CHAPTER SEVEN.
a man of the world.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1807.

     WINIFRED ERSTWHILE THINKS SHE ENJOYS MARRIED LIFE. They have been blessed with glorious weather on their honeymoon, where English summers can otherwise be quite unpredictable — not quite as exotic as Silas and Madeline, they chose to go to Ramsgate. Apparently it was a holiday favourite of Joseph's growing up, and holds many fond memories of his late mother, who Winifred unfortunately never met. The newlyweds wake up to the sound of waves crashing onto the shore and inhale the refreshing sea air wherever they walk... and they do love walking together.

     The east cliff towers behind them as other seaside travellers wander along the promenade. Closer to the shore, the new Mrs. Erstwhile is sat on a picnic blanket on the sand, slicing apple segments with a small knife. In the distance, Joseph has rolled up his trouser legs and is wading into the water. Testing the temperature or splashing about; who knows? Winifred smiles fondly when she knows he is not looking at her. But even when he looks back, she feels no need to mask their feelings anymore. They are together.

     Having tested the waters, Joseph comes jogging back to her over the sand. His cheeks are all rosy as he flashes her a dimpled grin.

     "Had enough of it, have you?" Winifred asks.

     "Why, hardly," Joseph replies, "the water's lovely."

     "Really?"

     "Yes. Lovely and warm."

     "... I don't believe you."

     "It's summer! Why would it be cold?" Joseph asks, with an unmissable twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

     Winifred is about to argue this very point to the contrary, since English summers can be deceiving, but before she can open her mouth, he takes her hand and leads her over to the tide — wherever he leads, she follows. She cannot help herself. It does not stop her from frowning sceptically as they near the water's edge, the waves creeping in and out.

     "Here, careful you don't get your petticoat wet..."

     "I think we're well past that, Joseph," Winifred sighs. "I have already flashed my ankles to half of Ramsgate..."

     Joseph laces his fingers with hers; with a gentle hop, they land ankle-deep into the water — sea foam surges around her skin, pinpricks of deceptively cold waves hitting it. Winifred lets out an involuntary gasp of shock.

     "It's freezing! Oh, you sneaky little liar, you... you menace!" Winifred scolds her husband through his incessant giggling; but even she cannot help laughing. It is practically impossible to stay angry at him like this. "'It's summer, how could it be cold?' I should have known better—"

     "Yes, you really should have."

     "Joseph Erstwhile, if you keep digging a hole for yourself at this rate, you will find yourself on another continent!"

     But they are both laughing now, their feet glistening with sea water as they pad across the sand back to their picnic blanket. Some other holidaymakers walk on by or sit a stone's throw away from the couple — some are horrified by the complete lack of decorum. Though, for the most part, others cannot help but resist a small quirking of their lips into a smile. There is one thing telling them instantly that this is a pair of newlyweds with the good fortune of a love match:

     Innocence.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

"DEAREST reader. It has been said that competition is an opportunity for us to rise and stand ready before our greatest of challenges. Well, if what this author hears this morning is true, then a great challenge concerning this season's diamond has been set forth, indeed. Any suitor wishing to gain an audience with Miss Edwina Sharma must first tame the rather prickly spinster of a beast otherwise known as her sister..."

Abigail lowers this morning's copy of Lady Whistledown, where across the breakfast table, Winifred is rolling her eyes. She cannot say that she appreciates the tone used to describe Kate Sharma — which is a shame, because she found herself pleasantly surprised at Lady Whistledown's commentary following the Diamond Ball at Buckingham House. She had thought it unexpectedly forward-thinking. What were her words again? Ah, yes: "Should a woman not be valued for so much more than her dancing skills or her comportment? Should we not value a woman instead for her candor, her character, her true accomplishments? Perhaps if the queen abandoned this absurdity that is the diamond, we would all see that a woman can be so much more. That she can, truly, sparkle from within."

     However, the concerns of her sisters seem to lie elsewhere.

"You are not reading it theatrically enough, sister, you make it sound dreadfully dull," Jemima grins over the book she is reading.

"Alright, then why don't you read it next time?" Abigail huffs.

     "Perhaps I shall."

