CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
memento mori.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     LONDON HAS BEEN SWATHED IN A MOST ARDUOUS HEAT. It has stepped over the borderline for pleasant summer days, instead leaving all its citizens troubled in pools of sweat and agitation. Fans flutter mercilessly, cravats feeling like pythons around gentlemen's necks and their wives pawing at their hands to free them of gloves.

     ... Naturally, this heatwave arrives on the day of the Colchester soirée. The only mercy it offers is being held in the cooler evening.

     The heat can do something to the mind, especially when already under pressure. In Grosvenor Square, the Osbornes have been buzzing around the house making last-minute preparations with their staff, hurrying the girls down to the modiste to check their gowns are suitable for tonight. Madeline has taken a particular blow and spent the first half of the morning in her room, suffering tides of heat-worsened nausea — not the state that anyone wishes the hostess to be in.

     Winifred has tried to cool her own grievances with a long soak in the bath. Her head rested against the cool metal of the bathtub, she rests her eyelids in an attempt to ease the thoughts in her mind. Easier said than done. Like a dull ache ebbing away in her skull, and certainly not helped by the heat, she has started the day on the wrong foot.

Today, she realised during breakfast, is a year ago since Joseph's funeral.

Yet another grisly milestone. Winifred cannot help but wonder if this is what it's going to be like forever — counting milestones, hoping one day they will hurt a little bit less. She can admit that the grief does feel less raw than it did a year ago. But she isn't sure if she feels better or worse about that...

So she does what she can, scooping handfuls of cooling water over her bare shoulders and rubbing the remaining droplets over her neck. She stays in there until her fingers have started to prune. Once out of the bath and dressed, Winifred can already hear the hustling of the household staff as Persephone takes the reins of hosting in Madeline's absence (may the poor souls have mercy). In the sun-baked hallway, maids scuttle back and forth with beads of sweat on their faces.

     Adrian, Camille and Lucian seem to be the only ones not stressed, the children giddily running and hiding behind the legs of the adults. Winifred almost trips over her youngest nephew on the way downstairs but fortunately, she catches herself. She can see Persephone stood on the chequered floors below, like the queen on the chessboard as she plots every move of the evening ahead.

     "Ensure that Lord Thistlewaite does not indulge in more than three glasses of punch tonight, or else we shall be hosts to a pigsty," Persephone demands of her pale housekeeper. "Oh, and by all counts, do not let the Sheffields meet the Sharmas. This house is only so big, but keep them as far apart as humanly possible. Our doorstep will be stained enough with that family present..."

     Winifred raises an eyebrow. Too hesitant to ask Persephone, she manages to grab Silas as he attempts to breeze past. "I just overheard your mother saying the Sharmas are invited tonight. Did she change her mind?" she asks in a whisper.

     "No. Madeline did," Silas replies; there is a sense of pride in his voice, but with a weary undertone as though he were anticipating a volcanic eruption underneath this house. "I believe she must have slipped in the invitations to the Sharmas and the Bridgertons without us knowing. And of course, it would be improper to reject them too, so I am sure Mother will be insufferable all day."

     She nods, particularly noting his passing mention of the Bridgertons being in attendance. Good, she thinks. That means Abigail can finally reunite with Colin, regardless of what the ton think. In Winifred's own interests, too, she cannot deny that she is relieved to think that Benedict might be here. It holds the promise of more comfortable conversation throughout the evening.

Winifred holds this thought as Abigail follows Jemima downstairs. The latter is bounding with energy, her Ann Radcliffe novel nestled in her palm as she searches for a reading nook in the house; a rather difficult task, considering every single corner is being examined and decorated for tonight's soirée. Abigail seems more subdued and... surprisingly pensive. Rather strange, Winifred thinks, considering how she is usually so enlivened by the idea of a ball with socialising and dancing.

"Duckie, I have news," Winifred falls into step with her younger sister, "I just overheard that the Bridgertons are invited tonight after all. Colin will surely be in attendance."

