CHAPTER EIGHT.
still life.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     AFTER A QUIET NIGHT TO HERSELF, Winifred starts to wonder whether she should go to bed. She is perched on a seat in her room, wearing a white chemise and her hair braided down her shoulder. Old copies of Lady Whistledown are sat in a neat and tidy pile next to her on the chaise — while she does not subscribe to the idea of gossip pages, she is more acutely aware of how much the ton revolves around them. If she is to survive in this world for the next few months, she might as well adapt to it. So, she had attempted reading more of them earlier on, until it began to make her head spin. She then tried embroidery, walking around the house, playing with her nieces and nephews, everything.

     But the truth is simple: Winifred really misses Joseph tonight.

     Or more specifically, she misses being able to unravel around him. Any pressure to perform would be released, and she could freely tell him her thoughts and frustrations, without any fear that he might judge or misinterpret them (she believes it a highly underrated intimacy for two people to share). It would have been a nice way to unwind after a day of dealing with the ton. But she knows that is not the case. Most of the time, she has been able to leave the worst pain back at Highbourne, at home... like a door she can keep conveniently locked until another day.

Still, there are the odd days when her grief leaks through the hinges.

     For a few minutes, Winifred has simply been lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling, when she hears a carriage trot by outside. She rolls off the bed and shuffles over to the window; it is at least something to do. At first she had wondered if it was her sisters returning from the Danbury soirée, but instead she sees the carriage turn and stop outside the Bridgerton home. In the dark of night, only one Bridgerton steps out of the carriage... Benedict.

     She leans nearer the glass to get a better look. The carriage leaves and he is still standing there, staring up at something — is it the sky, or the house draped in wisteria? Benedict almost seems contemplative. Even from across the street, behind this window, Winifred can see his shoulders rise and fall with what appears to be a huge sigh. Then, as though he has steeled himself, he walks up the steps and disappears into the Bridgerton house. What was he doing? she wonders. She assumed he would be at the Danbury soirée, since he had been everywhere else, but it still seems rather early for him to leave. Winifred decides to think nothing more of it, for now.

     Either way, Winifred's peace and quiet does not last much longer. Other carriages soon arrive home, including one to the Osborne home. Her younger sisters come bursting into her room after having spent it at the Danbury soirée, showing no signs of tiredness as they both talk over each other at lightning speeds:

     "Oh, Winifred, you should have been there!" Abigail exclaims.

     "Wait until you hear what I have to tell you..." Jemima adds.

     "We conversed all night long—"

     "She likes Shakespeare, would you believe it?! A hidden gem—"

     "And it turns out that Mr. Bridgerton is quite fond of—"

     "Of all the monologues to choose in A Midsummer Night's Dream, that was the most predictable—"

     "Stop, stop, please! You're giving me a headache..." Winifred massages her temples tiredly, relishing in the brief silence from Abigail and Jemima. "Now, try that again. One at a time."

     Jemima jumps in first, before Abigail can even get a word in: "There were all sorts of gentlemen practising their talents for Edwina Sharma. I am not entirely sure that hoop-rolling is a talent, but I digress... Francis Caldwell chose to recite some Shakespeare to her, and I must admit, he did quite a good job of it. I then spent the rest of the evening with the Caldwells, who are so keen on the performing arts themselves. It was brilliant. They are so fortunate to have someone with such talent and wit in their family."

     "Well, I am glad to hear you and Francis Caldwell are on good terms again."

     "Francis?" Jemima wrinkles her nose. "No, no, I'm talking about Emilia Caldwell! He's alright, I suppose, but I think she should have been up there reciting some Shakespeare. We ended up conversing about the theatre and our favourite literature all night. And — hear this — Emilia has played Olivia in Twelfth Night!"

     "Ah, the Olivia to your Cesario..." Winifred chuckles.

     From across the room, Octavia laughs. "Well, I'm glad you have found a friend in Miss Caldwell. The ton can be a very lonely place without them."

     "And what about you, Abigail?"

     "I talked to Colin Bridgerton..." Abigail beams, shuffling over to the chaise and lowering herself down. "He is lovely. I'm telling you, Winifred, he is so much warmer and more cheerful than half of the gentlemen at these balls. Though I did bump into the dowager countess when we got home, and do you know what she told me? 'You can do better than a third son.'"

     "Don't listen to what that old bat has to say, duckie," Jemima rolls her eyes.

     "Oh... I– I sort of interpreted it as a compliment... at least, I hoped it was."

     "So, it went well?" Winifred asks, the question now more directed at Madeline. The eldest sister's lips curl into an endeared smile as she nods. In fact, she seems rather convinced about the pairing.