     "Has anyone heard anything from the Caldwells yet?" Octavia asks, perhaps for the fifth time during breakfast.

     Madeline simply shakes her head. Since Jemima had danced with Francis Caldwell at the Diamond Ball. there had been the slight hope that perhaps he would come to call on her. But so far, absolutely nothing. There is also a marked lack of other suitors knocking at their door — Persephone, of course, finds a way to admonish the girls about this, including Madeline for her 'poor' chaperoning skills.

     "Well, I for one am quite relieved," Jemima says before sinking her teeth into a glistening red apple.

     "Aren't you lucky?" Abigail mumbles, still forlorn that she herself has not caught anyone's attention yet.

     "Give it time, duckie," says Octavia. "We are still very new to the ton."

     "Yes, and untitled, on top of that."

     Unnerved by her sister's clear insecurities, Madeline quickly jumps in: "Well, Edwina Sharma is not titled, and she has just been crowned the season's diamond by Her Majesty. Do not count yourself out so quickly, sister."

     "I certainly never thought of it," Silas reaches over and grabs his wife's hand.

     "Perhaps you should have!" Persephone calls from the next room; Winifred swears she watches Silas's eye twitch in anger.

     "Does she always do that?" Winifred whispers.

     Madeline nods tiredly. "I have grown used to it over many years... anyway, we should all prepare ourselves for the races later on, don't you think?"

     Today they are traded the gilded ballrooms for the open air. The annual Royal Ascot races are taking place — but of course, the ton finds a way to suck it into its orbit of socialising and the marriage mart. Jemima begrudgingly abandons her copy of Ann Radcliffe's 'The Mysteries of Udolpho' and follows Abigail upstairs to get dressed for their outing. Winifred also goes up and gets dressed. She usually does most of her dressing on her own, not seeing the need for a lady's maid back home, but at the luxurious Osborne home, the maids insist they help.

     By the time the maids have scurried around her, Winifred is dressed for the day; still in half-mourning colours, a brown dress with a matching bonnet. When she walks down the stairs to the ground floor, she almost trips over Camille with her dolls laid out in a cluster on the steps.

     "Be careful, Auntie Winifred!" Camille cries. "You almost stepped on Charlotte!"

     "Oh– erm– I'm sorry... who is Charlotte?"

     "The queen, of course! They are in the royal box."

     Winifred observes the arrangement of dolls laid out on the bottom steps, as if they are viewing an opera, an the dolls fall into place. "Ah... I see... but Camille, don't you think it would perhaps be wiser to host this opera elsewhere, say... your own room?"

     "But it's not the same!"

     Some mother you would have been, Winifred thinks to herself feebly, giving up on trying to compromise with a four year-old.

     The front door is opened and everyone walks out for their outing (except for the children, babysat yet again). But before they enter their carriage, Abigail seems to stop in her tracks — a young gentleman has just arrived on horseback, trotting past them just now. He could easily look like another member of the ton, if it were not for his warm tanned complexion or the stubble on his boyish face... his eyes appear to catch Abigail's, who is staring at him openly. With a quirk of his lips, he gives her a friendly smile.

     "Good-day," he nods to Abigail and tips his hat to her.

     "Good-day..." Abigail replies slightly breathlessly. Once he is out of ear-shot, she asks, "Who was that?"

     Madeline squints at him. "I am not quite sure, but if my eyes do not mistake me..."

     Right on cue, he hops off his horse in front of the wisteria-draped Bridgerton home, jogging up the steps with a sense of familiarity.

     "... I believe that was Colin Bridgerton. Goodness, I did not recognise him from the last season!"

     With a twinkle in her eyes and an infectious smile, Abigail whirls around to face Madeline. "He's the one who has been on his tour of the continent, is he not?"

     "Yes, I suppose he has returned now... come on, you, let us not be late." Madeline loops her arm through Abigail's. She still seems partially dazed... Winifred notices that the Bridgerton boy definitely seemed to catch her eye.

     Rather triumphantly, Octavia throws her arms in the air and cheers: "We're off to the races!"

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     IF there is one good thing about the Royal Ascot, it has to be that it means Winifred can be in the fresh air all day long. The prestigious horse-racing event is in full swing — the air smells distinctly of freshly-mown grass and horses.

