daughter, do you?" Charles says slowly.

     Joseph swallows thickly. "Yes, sir."

"You do realise my eldest daughter has just been wed to an earl?"

"... Yes, sir."

How can I compare to a rich earl? he suddenly finds himself panicking.

"Then I am sure you realise that I am therefore hesitant to give you my blessing for another daughter, in such swift succession?"

"I understand, sir."

A tense silence bloats between them. Joseph can feel his skin flushing; he glances down at his knuckles, patches of blotchy red skin appearing against his pale complexion. Damn it. Charles Seymour, however, is unflinching. He seems to be having a staring contest with Joseph at this point. Very slowly, Winifred's father leans forward in his chair, creaking it slightly.

"Mr. Erstwhile, I understand that you wish to be a soldier..." Charles tells him, as if this is a new fact to Joseph; he nods. "That does not appear to be a career which provides stability for your wife... my daughter. I do not wish for Winifred to be following you from one military base to another for the rest of her life."

"Neither do I, sir."

Joseph had worried that this might be an obstacle. Charles is right, of course — a career in the military does not promise a tranquil military life. Lots of moving around, long periods of time where he might be away. What wife would want to be subjected to that? But, on the other hand, Joseph would love a family... and someone whom he loves to share it with... Winifred is the only one etched into his heart for that. There are a lot of things he would sacrifice for her.

"I know, sir, but... please understand that Winifred– I mean, Miss Winifred– means the world to me," Joseph slips on his words, but means every one of them. "I would never want to subject her to any harm, or for her to be unhappy. She is... simply, the most wonderful human being I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."

"You think that I do not know these things about my Winifred already?" Charles counters.

"N-no, sir!" Joseph splutters back.

Charles continues to eye him sceptically. Joseph suddenly has a mortifying thought — what if he knows about their letters?! He had first written to Winifred from his barracks a few months ago, and the correspondence has been steady since. Her letters are the things he looks forward to the most every week. In writing, she manages to reveal much more than she could while they were chaperoned: her hopes, her fears, her dreams. Joseph has seen more of her peculiar sense of humour and her overflowing heart, which is usually firmly guarded by her more serious demeanour.

There was just one problem — they technically weren't supposed to write, since they were not engaged or otherwise romantically linked... even if the contents of their letters suggested otherwise.

So, tired of secrecy, Joseph decided to wear his heart on his sleeve and propose the very question he'd been certain of when he regretfully left her in Hertfordshire.

But Charles mentions nothing of these letters. Instead, he rises from his chair, pacing slowly over to the window where the blossom tree branches caress the glass. He seems solemnly contemplative. Looking back at Joseph, he asks: "What if... God forbid, of course... what if something happened to you, and Winifred was left behind? There is a war going on, my boy."

The question throws him for only a split second, just by its heaviness, but he knows Winifred's father means well; even if fathers should not have favourites, Joseph has gathered that she is his... and who could blame him?

"I would leave her everything," Joseph replies, without missing a beat.

Charles whirls around, looking bewildered. "Everything?!"

"Everything that I could, anyway. It is not as though my possessions would be of much use to me, if I am no longer here... though, I have every intention of staying for a long time, sir."

"Of course, of course..." Mr. Seymour nods, blinking at him. He clearly did not expect Joseph to have thought this through so much, and to be so open-minded about Winifred's rights. "Well, I do know that Winifred is incredibly fond of you... she mentions you often."

Joseph feels his own gaze soften, dreamily, as he asks: "She does?"

"Yes... and you seem to have given this a great deal of thought yourself."

"I do not have to think, Mr. Seymour. I love her." Joseph feels his heart swelling, just thinking about her. Oh, how he has missed her terribly. "If you want a simple answer as to why I wish to marry her, then that is it. I love her, utterly and completely. Not only is she the most beautiful, intelligent woman I have ever met, but I can say with some certainty that she is one of my greatest friends. I would trust her with anything — most importantly, perhaps, my heart."

If Charles was not bewildered before, he certainly is now — he is slightly unsettled by Joseph's open sentimentality, being a man of fewer loving words himself.

"Well, we shall have to wait until the ladies return from Clifton, but... if she were to accept..." Charles pauses, sighing loudly in surrender, "... I think you could be good enough for my Winifred."

Joseph can hardly contain himself. "Oh, thank you! Thank you, Mr. Seymour, I—"

"Calm yourself, my boy, she has not even accepted yet!"

"Right. Sorry."

"And there will still be matters to look at, regarding the marriage — should it go ahead — with dowries, jointures, etcetera..."

"Of course, sir..."

