CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
reflections.

( + content warning: miscarriage, blood )

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     HIGHBOURNE IN THE SUMMER IS A BEAUTY. Winifred has returned home at the end of the month, having missed the daffodils at their peak in the field opposite the entrance. Nevertheless, she loves this place. The summer's sun shimmers off the small moat surrounding the manor house — a relic of the Erstwhiles' ancestral history. Along the waterside, a gaggle of geese wade through the grass as their chorus fills the air. Somehow the ton makes them look civilised, Winifred thinks to herself.

     She steps out of her carriage, planting her feet onto the familiar ground in front of the entrance. Slowly, she takes in the Highbourne house, knowing exactly what should be behind every window and every door. It is comfortingly familiar... but equally unsettling. Around every corner, there are so many memories.

     Before she can become too absorbed in them, Winifred sees the front door open — out walks her housekeeper, Mrs. Blyton, a woman with a long face and a thin stature. Her hair, which has started to turn silver, is slightly loose from her bun as she descends down the steps to greet her. She always keeps things running smoothly and sometimes has a motherly sternness to her.

     "Welcome home, madam," says Mrs. Blyton brightly, trying not to inundate her with too much at once.

     "Thank you, Mrs. Blyton," Winifred smiles softly. "I see you've been running a very tight ship whilst I have been gone. Just as you reported in our letters, no doubt."

     "Well, I should hope so, though I was most pleased to hear that you were returning home."

     "Yes, I thought it was about time..."

     The household keys jangle at Mrs. Blyton's side as she leads Winifred back into the house, shutting the front door behind them. Immediately, the familiar sounds, smells and sights hit her. She hears the footsteps of the butler trotting around upstairs, Ellen and Maria chattering elsewhere in another room; she smells the familiar aromas of freshly-picked lavender and brewing tea; she sees the portraits hanging on the walls and sunlight flooding in through the windows. Nothing has changed.

     Once again, she both loves the feeling and is unsettled by it.

     Right on cue, down the stairs arrives Jarvis, her butler. The sprightly man gives a delighted bow to Winifred as crinkles appear beside his smiling eyes. "Mrs. Erstwhile," he greets her, "a pleasure to have you back with us, m'am."

"Thank you, Jarvis."

"I took the liberty of polishing all the silverware and the china whilst you were away... a number of times."

"Yes, I had noticed," Winifred raises her eyebrows, having spotted them in a cabinet as she walked through the house. "They are positively gleaming on the shelves."

Now practically everyone is coming, now that the two chambermaids of the house, Ellen and Maria are hurrying into the room. Winifred has known Ellen for the longest — she was the maid who came with her to Highbourne when she first got married, and over the years they have gotten along rather well. She may not have a need for a lady's maid, but when she is not changing bed linens or lighting the fires, Ellen might as well have been the closest thing to one.

"Long time, no see, m'am," Ellen curtsies to her with a grin.

"How was it in London? Was it busy?" asks Maria, an inquisitive younger maid with flat, shiny-black hair pulled back into a bun. She often seems breathless with excitement to hear about what goes on in the echelons of society she cannot access.

"Maria!" Mrs. Blyton whispers harshly.

Winifred reaches out for her housekeeper, giving a gentle shake of her head to say it is alright. "It has been quite the journey, but... admittedly less of a painful ordeal than I anticipated it would be," she reflects. "Although I shall be returning by the end of the month because — you'll like this, Maria — the viscount Bridgerton is to be married."

"Oooh!"

Even Ellen is just as intrigued, her bug-eyed gaze wider than usual as she asks, "Who to, m'am? Is it that Miss Sharma you spoke of in your letters? Mrs. Blyton told us all about her—"

"Ellen!" the housekeeper scolds the other maid this time.

"Miss Edwina Sharma, yes..." Winifred says, still not sure how much she agrees with Anthony's decision. If he truly loves Edwina, then by all means, she wishes them the best. But somehow she does not feel wholly convinced that the viscount has made the right choice.

Maria seems set to ask more questions, but Mrs. Blyton soon hushes her, noticing as Winifred tiredly pulls off her gloves with a sigh. "You must be worn out after your journey," says the housekeeper, "I'll check on that pot of tea for you and bring it to the drawing room."

"Actually, I might sit outside. It is such a beautiful afternoon..."

So tea is taken out onto the terrace, Winifred sat quietly underneath the shade of a tree as she watches the sun soak the grass around her. The gardens at the back are neatly symmetrical — nowhere near as prim and polished than Silas and Madeline's home, but still looked-after. Short topiaries surround the courtyard and flower beds, which burst with colours and buzzing wildlife. But if she keeps walking, there is a more secluded part of the gardens, hidden underneath the shade of trees. A wooden bench is situated there and this is where she finds her quiet spot for a while.

Winifred likes the peace and quiet. She always has. But on the occasions he was home, she and Joseph used to sit here and chatter away; sometimes in comfortable silence, but usually someone would be talking, because he did always prefer conversation of some degree.

Now, sat on her usual left side of the bench, it is just... quiet.