"Winifred, I am starting to think you had the right idea about wearing brown..." Abigail wrinkles her nose at her pale pink dress, now slightly muddied at the bottom.

"It is not as though I had much choice," Winifred says, as if to remind her that she's still in her half-mourning wardrobe.

Their mother still has not uttered a word — she is clearly thrilled to be here. For as long as they can remember, Octavia has been very fond of horses and horse-riding in particular. They have heard stories of her younger days, when she would race across open fields on horseback, and not even in side-saddle. Octavia has been buzzing to attend the Royal Ascot since Madeline told her they would be visiting during this season. Birds chirping and horses trotting around them, they squint around the field for any familiar faces.

As they are getting their bearings, Anthony Bridgerton makes his way over, his hands held behind his back until he reaches Silas. After a 'manly' handshake and slap on the back, they are slipping into conversation about the races. "Fine day, isn't it, Colchester? I'm glad that you could make it."

     "I wouldn't miss it for the world," Silas smirks; beside him, his mother-in-law can barely contain her excitement.

     Noticing this, the viscount turns to the ladies, turning on a pleasing smile. "And how have you all been find the season so far?"

     "Wonderful, my lord, we are just so fortunate that Madeline opened her doors to us all. Aren't we?" Octavia looks around at her daughters, the three of which quickly nod; even Winifred, who isn't even looking for a suitor. "Especially since we have the privilege of being here today!"

     "Mama is rather eager for the races, if you could not tell," Madeline adds with hushed embarrassment.

     "Is that so?" Anthony smiles. "Well, keep an eye out for Nectar, I have a good feeling."

     "I would've thought High Flyer to be a better bet," Octavia counters him in a cheery, matter-of-fact tone.

     "We shall see about that..."

     Anthony smugly averts his gaze away from Octavia, happening to catch Winifred's eye; bizarrely, he seems to flinch when he notices her, or more specifically her clothing. She can even see him clench his jaw slightly, as if slightly uncomfortable... this is not the first time this has happened. What is his issue with her? There is not one thing Winifred can think of doing that could have possibly upset Anthony. But before this moment lingers too long, he clears his throat, surveying the crowd.

     "You wouldn't have happened to have seen the Sharmas arrive, would you?" he asks.

     "Not yet," Silas replies, "but trust me, when there is a diamond in our midst, we will know."

     "So, has Colin really returned from his travels?" Madeline asks Anthony, her voice filled with curiosity.

     "Yes... and he has the endless tales and questionable facial hair to prove it. Would you like me to make an introduction?"

     "Oh, no need for anything formal. I simply wish to ask him if he made it to Florence."

"Very well, then..." Anthony turns around and nods vigorously to the ladies, a gesture to summon over his brothers. Colin is amongst them, as well as Benedict who Winifred instantly recognises. The pair of them walk across the grass to meet them. Up close and not in such fleeting sight, Colin looks considerably younger than his other two brothers — his facial hair may give him a rugged quality, but it cannot hide the round shape of his boyish face. He does instantly give off that kind of nature, too, like a youthful mischief.

"Colin, these are Lady Osborne's special guests we are telling you about — Miss Abigail and Miss Jemima Seymour, along with Mrs. Erstwhile as another chaperone..."

"It is a pleasure, ladies," Colin gives a polite little bow, catching Abigail's eye again. "Are you here for the whole season?"

"Unfortunately..." Jemima mutters under her breath.

"Colin, I must ask you, did you make it to Florence in the end?" Madeline asks him eagerly.

With a gentle shake of his head, he denies it. "No, I am afraid my tour was this time confined mostly to Greece. But I shall not forget your sightseeing advice when I do make the trip to Italy — I have heard so many good things about Florence, mostly from you, Lady Osborne."

"It is a beautiful place..." Madeline says, gazing at Silas lovingly; she must be reminiscing of their honeymoon there. Winifred remembers receiving letters from her during that trip, and she swears her sister had never sounded happier, for Madeline was deeply in love and finally satisfying her sense of adventure and wonder with the world.

