CHAPTER NINE.
a weekend in the country.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1808.

     FEW THINGS CAN RUIN A SUNNY SPRING DAY. Today, the weather is so glorious that Joseph and Winifred find it a fine opportunity to take their lunch out in the garden at Highbourne. Their guests are their household staff, who at first are flustered by the invitation... but who can say no to Mr. Erstwhile's charms? A table is being set up on the lawn for all of them to sit.

     Winifred had picked some cornflowers on her morning walk. When they first met, she remembers Joseph telling her fondly of how they were his mother's favourites, and therefore his too. She places her bunch into a thin glass vase just as her husband walks over.

     "What do you think?" she asks him, untying the apron around her dress.

     "They're beautiful," Joseph smiles, seeming elsewhere in his mind. He swallows thickly. "Darling... I have some important news."

     "Yes?"

     He says nothing. Winifred looks up, catching the look in his eyes... then she knows. In the silence only interrupted by buzzing bees and chirping birds, she somehow knows exactly what he means to say, but clearly cannot bring himself to mention:

     He is going to fight overseas.

     They had known that this day might come. Yes, they had perhaps hoped that it would be delayed, but clearly Napoleon had other plans. With the fighting having broken out on the Iberian Peninsula, it was only going to be a matter of time before Joseph and his regiment would be called to join them. He had only been posted in local towns until now. Winifred can surmise what this means for her — long periods of time without her husband, only communicating by letters. He has already expressed how he does not wish for her to follow him around military camps all her life.

     Winifred straightens up, her face dropping. "When do you leave?" she simply asks.

     "A couple of months from now," Joseph replies.

     A couple of months... by the end of the summer, they would be separated, and then what will she do at home? Winifred feels her stomach twist and churn over the thought of being parted from him for so long. Not to mention how she will worry about him all the time...

     "I am so sorry, Winifred," he says with earnest disappointment. "This is happening much sooner than I would have liked."

     "I know... but you have a duty to fulfil, and you must go," she nods decisively. After all, like it or not, she knows Joseph — he has been itching for an opportunity like this to get a taste of the battlefield. This is the kind of duty he became a soldier for. Even if she cannot share his wish for military glory, she thins her lips into a taut smile for him.

     Sighing, Joseph leans forward and presses his lips to her temple. She wishes for him to linger there a moment longer, but instead he turns to the open doors where their staff are walking out. "Ah, do come and join us!" Joseph is suddenly all smiles, welcome the housekeeper, butler, cook, his valet and the two maids to dine with them.

     "Sir, are you sure that you wish for us to—"

     "Mrs. Blyton, it is a glorious day, and we should enjoy it while we can," Joseph cheers on the housekeeper. Winifred nods in agreement, trying to ignore the way her heart suddenly plummets in her chest; is this why he wanted to be so spontaneous? Because he had received news of being sent to Spain?

     Everyone takes a seat, filling their glasses and toasting to the great weather, but Winifred's mind is elsewhere. She has no idea what lies in the months ahead — or could it be years? It is impossible to know. They have grown so adapted to spending most days together as husband and wife, and even if they knew this day would come, she realises that she actually has little grasp of what it will be like...

The honeymoon phase, as they call it, seems to end with this news.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WINIFRED'S heart will always reside in the countryside. She has always preferred it over the city — already on the carriage ride through the green pastures and trees, she feels her lungs expand with relief and embrace all the fresh air. So much here is untouched and unaltered by man. To Winifred, that is a greatly liberating thought. Out in the country, she has always felt that she could relax, breathe, walk... be free. Oh, how she has missed it while she has been in London; and now the ton is but a distant memory to her...

... That is, until a gasp of shock pulls her out of the rural bliss. Sat opposite her in the carriage, Abigail clamps her lacy-gloved hand over her mouth, clutching a pamphlet in her hands.

     "What? What is it?" Winifred asks, at first worried, then confused; she has seen the title of the pamphlet. "Lady Whistledown? Where did you even get that—"

     "I'm in Whistledown."

     "... You are what?"

     "Lady Whistledown has mentioned me, of all people. Read it for yourself!"

     Abigail thrusts the pamphlet into Winifred's hands, seeming lightheaded and exhilarated. She pores over the paragraphs written on the society paper until she reaches the relevant section:

LADY WHISTLEDOWN
We all know the great lengths a young lady will go in pursuit of a proposal. And apparently, she will travel great distances too. Lord Anthony Bridgerton appears to be inching ever so closer to selecting his viscountess, and to that end has invited our diamond to join him for an excursion at his ancestral home, Aubrey Hall.

Curiously, that of the viscount and our diamond is not the only match to be made in this rural heaven — this invitation seems to have extended, additionally, to a Miss Abigail Seymour. For those of you who have been living with your eyes averted, she has been seen dancing and promenading with Colin Bridgerton week after week. If a miracle were to befall this unlikely pair, perhaps this will be the lucky year in which two Bridgertons are to be wed.

