CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
changing perspectives.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1812.

"ALRIGHT, HERE WE ARE," SAYS WINIFRED. Her hands have been folded on her lap for most of the journey home in the carriage. She would have held onto those of her husband's, but he numbly pried them away at the start of their trip, instead resorting to gazing out of the window at each passing tree in the landscape.

The Joseph that sits opposite her feels... different.

Winifred had no clue what to expect. All she had known was that a week ago, she received word that Joseph had been injured. In the town where he was stationed, he had stepped in to break up a conflict, only to sustain injuries that would put him out of practice for a substantial length of time — a broken collarbone along with a couple of ribs. In that time, he had also contracted a fever, although that had luckily broken by the time Winifred reached him. Joseph was to return home and recuperate for a couple of months.

Beyond her obvious concern, she did not think any deeper about it. Broken bones heal, after all. She just did not expect Joseph's spirits to be so broken as well. Winifred had thought the militia would have been kinder to him than being in the thick of the battlefield.

If she stops and thinks about it, she can recall his duty grading down on her husband over the years. His boyish wonder has dimmed the more he commits himself to it, sobered by the things he sees — only Joseph never tells her what he has seen. However, until now, it had only come in smaller bouts that often lifted themselves again after a small time being back with Winifred... but not today, where he has hardly uttered a word the whole carriage ride home.

Having stopped in front of the entrance at Highbourne, Winifred steps out of the carriage first. "Here, darling," she holds out her hand to her husband encouragingly.

"Winifred, I can get out by myself—"

"The last thing I want is you tripping over your big boots and breaking another bone. Come on now, Joseph."

Joseph sighs, one of the longest she has ever heard from him. He twists in his seat, wincing slightly at the tenderness around his battered body. The tiredness instantly travels up into his eyes; the bright blue hues have been dulled to an overhanging grey day. Gripping Winifred's hand, he steps out of the carriage and lands his feet squarely onto the ground. With his free arm, ever so gently, she weaves her arm through it and guides him with great care towards the door.

"We'll get you nice and comfortable once we're inside," she assures him, "and there's soup for dinner."

"That's nice," Joseph mumbles absentmindedly.

Winifred lets out a soft, although slightly nervous chuckle: "Ah, that reminds me... you may find this amusing. While I was waiting for word about your fever, I was completely restless, pacing about the house like a woman possessed. I eventually grew so impatient that I went down to the kitchen and pleaded with the cook to give me something to do, anything. So there I sat, far into the night, sleeves rolled up and peeling more potatoes than could feed the household!"

Joseph does smile at this, but only slightly. The crinkles by his eyes are only fleeting before they are flattened out soberly again. His hand, however, clings longingly onto her arm through the sleeve's fabric, as though he were afraid she might disappear. Winifred frowns as they step through the front door, the household staff rushing to greet him — they do love him, after all, with his contagious laugh and genial manner (even if it is dimmed somewhat today). It is only after they disappear to make tea or prepare a fire for him that she gets a moment alone to inquire further.

"Listen, Joseph, are you quite sure you're well?" Winifred asks. "Is your fever coming back?"

Her hand instinctively flies up to his brow, pressing the back of it to his skin. She does not feel anything of concern, and Joseph lets out a hoarse laugh, taking her hand softly and pressing his lips to it for a moment. "I am alright," Joseph insists. "Just... exhausted. I think I might go up and rest before dinner tonight."

     She hums suspiciously. "And... that is all?"

"Yes, my love."

"... But if there were something else, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Winifred, I promise I would tell you," says Joseph. "Although there is nothing to tell. Not... not really."

     His wife blinks at him. "You're starting to sound as worse a liar than I am."

     "And that would be saying something," he grins rather suddenly.

     "Joseph, please—"

     "Do not worry. I am fine. Really. Just... glad to be home with you."

She is hardly convinced. Nevertheless, she gets the feeling that it will be as much as she can coax out of her husband for now. After sharing a soft kiss on the lips, Winifred watches Joseph slowly advance upstairs, careful not to aggravate his healing ribs and collarbone. She watches over him carefully, until she is sure that he has gotten into bed and is resting.

     He is just tired, Winifred suggests to herself. Once he is well-rested, his spirits will be restored once more.

     Somehow, this time, she finds that harder to believe; her heart aches for him.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

    "A jilted groom. A broken-hearted bride-to-be. A royal wedding in shambles..." Jemima takes a dramatic pause in her reading of Whistledown, making her niece Camille giggle. "Sensational? Quite. But true? This author may traffic in chatter and speculation, dear reader, but misinformation? Never."