The group seems to splinter slightly into different conversations, Benedict, Anthony and Silas discussing some new gentleman's club with a man Winifred has never seen before. Octavia ropes in Jemima and Madeline on her predictions for the races. Colin, she notices, suddenly seems a bit dejected to not have someone to talk to. Abigail picks up on this even quicker, brightening up next to him. "So, Greece..." she begins to catch his attention. "That is quite the endeavour!"

"Yes, I suppose it was," Colin presses his lips together into a smile.

"I have only read some Greek literature, but to be standing right in the beating heart of all that history... the temples must be magnificent in person."

"Absolutely. You know, there is something about standing in front of something so mighty, even if they are mostly ruins now, and how t can make you feel..." he pauses, hesitating to launch into a speech any more passionate. "You seem quite keen, Miss—?"

"Abigail, I'm Abigail."

Turning his attentions completely to her, Colin smiles warmly. "Have you ever thought about travelling?"

"Oh, I don't know. On the one hand, it would all be rather exciting... but I'm afraid I do love the comfort of my home all too well. I would feel rather homesick for Hertfordshire," Abigail admits. "But I am in complete awe of those like yourself, who can just make the decision to go and travel. It is quite the feat."

Winifred stands solitary next to them, feeling like an ultimate third wheel. Compared to the slightly insecure Abigail she remembers from the balls, she seemed to wake up today and choose active pursuit. She hardly knows what to do with herself now... Winifred glances helplessly around the group, wondering whether this is the conversation she should be latching onto. Then again, she is a chaperone, is she not?

Her gaze falls upon the group of gentleman speaking together — while being an avid listener to what Anthony is saying, Benedict happens to catch her eye over his brother's shoulder. He raises his eyebrows at her as a silent greeting or acknowledgement of sorts, before paying attention to Anthony's words once more.

It is only a small, fleeting gesture; but suddenly Winifred feels slightly less alone.

When she circles back to Colin and Abigail, they are still chatting, perhaps more rapturously than before.

"How are you finding the ton?" he is asking her.

Abigail makes a face Winifred knows very well — one where she is clearly hiding displeasure, but searches for any possible silver lining to her troubles. "Rather daunting, but I simply count myself an extremely lucky girl to be in such company."

"You will be alright. If you—"

"Come, girls, we are going to go and find our seats," Octavia announces abruptly,

"Mama, the races haven't started yet!" Madeline points out.

Their mother counters this with, "Efficiency never hurt anyone!"

"Did you hear that, Papa?" Winifred whispers to herself; how amused her father would be to hear those words, coming out of Octavia Seymour's mouth.

"I suppose I had better go..." Abigail tells Colin, with a note of disappointment in her voice.

But before she can walk off, he speaks: "Miss Abigail! I could save you a seat for you, if you like? I shall be sitting with my brother and sister. It is a rather good view of the tracks." Colin pauses, a slightly playful smile appearing on that face of his. "That way, you can tell me more about your grand tour of London..."

Winifred didn't know the shade of beetroot could be replicated on the human complexion, but apparently it can. Abigail blushes furiously and nods with a grin plastered across her face. "Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton. That would be perfect."

Once they have walked away from the Bridgertons, she gives Abigail a sceptical look. Why does this feel more than friendly? And, in Winifred's opinion, it seems rather out-of-the-blue as well. But when she mentions this to Madeline, her sister only shrugs happily.

"Perhaps they simply have a connection," she justifies. "I am sure you remember how quickly you and Joseph grew close."

"Yes, but not after five minutes, Madeline—"

"They are only talking. It is hardly a proposal. Are you feeling alright, sister?"

"I am perfectly well..." Winifred sighs. In truth, she does wish she could go home. So far, there have been some days where she can cope with the business and hustle of the ton perfectly well. Other days, all she wants to do is curl up in a chair and enjoy some peace and quiet on her own — it is difficult to find time for herself at the moment, which is ironic considering a few months ago, she was struggling to find time with other people.

Today, frankly, she is not in the mood for whatever the ton has to offer.

But she refuses to complain or possibly let her sister down. Instead, she quietly goes with them up to their seats, saved so courteously by Colin Bridgerton. Figuring that she can still be near a family member as chaperone, Winifred ends up being ushered into the seat next to Eloise and Benedict at the end.