Country air indeed clears the mind and invigorates the body. Might this be the final gust that pushes the viscount over the precipice of a proposal? Of course, the luckless souls remaining in town will have to find new diversions in the absence of their most precious of stones...

     Incredulously, Winifred promptly folds up the pamphlet and tucks it away. "Abigail, you should ignore whatever this gossip monger has to say. It does not matter. We are in the country. Whistledown's eyes and ears cannot reach us here, and therefore you should use the opportunity to your advantage... really think about why you are here."

     "I suppose you are right..." Abigail sinks back into her seat, riddled with nerves and excitement in equal measure. As planned, they are the only two from their families heading to Aubrey Hall — their mother has returned home to Hertfordshire, while Jemima remains in London to enjoy the city for longer with Madeline and Silas. Winifred suspects that this time alone in the country with her sister and the Bridgertons should be beneficial. Abigail is equipped with all the charms, but seems to have had her confidence knocked somewhat... perhaps this trip could restore it once again.

As their carriage slows to a halt in front of Aubrey Hall, it is clear that this home belongs to the Bridgertons. Just like their townhouse in Grosvenor Square, wisteria hangs over the entrance in even more abundance, swaying gently in the light spring breeze which carries their fragrance across the land. The Palladian mansion somehow has a homeliness about it in spite of its grandeur. Abigail stands and cups her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun as she drinks in the exterior of the house.

A few moments later, Anthony and Violet appear through the glass of the front doors, the rest of their family soon following them down the steps. "Good-morning, ladies!" Violet laughs sweetly. "I apologise it took us a moment to realise you were here, we did not expect you until slightly later."

"You can blame that on my sister," Abigail teases. "Winifred is rather adamant about being punctual."

At this, Winifred can see Benedict smiling lopsidedly behind them. Now that she observes the rest of the family, she realises there are extra members that were not as present in London. Francesca, for instance, has returned; she seems rather quiet and often disappears to stay with her aunt in Bath. But most noticeably is the new face which she sees ascending down the steps now. The young woman's warm hair falls in a neat turret just past her shoulder, her dress the same shade as the wisteria donning Aubrey Hall. She is the very picture of an English rose, only enhanced by the glow of motherhood she wears as she holds a small baby in her arms... this must be Daphne.

"You must be Abigail, and Mrs. Erstwhile, I trust?" she says, bouncing the gurgling baby on her hip; Abigail is already suppressing her delight. "I have heard lots about you both already."

"This is my eldest daughter, Daphne," Violet adds as an introduction.

"It is an honour, your grace," Winifred curtsies politely, Daphne smiling warmly in return.

Her baby makes another noise, alerting the mother to his attention. "Ah, yes, and how could I forget the little duke-to-be himself? Augie couldn't have missed out on his first excursion to Aubrey Hall."

"How old is he?" asks Abigail.

"Just over two months."

"Oh, how wonderful!"

Abigail is already rather broody as she gives the baby a small wave, Augie blinking back at her with his large dark eyes in a mix of confusion and amusement. Winifred also smiles fondly at the child, but even more so how clearly Daphne dotes on him; she wears motherhood very well. There is a brief pang of sadness in her heart, a longing for something she never had, until Benedict walks over as a welcome distraction from it. "You are a very lucky uncle, Mr. Bridgerton," she remarks.

"Perhaps, if he would refrain from drooling all over my sketchbook," Benedict tries to be witty; but even as he does, there is no mistaking the twinkle of fondness for his nephew.

"I think that is more of a reflection on you misplacing your precious sketchbook."

"Yes, I suppose so..." his voice drops slightly, a tinge of anxiousness to it. What was that about?

Colin has made a bee-line for Abigail, but before they can get chatting, Violet disperses the groups: "I believe the Sharmas should be arriving soon, so let us get you both settled and bring your belongings inside... I see that you are travelling rather lightly." The dowager viscountess gazes at their trunks, few in numbers and not packed to the brim. Winifred merely chuckles weakly — this is mostly because of her, partly because she does indeed prefer to travel lightly, but also due to her wardrobe being rather slimmed down to half-mourning colours. She decides not to mention this at risk of dampening the mood.

Inside, Aubrey Hall feels much more like a family home, filled with personality and history despite being a mansion. Walking through the halls, it appears more intimate with the family portraits hung along the walls. Winifred and Abigail are led to their room by the housekeeper — two single beds with floral bedding, overlooking a beautiful view of the back garden. They each have their own dressing table, chest and large mirror as well. The first thing Winifred does once they are left alone is to push open their window; she inhales a lungful of the luscious fresh air and feels instantly rejuvenated.