     Breakfast in the drawing room cannot be rid of the latest scandal. While Madeline practices Mozart on the pianoforte, the rest of the family listen to the words of gossip sheets. The most engrossed are Adrian and Camille, too young to understand the larger implications of what went on at the wedding.

     Rolling her Rs and enunciating over-dramatically, Jemima orates the latest issue of Lady Whistledown as if it were Shakespearean. "Explanations of why Miss Edwina absconded from the altar may be greater in number than anyone could possibly fathom. But we must not forget —" she lifts a finger dramatically into the air, and somewhere across the breakfast table, Persephone groans, "— it was Her Majesty the Queen who placed the young miss on that special stage so that she could make her grand exit. Allow this author to hope, for Her Majesty's sake, as well as both the Sharmas and Bridgertons, that an official explanation emerges swiftly, lest the ton are run away by their tawdry imaginings..."

     Adrian and Camille applaud innocently at their young aunt's performance, giggling as she takes a bow with a flourish. The rest of the table, perhaps more aware of the scandal that has taken over London's high society, are more weary. Charles has been blissfully ignorant to it all up until now — he shoots Winifred a look as if to say, I wish I had just stayed at home. She cannot say that she blames him.

The wedding disaster between the Bridgertons and Sharmas has seized the attentions of everyone in the ton, the season's biggest scandal yet. Both families are sneered at everywhere they go, reputations so tarnished that even Lady Whistledown cannot add much else to stoke the fire. All it does for Winifred is give her a grand headache. She has spent a number of months with the ton now, and it still baffles her. Is this really what high society orbits around? Today is another today where she is thankful she was never a debutante in the London season, instead freer to make mistakes in the country as the daughter of a gentleman.

"There is no use letting emotions get in the way of procedure," Persephone says, after a souring sip of tea. "That is what brought upon those families this whole mess — all these flights of hysteria, runaway brides... it would never have been accepted when I was young."

"Ah, spoken from the wise sage of contented unions," Octavia mutters into her own teacup, so quietly that it bypasses the dowager countess's hearing; Charles overhears his wife's comment and almost chokes on his tea.

Turning to Madeline, Persephone sternly demands: "You know that you cannot invite the Bridgertons or the Sharmas to our soirée."

Inevitably, being one of the most prestigious families in the ton, the Osbornes are always sure to take their turn in hosting a grand event for the rest of high society. Winifred is vaguely aware that there used to be a grander ball in the countryside, which was would be the one of most coveted invitation of the year, though they stopped upon the death of Silas's father. Instead, they down-size for a sophisticated soirée in their London home every July. Therefore the house has grown tense within the fist of hostesses battling for control — it should technically be Madeline at the head of preparations, but her mother-in-law always has a criticism or another way to intervene.

"Well, I—" Madeline tries to protest, still at the piano, but is swiftly cut off.

"There will be no deliberation! I will not have our name stained by guests embroiled in scandal, as well-respected the Bridgertons are. And you certainly might question the future of this courtship between your sister and that Bridgerton boy..." At this, the dowager countess stares coldly at Abigail, whose shoulders sink further under such scrutiny; in all honesty, she didn't seem that keen to go out and meet Colin Bridgerton in the first place.

"I think it rather ridiculous," Jemima proclaims, "that the repercussions of one individual should bar their entire family from society. If it were me, I would be clawing at the walls for my independence!"

"What, and you do not do that already?" Octavia raises an eyebrow.

"She does have a point, Mama," Abigail looks up from her embroidery, "I do feel ever so sorry for them both. It must be a great ordeal, having one's feelings and private affairs scrutinised so mercilessly."

But Persephone still has little room for sentiment. "It is not a private affair. They brought it upon themselves by having such a spectacle of a wedding. And therefore, they shall not be invited."

Once again, Charles and Winifred remain silent and exchange a tired glance. She does agree with Jemima — while there is a similar sense of maintaining one's reputation at home, it is significantly amplified in London. However, Winifred also begrudgingly understands that this is the way things operate here, so she complies.

Boots clicking against the polished floors cut through Madeline's Mozart practice, Silas enters and plucks a shiny green apple from the crystallised fruit bowl. "Winifred, I believe there is a rather impatient young lady waiting for you downstairs..." he remarks cheekily, before biting a large chunk out of the apple. She finishes the last sip of her tea and sets the cup down.

"Ah, that'll be Lettie," Winifred rises to her feet and smooths down her dress.