     "I see Colin has slipped back into old habits," Eloise says absentmindedly, watching him greet Abigail as she takes a seat.

     Winifred, however, latches straight onto it. "Old habits?" she asks.

     "Oh, yes. He has probably flirted with half the girls in London—"

     "Have you placed any bets today, Eloise?" Benedict quickly cuts in, before his younger sister can say more than she probably should.

     Scoffing, she shakes her head. "Perhaps, but I won't be telling you, will I?"

     Eloise reminds Winifred a lot of Jemima, only more headstrong, outspoken and with an extra bite to her words. She has noticed the girl's reading material the couple of times she has been at the Bridgerton home. Most recently, it was Mary Wollstonecraft — the girl clearly had an interest in dipping her toes into a different world, where new political and social ideas were emerging. Winifred is hardly surprised by this at all, considering Eloise's personality.

     A few rows down in the crowd, Anthony has placed himself expertly between Edwina and Kate. He seems to be having a strained disagreement with the latter about which horse will win.

     The starting bell is rung, the grass soon growing thunderous with the hooves pounding against it. Horses race along at top speeds with their jockeys riding atop — the nearer they get, the wilder the crowd goes. One by one, people rise from their seats, trying to get a better look and shouting words of encouragement. Octavia is one of the first out of her seat: "Come now, High Flyer! COME ON!" she shouts, startling Abigail. But lower down, the other party seem just as enthusiastic.

     "Yes, that's it, Nectar!" Anthony's voice rises.

     "Come now, High Flyer, steady! Steady! STEADY!" Kate exclaims with growing passion.

     From above, Winifred can see their arms pressed firmly together, not an inch of space that they are competing so hard to dominate. The sparks are practically flying onto the green. High Flyer starts to gain a lead over Nectar — this only takes things up a notch for Anthony, Kate, and of course, Octavia. Even Winifred rises out of her seat to get a better look now, the crowd erupting into excitable applause and cheering for their favourites.

     "COME NOW, HIGH FLYER!" Kate screams; she presses her fingertips against the inside of her tongue and whistles, so loudly and piercingly that she completely dumbfounds Anthony. Edwina, meanwhile, seems unaffected by the competitiveness of the race, looking like she would rather be somewhere else.

     "GO ON! GO ON!" Octavia hops up and down on the spot, shaking the stands.

     "Mama, be careful!" Madeline gasps.

     "COME ON, COME ON, COME ON— YES!"

     High Flyer scoops up the win. Eloise and Benedict must have placed their bets well, too, because they break out into infectious smiles and laughs of triumph; Colin, on the other hand, tries to hide his frown. Winifred joins the applause with everyone else, unable to shake the energetic atmosphere even if she is in a bad mood.

     Further along the row, Lady Featherington scolds her daughter Prudence for cheering too enthusiastically; only for Octavia to proceed to mercilessly shout, "HIGH FLYER, YOU BEAUTY! YOU ABSOLUTE BEAUTY!" in direct contrast. Winifred can't help but chuckle to herself at her mother's antics — but upon closer look, she notices a gentleman she has never seen before is standing with the Featheringtons. Could he be the new patriarch they had been waiting for?

     Everyone still buzzing with adrenaline, they disperse out of the stands. Winifred carefully lifts her petticoat and walks down the steps one by one. Eloise brushes straight past her and makes a bee-line for Penelope. She sees that Abigail and Colin have stuck together and are still chatting away, this time about the race. As she studies them chatting, she senses a familiar person step into her periphery.

     "Colin seems quite charmed with your sister," Benedict says rather pointedly.

     "Yes... he does..." Winifred replies more hesitantly, still staring at them.

     "Do I detect a hint of suspicion?"

"I am not suspicious! I am merely... vigilant."

Benedict raises an eyebrow at her and she sighs. Winifred cannot help but be protective over Abigail. But the more she looks at them, the more she struggles to find anything amiss with Colin. He seems kind, polite and just as cheerful as her sister has always been — they naturally enjoy each other other's company. Perhaps you are just tired, she thinks to herself. Madeline and Jemima appear to be discussing something when she approaches them, her hand cupped over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

     "Lady Danbury just told us that she is hosting a special soirée this evening," Madeline tells her, interest piqued. "It is more for Miss Edwina than anything else, but still, we were thinking it could be good for Abigail in particular. She thinks Colin is going."