So this is what it'll be like, Winifred thinks. Life on my own.

She is trying to grow more accustomed to this idea. Now that it is almost a year ago that Joseph died, the reality of life without him should become truer with every day that passes. Winifred is doing her best not to think about what she does not have anymore. Most days, it is easier said than done. But having returned from her time in London so far and sitting here, she certainly feels more whole of a person than she did when she first left Highbourne in March.

Nearby, in the birdbath, a flapping of wings catches her attention. She glances over and watches what she identifies to be a goldfinch, splashing itself in the cool water and chirping in delight. Winifred smiles at the scene. Seeing something like that makes the world feel more intimate to her, smaller and more compartmentalised just for her. It is refreshing after all the sights and sounds of bustling London. Something about it is almost picturesque...

     Suddenly, Winifred has an idea.

     Careful not to disturb the goldfinch, she breezes by the birdbath until it turns into a more gliding run. She rushes straight past Mrs. Blyton, cutting off her housekeeper's concerns with: "I just forgot something! I'll only be a moment!" Winifred bounds up the stairs and finds her way to her bedroom. She does not even spare a moment to absorb this room and all the memories attached to it. She instead crosses straight over to a chest of drawers, opening up the middle one. Surely enough, lying snugly underneath old embroidery is what she had been looking for:

     Her precious sketchbook. And, next to it, a small wooden box for her pencils and charcoal.

     Winifred does not wish to lose the moment, so she bundles them together in her arms and hurries back downstairs to get to the garden. By some miracle, the goldfinch has remained bathing in the stone basin for her — as if the model were awaiting its artist. She sits down on the bench again and holds her leather-bound sketchbook in her hands. It has been in her possession for years, and yet she has done every bit to keep it in near-perfect condition. Keenly, she undoes the string latch and opens the pages.

     Right there are all her old sketches. As time goes on, they have gotten better, but she had the innate skill for copying a tree or an animal since she was a little girl. Winifred re-remembers her drawings from years gone by as she flicks through, from fallen leaves to a fox she once spotted in the garden. Some of them are more ambitious, taking the form of entire landscapes as she has re-imagined Highbourne in the illustrated form, or Heyworth House, her childhood home.

     ... And then she flicks to the most recent page. It is an unfinished sketch, the trunk of a tree drawn in such detail, only for it to be left barren of any branches or leaves at the top; a gaping blank space where the life should be.

     She had been drawing this the day she found out about Joseph. All over again, she can remember putting her sketchbook down to see the visitor, that letter with the black sealing wax which changed everything.

Winifred clenches her jaw and decisively rips out the page. Crunching it into a ball, she sets down the unwanted relic of that day on the side of the bench. Instead, she focuses her mind on her wooden drawing set, opening it up to select a charcoal pencil for bolder shadows. Her memory casts itself to the liveliness of Benedict's drawings. She wonders if she could try and mimic his shading. Following this inspiration, she sets the clean page out onto her lap and starts studying the goldfinch, doing rough outlines at first.

As she sketches, the sun rotates around the garden, Mrs. Blyton walking by after a while to check on her. The sight she comes upon is Winifred, looking at peace and absorbed in what she enjoys — more than she has in months. With a gentle smile, the housekeeper slowly withdraws, not wanting to disturb. Practicalities can wait.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

BENEDICT'S heart has never beaten so fast. The whirlwind of nerves and excitement swirling in his chest only intensifies as he walks into the art studio at the Royal Academy — the belly of the wonderful beast, so to speak. A radiant beam of sunlight slants in from the ceiling into the room, which is otherwise covered in maroon curtain drapes, framed paintings and sketches pinned to the walls. Marble sculptures adorn every corner of the studio with their faces and forms carved into white.

It is his first day as a Student of Art, and Benedict could not be more thrilled... and anxious. Still, like he does with everything in his life, he strides headfirst into it with an ease of spirit, and with enough time it will morph into actual confidence.

He walks over to one of the unoccupied easels and drapes his jacket over the chair. Then he takes out his art supplies he has saved so preciously for this momentous day. Next to him, a brooding fellow artist looks him up and down, assessing the newcomer.

"You must be one of our new fellows," the man assesses.

Benedict shoots him a sheepish look, wrinkling his nose slightly. "Is it really so evident?" he asks, sitting himself down.

"Conserve that youthful vigour. Soon, you shall be just as jaded as the rest of us," replies the artist, the look in his eyes matching his words. Then, with a flickering glance across the room, he adds: "After all... one form is much like another, do you not think?"

Following his gaze, Benedict notices a model walking into the centre of the room, wearing nothing but a robe that slinks around her figure. And then, just like that, the robe is gone too. Having de-robed, the model poses for all the artists to replicate in their work. Admittedly this is not the first time he has found himself painting the human form like this — in the last social season, Granville's late-night parties had played host to plenty of models and had encouraged freedom of expression, as it were.