There is a light creak behind her as Abigail flops onto her bed, bonnet strings undone. "It's lovely here... and a dream come true that we were even invited."

"Dreams are things of imagination, duckie... this is real, so make the most of it," Winifred tells her, tugging her gloves off her hands.

The maids at Aubrey Hall filter in and unpack the girls' belongings, before around ten minutes later, more commotion is heard downstairs with the arrival of the Sharmas. Winifred and Abigail exchange a glance. "Shall we go down?" the younger sister asks.

"Yes, let's."

But upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, a sudden barking startles them both — a rather plump corgi is galloping towards them at top-speed, then turning circles around their petticoats as he sniffs out his new companions. Winifred and Abigail both turn around in surprise. Did the Bridgertons ever mention that they had a dog?

     "Newton, sit!"

     At once, the corgi stops sniffing them and slumps back into a sitting position, panting with its tongue dangling out. The voice of Kate Sharma had quelled his excitability instantly. Proudly, she comes to stand alongside the corgi, picking up the end of his leash again. "I do apologise," she says, "Newton is usually much more well-behaved around new people. But I can insist that he is a very good judge of character."

     "And have we passed his test?" asks Winifred.

     "Oh, most definitely."

     Newton blinks up at her in agreement. Behind him, the rest of the Sharmas and Lady Danbury file in, going to be shown to their rooms. Abigail smooths down her dress and smiles brightly at her sister. "Well, hopefully that should set the tone for the weekend!" she says.

     Gazing after the tense stare Anthony shoots Kate, Winifred hums with uncertainty. For some of us, she thinks, perhaps it will be the longest of weekends.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     THE Bridgertons may be an amiable, well-respected family, but a key trait of all the members is a deep-rooted competitiveness in varying degrees. And what better way for them to show it than a good old game of Pall Mall?

     Winifred has played once or twice in the past, however she doubts whether she should participate today — wouldn't it be improper with her still being in half-mourning? But Abigail fervently insists that she join in ("I need someone on my team," she says, before being reminded that it is every man for himself in this game). The others seem to agree, so before she knows it, Winifred is being swept along with the world of Pall Mall, along with Kate and Edwina as complete newcomers to the game.

     It is Daphne who instructs them in how to play. Stabbing the forks of a wicket into the grass, rather inconveniently next to a stone pillar, she lets out a triumphant laugh. "This will teach Colin," she dusts off her hands. "Last time, he put a wicket behind the goat barn."

"What exactly are the rules of this game?" Kate asks, intrigued.

"Pall-mall is less about the rules, more about the goal. Which is, of course, to hit your ball through each wicket. The first player to send their ball through the last wicket wins." Daphne turns to the Sharma sisters, Abigail and Winifred, shrugging innocently. "Simple enough. Though, if you are feeling devilish, you can use your turn to knock an opponent's ball as far away from their next wicket as you would like."

"How ruthless..." Abigail chuckles.

"Why waste a turn if the point is to get one's own ball through the wicket?" Edwina asks, confused.

"To infuriate your opponent, I gather?" Kate adds thoughtfully, a glint in her eyes.

"Precisely," Daphne confirms. "It is a poor player who plays the game, and a wise one who plays their opponent."

Edwina seems perturbed by the seemingly barbaric tactics of Pall Mall. Meanwhile, Kate seems to mesh with it instantly, a fire of competitiveness burning in her eyes. Winifred cannot say that she is quite so competitive, but one thing she has always been is perfectionistic — she does not particularly care about winning or losing something, but rather mastering whatever it is she applies herself to. Therefore a firm grasp of the rules is paramount to her. Abigail, on the other hand, merely looks forward to the enjoyment of the game.

     "Well, I hope you two came prepared," Winifred says coyly to the Sharmas, "because I fear that the Bridgertons intend to leave everything on that green by the end of the afternoon."

"Indeed. I believe I shall rather enjoy this game," says Kate slyly.

Daphne chuckles, clearly noticing the elder Sharma starting to scheme her way through the upcoming game. The young duchess then turns to the field, where the other Bridgertons are gathering, and starts giving some pointers on how they play:

"Now, Benedict is a solid shot, but he avoids conflict. Colin is crafty. He will strike when he thinks you are least suspecting it, so always be suspecting it. Eloise concentrates entirely on defeating her older brothers. The hope is that she gets so absorbed by them that she forgets about you. I, of course, am a complete enigma who will divulge none of my secrets. And, well, then there is Anthony..."

"Let me guess," Kate interjects. "A most ruthless, cutthroat player."

"Why, you have made his acquaintance!" Daphne laughs. "That is not to say he has no honour. He's usually the most genteel sportsman. Except as far as this field is concerned."

In her usual sweetness, Edwina speaks, "I'm sure the viscount is an excellent player. We will all pass a very pleasant afternoon."