They fall into a silence again, Joseph shrinking into his seat once more. But this time, he swears he sees a twinkle of something in Charles's eyes — a bittersweet satisfaction, of finding the right man for his daughter, while having to let her go...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     TODAY is the day — the one on which girls all across the ton, who have come of age, will debut into society and thus the marriage mart.

Winifred remembers when she made that fateful transition, although it was an awful lot less extravagant. The most marked difference in her life was that she suddenly felt like a woman, no longer a young girl with her governess. There were a lot more country balls and visits to assembly rooms in nearby cities involved. And, perhaps the most marked difference, was that she had Madeline to keep her company and lead the way in her experience... having multiple daughters out at the same time is considered most unusual, but Octavia saw no reason to deprive her daughters of finding their match by waiting for the others to marry first.

She thought it constrictive at the time, but Winifred now thanks God that she did not have to endure all of this.

The debutantes kick off the big day by being presented to Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte — indeed, the one and the only. No pressure there. This marks the beginning of the social season, at which point the queen also names the season's diamond, the young lady she deems the most desirable and glittering of them all. From there, it is a cutthroat game of who can secure the best matches during the season... the longer you collect dust on the shelf, the more at risk you are of becoming an old maid or a spinster.

Although Winifred is not one for spying, even today she cannot help crowding next to her sisters at the window as they spy at all the debutantes filing out of Grosvenor Square.

"Can you see her yet? Oh, hang on, there she is!" Jemima guffaws. "My God, she does look miserable..."

She is, of course, talking about Eloise Bridgerton. Like the other debutantes, she is dressed in a white empire gown, with long white gloves and similarly pristine feather plumes attached to the back of her head — this is the only similarity she bears with them all. While the other debutantes swan over to their carriages flashing their elegant, rehearsed smiles, Eloise wears a scowl as her feathers tremble like those of a temperamental goose. Behind her, Violet looks slightly perturbed by her daughter's antics, whilst if you squint hard enough, some other family members are biting back their laughter.

"You see? At least you are fortunate you do not have to do that," Winifred reminds Jemima.

"It is a fair point, I suppose..." the sister admits begrudgingly. She turns back to her and Abigail's bedroom, where their gowns are being fitted for any last-minute alterations or fixes.

Tonight is the first ball of the London season — the Danbury ball, per tradition, and the first of many that will mark this spring and summer. The Seymours are wearing their best gowns from home for their big London debut. Abigail's is a pale, buttery shade of yellow and flutters comfortably over her soft curves; Jemima's, meanwhile, is a dark shade of plum, with intricate embroidered patterns across the chest.

Winifred, however, will be more subdued. She is still in mourning, after all; no garish jewellery, no bright colours. Instead she is in a lilac dress, clear of any embellishments.

A while after they have tried on their gowns, there are suddenly squeals and whispers of excitable commotion from downstairs. Winifred assumes it is something to do with the ball tonight, but as she tiredly looks up at Madeline breezing into the room, she notices her sister tightly gripping a pamphlet in her hand.

"Well, it looks as though she is back, after all!" Madeline announces.

"Who?" asks Winifred.

"Is she really?!" Abigail gasps, stumbling over trunks to get to the pamphlet.

Octavia stands bolt upright. "That society paper from last year? Are you sure?"

"Who is—"

"She is back, for certain, and seems more intent than ever."

"This should be fun," Jemima chuckles as she peers over to read it.

Winifred, getting impatient now, asks loudly over their chatter: "Will someone please explain to me what all the fuss over this pamphlet is about?"

The other four women look up at her, confused at first; she might as well have started speaking Greek to them. Then, with a flicker of recognition, Madeline turns sheepish. "Oh, of course... you wouldn't have heard about that," she admits sympathetically. "It was during the social season last summer."

While she was in deep mourning. Ah. But it still does not answer her question.

"Lady Whistledown," Madeline explains, "is one of the writers for the society papers. She only appeared last year, but she was virtually the only one that mattered after... well, everything."

Winifred furrows her brows at this. Really? A gossip column? She hardly finds it interesting or worthy reading material. Why would she want to know anything about anyone else's business? The answer, she suspects, is one of the reasons why Winifred has never been so compatible with the ton.

"Alright," she hums, "then what is so special about this one?"

"She names her subjects with no shame at all!" Abigail says emphatically. "You can imagine the scandal that has come out of it..."

"And how do you know about this? Neither of you were in London last year."

"Madeline told us all about it," Jemima says. "Quite an amusing source of entertainment, if you ask me."

"Here, why don't you read it?"

Madeline hands Winifred the pamphlet, which she reluctantly skims over to read:

LADY WHISTLEDOWN
Dearest, gentle reader... did you miss me?