     "Do you think he might call on us?" Abigail suddenly asks, her voice full of hope.

     "We'll have to see... but I must admit, it would not come as a shock if he did. You should have seen them, Winifred, chatting away."

     Winifred just chuckles tiredly. Her sisters all seem to be drifting around her room now, and as much as she loves them and their company, she is exhausted. The most desirable activity she can think of at the moment is blowing out the candles and getting herself to bed. Especially if things are to kick off as Abigail's time with Colin suggests they might — who knows? They could have a caller on their hands, and Winifred would want to be in good shape to chaperone.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1807.

DAWN breaks outside their window. It spills morning sunlight onto the Highbourne estate, where a thin mist hovers over the field just beyond their courtyard. Winifred has always loved early mornings — Joseph has no choice but to love them too, considering his career path. So, now she loves them even more, for these quiet moments they share before the day begins. He is the one person she will happily let into her solitude.

     They are laid in bed, nightgowns and shirts hanging loosely and un-buttoned off their skin from the night before. Her brown waves spill over her bare shoulders and flatten themselves against the pillow. Her husband has his head laid next to hers, the calm blue of his eyes drinking her in while also looking absentminded.

"I was just thinking... about your name," Joseph murmurs, his throat hoarse from barely having used it yet.

"My name?" Winifred asks.

"Something I could call you, that no one else can. Something just between us."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Yes..." Joseph smiles, the bed creaking as he leans on his propped-up arm to look down at her. "Win, for instance, is obviously off the table. I cannot have little Jemima's voice in my head when I think of you."

Winifred chuckles tiredly, shaking her head. "That would dampen the mood, if you know what I mean."

     He grins mischievously at that with a flicker of desire in his eyes. "I think I know what you mean. Very well then. What else... we had a cat called Winnie growing up, we can't call you that..."

     Thinking it some kind of amusing charade, she kisses his temple and lifts herself to a sitting position, her back gently hitting the headboard of the bed. She is pulling the sleeves of her nightgown back up over her shoulders just as Joseph's face lights up. "What?" she asks. "What is it?"

"How about... Fred?"

Winifred feels a lurch of distaste so violent inside her, she could toss a pillow at him.

     "No. Absolutely not."

     "Well, now that shall definitely be your name!" Joseph is laughing now. "I think it is lovely. It is unique."

     "Mrs. Erstwhile would have perfectly sufficed!"

     "In return, you can call me anything you wish. Anything."

     She huffs, the hair blowing out of her face. A few names come to mind... they are rather more colourful than terms of endearment. Winifred just shakes her head fiercely. "I like your name perfectly well enough as it is, actually," Winifred. "There is nothing wrong with it."

Joseph's gaze softens. He leans across the bed, his lips meeting hers lazily in the middle. When they break from the kiss, the warm breath of his voice murmurs against her cheek: "Why, thank you, Fred." Then he draws back. For all of his jokes and smiles, he would never wish to actually hurt her feelings, and he is determined to check that he did not. Winifred tries her best to look stern... but how can she?

Once again, Joseph Erstwhile has won her over...

     But that doesn't mean she has surrendered just yet.

     "I think it is time we had breakfast, Josephine," Winifred hums and leaps out of bed.

     The look of horror that strikes Joseph's face is like a thunderclap. "Josephine?!" he echoes, incredulously.

     Winifred, pretending to be oblivious, just shrugs at the doorway. "Yes," she replies deadpan. "I thought it was lovely... and unique."

     Got him, she thinks to herself triumphantly.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

COLIN Bridgerton called on Abigail the following morning, clean-shaven, with a bouquet of flowers and a friendly smile — it all began to escalate from there.

He spent the rest of the morning at the Osbornes', talking to Abigail whilst her chaperones sat only across the room from them, never leaving them quite alone. Winifred, Madeline and their mother would simply pretend to do embroidery or talk over tea whilst the young couple were chatting. Of course, it meant they hung onto their every word.

     After how smoothly Colin's morning call goes, it sets the tone for the weeks to follow; there is something to explore here.

     They take all the usual, civil steps in getting to know one another. There are strolls in the park, reservations to dance with each other at the following balls, and even a visit to the theatre (Jemima particularly enjoyed third-wheeling that one; in truth, she just seems happy that her matchmaking missions have been forgotten about for a while). As stubborn as she was to begin with, Colin is growing on Winifred the more she sees him. Unlike other men in the ton, often more smug and brooding, he is refreshingly good-natured and often cracking a lighthearted joke. She is starting to see his appeal to Abigail — they are very similar in that way, charming and a delight to be around, perhaps even more so for Colin. Her sister can loosen up around him.