"Oh, that– that is good news..." Abigail stammers and avoids eye contact. She seems rather hesitant about the idea, nowhere near the glow she thought she would have after hearing it.

"It will be a relief to talk to Colin, will it not?"

"Yes, I am sure it will be very pleasant."

Before Abigail can go any further, Winifred takes a step in front of her. She tilts her head in sisterly scrutiny. "What is it that troubles you so? Is it Colin?" asks Winifred, sounding more interrogatory than the softness she had intended. It is perhaps this that pushes her sister over the edge.

"You really needn't bother worrying," Abigail huffs aversively. "All is well between us. Now, will you excuse me? I wish to help myself to some ice."

Abigail brushes past her, her head bowed low so she might avoid eye contact. Winifred is left in the doorway, puzzled by her sister's defensiveness. Where had it even come from? The flurry of people just as frantic as each other is making her head throb. Seeking a cooler room to be in, she walks through to the drawing room, where she finds two bookworms reading in silent, shared solitude — Jemima and their father. They barely look up as Winifred slumbers inside and sinks into an armchair with a sigh.

     "You found a good spot here," Winifred murmurs.

     "Mhmm," Charles hums. "We thought our presence would be best removed from Lady Osborne's... radius."

     "The tyrant, you mean?" Jemima grumbles.

     "Now, Jemima..."

     "Is it not true? Even Mama dislikes her, you should hear the things she mutters under her breath at breakfast!"

     "I have," their father replies, a ghost of a smirk on his face.

     He quickly wipes it at the sound of footsteps; Octavia walks in right on cue, a fan in hand which blows a steady breeze over her face in an attempt to cool down. Then, with one hand rested on her hip, she shuts it dramatically. "Chaos. Utter chaos!" she exclaims. "Your sister has been ill all morning, the poor thing. The heat is hardly helping her condition. But she did manage to keep down some toast, so that is something."

     "Will she be alright?" Charles asks worriedly.

"Yes, I suspect within a few hours she will be back to herself again."

Octavia pinches her brow, letting out a perplexed sigh. "Forgive me, this heat is confusing my thoughts — what is the date today?"

"The eighteenth of July," Winifred replies coldly, not missing a beat.

Her mother opens her mouth to say something — some exclamation about their time in London flying by, perhaps — but she stops herself dead in her tracks. Of course Winifred would know that date. Octavia's face drops with realisation. "Oh... oh, my darling..." she whispers sympathetically, her hand pressed to her chest.

There is a strange cavity of numbness in Winifred's chest when she thinks about it. But when she catches her mother's eye, so overflowing with love and pain on her behalf, it suddenly feels like a stabbing pain.

"Excuse me..." she mumbles.

Before her father or God forbid Jemima looks at her that way too, Winifred rises from her seat and walks briskly out of the room. She cannot do this. Not today. But she only finds herself reaching the checkered flooring by the staircase before hearing the echo of footsteps clicking against them. Stopping in her path, she recognises her mother's gait coming after her.

"Winifred," Octavia says, while her daughter's back is still turned, "... I know today must be difficult for you."

A beat passes. Winifred's nostrils flare with the shaky inhale through them.

     "Listen, I know you do not take to being fussed over," her mother continues, "but I your mother, and I am here. Sometimes, I am concerned... you hardly ever speak of—"

     "Mama, please... I do not have the time to dwell today," Winifred pleads with her. She does not need anything tip her over the edge on today, of all days. Not when she has been holding herself in one piece for so long. "It is just a day... and a very hot and busy one at that, so if you would excuse me, I would like to make myself useful."

     Octavia frowns at her daughter, hands fidgeting by her sides; the look of a mother who is restraining the urge to embrace her child. But the woman who stands before her will not be fussed over. Her temples throbbing with a dull, heat-induced headache, Winifred walks away and climbs back upstairs, feeling the walls distort subtly from dizziness. She finds herself having to physically shake it off with a lull of her head.

     Keep it together, Winifred warns herself. Keep it together...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

1812.