There are some nods of agreement, not quite compatible with the fiercely competitive mood that had been brewing just before. As a result, there is a slightly less energised silence that follows, none of them saying a word. But right on cue, Abigail sweeps in with her charms, flexing her fingers in preparation for the game. "Right then," she says, bouncing on her heels, "I think it is about time we grabbed ourselves a mallet and got to it, don't you think?"

"Most certainly!" Daphne smiles at her, liking her attitude.

Violet, Mary and Lady Danbury take a seat under a small marquee set up at the top of the field, equipped with shade and refreshments; meanwhile their children or guests are preparing to partake in the fierce Pall Mall game. They all stand circled around the box filled with multi-coloured mallets. Winifred peers around her and notices the air of competitiveness brewing between the Bridgerton siblings. Already, they are debating how to choose the mallets.

     "Let us toss a coin," Colin suggests.

     Eloise, offended, protests: "Last year, we promised to let the youngest pick first!"

     "We pick based on alphabetical order!" Anthony snaps.

     "That is the precedent," Benedict adds, in a more conflict-averse whisper.

     "It is meant to be a game, is it not?" Edwina leans in with distaste to Kate, who on the other hand, is grinning with the face of a fierce Pall Mall player. She quickly lets her smile drop and nods in agreement with her sister.

     Daphne, the most sensible of her bunch, raises her gloved hands in the air: "Everyone, please, now!" she gets their attention. "The only fair thing to do is to let our invited guests choose their mallets and strike first. Why don't Miss Abigail and Mrs. Erstwhile go first?"

     The rest of the Bridgertons suddenly pivot to stare at Abigail and Winifred. You could cut through the country air with a knife for the tension that just appeared. No pressure, then. She nods to her younger sister, knowing most of the Bridgertons seem rather territorial over their chosen mallets. Abigail tentatively walks up first and chews her lip, before selecting a cream-coloured mallet. Then it is Winifred's turn. She simply reaches forward and takes the first one she sees, which is in a shade of olive green.

     No one seems offended by their choices... yet.

     "Please, take your pick, Miss Edwina," Anthony says courteously.

     Her lashes fluttering, Edwina thoughtfully steps up and surveys the options, before pointing to a light blue one.

     "An excellent choice," the viscount boasts, taking the blue mallet and handing it to the smiling Edwina. It all seems to be going so well... until Kate confidently walks forward and wordlessly picks her mallet, which is painted jet black. Anthony's jaw instantly tightens as there seems to be a general uproar amongst the Bridgertons.

     "The mallet of death," Eloise gasps.

     "Would you look at that, brother?" Benedict half-grimaces, half-smiles at his sibling's reaction.

     Kate smirks at the viscount. "Is this yours?

     "Not at all," Anthony grits through his teeth and sways on the spot. "You are welcome to it."

     Colin's jaw drops. "You near threatened to beat me, the last time I touched that—"

     "You exaggerate."

     "Oh, are you the superstitious sort?" Kate scoffs triumphantly. "I know some men cannot perform without their familiar tools... like a child with a blanket."

     A few of the other Bridgertons muffle their laughter around Anthony, who is positively fuming. Winifred, herself, can feel her toes curling inside her shoes as her knuckles tighten around her mallet. Thank the Lord she did not choose the mallet of death! Though she has to wonder, would the viscount have been so vexed if anyone else but Kate had chosen it? A certain friction exists between the two, and it is most palpable.

     "I can play perfectly well with any mallet," Anthony hisses. "I wish you the very best of luck."

     "Are we to stand around deliberating all day, or shall we play?" Eloise whines, sounding bored already.

     In the blink of an eye, the rest of the Bridgertons lunge for the remaining mallets. It is like a brawl of who gets what, determined to seize their hands on their favourite tool as they argue and squabble over them. Benedict's mallet, Winifred notices, is a shade of dark lavender — rather like the dress she happens to be wearing today. An indignant Anthony is left with the light pink mallet, seizing it with a huff. Then everyone marches to the playing field... the game is afoot!

     The guests are also allowed to have the first strike. Abigail goes first, missing the wicket by some distance, but being a good sport about it. She is certainly happy to cheer on Winifred as she steps to take her turn.

     Winifred takes a while before striking her ball. She steps back, observing the wicket from each angle where she stands, even trying to feel how much of a breeze there is. She will strive for nothing less than perfection. Finally, when she aligns her mallet with the ball, she sends it in a perfectly straight line through the wicket.

     "Bravo, Mrs. Erstwhile!" Daphne cheers. Winifred turns sheepish at the praise, stepping back with her head hung low, to be stood next to Benedict.