     "That sounds nice... Madeline, listen, I think I might go home."

     Instantly, the dark pools in sister's eyes deepen with concern. "I knew something was the matter..."

     "What is?" Octavia asks, for the first time distracted from the races. She takes a look at Winifred. "Are you feeling ill?"

     "No, not ill. I am just rather tired. I do not feel I am of much use today—"

     "Whatever you need, do it. You do not need to attend tonight, as I am sure you will not miss much at the soirée." Her mother reaches forward and squeezes her hand; suddenly Winifred feels like a little girl being fussed over. "Do you feel faint? Nauseous?"

     Winifred pries her hand away from Octavia's grip, dislodging her glove with it. "I am tired, Mama, not a fragile thing in danger of snapping," she replies weakly. "I simply desire some time to myself..."

     She goes home alone by carriage. Maybe this is one of the benefits of her situation — she is no longer an 'innocent' unmarried girl, therefore needs no chaperone (some will say). Winifred relishes being by herself for a few minutes, removing her gloves and untying her bonnet. Some loose strands of hair fall around her temples and she puffs them out of her face with a heavy sigh.

Right now, all she wants to do is go home, and she is a long way from that.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     BENEDICT cannot pretend that he wanted to attend the Danbury soirée this evening... because he most definitely did not. Sure, he can enjoy himself when he wishes to, and that is not to say he does not love a good party, but under the usual scrutiny of the ton that would have been impossible. Besides, what would he have been doing? Listening to Anthony scheme with such precision about how to make Edwina Sharma his viscountess? Benedict could easily give that a miss.

But at least tonight, he has an excuse — he was going to see this new gentleman's club of Will Mondrich's for himself.

He has frequented White's more in the past, but already upon walking inside Mondrich's, there is a whole different warmth to it that he could never find in the other place. The crowd, although worryingly small, feels completely separate from the usual people that he and Anthony would often meet. It must be what shifts the atmosphere — this place is filled with creatives and hard-workers, as opposed to titled gentlemen who have everything handed to them on a silver platter. Admittedly, Benedict himself belongs to such a group, but he greatly admires the kind of crowd gathered in here. It only takes a quick scan of the room to find Will Mondrich, who beams upon seeing Benedict.

"Mr. Bridgerton!" Will says, delighted. "You honour me with your presence."

Shaking his hand, Benedict happily replies, "The honour's all mine, Mr. Mondrich. The place looks extraordinary. Though, am I a little early?" After saying this, he steals a slightly hesitant glance around the room, which is rather empty of company.

     "The crowd will increase with time, naturally."

They slowly make their way over to the bar together, Benedict still craning his neck around to drink in every drop of the place. He certainly feels an instant ease here. Although, when Mr. Mondrich asks him his next question, that ease is instantly quenched:

"I heard a rumour that you, yourself, are an artist," he says... or does he ask it? If he did, it was certainly rhetorical.

Benedict feels his heart jump-start in his chest. What rumour? Having someone ask him about his art — if Benedict could even call it that — is exposing, as though someone has seen him naked.

Though, maybe he should not be surprised that Will Mondrich knows about his attempts at artistic pursuit. Last year was full of them, when Henry Granville invited him to many of his late-night gatherings, filled with bohemians and creatives from all walks of life. It completely opened Benedict's eyes to a whole other world that had been sitting right under his nose — all the ways that one could express themselves, and not just through art... he thought it was extraordinary.

"Oh. I... dabble," Benedict chuckles self-deprecatingly.

"Then, you must meet Mr. Cruikshank," Mondrich nods over to a gentleman sitting by the fireplace. "He's a talented illustrator with many connections amongst artists and patrons."

"I am always excited to meet talented people."

His eyes glowing with pride, Mondrich passes Benedict a drink he just poured. "This is precisely what makes my establishment different, Bridgerton. I know you and your brothers are comfortable at places like White's, but every honest man, regardless of his title, rank, or occupation, is welcome to be here."