As the members of our esteemed ton lazily sojourned in their rustic retreats, this author was doing but one thing. Honing my skills. Or should I say, hatching my plans? No, even better. I was sharpening my knives... for all of you.

Questions abound as to this author's identity and means. Seeking those answers shall prove fruitless, indeed. There is, of course, another unknown identity at present. Though, this one you will be able to unearth. I speak of the season's diamond, wherever she may be.

Your move, Your Majesty.

There is certainly an eccentricity to her writing — something bolder, more cunning than Winifred might have expected from the society papers. Nevertheless, she stands her ground. "I had no idea you bought into something as shallow as the gossip papers," she frowns, handing it back to Madeline.

     "It isn't the gossip I am interested in," Madeline counters. "It is a map of all the intricacies of the ton. Like it or not, Lady Whistledown has become vital to the social season. Even the queen takes her seriously — Whistledown undermines her authority in picking the diamond, you see. She has been trying to squash her printing efforts ever since she arrived on the scene."

     "To no avail?"

     "And to no avail, yes. Of course, everyone has their theories..."

     Winifred stubbornly starts to see her point of view. She can imagine Lady Whistledown, in her brazen lack of anonymity in her subject, provides some momentum for those looking to marry in the season — and she is soon to find out, whether she likes it or not, as the hours tick by, closer and painfully closer to the Danbury ball...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     LADY Danbury's conservatory has been transformed. The giant glass dome surrounded by gardens is lit like a beacon, shining brilliantly against the darkening pink and blue sky behind it. Inside, it plays host to most of the ton already, and yet they keep spilling out of more and more carriages... no doubt, the first ball of the season will be an important one.

     As Winifred and the rest of her group leave their carriages, she can feel her own stomach twisting in knots — is it for her sisters, or herself? She does not think she has ever been to a ball this prestigious, let alone since before her long mourning period. It feels dizzying just to observe the sheer scale of it all. Winifred glances to her left, where her two youngest sisters are sandwiched in the middle of the group; Abigail's chest flutters with anticipation, while Jemima's mouth parts slightly in awe at the building. Madeline is being helped out of her carriage by Silas, who gives her hand a squeeze.

     "Are you quite sure we belong here, Mama? We have not arrived at the wrong house?" Jemima asks, more teasingly than anything, but Abigail gulps.

     Octavia links her arms with each of them — whether it is comforting or making their escape impossible, Winifred cannot tell. "Of course you belong here. You have every right to be here. Now, hold your head high, girls... be on your best behaviour tonight... Jemima."

     "I know, I am not entirely oblivious," Jemima insists, and she actually seems genuine; albeit rather reluctant. "It is all a performance, anyway, isn't it? The ton... the theatrics of it..."

     "Well, whatever you do, just do your best," says Octavia, determination burning in her eyes. Glancing at Madeline and Winifred, she adds: "Two of my daughters got married in the same year, and I can make it happen again!"

     Indeed, 1807 certainly was a lucky year for Octavia's matchmaking efforts — Madeline and Winifred were married within a few months of each other. Abigail and Jemima do not seem any more comforted by this comparison, though.

     Madeline glances back at Winifred, making sure she is not left out of their entourage. "Are you ready?" she asks, holding out her hand. She has seemed rather worried about her sister ever since they set off to Lady Danbury's estate — as though she thinks she looks fragile, or too overwhelmed. Pity. There it is again, and Winifred squirms under it again. If it means silencing her sister's worries, she holds Madeline's hand, but she cannot deny it does put her at some ease.

     "How are we doing this, exactly?" Winifred asks, as they walk slowly along the path with Silas leading.

     "How do you mean?"

     "The chaperoning. I thought we should split the responsibilities between us."

     "Well, I thought we would just make sense of it once we arrived."

     Not so satisfied with the lack of routine, Winifred calmly presses on. "I thought you could take one sister, and I could take the other?"

     "I suppose that isn't a bad idea..." Madeline thinks aloud. "How about if Mama and I take Abigail, while you and Silas take Jemima?"

     "Oh, come now, you know she will never listen to me," Winifred points out, thinking of how often she and Jemima tend to butt heads with one another. In her younger sister's eyes, she is the strict sister, the one who dampens all of her plans for fun and reminds her of the rules. Jemima even nicknamed her 'the governess' when they were children. On the other hand, as much as Winifred loves her, she could think of a few nicknames for Jemima, starting with 'headache'...

     With Madeline, Jemima shares more of that freedom of spirit. At least with Abigail, Winifred can talk more practically with her, and her sister would actually take her advice instead of flaunting it completely — if she is to be chaperone, she would like to at least be an effective one.