THE muted glow of the last candelabra illuminates their ruminating faces in the night. After a day visiting his family, the husband and wife prepare for bed. Winifred finishes braiding her hair down one side of her shoulder, whilst Joseph sits down on the side of the bed to remove his boots. Like almost every night in five years of marriage, they fall into their rhythms.

Joseph has been at home for a while now. He has been healing well, his sling having just been removed with the recovery of his collarbone. Winifred cannot remember the last time they spent so much time in each other's company, with not even his soldier's duty to tear him away. It has been a privilege and a delight to have him near again — and yet, she feels as though she can examine him under a magnifying glass. With such scrutiny, she has begun to wonder what he is hiding from her... because there is no question that he is.

He is no longer quite as free in spirit and affections. Sometimes Joseph will stare off into the distance, unreachable. Other times a mere knock to the table can make him jump out of his skin. It has grown in severity over the years, often fluctuating. One of these fluctuations came yesterday. Her husband had been in a perfectly good mood in the morning, before it plummeted some time after lunch, from which he has been rather withdrawn. Even around his brothers he was not as talkative today.

Winifred just wishes she could understand.

"Your father seemed in good health today," she remarks casually, fluffing her pillow.

"He was, wasn't he?" Joseph hums. "And little Susan is growing up so quickly."

"Next time, she'll be able to tackle you to the ground, so you had better watch out for yourself."

Winifred watches her husband's shoulders shake with a light laugh, before they revert back to complete stillness. There it is again; that switch. With a sigh, she reaches across for her book lying on the bedside table. Her fingertips have barely grazed the spine before Joseph suddenly speaks.

"I received a letter yesterday."

She freezes. Yesterday. Now she thinks of it, he did receive something just after lunch, but she had thought little of it at the time. Now that Winifred is attributing it to his low spirits — along with his heavy tone, hauntingly familiar — she feels her stomach slowly twist with dread at what it might mean.

"... And?" she asks, trying to level out her voice.

Joseph swallows thickly. "I am to be transferred from the militia back to the army. Actually, there have been talks of moving up the ranks... to Captain. But of course, that was all halted when this happened," he says, gesturing to his broken ribs that are on the mend.

It is so much at once. He cannot look his wife in the eyes as he says it. The bed creaks as she slowly sits up.

Winifred knows what this must mean.

"They're sending you away again, aren't they?"

"Yes... they need more men on the peninsula."

"When?" she implores.

"I shall have to depart just after Christmas."

So soon. Winifred sinks back in the bed, the carved details of the wooden headboard pinching her skull. No matter how she tries to remind herself that she has done this before, it still aches. But she mustn't be selfish. She wrings her hands in her lap, taking a deep breath and clenching her jaw. Coming to terms with this revelation, other questions arise in her mind.

"And you have only just found out about this?" Winifred asks warningly. If she learns that this is what Joseph has been keeping from her and letting eat away at his mind...

"Well, I..." Joseph trails off, but sensing his wife's glare, he quickly elaborates. "There was some talk. About the moving up a rank, more than anything. But nothing official until that letter. I swear it."

Learning this, she sighs. "Thank you for telling me," Winifred utters, her voice sounding weary.

For the first time since he sat down on the bed, Joseph turns around to face Winifred. He seems to be searching her face, desperate for some kind of reaction that he has not received.

"Please say something, Fred," he pleads, "you are starting to set me on edge."

Speak for yourself, she wants to throw back at him. But she is not one for arguments, and never has been. Winifred remains entirely calm as she sets her book aside, quite confident she has lost her appetite for a bedtime chapter.

"What is there to say?" she shrugs, but her voice tightens with earnestness. "It is your duty, I know that. And I know how important is to you. So, of course, I will support you."

"What of the things you actually want to say? What you really think?"

It takes a moment to process his rebuke. Winifred blinks at him. "... I beg your pardon?"

Suddenly Joseph stands up, restlessly pacing about the room as his sleeves billow like sails in a brewing storm. "I am talking about the truth, which is that this is not the life you imagined for yourself. Go on, admit it."