Impressed and inspired beyond belief, Benedict replies, "I must say, Mr. Mondrich, I'm quite overjoyed to see what a fine establishment you've built by the sweat of your own honest labour."

"Hear, hear."

They toast, and as they are about to take a sip, a familiar booming voice grabs his attention. "Benedict! How good to see you here as well."

"Colchester, it's good to see you too," Benedict turns around, grinning at Silas — he is pleasantly surprised that he is here. He more or less considers him a friend of his, and was always treated as such when first meeting him years ago as one of Anthony's Oxford friends. Apart from some trivial Oxford-Cambridge rivalry, they hit it off rather well.

"I thought I might see you here," says Silas. "Between you and me, I thought it far more likely than your brother."

"Yes, I know what you mean... he is occupied tonight, anyway, at the Danbury soirée."

"Oh, yes, glad to give that one a miss. The last thing I wish to do is watch young men juggling — literally, juggling — for the attention of some debutantes."

"I thought you might have gone?" Benedict swirls the wine around in his glass. "What with you acting as chaperone this season—?"

Silas gives a curt shake of his head. "Madeline and her mother have it under control tonight. Which is good, it gave some of us a break... my sister-in-law, Winifred, is probably relishing the quiet night in as well."

"Mrs. Erstwhile? Yes, I suppose so..." Benedict trails off.

     He still finds Winifred a bit of an enigma — that much has persisted from when he first saw her, dressed completely in her widow's weeds on that autumnal day the year before. Then of course, she showed up in London by a strange twist of fate, and they have kept meeting since. Benedict cannot say that he has learned a whole lot about her since... which almost feels wrong. Her walls are built so highly around her and she prefers to remain in the background, while her family are louder or bolder.

     What Benedict does know about her are a few things. There is a quiet strength about her and complete lack of pretence. The ton is always putting on a performance for everyone else — Winifred either refuses to, or is physically in-able to perform. Perhaps that is why he feels a strange sense of ease talking to her, in the short time he has known her.

     They keep finding each other, even if they are not trying to.

Benedict soon leaves Silas and Mondrich behind, introducing himself to Mr. Cruikshank. The artist offers a seat for him and the Bridgerton complies, pulling up a chair so he can listen to his stories. How much time passes, he is not sure, but he hangs onto every single word — his explanation of the Royal Academy and all of its contributions to art fascinate him. The more he hears about it, the more Benedict finds himself becoming enamoured with the idea of it. But that is all it is, at first; an idea.

After excitedly talking about Gerárd paintings, Benedict asks, "So you are telling me that he, Leighton, and Turner all studied in the same academy?"

"Indeed..." Cruikshank smiles.

How can one place provide so much talent? the Bridgerton thinks to himself, incredulous and awestruck.

"And they have a vacancy, from what I hear," he adds, leaning forward to Benedict. "If you are serious about painting, I hear it is the place to be."

A vacancy? Benedict feels foolish hope swell in his chest. Usually, he would dismiss this feeling — how could he ever be of the same calibre that Turner, Leighton and Gerárd are? — but instead, he finds that he simply feels too inspired to stamp on his hopes for now. He tries imagining it... walking through the halls, a sketchbook under his arm, spending his days in a studio surrounded by like-minded creatives. And what if his paintings hung in Somerset House one day? It seems like a heaven that is too good to be true.

Maybe he could do this.

Benedict opens his mouth, about to ask for more details, when a painfully familiar voice pierces the room:

"Brother. I need you."

As always... the peace was pleasant while it lasted. Whipping his head around in disbelief at Anthony's manners, Benedict gestures to Mr. Cruikshank, who now looks rather confused. "I am in the midst of a conversation!" he protests.

"Outside, straight away," Anthony turns around, already leaving the room.

Benedict cannot believe this. Shouldn't he be at the Danbury soirée? "Excuse me," he politely tells Cruikshank, who just nods in bemused understanding. He tries to ignore the fact that his brother's arrival caught everyone's attention in the club as he picks up his pace, trying to catch up to Anthony — why is he always like that? The viscount appears as tense as ever, and Benedict would not be half-surprised if he whipped out his pocket watch to check.