     The Sharmas then take their turn. Kate is a natural, and a much more forceful one at that. Edwina... not so much. She misses the ball the first couple of times before getting a good shot. The girl is clearly trying to hide her disappointment, which threatens to be seen in reaction to the lacklustre applause, until Abigail comes to her aid and encourages her.

     The game seems to breeze on by, and with more time, Winifred grows increasingly comfortable. She never boasts her accomplishments, although they are plentiful — she storms ahead to almost be in the lead. Anthony's game is faltering, Edwina is still learning, and Benedict seems somewhat distracted on the field today. But Abigail remains everyone's biggest cheerleader. Even when Colin completely misses the wicket by a long shot, she tells him with a light nature that he will "get it next time."

Soon enough, Lady Danbury cannot resist getting in on the fun herself. She circles the group, observing, mentoring them as they go along ("SEND IT!" she booms triumphantly, as Eloise strikes her ball hard and it goes flying across the grass; her game improves in spite of Benedict telling her to stop cheating earlier).

     Maybe it is the fresh air, or perhaps the fun of Pall Mall... maybe even being surrounded by good company away from the ton. Whatever magic has fallen over Aubrey Hall, Winifred feels herself letting loose for the first time in a long time. She is surrounded by laughter and the countryside she loves so dearly. Her troubles seem to float away for a while...

... Though for some, that is not their experience. She does not know how Benedict usually plays, but she gathers it is better than today, for his heart does not seem in it whenever he hits the ball. Something dampens his usual spirit which Winifred has felt drawn to. What could be amiss? she wonders. He appears to be discussing it with Colin at one stage, but her attempt at eavesdropping is drowned out by the applause as Kate scores a particularly good shot through the wicket.

Trudging towards the more overgrown parts of the estate, Kate and Anthony's balls have landed next to one another. Eloise, enraptured, exclaims: "You have the chance to best him!"

"That would not be very sportsmanlike, now, would it?" Colin says teasingly, Abigail giggling at his side.

"I was told unsportsmanlike conduct was a rule for this game," Kate replies with a smug smile towards the Bridgerton who had explained the rules earlier.

"A fast learner you are, indeed, Miss Sharma!" Daphne laughs.

Shooting a glance at Anthony, Kate asks, "What do you say, my lord? Are you in a losing mood?"

"My mood shall remain unchanged," Anthony feigns politeness, "regardless of your choice."

"Ah, is that so? You would bravely bear the crushing shame of defeat?"

"Play pleasant, Didi," Edwina glares at her sister's manners.

But the viscount simply shakes his head, staring at the elder Sharma. "Not to worry, Miss Edwina. In light of my brothers' and sisters' tactics, Miss Sharma conducts herself with much grace indeed."

"Huh... then you shall not mind this!"

Kate swings her mallet with as much force as she can, hitting her black ball so it knocks Anthony's pink one into the air — it goes flying straight into the forested area and gets lost in the leaves. "Well done!" Daphne applauds her in awe, exceedingly impressed by Kate's cutthroat tactics as a Pall Mall player. Edwina then takes her turn. Seeming rather rattled by the tactics of everyone else, her ball flies into the bushes too.

"I am bested, I see..." Edwina says shyly.

"You could still retrieve your ball if you wish to stay in the game."

But the youngest sister shakes her head, cowering slightly. "I think I shall cut out."

     "I shall, uh... join you if you like?" Anthony quickly runs after her, trying to smooth things over.

     "There is no need to spoil your fun on my account," says Edwina, pleasantly. "I shall enjoy some refreshments with our mamas."

     Winifred cannot help but feel sympathy for Edwina. The competitive atmosphere is not for everyone, and when you are on the fringe of such a grouping, you can feel rather excluded. A couple of the other Bridgertons take their shots, accompanied by a loud CRACK! of Benedict's mallet as he almost snaps it with a too-forceful swing by accident.

Then it is Colin's turn. She notices a sudden mischievous twinkle in his eyes. With a little glance at Abigail, he brings her attention to his canary yellow ball, just inches away from Kate's jet black one. Both sisters watch as Colin aligns his mallet with it, employing the same tactic as Miss Sharma did, sending it straight into the bushes where Anthony's ball no doubt went, as well.

     "What a shot, Colin!" Abigail cheers.

     "Yes! What a shame..." Colin glances slyly between Kate and Anthony. "You two had better go and fetch them. Unless you would like to quit, here and now?"

     "Absolutely not!" Kate quickly jumps in, already advancing towards the forest, with Anthony storming after her in tow.

     As Colin playfully swings his mallet through the air, Abigail narrows her eyes at him. "That was your intention, wasn't it? To get the two of them alone?" When he simply shrugs, she sighs. "Oh, you cheeky little..."