     "True, but if I chaperone Jemima to begin with, I'll get carried away and she'll be married by morning," Madeline admits sheepishly. There is an element of truth to this; Jemima does tend to coax out the lovelorn teen rebel the eldest daughter once was. "At least with you, you can keep her in check. And Silas will be with you, he knows many people in the ton."

     Stopping by the giant glass doors of the conservatory, Winifred sighs in surrender. Her sister has thought this out rather well. "Alright, very well... but we can swap at any time during the season?"

     "Of course, it isn't set in stone!"

     Winifred drags out a long sigh, letting go of Madeline's arm as she instead links it with her husband's. The doors slowly open... there is a floral explosion inside the conservatory-turned-ballroom. There is a warm glow inside that surrounds the tall pillars covered in bushes of pastel-petalled flowers. A full string orchestra is playing somewhere in the room, the music to which pairs of ladies and gentlemen dance to together like clockwork. Around them, the watchful eyes of the ton note their presence — there is some indifference, and in others some bafflement. The Osbornes are one of the most prominent families in the ton... they must think these relative 'unknowns' as their guests to be rather odd.

     Just like a lion's den.

     "All their dresses are so very lovely..." Abigail mumbles, fiddling self-consciously with her much-less-bejewelled dress.

     Octavia, noticing, nudges her gently. "You look beautiful, my dear. Do not let anyone make you think otherwise."

     Even Winifred has to admit that she is feeling self-conscious. Not because she wants to be the belle of the ball, but rather that she has just realised how she does the very thing she never wants to do — stick out. Her outfit is much more subdued than the others, clear that she is still in half-mourning, and there seems to be a chain reaction of people looking at her quizzically (Shouldn't she be at home doing embroidery? their faces seem to say; right now, Winifred has to say that option sounds very tempting).

     "Deep breaths, now, duckie," Madeline adds comfortingly; she pauses as Abigail blushes at the nickname. "Just remember that this is only the first ball. Simply use tonight to... get your bearings."

     "Recognise anyone yet?" Silas asks his wife.

     "Anyone eligible?" Octavia adds, as an afterthought.

     Madeline peers into the crowd to hone in on any eligible men. "Well, that's the Marquis of Ashdown... perhaps a bit young for both of you, though."

     Winifred follows her gaze to the marquis, furrowing her brows at the sight of him — a pimply teenager, small in stature if it were not for his head of unkempt ginger hair. He has not even come of age, by the looks of it. "A bit young? I have pelisses older than him, I am quite sure," she whispers critically.

     "Alright, well, the Earl of Gloucester is available," Silas nods to a somber-looking man standing by the lemonade table.

     "Silas... far too soon!" Madeline quietly scolds him. Then, to clarify, she adds: "His wife recently died of influenza. It hit him very hard."

     "But he is available."

     "Silas!"

     "What? He is here tonight, is he not? Clearly he cannot be that sad—"

     Madeline nudges him sharply, this time nodding not-so-subtly towards Winifred. Silas clocks on and goes quiet, suddenly looking rather apologetic. It does nothing to make her feel less comfortable — how long will it take before she stops being the widow in the room? If this is her title now, one she never asked for, then she expects she will tire of it quite soon.

     "Any sign of the hostess?" Octavia asks her son-in-law curiously.

     "Not yet," Silas sighs, "but she will arrive soon enough. Once you are within a certain radius of Lady Danbury, it is only a matter of time before she sniffs you out—"

     "Lord Osborne!" a voice behind them booms.

     He swivels around, as do the others, to come face-to-face with the hostess in question. A cane in her gloved hand and a slightly mischievous glint in her dark eyes, Lady Danbury already lives up to the self-assured reputation that Winifred has heard about her so far; Madeline has uttered her name so many times before.

     "And Lady Osborne, and... well, my goodness, quite a few of you!" Lady Danbury observes the rather large group that the Osbornes have with them. "Your mother did not make it this evening, my lord?"

     "Fortunately for us, she could not, Lady Danbury," Silas admits. "You know how she is... but I do not doubt that she will find a way to meddle later in the season."

     "Much to look forward to..." Lady Danbury hums contemplatively, narrowing her eyes.

     She and Persephone clearly seem to have some history — if Winifred were correct in her observations, she would put them at about the same age. But where Persephone's scrutinising gazes feel cold, Lady Danbury has a twinkle of meddlesome mischief in her eyes. Like she has bigger plans... it is both enticing and somewhat intimidating.

     "What about your other guests, my lady?"

     "Ah, yes!" Madeline perks up. "Lady Danbury, you remember my mother—"

     "I can say with some certainty that I do." Lady Danbury turns her attention to Octavia. "We met before your daughter's wedding, didn't we, Mrs. Seymour?"