So, he gets to work. There is a warm trickle of inspiration flowing through his veins, that spills out onto the blank slate before him, his gaze flickering between that and the model. But on one glance, Benedict could have sworn she caught his eye. And was that... a smile? A different kind of warmth spreading through his chest, he starts to feel even more certain that he will enjoy the Royal Academy.

In the days that pass, it completely consumes him, and he cannot remember when he last felt so invested in something. Had he ever felt this invested in anything? When he is not at the lectures or in the studio, he is scribbling in his sketchbook or stood in front of an easel trying to apply what he has learned. Benedict enjoys himself so much that he almost experiences blissful ignorance to Anthony's wedding preparations. Somehow, Queen Charlotte of all people has volunteered to host the nuptials, which has done no favours for his brother's tendency to remind everyone of his duty.

"Will Miss Edwina live with us?" Hyacinth asks one morning, in the drawing room with all the family together.

Anthony, who has been getting his cuffs adjusted, replies: "Indeed. After the wedding, she'll be the lady of the house and responsible for you all."

How romantic, Benedict thinks to himself. The rest of the family seem to mirror this sentiment — his mother seems perturbed by the way Anthony is approaching, whilst Colin cannot decide where to look whilst he munches on biscuits in the corner.

"Which reminds me," Anthony continues, face hardened with duty, "our carriages must be polished to a shine, and the horses' manes braided. We should bring out the finest silver. The queen may be hosting everything at the palace, but we must be ready to entertain here..."

"And what of us, brother?" asks Benedict cheekily, half-way through stretching his arms, "Should we also be polished and braided for the big day?"

"We'll all be on display. Perhaps you might even scrub your hands for the occasion?"

He glances down at his hands, charcoal smudged on the sides and underneath his fingernails. "I've been occupied at the Academy," Benedict points out, playfully trying to prod his big brother's face with such hands that 'require scrubbing'.

"What about Miss Edwina's sister?" Hyacinth presses on.

"What about her?"

"Will she come to live with us, too?"

One Bridgerton certainly seems keen. Eloise sits bolt upright, snapping her book shut. "Oh, I do hope so!" she grins. "It'll be a boon to have another intelligent woman in the house."

"Another? Mm, you're over-counting," Benedict just has time to interject, souring the face of his sister.

"Eloise, I shall need your help today," their mother takes over the conversation, a slightly hopeful look in her eyes as she gazes upon her rebellious daughter. "There is the dinner to plan with Lady Danbury to welcome the Sharmas into the family. And then the engagement ball next week..."

But naturally, Eloise being Eloise, she quickly wriggles out of the corner that Violet puts her in. She springs up from her seat and scurries over to the trays of snacks standing in the middle of the room. "I am sorry, Mama, but, uh... I am attending a lecture this afternoon. Flower arranging," she says with a chuckle, prompting Anthony and Hyacinth to exchange a sceptical look. Benedict, certainly, hones in on her as he tilts his head at her with immense curiosity.

"Penelope's mama is forcing her to go, and you've wanted me to find more ladylike pursuits..." Eloise continues on, then slowly pivots around to re-stock her small porcelain plate with bites to eat.

Benedict, practically rubbing shoulders with her, cranes his neck around to look at his sister. Flower arranging, he thinks with a smile. Likely story.

"For how long have you cared about flower arranging—"

"I am an open-minded woman," Eloise snaps and smacks away his hand as it reaches for her plate, "I can care about many things."

Defiantly, she pops a green grape into her mouth and makes a soured face at her elder brother, who is beaming mischievously at her. He knows Eloise is not quite like their other siblings — she does not care at all for the ton or the marriage mart, and she recently has taken great interest in reading feminist writings (she did a poor job of hiding that Wollstonecraft pamphlet). Benedict cannot say he doesn't empathise with her. On the contrary, they share a unique understanding of one another...

... But oh, is it equally fun to push her buttons.

Today, however, Eloise is having none of it. "Do you have somewhere else to be, brother? Perhaps scribbling in that book of yours?"

"Suit yourself... I know when I am not wanted," Benedict teases back, but not without a playful nudge of his elbow in her rib (one which she returns much more harshly).

He takes his cup of tea with him and sits down at the other end of the drawing room, away from the rest of his family gathered together. The budding artist folds one leg over the other to lean his sketchbook on as he opens the pages. There seems to be gradual improvement as he flicks through, feeling particular pride at the most recent entries from his first few days at the Royal Academy. In case Hyacinth were to rush over and demand a sneaky preview, Benedict ensures that the book is not open on a page where the model, whose name he learned is Tessa, is illustrated in her bare human form.

As he starts scribbling, he casts his mind back to the doubts he had felt just a week or so ago, when he did not think he would possibly be accepted. But then he had spoken to Winifred in Somerset House that day — she planted that seed in his mind, there was no question about it. They were relatively new to each other's company, and yet she had put her faith in him with such unwavering confidence that... well, he was left with no other choice, wasn't he?