     They both laugh, and Winifred watches them standing together. Certainly, they seem comfortable in each other's presence, and would be even more so if they did not have her looming over them as chaperone. Perhaps it is the high spirits of the Pall Mall game that compel her to decide it — otherwise, she would have stuck firmly to the rules — but they are not entirely alone, and thankfully away from the scrutiny of the ton. So, after having scored her shot through yet another wicket, Winifred waits until the applause has thinned to announce her withdrawal.

     "Right, I think I shall cut out, as well," she says casually.

     There is more protest to her cutting out than there was with Edwina. "What?!" Abigail immediately exclaims.

     "Are you sure?" Benedict asks, "You are on track to win this thing."

     "I do not need to win. Besides, I am rather parched, I think I'll go and join the others and have some refreshments... you two will be alright, won't you?" Winifred asks Abigail and Colin pointedly, to which they nod. Her sister suddenly seems to understand the gesture — her expression flits between surprise and gentle gratitude. "Thank you for a most riveting game."

     Shooting Abigail a silent look that says 'enjoy the freedom while you can,' Winifred starts trudging back along the grass to the refreshments tent. She did not lie, either, when she said she was parched. The afternoon sun is rather high now, starting to wear her down a bit. There is cheerful laughter coming from the tent as the ladies converse, while Gregory and Hyacinth run around the green together. From inside Aubrey Hall, Francesca's piano practice trickles in a dainty melody through an open window.

     "Ah, Mrs. Erstwhile! Have you cut out, too?" Lady Danbury asks. "You were a rather good player today."

     "Thank you, Lady Danbury... but I suppose I can recognise when my abilities have peaked."

     Lady Danbury smiles at her. "Leaving the game on a high. I like it. Very well played, Mrs. Erstwhile."

     "Would you care for a slice of cake? It is lemon, I believe," Violet offers to her brightly.

     Winifred takes a seat under the tent, next to the dowager viscountess, being given a small plate with a thin slice of lemon cake (and of course, some tea to wash it down with). Lady Danbury is eagerly trying to get a better view of the game, while Edwina and Mary discuss a private matter between them. Hyacinth and Gregory pinch a couple of sugar cubes from a silver bowl and begin pelting them at each other behind their mother's back.

     "How are you finding your stay so far, Mrs. Erstwhile?" Violet asks her, still not noticing the commotion behind her.

     "Oh, wonderful, thank you," Winifred says, after swallowing a mouthful of cake. "Aubrey Hall is beautiful. I can imagine your children must have had a very idyllic childhood."

     "Mostly, yes... this home certainly holds many memories."

     Violet suddenly goes quiet, seeming reflective. She swallows thickly as her expression falters; Winifred wonders if she accidentally hit a nerve or some sort. The viscountess quickly composes herself again and gives her guest a friendly smile, though it cannot mask the lingering sadness in her eyes. "Is Abigail enjoying herself, too?" she asks weakly.

"Most definitely," Winifred glances at her sister as she whacks her ball with the mallet. "She and I prefer the country, anyway."

"Ah, yes, it is most refreshing to be here..."

Yet still, Winifred gets the impression that Violet holds all sorts of mixed feelings about Aubrey Hall. She does not wish to pry, but curiosity also settles within her. Memories can be a powerful thing. It may be a shot in the dark, but she wonders if it has something to do with her husband, the late viscount Bridgerton — from what she has gathered, their love was steadfast and strong for their entire marriage. If that is the case, then Winifred thinks she can understand something about that kind of confused, conflicted pain. Even the sunniest of days cannot hide it away...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WINIFRED cannot sleep.

     She had hoped it would have been easier, considering the day she had enjoyed, but her thoughts simply catch up with her the moment her head hits the pillow. An owl has also rather unhelpfully began a chorus outside her window. Eventually, she cannot toss and turn any longer. Winifred decides she should occupy herself for a little while. She slowly sits up and glances to the bed next to her — Abigail is fast asleep, breathing softly under a crack of moonlight flooding through the window behind.

Ever so carefully, Winifred lifts herself from her bed, grabbing a thin robe and wrapping it around herself. She is cautious when lighting herself a candle to carry. But her sister remains in a peaceful slumber, even when she treads on a particularly loud floorboard; this is exactly she feels the need to leave and not disturb Abigail.

     Once Winifred has slipped out quietly, the dark hallway stretches ahead before her. She considers heading to the terrace for some fresh air. It is a rather mild evening, and she would be careful not to catch a chill. Led by her candlelight, she pads along the hallway, gazing around at her surroundings as she does. Aubrey Hall appears different by night — it seemed larger and grander in the daylight, but when it is so silent and without people running around, it suddenly feels less like a grandiose mansion and more like a home. The darkness blots out most of the colourful flower arrangements across the halls, though she cannot ignore their comforting scent.