     "Indeed, we did," Octavia smiles fondly. Winifred suddenly finds herself scrambling for any memory of Lady Danbury — surely she would remember a figure such as her? Then again, she was only present for some of the preparations, and the wedding itself only had a few guests.

     Madeline goes on. "And may I present my sisters, Winifred, Abigail and Jemima. They are our special guests for the season."

     Suddenly, her eyes grow wide with panic, as she looks at Winifred and back to Lady Danbury.

     "Well, not Winifred, she is– I mean, was married, and—" Madeline cringes at herself, suddenly crumbling in etiquette; another symptom of her clear stress tonight.

     Instead of chastising her, Lady Danbury lets out an amused chuckle. "I quite understand. I actually have some special guests of my own this season. They are just as new to all of this as you are, I suspect. Here..." She ushers the small group of women behind her — Winifred had noticed them, wondering why they were lurking so nearby — to the forefront, so they can be introduced. The eldest woman, perhaps the mirror, has a nervous kindness about her, and the youngest practically beams with it. The tallest one, however, stays quiet. Her round, piercing dark eyes survey her surroundings carefully, making judgements on the spot.

     "May I present Lady Mary Sharma, and her daughters, Miss Sharma and Miss Edwina Sharma."

     There are some polite bows, curtsies and murmurs of greetings between the two groups. When they rise from their curtsies, Winifred catches the eye of the tall and serious woman — for a split-second, she swears she sees some uncertainty in her eyes, before Miss Sharma's barriers fly up immediately once more.

"I will be navigating them through the London season, as they are not so familiar with it."

The tallest daughter suddenly speaks up: "But we have done plenty of research, make no mistake about that, Lady Danbury."

     "Yes, I do not doubt that, Miss Sharma..."

     "Have you been to London for the season before?" Lady Mary asks, sounding slightly nervous, but an innate kindness radiating from her.

     "Not for the social season, no," Octavia replies. "Usually we stay around our home in Hertfordshire, or the assembly rooms in other cities for such occasions. And you, have you all travelled very far?"

     "Our ship arrived last night on its voyage from India."

     "Oh... quite a bit further, then!"

     There are murmurs of excitement from Jemima and Abigail. Winifred, too, is impressed — would people really travel so far across the globe just for a taste of the London social season?

     "Now, if you'll excuse us, we must go and do our rounds to fill out Miss Edwina's dance card... there is certainly a lot of choice to be made," remarks Lady Danbury knowingly. "Good evening to you all."

     "Good evening," Octavia curtsies politely... once Lady Danbury is out of ear-shot, she adds, "You should get yourself onto that dance-floor too, duckie, you love to dance ever so much."

     "I need to fill this out, first," Abigail reminds her, hoisting her wrist into the air and waving her dance card like a flag. The purpose of the card is to be filled with the names of gentleman for each scheduled dance tonight — it would be easier if the lady could go and ask them all herself, but no, she has to sit idly and wait for a man to notice and ask first. No matter who it is, she cannot reject him.

     "Well, how about we get nearer to the dance-floor? That way we can take it all in," Octavia suggests. She hardly seems intimidated by the ton — in fact, it is rare that their mother seems intimidated by anything.

     So, they move away from the entrance slightly, positioning themselves with the perfect view for the next dance. The doors open again, and in the corner of her eye, Winifred spots that the Bridgertons have just walked in — she can see Violet, arm-in-arm with poor Eloise, while Benedict and Anthony follow in tow. Even from rather far away, she can hear their conversation in the gap between songs being played:

     "Stop fussing with your dress..." Anthony scolds his sister through gritted teeth.

     "You look lovely, dear," Violet coos.

     "I look like a prize calf, trussed up for auction," Eloise fires back.

     Next to her, Benedict makes a "Moo!" noise to tease her; Eloise glares at him indignantly, but even so, it clearly distracted her from her anguish for a moment. Winifred exhales softly at the sight, a ghost of a laugh.

     But Violet continues to try and comfort her daughter, even as she starts fiddling with her gloves and dress once more: "Even Daphne felt most apprehensive at her first official ball," she says, "and look how well her season turned out."

     So far, Eloise's is not off to a good start — on the horizon, Winifred spots the pimply Marquis of Ashdown approaching, and he is headed straight for the newly-debuted Bridgerton. Eloise looks positively horrified. Benedict's face drops, too, when he sees him, and without missing a beat, he links arms with her. "Come, sister," he says quickly, "the cakes at these occasions are surprisingly good!" And with that, they whisk away, disappearing into the crowded ballroom...

     That was a close call.

     Meanwhile, Anthony looks down with distaste at the ballroom. "It truly is a sparse crop."