     It means they see much more of the Bridgertons, the families now having a reason to be in closer proximity than before. Violet does seem rather surprised at the sudden fondness between her son and Abigail — she was already caught up in Anthony's pursuit of a viscountess — but upon seeing them together, she does seem rather pleased.

     Today, the two families are picnicking together in Regent's Park. The sunshine is glorious, on the cusp between spring and summer, and only a light breeze threatens the tranquility of a good picnic. An open marquee has been put up over their blankets to shield them from the harsher rays and thus keeping the food shielded — various cuts of meat, bowls of fresh fruit, cheeses, biscuits, bread and cakes are all laid out to eat, with shimmering silverware, pots of tea and cool beverages like lemonade and ginger-beer packed in hampers.

Clearly, they are not the only idea with this idea today, as many other families of the ton have set up marquees and picnics around the park. Just a stone's throw away from them sit Lady Danbury and the Sharmas... suddenly Anthony's choice of picnic spot makes much more sense. Winifred can see Kate and Edwina trying to whisper something away from the viscount's view, the former's gaze intense while the latter is sweet and unaffected.

At least over at their spot, the atmosphere is decidedly more relaxed. Winifred sits on the picnic blanket helping herself to some cheese and crackers, while Colin is reclined on his side sharing grapes with Abigail. The whole ton seem to be staring at the pair rather sceptically — mostly affluent mothers with their debutante daughters, wondering how this virtual unknown managed to bag a Bridgerton. But underneath this marquee, it is all smiles and easy spirits, much to everyone's relief. Jemima tries to make Ann Radcliffe sound enticing to Eloise, who is too focused on her Wollstonecraft agenda at the moment. Violet and Octavia laugh and reminisce about their childhoods while Gregory and Hyacinth run around hoop-rolling on the green. Silas is playfully interfering with their game, trying to re-direct the course of their hoop; Madeline just watches from afar with a fond smile on her face.

"It's just like this at home, you know... when he is not so busy," Madeline remarks to Winifred. "He is just as boisterous."

"I know. I remember."

"He can get weighed down with the responsibilities. God knows his mother puts so much pressure on him, too..."

Winifred hands her sister the fruit bowl, so she can help herself to a pear. "Well, I think he is doing a fine job."

"So do I," Madeline beams.

Silas catches his wife's eyes and grins lovingly back at her. Then, straightening up, he jogs over to lower himself down with a thud onto the blanket; he is completely relaxed around her. Winifred watches the way his arm winds around Madeline to draw her nearer, and she smiles... although she suddenly feels a pang of jealousy. You once had that, too, she reminds herself. The harsh reality check always knocks the wind out of her at the most inconvenient moments.

She looks across, further out at the park. Anthony has now tried approaching the Sharmas, attempting to become friendlier with Edwina under Kate's watchful eye. Some time ago, Lettie promenaded by with Lady Strachan on her arm, saying a quick hello but not being able to sit for longer since it would not do the baroness's old knees any favours.

Then Benedict took off a while ago to catch up with a supposed friend of his — who it was, Winifred was not quite sure — but it was enough to tear him away from his thin black sketchbook. She supposes that is what it must be, and as she has seen more of him over the weeks, she cannot help notice how often he is scribbling away inside it. Her curiosity of what is inside only grows the more she watches him. While Benedict does not try to hide it, he is not exactly liberal with showing what he draws in that sketchbook.

Suddenly, a familiar red-headed girl is trotting across the grass their way. It is Penelope Featherington, dressed in a rather alarmingly bright-yellow frock, which resembles a sunflower. Colin instantly perks up at seeing her, losing the thread of conversation he was having with Abigail. "Why, good-morning, Pen. I see you all had the same idea today, too," he says, with a tone that suggests they know each other very well. The casual nickname certainly surprises Winifred.

"It is a most glorious day... though I think Mama will want to cut our trip to the park short, for the fear of us becoming sunburned. Not so agreeable with our fair complexion and bright red hair, you see!" Penelope says nervously; despite her shyness, there is a surprising wit that always seems to cut through. It certainly makes Colin and Abigail laugh in equal measure.

"You two have met, haven't you?" asks Colin.

"Of course we have," Abigail smiles brightly at her, "we met at the Danbury soirée."

"And seeing as it has been impossible to detach the both of you since then, yes," Penelope says, slightly weakly, "I can assure you that we have met."