     She descends down one flight of stairs, intending to head for the balcony before her candlelight catches something. On the wall is a large painting of a man she knows she has never seen before, and yet he feels so familiar. It occurs to her that it is because he resembles Benedict, if she only gazes at it in passing. But upon closer inspection, Winifred can see a strong likeness to Eloise, then Colin, as with the rest of the Bridgerton children, too...

     This must be Edmund Bridgerton.

     He looks friendly, even in his portrait. His face, despite resting in stillness for the painter, has a lightness of being about it. Edmund looks animated. It only adds to Winifred's perception of him as a very good man — from how the family seem to feel his absence so strongly, she can surmise that he was a very cherished father and husband to them all.

     A light shuffling of footsteps alerts Winifred. Looking to her left, she notices light pouring out from the gap beneath a door at the end of the hallway. Whoever is inside is clearly about to walk out of the room. She panics quietly, not knowing where to disappear to, but before she can decide it is too late. The door slowly creaks open... warm candlelight pours out from inside it, followed by Benedict's head poking out. He looks around and clocks Winifred stood there, paralysed in the middle of the hall. She suddenly feels rather exposed, only in her nightgown and her hair braided down her shoulder. Benedict, himself, is more unbuttoned than usual, his white sleeves billowing.

     "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he whispers, eyes locked on her as he still half-hides behind the door.

     "Not at all. You didn't– I was the one who..." Winifred lets out a sigh of defeat.

     "I just thought that I could hear someone outside the door."

     "Well, clearly, that was me."

     "Yes. Of course."

     An awkward silence stretches between them both, frozen in time. Are they simply going to stand here and gawk at one another?

     "... Can't sleep?" Benedict asks, still whispering as he shoots her a sympathetic look.

     Winifred gives up on trying to mask her motives for being out of bed. She nods, admitting it. To her relief, he does not ask questions, but simply gives a weak sigh in return.

     "Neither can I," he says.

     "When I am restless," she whispers, "I find it easier to occupy myself with anything other than trying to sleep."

     Benedict shoots a glance back into his room, and chuckles lightly. "I suppose that is what I am doing too."

     "Well... I shall leave you to it, then."

     Winifred turns on her heel, poised to leave, when his hushed call of "Mrs. Erstwhile!" brings her back. What more could he want? She turns around again to face him, her face illuminated by the light from her candleholder. Benedict hesitates at the door, narrowing his eyes and chewing his lip uncertainly, before carefully asking: "... May I show you something?"

She blinks at him, not quite following. "Show me something?"

"Or rather, I– I was wondering if I could have your opinion on something... that I wish to show you."

This seems rather vague. Winifred looks around, questioning his strange request on many levels. He seems to be inviting her into this room, her in her nightgown and him more undone, which oversteps more society-set boundaries than she can count on one hand. But for whatever reason, she also finds herself instilling a trust in him — Benedict slowly creaks open the door to her and disappears inside. Very hesitantly, not sure whether she should commit yet, Winifred creeps after him. She stands still outside the room and pokes her head inside...

It is not Benedict's bedroom, but what appears to be the Bridgertons' nursery. It is not so frequently used anymore, with Hyacinth having just aged out of most of the toys in there, leaving rocking horses and cribs stacked up around the walls like a storage unit; rather more unkempt than she expected. Winifred finds herself stepping over old teddy bears, casting her candlelight over abacuses and dollhouses. The fireplace still crackles quietly and fills the room with warmth. But otherwise, everything is pressed to the walls like relics of the past, inescapable... and in the middle of all that suffocation stands Benedict. Crammed between a table too small for adults, various sheets of sketching paper lie strewn about, some discarded or scrunched up while others are more deliberately displayed. He has even made room for an easel, where a canvas sits about a quarter-painted.

"My, you have been busy," Winifred's eyes widen.

"You could say that..." Benedict says anxiously. He haphazardly gathers some sheets into his sketchbook, trying to present them more pleasantly.

"And... why am I here?"

Winifred has finally weaved through the room to stand at the opposite side of the table. Benedict heaves a sharp sigh, one so forceful it makes her candlelight tremble. "We have not known each other for very long, but from what I can tell, you seem a rather honest person. I have gathered that you are not one to hide behind false pleasantries. And then having discovered your own interest in art, I just– well, I just thought you might be a good... a good judge for, um..."

Benedict seems to fumble over his words, deeply insecure about the sketches in his charcoal-stained hands. She suddenly realises what he is asking of her: was that really all it was? The intention seems to come from such a pure place, that she cannot help but feel amused.

"You wish to know what I think of your work?" she asks.

"Yes... if you don't mind."

Winifred circles around to the other side of the table, standing next to Benedict. She places her candleholder carefully down and starts examining the sketches he has laid out. Some of them she recognises from the other day, but she pretends to never have seen them before; at least this time she can openly take her time to really take them in. Watching the sketches under the flickering candlelight animates them even more than the liveliness of his hand. All the while, she can feel Benedict anxiously awaiting her feedback, watching her every move.