Her father creases his brows, shooting her a curious look. "Going out, are you?"

"Just for an hour or two. Lettie and I have been looking to catch up properly between all of the balls and... weddings." She utters the last word hesitantly, feeling a wave of sympathy for the two families again. "Lady Strachan is at home today, so I'm to accompany Lettie into town."

     "Do send our love, won't you?" Octavia asks, loading up her plate with more toast; as though it were a play date between two children.

     "Of course I will, Mama."

Grabbing her bonnet and gloves, it is quite a relief to leave the intense Osborne dynamic upstairs in the drawing room. Winifred's shoes echo quietly down the marble steps, until she can see Lettie stood there in the entrance — a bright cyan walking dress with a matching fan to cool herself in the summer heat. Once she spots her friend approaching on the steps, she purses her lips into a scintillating smile.

     "I thought you would never come," Lettie teases.

     "And I thought you would never arrive," Winifred replies without missing a beat, offering her arm. "Shall we?"

     She needn't ask her twice. Lettie gladly links her arm with Winifred's, the pair glad to escape the household into the bright summer morning in London. The streets are bustling and busy with colourful members of the ton out for a stroll.

More earnestly, Lettie adds, "I thought you would be in need of a quick escape."

"Actually, your timing is perfect. Everyone was absorbed in the latest Whistledown chronicling... that wedding."

"Oh, spare me the details, for I have heard them all to death," she rolls her eyes; although she and Lady Strachan had not attended the wedding, the word had of course spread like wildfire. Lettie wears a more sympathetic look as she seems to remember something else. "I saw Lady Danbury take the Sharmas out this morning. They passed our house."

"How did they look?" Winifred asks, already frowning in anticipation.

"Forlorn, to say the least. Miss Edwina would barely look her sister in the eye. As for the rest of the ton... well, they were looking down upon the Sharmas as though they were filth on the pavements."

Just as Winifred had feared, then. She has been wondering about the Sharmas, particularly Kate, in the fallout of the whole wedding. It is always the supposed outsiders who get the brunt of scandals like these, often unfairly. More importantly, she knows the whole story Kate told her about having to secure a match for Edwina to ensure the Sheffields' inheritance — no doubt that the younger sister is clued in about that plan, now.

     "How about we divert ourselves from the rest of the ton, and we discuss something other than the latest scandal?" Lettie suggests.

     "Please," Winifred fires back hoarsely, so off-the-cuff that it prompts her friend to laugh loudly.

     "Alright. But we should head into town for some cake first. I am rather famished."

     Luckily, they had no need to travel far — refreshments are aplenty in Berkeley Square, where Lettie has been staying with the baroness. So a few minutes later, they find themselves in Gunter's Tea Shop, teetering on rush hour. The air is laced with sweet, sugary aromas of the desserts displayed, everything from cakes and biscuits to candied fruits and the confectioner's notable ices. Winifred and Lettie tuck in at a small table just outside the shop window to leave the bustling atmosphere sealed behind the tinkling door.

     "You seem to be settling into your companionship to the baroness," Winifred asserts while stirring her tea. "I rarely catch the two of you apart at all the balls this season."

     "Chiefly because she will not let me pry away from her grip."

     "But you enjoy it, don't you?"

     Lettie takes a long sip of her tea, pondering this. She is not usually one to admit such sentimentality; at least not to anyone's face, and no one beyond her friends like Winifred. "I suppose... it feels less like an occupation than I thought it would," she finally replies, slipping into a slight smile. That is about as close as she will get to admitting true friendship with the baroness, but it is proof enough. "Now, make no mistake, Lady Strachan has plenty of grievances I have to put up with. But seeing as she has employed me—"

"Say no more," Winifred smiles.

The shop bell tinkles as the door opens, Cressida Cowper and her mother walking out with scathing remarks aplenty about the whole wedding scandal. Winifred and Lettie pretend not to hear a thing, only glaring at one another with mutual distaste for it all. Once the Cowpers have passed their table and are sauntering down the street out of earshot, it takes a moment to re-discover their line of conversation. Where were they?

"Anyway, how have you been?" Lettie asks.

"Not too bad," Winifred shrugs plainly.

Clearly, this is not a good enough answer for Lettie, who can see right through her. "The anniversary... it passed recently, did it not?"

She asks it gently, meaning no harm. Winifred swallows thickly and nods as she hides her words in a pensive gulp of tea. She can feel Lettie's gaze trailing along her mauve sleeves; the half-mourning colours she just cannot seem to shed. It has been a full year. If she wanted to, she could. But something stops her every time she considers stepping out of it. One half of her is desperate to move on with this life, while the louder other half anchors her down to the past, clawing its nails into the sand with every bit of strength.