He wonders how she is doing. She had gone home after her stay with his family at Aubrey Hall, seemingly until the big wedding. Benedict must admit, he did not expect to feel her absence as much as he does. In the beginning, they seemed to bump into each other by chance at each ball or other society event, but now he finds himself actively seeking her out in a crowd (it threw him for a loop when he did not find her at a stuffy soirée a few days ago, suddenly feeling quite alone). Besides, Benedict is bursting to tell her all about the Royal Academy and all that he is learning. His family enjoy making fun of it — lovingly, of course — while Winifred seems to take it much more seriously. Always that unflinching earnestness from her.

     In her own words, Winifred Erstwhile may not be a qualified critic of art. Yet somehow, Benedict knows deep down that coming from her, such a high opinion should not be taken lightly.

     With a light smile playing across his lips, Benedict presses pencil to paper, letting his boundless inspiration sweep him away...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

WHEN Winifred Erstwhile first met George Crane, she knew he had the same vigour for the battlefield as her husband did. Dressed in the same army red as Joseph, he had proudly spoken of his duty in the same way Joseph always spoke of it. It had been no wonder that the two men became friends.

The second time they met, his far less sociable brother, Phillip Crane, had been in attendance. A tad gruff and much more thoughtful than George, he said little more than pleasantries. It was not until he and Winifred stood examining some plants in the gardens — perhaps mutually tired of all the military talk — that his fervent interest in botany gave way and he became much more talkative... so when she arrives at Romney Hall on this splendid June morning, Winifred knows exactly where Phillip will be.

     He is in his greenhouse, naturally.

     Winifred is told to wait in the main reception room; Marina is resting upstairs and the children are playing in the nursery, but Phillip will join her in a moment. For a moment, she wonders if she has come at a bad time, but no one has kicked her out just yet. So she places her gift on a nearby table, freeing her hands as she stands in the middle of the room. The room is illuminated by the daylight bursting through the rounded windows, accompanied by a gentle summer breeze carrying scents of the gardens through the open glass doors.

     A few minutes later, Sir Phillip Crane walks through the doors. He seems a little brighter in his disposition for having just been surrounded by his plants. Luckily, it does not fade when he sees Winifred. They both smile warmly at each other — it feels good to see an old friend again.

     "Mrs. Erstwhile," he says, "I am so pleased that you could make it here today."

     "I am only ashamed that I did not make the visit sooner, or that I did not even write to you," Winifred replies guiltily.

     To this, Phillip immediately furrows his brows. "Oh, please do not feel guilty. It has been a difficult year for us all."

     Of course, the elephant in the room naturally arises. She swallows thickly as she looks up at Phillip. Standing here, remembering that it used to be the four of them who would converse together, and now there is no Joseph or George... the loss suddenly feels far too real.

     "I was so sorry to hear about George," she murmurs.

     "Thank you," Phillip replies quietly. "As was I, to hear about Joseph. He was... a very great man."

     Winifred just nods to this. What else is there to add to that? Neither of them are particularly keen on shedding their feelings, usually, and even their unique position they still feel the urge to move onto something else. And frankly, she is exhausted from receiving new condolences every time she has to meet someone for the first time as a widow. She catches sight of the gift she brought in her periphery.

     "I actually brought you something," Winifred perks up as she mentions it. "A gift, of sorts."

     "Oh, well, that is very kind of you," Phillip remarks, taken aback. "You did not have to do such a thing."

     Nevertheless, she leads him over to a table in the room where she can lay her gift flat. She had wrapped some pages from her sketchbook together in some protective paper. Phillip stands next to her, curious as to what this gift should hold. "Do you recall the last time we were together?" Winifred tries to remind him; it had been some time after Joseph and George had gone off to Madrid, but before tragedy struck. "You and I were discussing your plant encyclopaedia that you were attempting to compile, and you were hoping to add a few more illustrations to your book."

     "Yes, I do recall something... as always, you have the sharpest of memories."

     Chuckling, she adds, "Well, you may also recall that I offered to help you with the drawings. It is many months overdue, but I digress..."

     And so the grand unveiling occurs: five pages of botanical drawings that Winifred completed for Phillip. His whole demeanour suddenly has an extra spark. Eyes lit up, he steps forward to the illustrations. "Good God! These are exquisite, truly. The attention to detail..." Phillip picks up one of the pages and turns it in the light with awe. "The primroses look as though they could be lifted straight out of the page."

     "So, you like them?"

     "Like them? They are perfect, thank you. I am only sorry that I do not have anything for you in return."

     "You could always scribble an illustration of a daffodil for me," Winifred suggests, making them crack amused smiles. Phillip is still glowing, examining each drawing carefully. It seems to be one of the passions he has held onto since taking on what should have been his brother's role — he never planned for any of this. To be Lord of the manor. "How are you finding things, now that you are... in this role?" she asks.

     Phillip sighs deeply. "It was... not the plan, of course. But all things considered, I think I am adapting well. The children are certainly quite the adventure."

     "I can imagine," Winifred smiles. "What were their names again?"

     "Oliver and Amanda."

     "If nothing else, the twins will relish having all this space to run around during their childhoods."