     "Would you like to sit with us for a little while? We have plenty of food to go around. I would recommend the brie—"

     At Abigail's offer, Penelope blushes uncomfortably. "Oh, no– no thank you, I do think my Mama might be calling me, actually—"

     "Penelope! Thank goodness!" Eloise suddenly springs up to her feet, linking her arm with that of her best friend. "I have been looking for you everywhere. You did not see the man that Mama tried to saddle me with last night, I fear my poor toes shall never recover..."

     As Eloise chats on obliviously, Penelope shoots back a longing glance at Colin before turning back again. Madeline and Winifred exchange a look between them — what was going on there? Winifred only considers it, vaguely, in her mind. But her sister seems keen to discuss it right here, right now, in front of Abigail.

     "They seem rather close, don't they?" she whispers.

     "Who?"

     Unable to say it out loud, Madeline leans even closer to whisper it into her ear; but before she can, a sudden gust blows through the marquee. The tent itself and the food luckily stays tethered. However, pages of Benedict's sketchbook, lying flat on the chair where he once sat, are carried away with the wind. One, two, then three or four sheets of paper dance through the air, pirouetting with the breeze. There are exclamations of surprise and dread as they almost leave the marquee — but not before Winifred grabs hold of the last one with a seated lunge across the blanket. She manages to clamp down the other two with her knees, trying not to look too awkward in her dress.

     Panting, Winifred throws a glance over her shoulder at Benedict. He does not seem to have noticed at all, too busy talking to the same man still, his back to the marquee. Typical. Such heroics are never rewarded. She removes each knee safely from the paper and gathers them all in one stack on her lap. "Sorry, Madeline what is it you were...?" she begins to ask.

     But no one is listening anymore. Silas is now murmuring something to Madeline, her face craned closer so only the pair of them can hear. No one else seems to be paying attention to the near-demise of Benedict's pages, either. Colin and Abigail are giggling at something whilst Jemima shows Gregory and Hyacinth how to properly hoop-roll. So, Winifred quietly gets back to work, trying to gently un-crease the pages she had been clamping down with her knees...

     Then she stops. She looks, really looks at them.

     The page is filled with sketches of the human hand. Various trials and errors, some where the shading is lacking or the wrists are too thick, but they capture Winifred immediately. She can see the callouses in the hand or the faint lines in the palm. It almost feels animated, even if it is a little bit jaunty. Forgetting who else is around, she turns to the next loosened page. It is the same case again, even with a still life portrait of a fruit bowl, the shadows bring it to life.

All of the drawings share one thing in common — they spring off the page, they feel alive. Benedict's work does not feel cold or impersonal, like some portrait artists, she finds. There is a freedom in it.

     Winifred carefully slots the drawings back into the sketchbook. Her eyes keep catching other impressive sketches, even the ones which are struck through with angrily insecure scribbles. She flicks past a couple of pages, absorbed in the art, until she stumbles upon a full-bodied sketch of a woman — a naked woman, her hair undone, the light and shadows accentuating every curve and fold of her skin. Her neck flushes hot; she feels as though she has seen too much, seen something too personal to Benedict. Winifred quickly slams the sketchbook shut and fastens the small latch, placing it back atop his chair. But still, the image of him sitting in a studio in front of a model lingers in her head...

     Even she has to admit that it was very well-drawn.

     "Ah, Benedict! Are you done boring that poor man from Mondrich's club, then?" Silas laughs.

     Winifred tries to wipe clean the stunned expression she can feel on her face as Benedict walks over. Still, he seems to have noticed nothing.

     "Mr. Cruikshank, you mean?" Benedict sighs, folding his arms across his chest. "It was quite an interesting conversation, if you must know, one that got rudely interrupted by my brother when we last spoke..."

     "Oh no... not me, I hope?" Colin raises an eyebrow playfully, making Abigail laugh.

     Benedict shakes his head at him, and as he does, his eyes catch Winifred's. She quickly averts her gaze — right now, all she can see is the floating sketch of that naked woman. But once her outline fades after a minute or two, there is the more important thing she cannot separate from him now... he is talented. Really talented. Not perfect, by any means, but is that not subjective?

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THERE are a lot of social events which Winifred would rather pass on. Today, however, she happily attends, for once not just with the interests of her sisters in mind — they are off to Somerset House, where the annual art exhibition of the Royal Academy is taking place. From the ceiling to the floors, the walls are completely covered by paintings large and small, sculptures punctuating the minuscule gaps in the middle of the room.