"Joseph, what—"

"Surely you cannot enjoy having a husband who is away so often, and no family to surround yourself with otherwise. You could have had children by now if I hadn't been away—"

"Stop it. Stop that right now," Winifred sternly interjects, her feet swinging out of the bed. She stares at Joseph incredulously. "Where is all of this coming from? How can you say such things?"

"Well, they are true," Joseph insists hopelessly.

She can feel her heart pounding fiercely in her chest, pumping the blood that runs hot through her veins. Completely dumbfounded, Winifred glares at her husband — is that really what he believes? Is it what he thinks of the life they have made? She does not believe it for a second. However, the fact that Joseph might possibly see truth in it fuels a determination to set things straight. Through her teeth, Winifred keeps her gaze firmly locked on him as she stands firm.

"Do not put words into my mouth. I chose you. I chose this life. If you would take the time to remember it, you were the one who insisted I stay at home whilst you went off to fight."

"Yes," says Joseph, "so you did not have to follow me around from one military camp to another, like a soldier's wife—"

"I am a soldier's wife!" Winifred raises her voice, words trembling with conviction. "It is not perfect, but it is my life, and I made that choice. I do not regret it for a single second... however... it does seem like you are the one having doubts. Are– are you?"

"God, no! Why would you think that?"

"I don't know! We used to confide in each other, and now I never know what you are thinking. Can you blame me for wondering?"

Throat tightening, Joseph chokes out with insistence: "Well, it's not that."

     "Then what is it?!" Winifred asks desperately, her patience wearing thin. "You take such pride in your rank, why are you suddenly so deterred by it? I thought this was what you wanted—"

"I don't know! I don't know anymore! I don't—"

Joseph lets out what sounds like a cough, as if strangled by his last word. Then, to her horror, he bursts into tears. He clutches his chest and collapses to sit on the bedside with a shuddered gasp.

For a moment, all Winifred can do is stare. She has never seen him like this — he has shed tears, certainly — although never has he looked so broken down and hopeless. Right now, he could truly convince her that the world was falling down around him with a single look. But Winifred cannot let him think that.

"Joseph..." she whispers, rushing over to him. It is all it takes for the explosive frustration to bleed away, cooled off the moment she touches him. Winifred takes his head in her hands and brings it forwards; Joseph's face buries itself in her nightgown, her chin able to rest atop the crown of his skull. She can smooth her fingers through his hair, watching the warm blondish blades pass along them. Anything that it will take to calm him down again, to rid of the despair.

"I'm sorry," Joseph mumbles into her nightgown, muffled and broken. "I– I'm so sorry—"

"No, Joseph, I'm sorry," Winifred says. She feels her voice shake — there is still so much she feels like he isn't telling her. So much that she wants to understand. For now, though, she holds him a minute more until his breathing has slowed, his sobs ceased.

She pulls back, still holding onto him, and looks down at Joseph. He looks so small all of a sudden. "I..." Joseph swallows thickly, then clears his throat. His voice is all hoarse from his tears. "I know not all men like me can have this. Every soldier I have met, every man I have watched die, they have all told me the same thing... how lucky I am to have you. And yet, I hardly get to cherish it." Sighing loudly, his head lulls forward to lean on her chest again. "I just... I– I feel as though we have lost so much time..."

Winifred stares at the bedposts, trying to drink in every word he said. There are feelings there that Joseph has never expressed to her, perhaps too happy-go-lucky to do so. She can see what he means. Of course she can. While their devotion and steadfast love has never been in question, their marriage has had its fair share of bumps in the road. Winifred is well aware she isn't like other wives she knows, always able to be in their husband's company or able to go out often to places on his arm. Nor does she have a child to keep her occupied while he is away. People have told her time and time again how being a soldier's wife would be something she regretted. So far, she has yet to experience such a regret.

"We have lost things, perhaps," Winifred murmurs softly, "but I am never at a loss when I am with you."

Reaching gently for his jaw, she cradles it and tilts his head up to look at her. His glassy blue eyes blink at her with wonder as she brushes away tear stains from his blotchy cheeks. Joseph lets out a self-conscious chuckle. "Some man I am," he sniffs.