They stand outside Mondrich's club in the warm glow of the lights outside. Before Benedict can ask what on Earth is going on, Anthony forcefully thrusts a small book into his hands. "I need you to teach me how to read that," he tells him abruptly.

Benedict turns the book over; when he reads the front cover, he could positively gag.

"Byron?! Did I strike you much harder than I realised earlier?" he retorts, thinking back to Anthony's aggressive fencing match earlier on today.

But just when he thought it could not get worse, it does. Anthony starts spouting Byron in what he thinks is an attempt at reciting the poetry — it sounds colder and harsher coming out of the viscount's mouth, like a strange sort of command.

"There is a pleasure... in the pathless woods," Anthony says sharply.

"Ooh," Benedict winces.

"There is a rapture... in the—" Thankfully, he gives up, throwing his arms in exasperation. "How does one make that sound good?"

This is going to be fun...

"I'm afraid that is impossible," Benedict hands him back the book, stifling laughter. "That poem is the opposite of good... that poem is nonsense."

"But I thought this sort of thing was supposed to be your pleasure?"

"Poetry? Yes. Byron? Heavens, no!"

"Is everyone not supposed to love Byron?"

"Many people in our year at Cambridge thought my poetry far superior to his," Benedict points out, hoping this will clarify things.

"Does this mean yours is more or less deceitful?" Anthony asks.

"Deceitful?" he echoes, almost choking on the word.

"Mhmm."

Lord have mercy.

"Poetry is the opposite, brother..." Benedict says slowly, trying not to sound irritated. "It is the art of revealing precious truth with words."

To his disappointment, Anthony scoffs and laughs. He does not know how else he can explain it to him. In fact, why is Benedict still here trying to explain poetry to Anthony Bridgerton, of all people? It would be easier explaining Lady Whistledown to a horse.

"Quite right, brother," Anthony laughs, before noticing that his brother does not seem to get this joke. "You– you're being serious?"

     Benedict simply nods. Clearly, this is not the answer his brother was looking for; he rolls his eyes impatiently.

     "Good God... goodnight!"

     But he is not finished yet. As Anthony leaves, he proclaims: "What is it, truly, to admire a woman?" It stops his brother in his tracks. He almost interprets it as a question on an examination at first... on the contrary, it is far more poetic than that.

     Benedict goes on: "To look at her and feel inspiration... to delight in her beauty, so much so that all your defences crumble... that you would willingly take on any pain, any burden for her."

     Whatever prompted this? He has no idea where this is coming from. It just pours out of him, his heart carrying a strangely pleasant ache with it. The words ebb and flow naturally, and more importantly, Benedict feels and believes every word he is saying — it giving a voice to that more sensitive, carefully-protected part of him which is far more romantic than he would ever let on to his brother.

     "To honour her being, with your deeds and words..." Benedict sighs. "That is what the true poet describes."

     There is a strange stillness after he finishes speaking; he finds himself squirming on the spot, as if stepping out of a daydream. The words seem to linger in the air; perhaps they are everything he yearns for, everything he hopes he could give to a woman. That object of Benedict's heart, for now, still remains elusive...

     Anthony is staring at him with fascination, bordering on admiration. When was the last time he was ever looked at like that by his brother? He seems truly affected by his words.

     "You should apply yourself more often, Benedict..."

     Sincerity turns to scheming once more, a flicker of an idea in his eyes.

     "Write that down."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Did I throw in a Benedict POV purely so I could write him reciting that poem? Yes. Yes I did. That scene in the show, when I first saw it, had me all like:

But in fairness, I'm planning to introduce more Benedict POVs anyway, so this felt like a perfect start. I feel like this scene really illustrates that he is quite a romantic at heart, and is literally bursting to share this with someone... not to mention that the poem actually really fits his dynamic with Winifred... come get your man, Win!

What do we think about Abigail and Colin?? 👀👀 Can you see it going anywhere, or not? To be continued...

There were not as many Benifred moments for this update, but fear not. In the next chapter, it deviates more from the show's plot, and is all original scenes instead (including one of my favourites of Act One which features Benedict & Winifred — it is quite a breakthrough for them). Until then, thank you for reading, comments and feedback are always appreciated.

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 10/01/2024