Lettie seems to sense the buzz of internal conflict in her, for she reaches across the table and squeezes Winifred's hand. "You made it through the first year," she reminds her. "That is always the most testing one. Or so I have been told."

"I am not so sure..." Winifred pauses, staring out at the street. "At least, during this year, I knew what I was doing. But now... I have no clue what should come next."

"Well, whatever comes next, you will not be alone."

Looking back at her friend, she notes the fierce love in Lettie's eyes, and knows her words to be true. She has never been anything less than loyal to her closest friends; they have always had that in common. Winifred squeezes her hand back before retracting it for another sip of tea. As she does, Lettie seems to be lost in thought. Then she is suddenly cracking a smile and chuckling softly to herself.

"What is it?" asks Winifred.

"I was just... reminiscing," Lettie grins. "Do you remember the day you introduced me to Joseph? You had already told me all about him, whether you meant to or not, but I finally met this man you were so fond of in the village. He walked into that shop, while your Mama was out with us buying ribbons. Do you recall it?"

The memory blossoms like a flower in springtime, one that Winifred had forgotten about; other memories had simply taken precedence over it. But now it feels brighter in colour as she re-treads it. She can see it now — Joseph clutching his hat underneath his arm, that youthful glow in his eyes that never went away. "I do remember," Winifred breathes, smiling fondly. "He asked how long you had known me, and listened to everything you had to say. Even when Mama started speaking about ribbons, he tried to look like he had a slightest idea what she was speaking of."

     "Yes, and when he left the shop, he was so occupied staring at you that he—"

     "— Tripped on his way out!" Finishing Lettie's sentence for her, a weight temporarily flutters away from Winifred's chest as they both giggle. She almost feels shy thinking about it, like the young girl stood in that shop all over again. Of course there is a bittersweet lining to the memory now. But it was more pleasant to reflect on than she expected.

     As her laughter subsides, Lettie suddenly grows more earnest. "You two had something ever so special, you know," she says, sounding unusually sentimental. "You know, I sometimes thought that — well, if I had the heart to marry as opposed to not — that I would settle for nothing less than what the two of you had."

     "Oh, Lettie..." Winifred murmurs, taken aback. It isn't often that Lettie opens up about such things; she has certainly never said this before. For a few moments, she is left speechless, all of a sudden wishing they were not sat so out in the open.

Now it has been brought up, curiosity gets the better of her.

Carefully, Winifred asks: "Do you ever consider changing your mind?"

Perhaps because they know one another, Lettie has the mind not to immediately retaliate against the question. She recognises that Winifred is not trying to criticise her — it is just out of genuine interest for her. Setting down her teacup on the saucer, she chews on her lower lip.

"Not in earnest, no," Lettie replies, not having to give that part further thought. But then there is a long pause before she speaks again. "But that does not mean that I have never... felt things. Quite a few times, in fact. And I have had my small share of affections which I could not return. Regardless, I am quite sure that even love could not bring me to the altar. I just..."

"I understand," Winifred nods, allowing her friend to be relieved of delving deeper.

"Dear Winifred, you always have."

Inhaling sharply, Lettie seems to re-inflate her spirits, energetic once again. She dabs at her lips with the napkin and drops it on the table. "I fear the tea shop will grow overcrowded very soon. Should we depart? Perhaps to the park, to walk off the helpings of cake."

     "That sounds like a wise idea," Winifred smiles, rising to her feet.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     "WHERE is your brother? He should be here by now," Violet asks the room, disquieted, to no one in particular. By this, she means Anthony — he seems to float about with aimless agitation since the failed wedding day.

Colin gets there first: "Perhaps he is still waiting at the altar for Miss Edwina?"

Benedict muffles a laugh into his tea, almost spluttering it out mid-sip. However, their mother sees it as no laughing matter. Scandal, scandal, scandal: the thing that makes the ton go round. Now, the disaster wedding has tarnished the reputable image of the Bridgertons, and social ruin is on the horizon underneath the scrutinising lens of their peers.

The whole thing seems ridiculous to Benedict. It always has. Won't this so-called scandal blow over like the last one, old news once again? He remembers last year when his sister Daphne was tangled in a scandal of her own, but she has come out of the other side flourishing in new motherhood.

"There will be no mockery today," Violet mutters, perturbed.