"Stop it. You're perfect," she tells him off.

But now she is listening to him again, she thinks of something else. Whenever Joseph has been asked about his life as a soldier, whether amongst peers or at home, it always goes a similar way: 'How is the war?' one will ask, as though equating it to the weather, and her husband would conjure some good-natured response straddling humility and bravery (of course, without being too grim). Winifred is not oblivious to the fact that the battlefield is not what he makes it out to be — otherwise how would she have admired his courage?

Yet just now, her stomach had twisted at the mention of the men he'd watched die; the way he said it as though he had become used to it. She had never known how to ask, or whether to ask about it.

"Joseph..." she begins carefully, hands coming to rest gingerly on his ribs. "You never speak of the things you have experienced in battle. Not with candour, anyway. All you have ever told me are your tales of glory. Even I know that the battlefield is not so embellished."

Though a little surprised at her asking, he does not recoil from the subject. A flicker of shame passes over Joseph's face like a cloud. "I... I am proud to be a soldier. Even if I made you doubt otherwise, I could not do anything else. But... there is also a lot of struggle, many things you cannot unsee. It... changes a man."

He pauses for a moment, breathing deeply as she kisses his temple.

"I didn't think you ought to know," Joseph adds. "No one wants to hear the grim details."

"Maybe I do," Winifred counters. "I think anything that is troubling my husband should trouble me too. So, if I listen, would you let me in?" She waits, watching him for an answer; he seems to seriously be considering his answer. Her hands slip down into his and squeeze them encouragingly. "I only want to understand. I want us to confide in each other again, like we used to do..."

Before you leave again, she thinks to herself. She almost adds it to the end, but the words die on her lips.

"I will," Joseph whispers in earnest.

"Then come to bed with me?"

He nods. Winifred's whole body is tingling in the aftermath of the last few minutes, from one blow to another. Instead of circling around to her side of the bed, she slowly sinks into it in Joseph's embrace, rolling over onto the left. She blows out the candles and the room slips into darkness. Just like that, the two of them fall into synchronicity again, bodies moulded together as their chests rise and fall in unison.

Winifred will take as many of these nights as she can get, before the cycle of Joseph leaving and coming home starts once more.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

BY nightfall, the Osborne townhome has been transformed. Their soirée may be small in comparison to other hosts throughout the season, but it is by no means less coveted of an invitation. The slimmed-down guest list from the ton creates a much more intimate affair, with less room to hide and more chance that your whispered gossip shall be overheard — either a blessing and a curse, depending on who you are. The Bridgertons and Sharmas are both in attendance, much to the distaste of the other guests, not least of all Persephone.

     And Winifred? Well... she is merely there.

Like most of the other ladies tonight, her fan is fused to her hand and trying to create waves of air to brush over herself. Even standing near the candelabras feels a touch too heat-sensitive this evening. All of it only gives more impetus for Winifred's sullen mood she woke up with. Trying to lift yourself up when stuck in a room full of people is a lot harder than it looks; there is no room to breathe. She remembers it had felt like that at the wake after Joseph's funeral...

There it is again.

Winifred drags out a deep, long breath, hoping it will help cool her down. But soon she gives in, eyeing the refreshments table. There is an extra stock of ice to go around this evening — she even saw Prudence Featherington grab an ice cube simply to chew on, only for Lady Featherington to chastise her for, in direct verbatim, "chomping like a farmyard mule".

     Rather unlike herself, Winifred thinks she may need some relaxation tonight. Something a meagre cup of tea will not solve.

The man already at the table turns around, one who she recognises before he is even facing her. Seeing Benedict's face, just for a moment, Winifred feels a swift — but albeit brief — release of tension through her body. How does he do that to her with a single look?

"Oh, hello," Benedict flashes her a crooked smile; strangely, there is a tone of slight nervousness in his voice.

"Is that yours?" asks Winifred, nodding to the glass of punch in his hand.