     "That is true... at the very least, it could make up for the rest. I am not certain that fatherhood was my calling," Phillip adds self-consciously.

     Winifred flinches, shooting him a sympathetic look. She means to search for some words of consolation, but instead, she is interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind her. Turning around, she finds a young woman stood there. She is certainly a picture of beauty — her tight curls are scraped up atop her head, and her eyes are large and deep brown. But instantly, Winifred notices a slight tiredness in her whole demeanour.

"Ah," Phillip's voice changes when he speaks to her, "you are awake. I hope we did not disturb you?"

"No, not at all, I wished to see our visitor myself," she shakes her head, managing a smile.

"Mrs. Erstwhile, may I introduce... my wife, Lady Crane."

     So this is Marina.

"Pleasure to meet you, Lady Crane," Winifred says, suddenly filled with anticipation at meeting her — now that she knows (or at least thinks she knows) the full story, this meeting is seen in a whole different light. Marina curtsies politely back and purses her lips together, her gaze lingering slightly longer on their visitor. It is as though something is falling into place.

     Clasping his hands together, Phillip says, "Would you two mind if I went and added these drawings to my collection? I do not want to lose such exquisite work... have you seen them, my dear?"

     Glancing at them as he eagerly shows her, Marina performs a smile to show some pleasure. "Yes, my lord, they are very good. She has quite the talent. We will arrange for some tea to be brought in when you return."

     Winifred stares down at the floor, letting out a small sigh. When she looks up, a beat of awkward silence passes between the married couple, something not quite clicking between them. It is nothing like the synchronicity Joseph and Winifred shared when they were together — but these two never asked for this. She only knows that Phillip did the honourable thing to look after Marina and her children. He nods and excuses himself to take his leave; it leaves the two women alone in the room, which is all of a sudden so hushed that one could hear a pin drop.

     "I must say, we are having more visitors than usual these last few weeks," Marina comments, taking a seat.

     "How many do you usually receive?"

     "... None. Sir Phillip tends to prefer more limited company, or that of his plants."

     Winifred shrugs one shoulder, exhaling softly. "Yes, I do seem to remember that about him."

     She smooths her skirt down and takes a seat opposite Marina. Elsewhere in the room, a grandfather clock ticks in a deep tone, back and forth.

     "Who else has visited you?"

     "Colin Bridgerton," replies Marina crisply.

     Colin?! Winifred thinks, completely taken aback.

     "Really? When?"

     "A couple of weeks ago. It was rather unannounced, too. I would have thought he'd have preferred the company of his family at Aubrey Hall."

     So that is where he disappeared to. Winifred does vaguely remember Colin slinking off during the day, not disclosing where he was off to. And he did seem rather lost in thought the following morning. As it turns out, he came to Romney Hall... to Marina. She can only make assumptions about his reasons: a need for closure, a desire to see the well-being of the woman who was also named and shamed by Lady Whistledown. This meeting was clearly not as good of an idea to the now-Lady Crane as it was to Colin, for Marina's face seems to sour slightly at the memory.

     Now that they sit here quietly, it seems difficult to create conversation — at least anything that is not about George or Joseph. Winifred is trying desperately not to edge near those subjects. But then why are you here? she asks herself. Tea arriving certainly helps smooth things over (like with most problems, Winifred finds). A couple of minutes later, Marina pipes up:

     "I think Sir Phillip may have become distracted."

     Winifred allows herself a small smile. "He can become carried away with his interests, I seem to remember."

     "I am sure he will not be much longer... unless that is him?"

     They both perk up at the sound of footsteps clicking across the floor tiles; but soon enough, another sound echoes down the hall, that of a baby wailing. Winifred's heart clenches in her chest. Moments later, a nanny walks in with a baby balanced on her hip. The girl's face is scrunched up and her toothless mouth wide with gargling cries.

     "I think she wants her mother," the nanny half-coos, half-sympathises as she hands her over to Marina.

     "Oh, come here..." Marina takes her daughter in her arms, bouncing her gently on her lap. Her eyes seem to re-gain a bit of a spark upon this reunion. With arms full of small, chubby limbs, she hushes and rocks her until Amanda calms down.

     "She has quite the pair of lungs on her," Winifred remarks.

     "Indeed, she does," the mother replies tiredly, "and they do not cease during day nor night."

     Now that Amanda has quietened, she blinks looking around her curiously. Her big brown eyes come to land on Winifred. Caught in her scrutinising stare, she softens her expression, whispering a gentle "Hello" to the baby. After a moment of confusion, Amanda's lips quirk up, before suddenly broadening into a gaping smile — one that brings George Crane's features so startlingly into focus. It makes her need to catch her breath for a split second. Then she can only wonder, spurred on by the sweet child's face... what might her son or daughter have looked like? Would they have had Joseph's kind eyes, the sunniness in his hair, the smooth tones of his voice when he was contented?

     "Typical! Where was that smile when you were put down to bed, hm?" Marina cuddles Amanda closer; Winifred lets out a weak chuckle, still lost in thought. Perhaps she should have seen the inevitable question coming. "Do you wish to hold her—"

     "No," she cuts her off abruptly.