"She mocks me incessantly!" Gregory protests; by that, he means Hyacinth sat across from him by the chess board.

"Are we not overlooking the benefit of this... tragedy?" Eloise interjects.

Gregory lights up: "Leftover cake?" he suggests excitedly.

"And you wonder why I mock you?" Hyacinth sneers at him.

Speaking of which—

"Brother! How good of you to join us," Benedict greets warmly, having noticed Anthony slinking in through the back of the drawing room. His presence seems to loom over the rest of the family like a dark, brooding cloud (a rather fitting metaphor for his demeanour as of late). The least he can do is make his elder brother feel somewhat welcome, because in his eyes, the man probably needs advising more than anything else.

     "Have you all eaten?" Anthony looms by the crystallised bowls of fruit and pops grapes into his mouth.

     "You will have to break your fast later," Violet edges towards her son, lowering her voice. She clutches her abdomen, the way she does when under stress that would almost suggest her stays tightening around her, while the other hand fiddles absentmindedly with the tablecloth. "For now, it is of the utmost importance that we act swiftly to limit the damaging consequences of your..."

     "Bungled nuptials?" Colin smirks cheekily. Two jests in a row — Benedict is glad to see his younger brother's sense of humour seems to have returned in recent weeks. He feared he had left it behind in Paxos. For whatever reason, somewhere between the wedding and now, Colin seems to be in better spirits.

     "Is all of this truly happening because a woman changed her mind?" Eloise scoffs with distaste, peering over the pages of her latest book.

     Violet nods, an impatient but controlled bite in her voice as she speaks: "Unfortunately so, Eloise. Yet I suppose the reason does not signify. We simply must deal with the consequences. Now... I think it a pleasant morning for promenade!"

     About half of the room collectively groans at the suggestion, Benedict among them. It is the last thing he would rather do this morning — parade about in the park, simply to cater to those in the ton whose opinions he could not care less about.

     "Together, united, as the most respectable family that we still very much are," their mother adds with a delicate smile.

     "Respectable?" Anthony's voice is laced with bitterness. "A respectable family is headed by a gentleman, is it not?"

     An awkward silence envelops the room, one only interrupted by Benedict's subtle whisper of "Pssst!" to Anthony. Getting his attention, he manages to usher him over, the eldest Bridgerton looming over his seat in the armchair. The second brother uses his sketchbook his lips from the rest of the family, before asking: "Brother... is there something more we should know? Or perhaps, more than just I should know?"

     He had to ask it. Anthony has been walking around as though there were nettles in his boots, pained and rigid everywhere he goes. Benedict merely means to offer him a shoulder for support. For the briefest of moments, his brother falters — a flash of hopelessness in his eyes — before a sharp inhale helps him regain his composition. He turns away from Benedict's offer, instead returning his attentions to the family.

     "Forgive me," Anthony sighs, voice empty of any emotion. "If a promenade is what you feel is wise, Mother, then we shall leave within the hour."

Most of the family are due to come. Eloise, naturally, finds an excuse to bow out of appearances (this time it to 'buy new gloves' — oh, how Benedict wishes he could have stolen such an excuse, even if he knows she is flat-out lying... what his sister is actually up to is the real mystery). That is how, indeed within the hour, he finds himself in Regent's Park with his family, strolling through and hoping to be regarded well by the rest of the ton.

Such hopes are dashed rather instantly. The Partridges make a great effort to slip away from conversation with their noses turned up, while Lady Featherington with her brood of colourfully-dressed daughters takes great pleasure in milking the misfortune of the Bridgertons. All throughout it, Benedict cannot find it in himself to care deeply about what the ton think of him. They only see him as a Bridgerton, anyway. He might as well enjoy his own freedoms and pleasures. If he looks around Regent's Park, he can see no one who he would really wish to stop and talk to, except...

     Winifred.

     He spots her a fair distance away, walking slowly along the path with that friend of hers, Lettie Fitzroy. As usual, she is in those muted shades of lilac or mauve or violet, an air of restraint about her. Although Benedict would like to believe he has seen it being chipped away — when they have spoken, he feels as though he has gotten a glimpse into her true soul. Suddenly he finds himself hoping and praying she will not just walk past like everyone else. That she will stop and they could catch up, about anything other than scandal. Art, love, walks, anything.

     The closer the Bridgertons get, the more a potential greeting arises. The two friends are stood by a glittering pond in the midst of conversation when, over Winifred's shoulder, Lettie clocks the family in her periphery. Instead of averting her gaze, she (thankfully) turns herself toward them. "Lady Bridgerton," she nods to her politely and curtsies.