     "I am sure there is someone here who will charm you," Violet assures him. "After all, this is the season THE VISCOUNT INTENDS TO FIND A WIFE!"

     She announces the last part loudly, attracting the attention of surrounding debutantes and their mothers instantly — they hone in on their target, Anthony looking like he could either strangle Violet or be swallowed up by the floor. The on-lookers beam and gasps with excitement, and all the viscount's mother does is fuel the flame, nodding and smiling in confirmation.

     "You honestly just did that?" Anthony clenches his jaw.

     "I believe I did," Violet replies proudly, the last words clear enough to Winifred before the debutantes close in Anthony like a pack of wolves — falling over one another, shoving their dance cards in his face, giggling and swooning to flatter him. She cannot believe the sight.

     "Oh, I can hardly wait to be a fly on the wall for this season," Silas laughs, rubbing his hands together with mischief.

     "Why is that?" Abigail asks innocently.

     "Because, Abigail, Anthony Bridgerton is one of the most meticulous and stubborn men I know. He'll offend half of the ladies in the ton before he marries one."

     "Such encouraging words from his best friend..." Madeline raises an eyebrow at her husband.

     "Oh, come on, even Basset would agree with me."

     The Sharmas, only a stone's throw away from the Seymours and Osbornes, are among those to have noticed the rather loud announcement. The serious one — who she now knows to be named Kate, catching her sister call her that name — perks up as she spots the viscount in the sea of debutantes.

"I know that gentleman," Kate says.

"Who?" asks Edwina, eyes excitedly scanning the crowd.

Lady Danbury catches on, and seems surprised. "The viscount? I do not believe I have yet made an introduction..."

Warning bells seem to go off in Kate's mind — something she is reluctant to reveal to anyone else — and Winifred can see her physically shutting herself down, composed once more.

"Of course," she mutters, "it must be my mistake."

"Though you do have quite the eye," says Lady Danbury. "Viscount Bridgerton is wealthy, well-connected and from one of the ton's most illustrious families. Apparently hoping to marry this season, he may very well be our most eligible bachelor indeed..."

"He is very handsome," says Edwina dreamily.

And to Winifred's surprise, Kate suppresses a smile, adding: "Yes... I suppose he is."

Soon, they are distracted by a gentleman approaching, clearly interested in dancing with Edwina. Winifred turns her attention back to her own family, re-anchoring after having bounced around enough new faces in the room for her liking. The Seymour girls, on the other hand, have yet to be approached for a dance; Abigail's eyes keep darting around the ballroom hopefully.

     "Mama, I am feeling rather parched... might I go and grab some refreshments?" asks Jemima, a glimmer of scheming in her eyes.

     Octavia looks between Jemima, and the far-off refreshments table, then back to her. "Yes. Winifred can take you."

     Winifred and Jemima exchange an equally reluctant glance. As though shackled to her, the elder sister murmurs, "Come on, then..." while pretending to ignore the complaints about always having to be 'followed around' from Jemima. They meander through the crowds, past other affluent families in the ton who look down upon them with suspicion, or barely notice them at all. When they reach the table, they find it covered with a vast arrangement of snacks and drinks — crystallised glass vases of drinks and fresh fruit stand ready.

     Jemima reaches for a glass of lemonade and takes a large, rather loud gulp; it takes every fibre in Winifred's body not to comment on it. Around them, the next dance has begin, a slower tempo than the last one. The men and women on the dance floor twirl around each other like petals fluttering down from the stem of a flower.

     "I am quite alright by myself, sister," says Jemima, after a few moments.

     "That is hardly the point, Jemima," Winifred reminds her. "I am meant to be chaperoning you."

     Her sister grumbles something under her breath rather colourful (and certainly unladylike). Too tired to start bickering with her, Winifred instead looks to the dancers for a while, keeping Jemima firmly in her periphery. Not all of the young ladies are dancing. Others remain at the sidelines — she finds that Eloise has stuck firmly with that red-headed girl, Penelope Featherington, as they stick to the walls and avoid potential suitors at all costs.

     Suddenly, there is a tap on Winifred's shoulder. Her heartbeat lurches into overdrive uncomfortably.

     "You are a long way from home, aren't you, Winifred?"

     The voice is what calms her again. Still, Winifred's heart is racing with a mix of delight and confusion, as she is met with the face of her very best friend. "Lettie!" she exclaims, slightly strangled by the fright she gave her. Lettie reaches out and takes her gloved hands in hers with a friendly squeeze — she looks dazzling tonight, in a shimmering white dress and pearl earrings.

     "I thought it was you," says Lettie slyly. "I could recognise that critical tone anywhere."

     "But... I thought... I thought you were in Bath?" Winifred blinks breathlessly at her.