     Then, realising she almost snapped, Winifred quickly tried to smooth over her harshness:

     "No, thank you," she now says more softly. "After all, Amanda came here looking for her mother."

     Seeming to accept this excuse, Marina nods. A weighted fatigue seeps into Winifred's bones as she takes a laboured sip of tea. Sometimes, she must admit, she finds it difficult to meet new mothers with their children. Holding Augie a couple of weeks ago had brought back a flood of doubts and regrets that she had long tried to put away. The last thing she wants is for the same feeling to overcome her today — not when she is already feeling more fragile than usual, the dreaded anniversary looming closer than ever.

But she still cannot deny what a delightful bundle of innocence Amanda is. "She does have a beautiful smile," Winifred says. "Just like her father's."

Marina blinks. Then, Winifred seems to realise what she just said; they both do. At first, she tries to seem blissfully ignorant about the whole arrangement, but Lady Crane must have already seen the transparent look in her eyes which said it all. George. She had not meant to bring him up like that. After all, Winifred is still trying to figure out just how much the Cranes had let on about their situation to the ton last year. Because the last thing she wants to do is make assumptions or give such an impression.

"... Yes, she does," Marina finally replies, surprisingly rehearsed. She even smiles a little bit.

Winifred still sits paralysed, but nods, not entirely sure she can exhale in pure peace of mind yet. To her surprise, it is Marina who keeps the subject going.

"I have heard... stories, about your husband," she mentions. "He seemed like he was a good man."

Were those stories from George Crane himself? She cannot help but wonder. That aside, she still feels her heart sink at the addressing of her late husband in the past tense. Sometimes Winifred thinks she will never get used to it. "Well, I suppose I must remember that he died doing his duty, one which was so important to him," she says, her tone slightly unconvinced. "At least, that is what everyone tells me should make me feel better."

Marina swallows thickly, staring down at her lap. Of course she knows how that feels.

Winifred feels the urge to reassure her somehow. It is seldom she meets someone whose situation is so closely aligned with hers, where their paths could have crossed years ago through mutual friendships.

"If you do not mind me saying this..." Winifred starts slowly, her mouth feeling like tar; she is trying so carefully not to misstep. "I think... George would have been contented, to see that you are taken care of. That you have your children to raise. He always struck me as someone who would have loved children."

A strange, numbed look washes over Marina's face. It is as if the words were water splashing over rocks, doing nothing but slipping back into the ocean.

"The past is the past. It does not matter what George would have thought," Marina gives her composed reply, "because George is not here. I have made this life for myself with Sir Phillip, Oliver and Amanda. This is what matters now."

Winifred feels a lurch of guilt for even going near the subject now. It seems perfectly clear that Marina does not wish to look back to the past, even the happier memories with George. Lady Crane seems content enough with what she has now. She does see her point — the future is what lies ahead, no matter how frightening it might be. But Winifred does not want to completely let go of the past either. She is acutely more aware of that as the anniversary approaches. After one year of mourning, there is only... boundless time.

Trying to figure out the balance exhausts her.

As the awkwardness thickens between Winifred and Marina, Phillip re-enters the room, all polite apologies for getting distracted as they had suspected. The trio revert to surface-level talk for the rest of the visit. Winifred tells them about what has been going on in London, although she hardly sees the point, because Phillip is the last person who would be interested in the ton, and Marina is probably allergic to it after her bad experiences last year. So they talk about something else, between the Crane children and the beloved gardens at Romney Hall.

Around two hours after her arrival, Winifred feels it is time that she took her leave. Amanda is growing rather tired again, so Marina intends to say goodbye before bringing her daughter to the nursery.

"It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Erstwhile," Marina says; there is something of an apologetic note in her voice. In her eyes, too, she seems to be regretful for their bristly conversation earlier.

"Likewise," Winifred nods, hoping there is something reassuring in her own tone. "I wish you all the best, Lady Crane... and to your little ones too, of course."

Amanda has reaches out her chubby hand, which she meets half-way, feeling the tiny fingers close around her single index one. She manages to ignore the sting it brings and instead enjoys the baby's attention. Marina chuckles and pulls her away, relishing genuinely in her Amanda's behaviour. It seems clear to Winifred then — no matter how she tried to brush it off before, there must be something inside Marina that appreciates having a sacred piece of George to see in their children.

Breaking away, Marina then carries Amanda upstairs with the nanny, leaving Phillip alone to bid goodbye. Hands behind his back, he smiles kindly at her. "Thank you for coming today. It was actually a very pleasant diversion."

"Thank you for letting me," Winifred replies gratefully.

"You are always very welcome here. We..." he pauses, trying to find the right words; he has never been a great poet. "We have this... predicament in common now, however tragic the circumstances may have been. And since we live so near, I hope this is the first of many instances where we might keep in touch."

"I feel the same way. Though I shall not take so long to write back this time..."