     Winifred whirls around, noting the family. Violet lets out an audible sigh of relief when she tugs Lettie closer to the Bridgertons. "Good morning, Lady Bridgerton," she says.

"Good morning, Mrs. Erstwhile," sighs Violet. "I must admit, it is quite a relief to see you out and about. Or at least speaking to us... you would be among the first today."

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," Winifred shakes her head plainly. "I doubt that the ton cares for what an untitled widow has to say about recent matters."

Benedict has to bite his tongue to blurt out just how wrong she is. She means to say she cares not for what the ton think, he reminds himself, which he of course admires. But he always cares for what Winifred has to say. Only he would rather not talk about what everyone else inevitably will — he finds himself wishing they could be alone in a crowded room again, sharing their interests and opinions. Winifred listens in a way not many other people do.

"How is Lady Strachan, Miss Fitzroy?" Violet asks, sensing that Anthony is not really in the mood for talking.

"Very well, thank you," Lettie replies, "just resting her feet this morning..."

As Lettie continues to converse with Violet about the baroness, Winifred's gaze travels over to meet Benedict's, which has already settled on hers. She gives him a solitary look of acknowledgement, separate from the rest of his family; one that he returns straight to her.

Then when she is no longer looking at him, he glances down at her gloved hands. She wrings them together subtly, clasping and unclasping them whilst the rest of her demeanour stays perfectly composed. Benedict has noticed this in the time he has known her — it seems like a nervous habit, as though Winifred were trying to squeeze every drop of discomfort out of a cloth. Any anxious energy she has seems to trickle down into the hands. He first noticed it when meeting her properly in their drawing room months ago, and she has done it rather consistently during all her time in London (although, much to his relief, the wringing seemed to calm down during her stay at Aubrey Hall).

"I think we may have to return home soon," Winifred says after a while; Benedict feels a pang of disappointment.

"Yes, I think the baroness will only wait so long for me," Lettie adds, "but do enjoy the sunshine while you can, Lady Bridgerton. It is an exquisite day."

"Right you are, Miss Fitzroy," Violet lets out a weary sort of laugh.

"Yes, can we stay out a while longer, Mama?" Hyacinth suddenly asks with twinkling eyes. "It is ever so dull being cooped up in Grosvenor Square. I wish to get out and see London!"

While Lettie entertains Hyacinth's outburst with suggestions for activities, as though there were not a whole scandal going on, Winifred takes a tentative step towards Benedict. "Hello," she says quietly, having been unable to utter a more personal greeting before. "I am so sorry for us rushing off like this."

"Do not worry," Benedict steals a glance around at the rest of the ton, "for I hardly enjoy being surrounded by these vultures, either."

After a soft chuckle, she asks him: "Are you still attending the Royal Academy?"

"Yes, more than ever. I am actually meeting some of my classmates later on tonight."

"I look forward to hearing more of it... hopefully soon," Winifred nods sincerely, before her arm is being looped through Lettie's and tugged away into the other direction. Indeed — the sooner this scandal blows over, the better. Since no one wants to invite the Bridgertons to anything at the moment, it is difficult to meet with anyone unless spontaneously like just now.

     So Benedict watches her leave, hoping that next time is sooner rather than later.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WHERE the drinks are flowing, the fun usually follows. Tonight is one of the (rather frequent) parties filled with Royal Academy students, models and others in the arts or just as free-moving. There is no mistaking that this is not one of the parties the ton usually throws — no, this is more secluded, more intimate. In a small art studio lit by flickering candlelight and gentle plucking of harp strings, the evening sprawls out long after the sun has sunk beneath the city's horizon.

     Benedict is starting to see things in a euphoric haze; a mix of the wine and... other substances. He is present enough to enjoy his surroundings, but with a relaxed lining around his consciousness.

     Hovering by his hip is Tessa, the art model — a face he has come to know very well. Their dalliance has stretched out over the last month, punctuating the periods between lessons at the Royal Academy. She had shared her own artistic desires with him, stopped only by the rule of the Royal Academy barring women from studying there (which Tessa pointed out was silly, considering two of the founding members were women). He has shared a few nights with her now, but even coming here tonight, Benedict is relieved. It is well overdue after a day of dancing around the latest scandal with his family.

     At least Tessa does not care whether he is a Bridgerton, and neither do the rest of the students.

     Together, they observe his half-painted easel from afar, Tessa stood next to a seated Benedict with one arm draped around his shoulders.