     "I was, and I have been. The baroness wanted to stay in London for the biggest society events... though between you and me," Lettie lowers her voice to a whisper, "I think she is rather intent on spying on those estranged family members of hers. Her granddaughters are out this year, you see..."

     She throws a glance behind her, to the baroness herself, and Winifred follows it. Lady Dominique Strachan must be into her sixties, with amber eyes that glow like fireflies against the dark forest shade of green that her gown is. She could almost be a forceful presence, like Lady Danbury is, but she carries more of a tiredness about her.

     "Anyway, what are you doing here?" Lettie nudges her. "This kind of ball would've been your worst nightmare when we were girls."

     "It still is... but I am chaperoning my sisters for the season, it was Madeline's idea. You remember Jemima, don't you?"

     Winifred says the last part loudly — she had caught Jemima trying to sneak away, and once she caught her out, she froze on the spot with a grimace. She rotates slowly around and returns to her sister's side. At least she is happier to see Lettie's face than that of a young gentleman.

     Lettie nods fondly. "Yes, of course I do. I saw you in that theatrical you did at your house, must be a year or two ago now?"

     Jemima shrugs with a sheepish smile, as if it was nothing; but she is glowing. Even Winifred has to admit, Jemima possesses a talent for performance and storytelling like no one she has ever met. For an amateur theatrical performed to just family and close friends, she could completely grip them... although she has never told her sister this.

     "No, really! You were the finest Cesario I had ever seen. I was not quite so sure about Winifred's Malvolio, though..."

     "You're telling me..." Winifred mumbles, cringing at the memory. She, on the other hand, was not meant for the stage — her other three sisters could perform confidently, or at least be entertaining to a crowd. All she found herself doing was seizing up, delivering all her lines completely monotone and stealing awkward glances with her co-actors and audience members.

     "Miss Fitzroy!" The baroness is calling, her cane thudding against the floor as she approaches Lettie. "My legs are growing tired. I wish to find a place to retire for a few minutes."

     "Of course, let me just find Lady Danbury..."

     With that, Lettie links arms with her, and they slowly shuffle off between the crowds together. Winifred has to admit, they appear rather tightly-knit — as much as the two women would probably never admit it, Lettie and the baroness seem to share a mutual understanding of one another.

     Re-joined with their family again, Winifred and Jemima watch dance after dance. The music keeps playing, the drinks keep flowing, and the conversation never seems to cease. After a couple of hours of this, Winifred feels herself growing quite tired — her head suddenly feels heavy with the constant noise in the ballroom, her brain having jogged to keep up with everything. Her energy for social events is certainly not what it was... how could it be, when for the most of the last year, she has been at home in solitude? There are too many people for her liking, too many new things overwhelming her.

It is only when she feels the heat start to get to her that she acts. The conservatory is surprisingly warm, no thanks to all the guests inside of it. In a quiet moment between dances, Winifred steals her chance to slip away — Abigail and Jemima are together and chaperoned. She turns longingly towards the glass doors out to the nighttime gardens...

     Once outside, the fresh evening air envelops her in a welcoming embrace. The party remains indoors, muffled behind glass windows as the lights twinkle brighter than ever. Winifred makes sure not to stray too far from the ballroom, staying with her back to the conservatory, her view extending out to Lady Danbury's immaculate gardens. The only other people outside seem to be footmen on their break, or a group of gentleman further away sharing a drink and boasting about the debutantes.

     This is going to be a long summer, Winifred thinks to herself. Ball after ball, not to mention all the other social engagements in-between. It brings back memories of the days when she was unmarried and (unwillingly) frequenting assembly rooms — it did not help that she was painfully shy, seizing up any time a man was introduced to her. Dancing, too, made her nervous and rigid in her body... there were only certain people who were the exception. At least now Winifred can go about unchaperoned, as a married woman; even if her husband is no longer here...

     The sound of footsteps suddenly overpowers the muffled music and chatter from inside. Winifred quickly whirls around, coming face-to-face with the man who has just walked out onto the same terrace as her; Benedict's familiar pale green eyes meet hers, removing him from whatever he was thinking about as he holds a glass of wine in his hand, the other gripping both of his white gloves.

     "Mr. Bridgerton," Winifred gives a short, polite curtsy.

     "Oh, Mrs. Erstwhile, I did not realise—"

     "My apologies, I will take my leave now—"

     "No, please, stay... you were here first," Benedict insists kindly, standing in front of her before she can make a getaway. Silence stretches between them, Winifred stepping back once more to look at the gardens.

"I just stepped out for some fresh air," she says; as if it was not already evident.

He smiles slightly at her. "As did I."