Phillip smiles softly, but Winifred feels her shoulders sink with long-held guilt. Reuniting with her old friend has only re-ignited that feeling.

"I am so sorry again, Sir Phillip, for leaving you in the dark like that," she apologises earnestly. "To think I never even asked what happened after George—"

"It was my own fault too. After all, it takes two to keep up a correspondence."

There is something in his eyes, a trust and honesty which puts Winifred at ease. In many ways, they are cut from the same cloth. Perhaps she got along with Phillip so quickly in the first place because they understood what made the other one tick — what worked, and what did not. They were both quieter, more thoughtful, perhaps a little more reserved. So, smaller gestures to one another are communicative enough. Each of them know enough about Joseph and George to understand what the other is going through, without the pressure of being more closely related.

As for Marina... of their connection, she is still rather unsure. Winifred can only hope that Lady Crane also notices what goes unsaid.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1811.

     WINIFRED had known something was wrong.

     She was no doctor, but she was no fool either — the hot liquid suddenly trickling down the inside of her thighs had rung warning bells in her head. Accompanied by the sharp pain in her abdomen and the strange, omniscient pit of dread yawning wide open in her chest, she feared the very worst.

     In the midnight confusion of it all, Winifred had tried to squint through the darkness at her bedsheet. One glimpse revealed a small, dark patch blossoming right where she had been lying. Not good at all. Breath lodged like a stone in her throat, she had quickly looked over at Joseph. He was still fast asleep and completely oblivious. So, she had crawled out of bed, skin clammy with dread and anger as she tried to mop things up herself. But between the loud rustling and the sudden strip of cold on her husband's body, he knew soon enough...

     She remembers candlelight. Joseph's face paling in an instant. The calls for a physician as soon as possible, while Winifred sat there fighting grieved tears, because she knew, deep down, she had lost the baby. She could feel it.

     The physician's visit the following morning has done nothing to soothe this feeling. By the time he leaves, she is bed-ridden, just as numbed as she was before the physician spelled out exactly what she had thought. Winifred's cheek is glued to the pillow as she stares at a distant bit of paint peeling on the window pane.

     A gentle knock at the door barely arouses her. She knows it is Joseph walking in. His feet tread slowly across the floorboards, like walking across eggshells. The bed sinks slightly next to her as he takes a seat at the edge. The morning sunlight makes a hard outline around the features of his weary face staring out. Winifred cannot bear to look at him. Neither of them say anything for a while. All her husband does is hold her hand, smoothing his thumb softly over her knuckles.

The mood is certainly one quite different to nearly three months ago.

"I'm sorry..." Winifred finally says; she has to choke it out, surprised at the hot tears suddenly springing to her eyes.

Joseph turns around and, upon seeing her, squeezes her hand with concern. "Whatever for?"

"I couldn't give us a child."

"Winifred, you have nothing to be sorry for."

"Yes, but we were going to have this family, this life, and if I– if I cannot even—"

"Darling, darling..." Joseph tries to calm her down, softly smoothing back the hair from her cheek. The tears have started dribbling out the corners of her eyes and into the pillow. His voice is a soothing whisper as he says, "You know how much I would love to have a family. But it would be meaningless without you. You know, you gave me quite the fright last night."

Winifred pulls herself up to a seated position, wincing at the effort it takes. She rubs her eyes vigorously and shudders through a breath.

"Besides, this is not to say we cannot try again... when you are ready." Joseph watches as fresh tears fall down her face. He reaches out and brushes them away much gentler than she did. His boundless optimism never fails to astound her. Sometimes it almost feels like too much. But when she looks at him then, knowing her husband all too well, she can see a heaviness in him. It is still weighs on him more than he would like to admit.

"I love you," she whispers.

"I love you back... come here."

He shuffles forward on the mattress, so they can reach one another. Winifred reaches out her arms across the distance and collapses her weight into his chest. She relaxes into Joseph's embrace, the familiar imprint she can always seek when he is near. It is the best comfort they can offer each other in this moment, when everything is feeling the most raw.

We can try again, Winifred tells herself... but when? Finding the opportunities when Joseph is away so often, it hardly helps.

But she tells herself once more, like a mantra: We can try again.

It just feels further out of Winifred's reach than it did before.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THEY chose this room because of the light — at the right time of day, it would pour through the windows with their stained-glass rims, and it would splash the walls and the floorboards in sunlight with dashes of technicolour. Winifred had thought it would make the perfect nursery for their children, and so had Joseph.

Winifred sits in the window's alcove seat now, feeling the warmth of this cherished sunlight on her skin. But there is nothing else to go with it. No memories of parenthood, no child sitting in the corner or dozing gently. Just... quiet. So quiet. There are half-committed efforts to making this nursery that were put on hold after her miscarriage. Once Joseph was gone, they were completely abandoned. She had convinced herself that her chances of being a mother were simply over.

Did she ever ache to be a mother? Maybe not in the way that Abigail does, but yes, she saw it as something she would become one day. It was not until Winifred fell in love with her husband that she also fell in love completely with the thought of having their own family. She took the responsibility of raising a child that would go out into the world very seriously. She knew she would give everything she had to raising her son or daughter; in turn, she knew that Joseph would, too.