"I must say, Mr. Bridgerton, your attention to detail is striking," she remarks coyly. "Where in the world did you learn to paint like that?"

"Ah, well, I am an attentive student," Benedict smiles crookedly up at her.

"That you are..."

He keeps smiling at her, until Tessa lets out a half-laugh, half-scoff. She hands him the pipe held between her fingers — but not before stealing a quick kiss, the taste of sherry staying in the cracks of his lips. Benedict takes the pipe from her and takes a drag, exhaling the smoke... what he sees through the wisps of tobacco smoke almost gives him a heart attack.

Anthony Bridgerton — his brother, formidable as ever — stood in the doorway. What in the devil is he doing here?!

Oh, bugger.

Suddenly feeling rather sober for a moment, Benedict frantically waves away the rest of the smoke with his hand. Tessa furrows her eyebrows at him, her feather plume dancing above her head. "What is the matter?" she asks.

"My brother," Benedict murmurs, feeling no need to elaborate.

He springs up from behind the easel and meanders over to Anthony, who is currently staring horrified at a man and woman in a half-naked, passionate embrace partially behind a drape. Lord give me strength, thinks Benedict.

"Brother! I did not know you'd be stopping by tonight," Benedict's voice sounds awfully high, like being caught red-handed.

"Neither did I. The Royal Schools seem to be providing a different sort of education than what I had pictured..." Anthony has not torn his eyes away from the intertwined couple yet; when he finally does, his nose is turned up with a sense of disgrace. "Or perhaps, exactly as I had pictured."

     Have you forgotten all the brothels you used to frequent? Benedict wants to remind him. But he is not interested in starting a fight. He never is. Instead, he does his best to intervene and lead Anthony over to a more secluded corner of the studio: "Can I... Can I get you a drink?" asks Benedict, already reaching for a glass.

     "Can we perhaps go somewhere that is quieter?" asks the viscount through gritted teeth.

     "It is a party, brother."

     "It is something."

     Benedict hands his brother a glass of port, and intends to take a sip himself when Anthony suddenly thrusts his hand forward. His fingertips dig in under his chin, tilting it up as the viscount inspects the dilated pupils and eased manner in Benedict. Anthony lets him go, a bite in his voice as he critiques: "Do you do this every night?"

Collapsing onto a bed of cushions, Benedict groans. "Did you come to admonish me?" he asks, mockingly pouting his bottom lip.

"I only mean to say that you may be a second son, brother, but that does not exempt you from your familial duty altogether. It merely makes you second."

Ouch. Then again, what is there that he has not already heard? The second son lives with the constant reminder that he is second in everything. But that is not his concern right now. Anthony is deflecting, clearly troubled about something else. Why would he be coming to remind Benedict so vehemently about his duties unless he were considering stepping back from his own? Even in his drunken haze, he can make the connection between his brother's near-catastrophic duel as well as his affair with that opera singer last year, and now...

Of course. Kate.

"Does this have to do with whatever is truly going on between you and the Sharmas? Particularly the eldest? Mother is not the only one who sees the way you look at her..." Benedict probes playfully at first; instantly he hits a nerve, making Anthony hide his face away in shame, although it cannot hide the passion that burns in his eyes. Suddenly, this all seems so ridiculous to Benedict. If two people are happy and in love, should they not declare it with pride?

Rising to his feet, the smiles drops from his face as his frustration lets loose. "How long do you plan on punishing yourself for, and wallowing in such misery?"

"Forget I came," Anthony grumbles curtly. "Have a good night, Benedict."

The viscount turns swiftly on his heel and heads for the door, Benedict staggering after him — admittedly in a tipsy stupor, but with every intention to share some wisdom. "Look, no– things may seem bleak now, brother. But if I'm learning anything from my art studies, it is that it is almost always a matter of... perspective."

To demonstrate, he shuts one eye and peeks through the gap between his punched thumb and index finger. The metaphor still seems lost on Anthony, so he elaborates.

"I look at my art, and if I do not like what I see, I may always alter the colour palette. But I certainly do not toss the entire design aside," Benedict says, slapping his hands on Anthony's faintly-stubbled cheeks to cup them together. "Perhaps you, too, could do the same in your own life."

His cheeks squashed together, but his eyes dark and rancorous, Anthony leans closer to his brother. After a long pause, he mutters: "Taking the tea again, are we?" He peels Benedict's hands roughly away from his face and escapes through the open door, this time having no one to chase after him.

"At least just shave, will you?" Benedict has the last word, staggering on the spot. He receives no reply.