"I was planning on drinking it, yes... but I could pour you something if you wish?"

"Please..."

She stands tensely as Benedict turns to pour her a drink in another crystallised glass. When he turns back to her, she takes the new one with some mumbled thanks. The Bridgerton takes a placid sip of his own drink and looks to her, as though about to say something, before he stops; Winifred is gulping down mouthful after mouthful of punch. Benedict watches with his jaw slightly hung, waiting for the moment she slows down that doesn't come, until she empties the glass in her trembling hands with a bewildered gasp.

     "Oh my—" he lets out a soft chortle, bordering somewhere between amusement and unease.

     "Thank you," Winifred breathlessly hands him back her empty glass, "I think that might've done the trick."

     "If drinking the night away is what you are planning on doing, Mrs. Erstwhile, I'd recommend slowing down. At that rate, you'll be waking up tomorrow with the most splitting headache."

     She shakes her head tiredly. "I wouldn't worry, Mr. Bridgerton. I think, either way, I am due for a headache after the day I'm having."

     It just slips out. Winifred glances at the empty glass again with surprise; either she is wearing her heart on her sleeve tonight, or that punch is very strong. She feels Benedict frown gently at her. When she tilts her chin to look up at him, she can almost feel the room grow quieter.

     "Is... everything alright?" he asks, unusually serious. He says it with such tenderness that she could almost spill everything out, right here, right now. Almost. She realises that it isn't as though she could not trust Benedict with such sensitivity. Alarmingly, she could.

     But truth be told, she doesn't know what would happen if she really started to poke at her feelings surrounding this dreaded anniversary... and it terrifies her. So, while endeared by his concern, Winifred steers carefully away from any further probing. This is a soirée, not a confessional.

     "It is only this heat, it has been most burdensome," she concludes, continuing to fan herself.

     "Yes, it is not the best of evenings to be buttoned-up, as it were," Benedict huffs, tugging at the cravat around his neck; even if 'buttoned-up' on his terms is significantly more blasé against other gentlemen in polite society.

     Regardless, the important thing is that he seems to have let go of her little slip, for now. A beat passes between them. Winifred fills herself another glass — this time with water, simply wishing to stay hydrated — and sips daintily at it. It feels more difficult for them to have a proper conversation tonight. Throughout the season they had otherwise managed quite well, able to exchange greetings between chaperoning or watching their siblings take to the dance-floor. They even escaped out to the gardens in Aubrey Hall that one evening for a moment's solace. Tonight, however, it is impossible to hide. It is a combination of the heat and everyone scrutinising the two scandal-stained families in attendance.

     "Well, your family certainly seems to be... popular tonight," Winifred says generously.

     Benedict scoffs with a shake of his head. "That is a very delicate way to put it. Granted, I have not spent too much time dwelling on it. It's all far too trivial to me. I have been much more occupied at the Royal Academy since."

"Ah, yes," she perks up, "I have been eager to hear how you have been getting on in your studies."

"You may be stuck with my babbling for the rest of the evening..."

"Thankfully, I am. So do enlighten me."

And so, at last, Winifred finds something to latch onto as a distraction. She listens intently as Benedict enthusiastically recounts what he has been learning at the Royal Academy. He explains with great interest the technique of chiaroscuro, the bold contrasts between light and dark, which she recognises from having read about it in the big books on art history in her father's library. It is refreshing to hear about something intellectual and feeding into their interests, rather than the latest report by Lady Whistledown. It goes on like this for the next few minutes — curiously, though, Benedict quickly glosses over painting posing subjects, with nothing more than a slight nervousness.

But by the time he has finished, Winifred feels genuinely uplifted for the first time today. His inspiration is contagious. "Well, it sounds thrilling, Mr. Bridgerton," she says. "And I think it could not have come at a better time. I suspect your art has been a good escape, at least until everything from the wedding blows over."

     "Ah, it is not so bad," Benedict shrugs. "I have not minded missing a few balls or run-ins with the ton... though I am glad to be here tonight, if it meant I would be in good company."