But clearly, life had other plans.

The nursery has become something of a metaphor for stuffing away old memories. Perhaps that is why Winifred has spent the last hour sitting in here by herself. Leaning against the wall, there is a portrait which used to hang in the hallway, but now collects a thin sheen of dust on the frame — it is the only time she can take her time to look at Joseph again. Every nuance in his face, the squareness of his shoulders, his immaculate uniform. Though none of it ever really compares to knowing him in the flesh.

A gentle knock on the wall rouses Winifred from her trance. Standing in the open doorway is the housekeeper, Mrs. Blyton. She almost takes on a motherly stance as she tilts her head at her. "Is everything alright, madam?"

"Yes... I think so," she murmurs.

"Very well. It is just that... I know that today is rather..."

"A tough day. I know."

Winifred needs no reminder of this. One year ago today, somewhere in Spain, Joseph died.

     Is it really here already? She cannot remember what she was doing on that very day, but she knows it was probably something so insignificant that it only amplifies her grief. What astounds her is that so much time has already passed. It is almost jarring how the world seems to move on so quickly.

She inhales a deep breath; it has the effect of re-inflating her, dragging her shoulders up to a straighter posture. "Well, we always knew this day would come eventually... that it would be this way," Winifred says pragmatically. In response, the housekeeper just nods, concern pooling in her gaze.

Mrs. Blyton then clears her throat. "Are you still planning to leave for London this week, madam?"

"Yes. I would prefer to be there a few days before the viscount's wedding, to get my bearings once more."

     The ton will no doubt be abuzz when the day of Anthony Bridgerton's wedding comes around. Madeline has been writing to Winifred with updates over the last month — it has transpired that Queen Charlotte herself has volunteered to host the nuptials, clearly basking in the pride of her season's diamond flourishing so especially. Winifred translates this as a pre-cursor to absolute mayhem when she returns to London. She is rather glad she missed most of the wedding preparations until the last minute.

     Still, there are those she is looking forward to see. Her family, of course, as well as Lettie and Kate...

     But she finds herself particularly keen to reunite with Benedict Bridgerton. In the most unexpected of ways, he has become a balm to Winifred's discomfort whenever she is at a ball. And in all honesty, she likes being in his company. She does not feel a need to perform when she is with Benedict. It is rare, indeed, to find someone with whom you can feel comfortable to hide from the rest of the world with.

     "Will you all be alright while I am gone?" Winifred asks her housekeeper, rising and smoothing down her skirt.

     "Indeed. It is only a month or so more."

     "Very well, then..."

     Mrs. Blyton suddenly asks: "Will you be alright?"

     The sincerity with which the question is asked catches Winifred off-guard. She blinks rapidly, nodding. "Of course. Why would I not be?"

But as she says it, she can feel her knees shake slightly. She needs to get out of this room. Winifred brushes past Mrs. Blyton in the doorway, excusing herself for some fresh air. The rest of the London season will surely be tedious, but at least it will be a distraction. She has enjoyed being home at Highbourne, yet the more time that has passed, she has felt increasingly surrounded by memories — good and bad — that she cannot escape. It might be the lesser of two evils to return to the city for now... surely.

     Off to the wedding, then... Winifred thinks grimly.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

I kind of struggled to write this chapter inspiration-wise, because I kept hating my writing — particularly the dialogue — but I also didn't want to keep putting this chapter off... so here we are. There are a couple of things I'd like to delve into a little further in this author's note.

This chapter dealt with some heavier subject matter than usual, so I wanted to include the trigger warning at the top just in case. Winifred's miscarriage and struggles to have a child while she was married are important, and definitely contribute to her grief. And speaking of grief, this chapter seems to fall around June in what I think is the Bridgerton timeline, which then marks one year since Joseph passed... so yeah, this was quite a rough chapter for Winifred. I worked on how I wanted to write this for a while, and I can only hope I portrayed it with the sensitivity I intended to.

Tying into this, upon realising Winifred and Marina actually share something in common with losing their love to war, I really wanted them to meet. I get the sense that Marina was quite closed-off in season 2, so I couldn't necessarily see these two being 'chummy', but it was important for them to meet nevertheless. This also meant introducing Sir Phillip — we haven't seen much of him in the show yet, but I combined what I saw of him with the scraps I could find online about book!Phillip. I really wanted to include this link between Phillip and Winifred through George/Joseph, so hopefully I did this botany nerd some justice.

And finally, circling back to the beginning of the chapter, I've tried to introduce Winifred's household staff a little better! They do appear earlier in this book but I hadn't 100% figured out their names or personalities at the time. (This is just further confirmation that I need to make an extended cast list of some sort lmao)

As always, thank you for reading (+ another way-too-long author's note by me). Next chapter is a Disaster Wedding Special, so buckle in for some drama and secondhand embarrassment for the Bridgertons and Sharmas...

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 28/02/2024