     Winifred has only been to a small handful of exhibitions in her life. The first time she did, she was all but fourteen years of age, and her mother and aunt took her to this very exhibition in London. They thought she might find it dull, as most children surely would... but the effect was quite the contrary. Although she was only young, the paintings and sculptures could reach deep inside Winifred, to touch parts of her soul she didn't even know how to access. Not to mention she was in awe of the work that went into the art displayed. She could see every stroke of the brush, every careful mark on a sculpture, and she applauded every single one. When she got home, she had searched her father's library for anything and everything relating to art history, curious about how these people managed to create such beautiful things.

     Even with Somerset House so crowded today, Winifred feels an immediate sense of peace — like this is territory she can navigate.

     Her mother and Madeline also seem acutely aware that, for her, today is less about chaperoning and more about enjoying herself (even if she will not admit it). They exchange knowing smiles as Winifred walks around, clutching the programme tightly in her hand and referring to it when she comes to a piece she admires. Together, the families weave through Somerset House, looking at various pieces. Passing by one of the biggest wings of the gallery, Winifred feels her heartbeat lodge itself in her throat with ardent anticipation. Her gaze is piercing straight through the crowds towards the painting she really wanted to see.

     "You do not have to stay with us, if you wish," Madeline touches her shoulder. "Jemima just went and found Emilia Caldwell by the engravings, and you know Colin and Abigail are occupied."

     "Are you sure? I do not want to be a bother."

     "Nonsense. Go, enjoy yourself for a little while. We can meet you back by the sculptures."

     Winifred nods, giving her sister a slightly breathless, eager wave before consulting her program again. She refers to the number that the painting has been given. Then she steps into the massive crowds bursting in the gallery. Eager eyes overlook the skied pieces to notice the stand-out portraits, the most prominent pieces. Some famous names will no doubt be displayed in here. Squeezing through the crowds, Winifred apologises and politely asks for space to each and every stranger, not even caring how claustrophobic it is. She gets in the queue... and soon, she doesn't even have to check her program to know if she has found her painting. Just to be sure, she checks the inscription anyway:

     Surely enough, she has found it: Dido and Aeneas by J.M.W. Turner.

     The room seems to go quiet around her. Winifred finds herself not surrounded by busy society people in London, but immersed in the tranquility of the countryside. In a sea of boastful portraits, the giant landscape completely captures her — a far-reaching view of the ancient city is framed by the trees, where golden sunlight softly touches their outlines and lines the soft clouds in the sky. When she can get closer, she gazes in admiration at the oil painting, each brushstroke and how intentional it is.

     It was a Turner painting which enchanted her in the first place all those years ago. She remembers literally stopping in her tracks to get a better look at his beautiful landscape of a castle situated in the Scottish mountains. Winifred had resonated with the natural beauty he could convey, enhancing it and yet it still felt so recognisable to her. The girl's interest in art and its history had only grown and festered since that day, that moment.

     Winifred knows very well that she is not the only one taking interest. Is that not why everyone is here? Nevertheless, she finds herself forgetting about them, except for one person — in her periphery, she catches sight of Benedict Bridgerton. He, too, is stood transfixed by the Turner painting. She has never seen him look so... vulnerable. Benedict seems to be finding this painting just as touching as she is. His eyes examine every part of the landscape, as if making it part of himself, and no one else in the room matters to him right now.

     ... Yet he does seem to have noticed her, too.

     Slowly, but surely, they come to meet each other's eyes while their bodies still face the painting. They share a small smile, like an unspoken hello.

     "The light is quite beautiful, isn't it? The golden tones in the sky..." Benedict trails off. His voice sounds different than it usually does: smaller, softer.

     "I agree," says Winifred, turning back to the painting. "There is nothing quite like a beautiful Turner landscape. Do you not think the colours remind you of a Lorrain painting?"

     A beat passes. Then, slightly stunned, he replies: "Actually, I was thinking the exact same thing. It is something about the trees and the... vastness of it."

     "Precisely..."

     There is a longer silence this time. Even getting lost in the painting cannot distract Winifred from it. She looks at Benedict again, who is staring in awe at her — stood closer to him than usual, she notices that his eyes are not just a pale green, but they shift between that and a bluer hue depending on the light. Rather like the surface of the sea. It has the same calming effect, too... although she does start to wonder why they have fallen into silence.

     "What?" asks Winifred, hesitantly.

     "Mrs. Erstwhile, I had no idea that you possessed such an artistic eye," Benedict remarks, apparently enthralled to find someone like-minded.

     "Oh, I would not say that."

     "But all the signs point to it otherwise."