No matter, he thinks. He will gladly return to the party, doing what second sons do best, after all. The evening passes slowly, spent in the company of fellow students and others whose faces he does not recognise. If Benedict can just hold onto this feeling for a little bit longer...

After a while, other guests start to filter out, his classmates bidding him and others goodbye as they leave. Benedict is a couple glasses of brandy too drunk, he realises — it dawns on him somewhere before he is slumped behind his easel.

     The paint on the canvas seems to pop in his vision. He sees his every brush stroke, caressing the outline of the blank gaps left in the painting where the canvas pokes through. His eyes trail tiredly across his handiwork, lost between satisfaction and emptiness when he looks at it. The Bridgerton could almost feel as though he was drifting, until a woman's voice reaches out to him in the quiet:

"Still working, are you?"

He starts in his seat. If a voice could sober a man, Benedict would have thought he hadn't had a drop of drink tonight. The startlingly familiar voice anchors him — not genial and flirtatious like Tessa's, but soft and constant... like...

No, you must be going mad, he tells himself.

Nevertheless, he wishes to check. Benedict careens to the side so his head peers around the easel. At first glance, he thinks it must be Tessa, for that dress could be hers. But the woman who turns to look at him has Winifred's face.

He feels his lips part, awestruck.

She looks so... different. Her hair, usually pulled up and pinned to her head, falls down her back in earthy brown ringlets. Her ungloved hands hang by her sides free of anxieties. It doesn't feel like the Winifred he knows — he must be far too drunk right now — and yet when she smiles at him, Benedict feels his heart do a somersault and his breath hitch in his throat. It occurs to him that rarely has he seen her so unrestrained, so unarmored at first glance. Even if only a dream, he wishes she could always look like that... or more importantly, feel like that. Suddenly an ardent desire overcomes him, one that yearns to know the deeper complexities of Winifred Erstwhile. The woman behind closed doors. This glimpse already has him smiling softly back, unblinking.

Only a dream, he then reminds himself.

"Mr. Bridgerton..."

The voice seems hazier now. Benedict bows his head and rubs his eyes.

"... Mr. Bridgerton?"

When he re-surfaces, the voice has changed — more teasing in tone, holding a slight bewilderment in it now. He peers out from behind the easel to see Tessa standing there, in the place where 'Winifred' had been before. She raises an eyebrow at him and lets out a slight laugh. "It is getting late. I shall be journeying home now... and by the looks of it, I suggest you do the same. Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton."

Benedict can barely find the words to respond, only releasing a slightly stunned sigh as Tessa leaves the studio; only a handful of guests remain now, and the music is gone. Now, left with the silence, he seems to truly realise just how absurd that all was.

He did not realise how nestled into his mind Winifred had grown to be. Or, perhaps, his heart. Why else would he have conjured such an image? And why did he wish so badly for it to be real?

Right now, he can hardly make sense of what that will mean. He just knows he needs to go home now. So, Benedict fetches his jacket, not wasting another moment to tread across the creaking floorboards to the exit. However, one thing compels him to stay just a moment longer. One foot out of the door, the other lingers as Benedict stares back into the room... just in case Winifred comes back.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Benedict?? You good there, buddy?? 'Cause it looked like you caught some feelings 👀 (!!!) I feel like Benedict is definitely realising his feelings to some degree now, and he might not know quite how to deal with that...

Anyway, I was stuck on this chapter for a while, it felt like a filler but also not? I felt like my writing was a bit all over the place in this one, so any feedback would be really appreciated (just be kind is all I ask 🥺). Although I will say I particularly loved the scene with Lettie at the tea shop, and of course that final scene with Benedict. And the Joseph flashback — bless this man's heart.

I have a tendency to ramble in author's notes, but there are a few things I want to quickly say, so I'm just going to bullet point them:

1) I sometimes forget to address milestones when it comes to viewership on my stories, but I realised this story has (at the time of writing) almost hit 10K reads. So I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for the love on this fic, it means the world! I'm having so much fun writing it, it might be one of my favourite things I've written on here.

2) LUKE THOMPSON GOT NOMINATED FOR AN OLIVIER AWARD YAYYYYY I'm so bloody proud!! He already won the WhatsOnStage award, so fingers crossed he can scoop up an Olivier too...

3) Did anyone see the new Kanthony clip from season 3? SO CUTE!

Okay, that's all! Thank you for reading as usual! Fair warning: the next chapter or two might be tear-jerkers, and I'm debating making them into a double update of sorts... hold onto your hankies, dear readers.

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 25/03/2024