     He adds the last part with some hesitation, but genuine nonetheless. Benedict's eyes glow with a pointed warmth in the candlelight; once again, able to make her feel like she is more human than she thinks herself at the moment. Winifred sighs and manages to give him a soft smile, before the bell-like chime of a champagne glass alerts her attention. One by one, people in the room turn to face Silas, stood by the fireplace (which is not burning, thank goodness) and prepared to announce something.

     "Good evening, everyone, and thank you all for coming," Silas flashes a charming smile at his guests. "Your coming here is very appreciated, despite the terrible heat today. I am sure you are all as tempted to plunge your heads into a bucket of ice as Lord Thistlewaite would do the very same to a bowl of punch —" At this, he pauses for the ripple of laughter that spreads through the room, then continues, "— but alas, you have all behaved with admirable restraint. Now, as I am sure you are all aware, my beloved wife plays the pianoforte remarkably, and she has agreed to do us the great honour of providing us with a performance. So, if you please, make yourselves comfortable and turn your attentions to the countess..."

     Silas looks over to Madeline, who sits herself down at the pianoforte with a smile and slightly blush-stricken cheeks. Compared to earlier, where she had been groaning from nausea in bed and having maids scurry in for her being sick, she troops through her heat and illness to appear like a sparkling hostess. Winifred supposes her sister has adapted to making good appearances since she became the Countess of Colchester — even if it goes against the grain of her true character. Were she alone, Madeline would probably play a dramatic Beethoven piece, but she shall probably opt for something more appealing to the tastes of polite society tonight.

     Everyone in the room either finds a seat or stands idly to watch the countess play. Some move towards the pianoforte to get a better look, like most of the Featheringtons (determined to be front and centre), whilst Penelope remains a wallflower that sticks to the sidelines, quietly observing from afar. By one of the windows, the Sharmas stand with Lady Danbury all looking rather sullen. Kate, particularly, stands slightly apart from her family, shooting guilty glances at a soured Edwina who won't look back at her. Everyone else in the room seems to be avoiding them like the plague — with the exception of Anthony, who remains at a distance but whose stare cannot be torn away from Kate. It must be torture for them both... to be so close, and yet so far.

     So, Winifred decides to make the pointed effort to stand near the Sharmas. 

     Benedict almost follows behind, until he is cornered by Violet asking him where Eloise has gone. So Winifred goes on her own, crossing over to where Kate is stood. She can feel the ostracised Sharma look at her with gratitude as she comes to stand next to her.

     "Mrs. Erstwhile," Kate uses her formal address.

"Miss Sharma," Winifred replies with a gentle nod.

There is only so much they can express in front of the ton without exacerbating things. Given the choice, Winifred would just have an open conversation with her, seeing how she is doing. While she thought it was highly unwise to let these tangled feelings with Anthony reach the altar, she also empathises with Kate, especially with the knowledge of the deal with the Sheffields. She can understand a woman trying to do what she thinks is best, at the cost of sacrificing her own happiness.

The pair exchange a long look, which seems to say enough. With a sigh, Kate turns to face the pianoforte, as does Winifred.

Having the whole room's attention, Madeline begins to play. The opening notes make Winifred's skin prickle with the sensation of strong memories — suddenly she is standing in the drawing room at Heyworth House, hearing her sister play this exact song, whilst Joseph stands by the window and listens. She can see the sunlight outlining his figure, the attentiveness of his gaze as he listens. This song reminds her of the early days, when their love was fresh and new, and she was a teenager trying to deduce what all of this meant.

The whole room is captured by the song, even the Cowpers listening intently. Silas, most of all, gazes at Madeline lovingly from where he leans against the mantelpiece. For a fleeting moment, everyone forgets about the sweltering heat and simply basks in the beautiful melody.

Reminiscing, Winifred finds herself brushing her left hand over her right, the one where she moved her wedding ring to after Joseph died. Perhaps for a simple comfort to feel its presence under her glove.

     Except she doesn't find it there.