     Winifred sighs, thoughtfully glancing back at the Turner piece for a moment. "Well... yes, I suppose I quite enjoy viewing art, I could happily be entertained for hours on end walking through a gallery. But I seldom get the opportunity to visit an exhibition. It has certainly been many years since I had the privilege of coming across a Turner piece."

     "When did you last see one?" he asks, tilting his head with great interest.

     "Twelve years ago, I should think. It was the first and last time. The name of the piece has escaped me now, but it took my breath away."

     Benedict nods, turning his head back up to the great oil painting above their heads. "Yes... I feel the same way, when I see a Turner sky."

     What else can Winifred say to that? She just hums in agreement, taking in more of the Turner piece once more. It is remarkable how easily the discussion flowed between them — Benedict seems completely genuine in his love for art. There may be admirers in this crowd, certainly, but the second-eldest Bridgerton is one of the few with that extra twinkle in his eye, like he wants more. But for now, he still seems to be reeling over the fact that Winifred is also an avid admirer of art.

     "You do not have to look so surprised!" she remarks.

     "I am sorry," Benedict chuckles, "I just– I suppose I did not expect you to be so interested in art."

     "And what did you suppose I took interest in, as opposed to art?"

     "I do not know, I—"

     A half-cough, half-clearing of the throat behind them startles the pair. They turn around to see a rather stout, red-faced gentleman waiting impatiently behind them to view the Turner piece. Realising they have been there a while, Winifred and Benedict move along the walls, now facing a whole different collage of paintings. You only have to move a few inches to see something entirely different — floor-to-ceiling, every space is absolutely crammed with works of art that it overwhelms the senses.

     "You are certainly one to talk," says Winifred quietly, "when I see you with your nose buried in that sketchbook half the time."

     She tries not to let on that she has looked inside his sketchbook; nevertheless, he could not even deny that he does draw in there fairly frequently in front of his family, and therefore her. Benedict still seems to freeze on the spot regardless of this. He suddenly seems exposed, suddenly vulnerable to potential criticism.

     Finally, he murmurs, "They are just scribbles. They are nothing."

     "Somehow I seriously doubt that," Winifred replies instinctively.

     "Well, I– I suppose I do dabble, occasionally..." Benedict stammers. She has never seen him so uncertain like this.

     Selfishly, Winifred briefly relishes in the feeling of being the one more in her depth — something she has not felt since coming to London, or indeed, in the long months since her husband's death. Benedict shifts on the spot, not just looking at the paintings, but around him at the rest of the exhibition. For almost a full minute, he seems to debate whether to ask her something, before finally taking the plunge.

     "Mrs. Erstwhile?"

     "Yes?"

     "Do you... in theory, I mean..." Benedict takes a deep breath. "Do you suppose, if there was someone who wished to further their pursuits in the arts, that there could be a place for an amateur at one of these schools? I mean, could they belong here?"

     Winifred tears her eyes away from the extravagant portrait in front of her, furrowing her brows in thought. She considers his question for a moment since he looks rather nervous for an answer. Once she realises what he is asking, she softens; his attempts at subtlety are in vain. Benedict seems to have his own ambitions about pursuing art.

     "The Royal Academy, you mean? Certainly. I do not see why not."

     "But I am only a novice, and—"

     "Based on my observations, I would assume that is the whole point of being 'schooled' in the arts, Mr. Bridgerton..." Winifred tries to give him an encouraging look; to her relief, she thinks she sees Benedict relax slightly and smile at the point she raised. "If you do not apply yourself, you may never discover what you are capable of."

     Unable to argue with that, Benedict shrugs. "That is true... though you have not seen my work, and I doubt it would be worthy, anyway."

     Winifred thinks back to his sketchbook pages. "I don't know," she murmurs, "I have a good feeling."

Benedict stares at her for a moment, taken aback by her encouragement. Then, once he has digested it, he cannot contain the smile spreading across his face. He folds his arms across his chest — just like that, his easygoing demeanour has returned. Some weight has either been lifted from his mind or cleared away for the time being.

"What do you make of this one, then?" Benedict asks her, side-stepping towards the next portrait along. Winifred stops in front of it and feels her heart sink with a slight distaste.

"It feels rather... dark," she admits. "Then again, perhaps it had the misfortune of being placed next to that Turner piece. What do you think?"

"I just take pity on the poodle. It looks as though it would rather be anywhere else."

     Winifred feels the skin around her face grow tight at Benedict's joke, a lightness suddenly permeating her chest. It feels strangely unfamiliar in comparison to the last few months — she realises she has not beamed like that in a very, very long time.