     Joining her to look out at the gardens, Benedict takes a sip from his wine glass. While there could be worse people to suddenly share company with, Winifred still quietly despairs — she, frankly, is not in the mood for generating forced conversation at the moment. She wrings her gloved hands together, feeling the bump of her wedding ring on her right one.

"Mr. Bridgerton, would you happen to know when this ball should end?" Winifred asks slowly.

"Not for another few hours, at least..." Benedict seems disappointed by this fact.

She just sighs in response.

"I take it you aren't enjoying yourself?"

"No, it isn't that, it's just... it has been quite a while since I have been to a social event like this. I hardly did anything before that, anyway, but then these past few months have been more..." Winifred swallows thickly, searching for the right word, "... quiet."

She hopes she does not have to spell it out, and luckily, she does not. Something in Benedict's expression changes — a flash of sympathy, as he remembers she has been in mourning. "Yes, of course. And then you come to the mother of all balls. It must be quite overwhelming."

"I think I had forgotten how exhausting it could be..." Winifred confesses, then surprised at how easily she can admit this to him. She pauses. "But tonight is not about me, anyway. It is about my sisters."

"How do you think they are finding it?"

"Abigail seemed more eager for tonight, but I think Jemima matches her enthusiasm somewhere at the level of your poor sister on that dance-floor."

Benedict grimaces, remembering the sight of Eloise trapped in a dance with an eligible bachelor. "Ooh, yes, I saw that... I cannot say that I envy her. The sooner this thing is over, the better."

"You are not looking for a wife, then?" Winifred asks, surprised.

"No, not really, I've been carefully meandering around the marriage mart for years now..." Benedict clears his throat. "At least my mother is preoccupied with Anthony this season."

"Yes, it does all seem rather..."

"Stifling?" Benedict suggests.

"Something like that."

Inside, the string quartet begins to play once more, another dance having started. Winifred and Benedict both look back — like it is a distant beacon of light, though they are quite comfortable in the shadows. There is a strange ease being out here with him. He does not ask prying questions, nor does he seem to revolve around the fanciful ball... she almost did not expect that from him, since he seems so easy-going, she assumed he would love any excuse for a party.

     Finally, with a sigh, the Bridgerton takes one more sip of wine before placing the glass on the side of the wall, while he puts his gloves back on. Winifred turns to him and pulls the ends of her gloves higher up her arms.

     "Well," he says, "I should probably head back inside, or else my mother will grow suspicious... I will not intrude on your peace and quiet any longer."

     Winifred follows him to the door. "Actually, I'll join you. I should find my sisters again."

     "Alright..." Benedict nods, proceeding forward as the glass doors are opened again, a flood of noise from the ballroom splashing out at them. "Well, thank you for the company, Mrs. Erstwhile."

     Finding herself surprised by his gratitude, she feels her lips almost curve into a smile. "... Likewise," she replies, and she finds that she means it. That was one of the easiest conversations Winifred has held with a stranger in a while. Together with the fresh air, she feels quite ready to go back inside and face the music... even if it is only the beginning.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

THE 👏 BRIDGERTON 👏 HYPE 👏 NEVER 👏 STOPS 👏

I'm just rolling with this crazy wave of inspiration... already, we have seen the first ball! I attached the 'Material Girl' strings cover at the top for the ✨vibes✨ of the scene. Originally, a couple more things were going to happen at the Danbury ball, but I realised there was a lot going on already and have decided to carry those over to the following chapter (at Queen Charlotte's ball). What did we think? Now we have met the Sharmas, and hopefully soon we will get more glimpses of the BROTP that will be Winifred and Kate.

For the record, this is a spiritual representation of Winifred at the Danbury ball:

P.S. I'm still getting my bearings on how the aristocracy address each other, so I apologise if there are some mistakes/inconsistencies from chapter to chapter. I'm not 100% sure whether Silas and Madeline are addressed as Lord and Lady Osborne (their surnames) or Lord and Lady Colchester (since they are the Earl and Countess of Colchester) but I'm working on it!

Also!! Joseph POV!! I couldn't help myself 🤭 we had to see just how in love this boy was. Also, without it getting too technical, I wanted to show the discussions that maybe went into a marriage in the regency era — like dowries, for example. Charles only has daughters, so it is extra important that they are settled, and he is very protective of them... especially Winifred. I hope it also showed that Joseph is maybe more open-minded in what he leaves for his wife, than other husbands might have been — he wanted to make sure she would be taken care of, should something happen to him as a soldier.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you are celebrating, merry Christmas/happy holidays! Please vote and comment if you get the chance, feedback is always much appreciated. No idea what rate I'll be going at with these chapters, but I am just going to see it through, I think... who knows?

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 25/12/2023
EDITED: 03/08/2024