"You haven't said much..." he murmurs about a minute later, scrunching his eyes shut to anticipate the worst. "Go on, then. Out with it."

"You really wish to know what I think?" Winifred asks, with a gentle disbelief.

"Well, if your tone is anything to go by, I'm not so sure I want to hear it after all."

     She hums, shaking her head as she sets down his sketches. "They are exquisite," she replies simply. "Yes, there is perhaps room for improvement, but you have a talent, Mr. Bridgerton."

     "You're sure? You– you are not just saying it?" Benedict asks, his voice full of anxious hope.

     "I am quite certain... forgive me, but why are you so restless over this? You have been like this ever since our arrival at Aubrey Hall."

     He sighs, letting his gaze drag over his sketches again, as if he cannot decide whether he likes them or not. "Well," says Benedict, "a while ago, I met a gentleman from the Royal Academy, and we struck up a conversation about their vacancies. I had been deliberating on the matter ever since then, but... well, when you and I spoke in Somerset House, you had such words of encouragement, so... I have applied to become a student of Art at the Royal Academy of Schools."

     "Really? That is wonderful!" Winifred congratulates him, intrigued and suddenly filled with excitement on his behalf. She hardly realised that their conversation would have had such an impact on him — she did not think considering such a position was causing such turmoil for Benedict. But clearly, it has been a huge step for him... could she have possibly played a part in that?

     "Well, my fate remains in the hands of the proctors at the Royal Academy, who are making their decision as we speak," Benedict sighs.

     "I see... no wonder you could not sleep."

     A beat passes between them, Winifred looking fondly over his sketches again. They really are very good. It almost makes her want to pick up a pencil and start sketching something herself.

     "You have done everything you can, Mr. Bridgerton. It is out of your hands now," Winifred tries to provide him with comfort.

     "That is exactly what is bothering me... the waiting is torturous!" Benedict throws his hands in the air, animatedly gesturing to emphasise his stress.

     "Perhaps you should instead find liberation in the fact that you cannot do more," she counters. "Try not to burden yourself with 'what ifs' and instead focus yourself on the things you can control. For instance, getting yourself to bed might be a wise start."

     Blinking tiredly, Benedict sinks into a too-small wooden chair with a deflated sigh. "You're right... I am so sorry, Mrs. Erstwhile, for dragging you in here. I do not know what came over me. I have been quite useless since sending off my application."

     "You hardly dragged me," Winifred gently picks up her candleholder again. Then, shyly, she adds: "I do not mind discussing art with you. I would just rather do it when I am not in my nightgown."

     "Of course... I apologise, again."

     "Good-night, Mr. Bridgerton."

     "Good-night..." She almost escapes to the door, when his tentative call pulls her back: "Mrs. Erstwhile?"

     "Yes?" Winifred turns around, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

     Benedict glances out of window, then back at her with a slight quirk of his lips. "Do not be alarmed if you hear strange sounds in the night... it is easy to confuse Colin's snoring with that of a woodland animal."

The joke is so unexpected that Winifred stifles herself from laughing louder than she does; it escapes as a sharp exhale through a smile. "Good-night," she says, once again, this time slowly shutting the door behind her. She still feels the warmth from the fireplace awash over her skin as she pads back across the hallway and upstairs to her room, having completely forgotten why she left in the first place — was it fresh air? Either way, Winifred feels much more at ease now. Abigail is still fast asleep as she sinks back into bed, where it does not take long for a peaceful slumber to catch up with her...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

We've had the ICONIC Pall Mall scene! I love it so much, and the BTS videos from that scene are even funnier. It felt kind of stunted to write at times, but it was fun, and I was glad Winifred could get in on a bit of the enjoyment. You'll probably see her relax a lot more in these countryside-based chapters, because that is where she feels more comfortable (she's just like me).

AHHH that last scene I just loved as well. I don't get the feeling that Benedict is so open about his art with his family, or at least does not go out of his way to say "Hey, look what I've done!", so sharing that with Winifred was big. Not to mention they were alone together... in the middle of the night... and she was in her nightgown?? Oop 🤭 While I definitely don't see them as having romantic feelings towards each other yet — at least, not consciously — this still had me squealing internally.

But the Joseph flashback 🥺 just a heads-up, these flashbacks have been pretty fluffy up until now, but they will definitely exhibit the ups and downs of their marriage. It was filled with love, but it was not easy either. And I've tried my best to do my research surrounding the British Army at this time but once again, as this is Bridgerton, maybe take any historical (in)accuracies with a pinch of salt.

As always, thank you for reading! I'm going to try my best to get the next chapter out relatively soon, because it links these Aubrey Hall moments from episode 3 together very nicely... stay tuned.

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 18/01/2024