     She could have easily gone around the gallery on her own, lucky enough to not need a chaperone. But now she finds that she immensely enjoys the company of Benedict. They stop at each painting — even if it takes an awfully long time — and exchange their thoughts about them. Sometimes they agree, sometimes they do not. Neither of them try to reserve their opinions from one another. Winifred cannot fathom how refreshing it feels to have a genuine conversation about a shared interest with someone like this; talking to him about it and sharing in his excitement reminds her of exactly why she enjoys admiring art so much.

A whole new side of Benedict is also revealing itself to her, too — one full of sensibilities and much more sensitive. Art seems to access that side of him, and Winifred truly feels like she is seeing a bit of the real him. How often does that happen in the ton?

With no clue how much time has passed, the pair stop at a portrait of a lady in a cottage window. Her face is cast in warm light and her cheeks are rosy, full of life as her dark eyes gaze out of the oil paints and into theirs. It is certainly a very merry portrait, Winifred thinks to herself. She is so engrossed in it that she almost misses Benedict asking her the question:

"Did your husband enjoy this sort of thing? Exhibitions such as these, I mean."

It throws her completely, of course, but not as much as she expected. Winifred turns to Benedict, who looks at her with a kind, simple curiosity. It is such a genuine expression that she surprises herself by not feeling pained to answer it. Instead, she falls back into happy memories, thinking back fondly on things she had almost forgotten about Joseph.

"... He did, in his own way. Joseph never had the patience for it. Not in the way I do. If he were here, he would think all of these paintings very fine, but would feel no need to stand and inspect them for much longer. If a painting was nice enough to be hung on a wall, then it was alright for him. Dragging him around here would have driven him mad." Winifred chuckles at the thought, and in turn, Benedict smiles a little. Then the laughter fades.

"But I suppose I've always found them comforting," she adds. "There is nothing like seeing the hard work and the finer detail gone into something, which can make one feel so... well, just to feel."

"Absolutely," Benedict says wholeheartedly.

They turn back to the painting, but Winifred cannot focus on that anymore. Joseph is on her mind. She is reflecting on further-buried memories of him, ones which do not first crop up when she thinks of him, but have been prompted by all of this art — her trying to persuade him of the beauty of certain paintings, even reciting passages from books on art history, while he playfully horrifies her (sometimes on purpose) by calling some other paintings merely 'pretty things to hang over the mantel'. More than anything, when Winifred is thinking of him now, one fact stands out:

It did not hurt. For once, it did not hurt.

Turning back to Benedict, Winifred feels a lift of confidence; she is rather enjoying herself now. "Have you seen the sculptures yet, Mr. Bridgerton?"

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

ANOTHER night, another ball... is that not the way of the ton?

     Tonight's ball marks an evening of change. Having spent enough time helping her girls adjust in London, Octavia plans to return home to Hertfordshire tomorrow ("If nothing else," she had said, "I miss my husband."). There is also the notion that she could report back to their father on everything that has happened, including the success with Abigail and Colin so far — can they call it a courtship yet? Having shared two dances already tonight, the ton seems to think so. He may only be a third son, but he is a Bridgerton nonetheless, and therefore many watchful eyes are on Colin when they are not distracted by the viscount.

     The love birds, in question, have taken to the dance-floor for a cotillion. Both of them love to dance, and like to do so in plentiful measure. As the music begins, they give each other a small bow, all smiles. The other couples in their group weave in and out during the dance, spinning and taking each other's hands as they do. Anthony and Edwina also share a dance in this group (much to Kate's reluctance). Even Jemima managed to get dancing, too, having gone up with the Caldwells — she and Francis pay little attention to one another, Jemima instead beaming whenever she links up with Emilia in a transitional dance step.

     At the side-lines, their families watch with fond curiosity to see what happens. The Bridgertons, Octavia, Winifred and the Osbornes stay close together and watch the delighted expressions of Colin and Abigail.

     "They look wonderful together, don't they?" Octavia whispers to her two eldest daughters.

     "Yes, they do," Madeline says; but for some reason, she now seems slightly uncertain.

     "I can see it now... my girl, wed to a Bridgerton!"

     "Do you really think so? That soon?"

     "Why not aspire for such a thing? They get on well, and the path from here can only be a good one, I hope."

     Winifred sighs, glancing along the crowds behind the dancers. Somewhere in the midst of all those people, willingly separate from his family, is Benedict — he catches her eye and gives her a smile of recognition, much more familiar and friendly now. She can almost feel herself returning it, too. Since they walked around Somerset House together, Winifred has felt something closer to a friendship with Benedict. Already at a couple of balls since then, they have ended up discussing Gainsborough portraits or debating which art style is their favourite. Dipping into an interest of hers like this, she felt, has opened up something in her heart that had gone numb in the last few months.

     Halfway through the cotillion, Violet suddenly turns to Octavia with a burning question in her eyes. "Colin and your Abigail seem to be getting along very well, don't they?"

     "Indeed, they do," Octavia smiles hopefully.

     "I know Colin is very fond of her..." Violet fiddles with her gloves for a moment, before saying her piece: "Our family will be going to Aubrey Hall this weekend. Our ancestral home in the country. It is tradition, and also rather convenient so that we can make preparations for our Hearts and Flowers ball."

     "Oh, I see..."

     Noting the disappointment in her voice, the dowager viscountess quickly jumps back in. "We will not be alone, however. The Sharmas are coming along — we thought it would be a good opportunity for our two families to grow closer away from the city. I am sure you understand... but I have been thinking that perhaps it could also be beneficial for you, too. I would love to extend the invitation to you and Abigail to come with us to the countryside."

     Stunned, the Seymours and Osbornes all exchange glances. This is a huge opportunity for Abigail, and speaks volumes of what the Bridgertons think about her and Colin — an invitation to their home like this is as good as a stamp of approval. Things like this are usually announced when an engagement could be on the horizon. Octavia, Madeline and Silas all seem rather eager, while Winifred feels a slight bit more hesitance. What if this is all too... rushed?

     "Lady Bridgerton, what an honour... but I think I should leave that decision to my daughter, since I will be re-joining my husband in Hertfordshire by then."

     Madeline, however, seems to be in deep thought and trying to wrestle two options. She is looking out at Abigail and Jemima dancing, weighing up possibilities. "Thank you ever so much for the invitation, Lady Bridgerton..." she says, grimacing, "but I am not entirely sure we would be able to come. Jemima is really starting to settle into London and I see little point trying to take her away from it now. However, if we are all here, I am not sure that Abigail could go on her own—"

     "I will go with her," Winifred interjects, before she hears herself say it.

     Surprised, Madeline whirls around and stares at her. The idea of this visit to Aubrey Hall had made her suspicious at first. When she looks at Colin and Abigail, she does not see a couple on the precipice of a proposal, or even a courtship just yet... but then there is also that beautiful smile on her sister's face as she dances with him. She is sure that she would be overjoyed at the invitation. Perhaps this visit could be the true test of their relationship — and why let logistics ruin that?

     "You would like to chaperone?" Madeline asks, face etched with matriarchal concern.

     "If the Bridgertons will have us, then it would be a pleasure to do so," Winifred nods confidently. "That way, you and Silas can take care of Jemima, and Abigail will still get to see Aubrey Hall... besides, I have missed the country."

     "I suppose that is true... but are you sure you will be alright?"

     "More than alright."

     Violet beams, seeming delighted with this decision. "Well, that is wonderful news! Thank you, Mrs. Erstwhile, you and your sister will be most welcome with us at Aubrey Hall."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Sorry if that ending was a bit "meh", I couldn't figure out a cool line to end it on, but nevertheless we'll be off to Aubrey Hall in the next chapter! Hopefully things didn't feel too rushed. This chapter took place over a long-ish period, maybe a month or two, but at the same time I honestly have no clue about the timeline of Bridgerton (especially when you consider Queen Charlotte too). Who knows at this point?

That scene in Somerset House with Winifred and Benedict might be one of my favourites of this fic so far. Not only was it meant to reveal more about her character, i.e. her interest in art, but it is also a large stepping stone for them growing closer. You will probably start to see them use this common interest as a means of learning more about each other, trusting each other... all that good stuff. Also the moment of Benedict asking if Joseph liked it 🥺 Winifred is slowly trying to get better at talking about him, and it helps that Benedict makes her feel really at ease and comfortable (let me remind you that Anthony said Benedict has a "natural gift for seeing what others need even when they can't see it themselves"!! And I feel like that is true for his dynamic with Winifred)

Anyway, moving on from my little Benifred-in-the-art-gallery essay, Colingail seems to be moving quite fast. Too fast, perhaps? Hmmm 👀 but for the record, I just had to say that I had my own song in mind for what they were dancing to in that last scene — the Vitamin String Quartet cover of 'Dreams' by Fleetwood Mac. It's SO GOOD!

As always, thank you for reading, any feedback is greatly appreciated ❤️ next chapter we're at Aubrey Hall, so back in the countryside for some of my favourite moments of season 2!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 12/01/2024