     It takes a moment or two for her to realise what this is means. Soon enough, frozen on the spot, it dawns on her:

     You aren't wearing your wedding ring.

     The cold sweat that breaks out across her back and collarbone is instant. At the same time, Winifred feels the nape of her neck go up in flames of suppressed panic. Her fingers squeeze around each other just to be sure, but no, there is no ring to be felt. Her own reaction shocks her — she can feel an awful pit of dread opening in her stomach, gnawing away at her whilst her heart begins to hammer furiously in her ribcage.

Just wait until the performance is over, she tries telling herself. You can look for it later.

But tonight, Winifred will not be listening to such reason. The room feels slightly skewed and her knees wobbly, and now she is even hotter than she was with just the temperature of the room, and if she doesn't start searching for it now then she might just lose her mind. So without alerting Kate, she attempts to slip away unnoticed, slinking past other members of the ton who don't otherwise pay her attention. All the while she is bombarding herself with guilt-ridden questions:

Why aren't you wearing your wedding ring? How could you have lost it?

She is so wrapped up in herself that her shoulder bumps roughly into that of another gentleman. Ricocheting off one another with a grunt, Winifred looks up to realise it is Anthony.

He is immediately apologetic: "I am so sorry, Mrs. Erstwhile, I did not see you there—" says Anthony, before cutting himself off; his expression switches in the blink of an eye, to a clear concern as he stares at her. "Are you alright? You look rather pale."

"I am well, my lord," Winifred gets out, careful that her voice does not shake. "Now, would you mind...?"

She is staring pointedly at the door he is blocking. It takes a second for Anthony to realise, before he indeed spots it and steps aside, apologising once again. Winifred cannot look at him any longer, with that look of concern he was giving her — it could have been enough to set her off there and then. The door clicks shut behind her. Alone in the hallway, her fingers begin to tremble as they paw at her gloves. She needs to check. To be sure.

To her horror, she finds both fingers bare of any wedding ring. Winifred lets out a short, sharp gasp. She never misplaces her ring. In fact, she has seldom removed it in all her years of marriage. Without it, she feels so awfully naked.

Think, Winifred, think, comes her own futile warning, but it does little to sear through the panic simmering through her. Blood roaring through her ears, she manages to cling onto the railings as she climbs upstairs to leave all the guests behind her. She needs the space to figure out what she is meant to do next.

"Good evening, madam," a young chambermaid on the first floor seems to notice her. "Is everything alright?"

Winifred opens her mouth to speak, but it feels like tar. She blinks hard. "My ring... I don't know how..."

"Which one?"

"My– my wedding ring, I... I don't know how I misplaced it..."

Perhaps sensing her rising panic, the chambermaid — Winifred feels so guilty for not remembering her name in the heat of the moment — rises to the occasion.

"Do you always wear it?" asks the maid calmly.

"Always," Winifred replies.

"Then it cannot have gone far. We shall try to re-trace your steps..." Then, a little more calmly, the chambermaid tries to give her a determined, youthful look. "Do not worry, madam, we will find it. I'll call on the girls to help."

"Thank you..."

Soon enough, the chambermaid (who she suddenly remembers is named Sally) has called on two other maids, who were previously changing bedsheets, to come and help search for the wedding ring. Winifred feels awful for dragging them all into this, but equally as touched that they want to help her search for a bit of jewellery... except it's more than that, isn't it?

As they suggested, Winifred does try to re-trace her steps. They turn rooms upside down, from her guest room to the bathing room, but there is no trace. Having split up to be more efficient, Winifred goes alone to the library, where she had gone to seek solitude before the soirée tonight. Every shelf she searches, every cushion she lifts, she hopes for a glint of silver — but there is none. Each failure just makes her chest grow tighter and tighter, her breathing more shallow.

She is frantically flicking through books she had been reading earlier when there is a knock on the door. It opens before she can permit them to enter, a rectangle of light flooding into the dark library.

"Eloise? Are you— oh, my apologies! I thought my daughter would be in here, she seems to have escaped the party... again."

It is Violet Bridgerton. She freezes apologetically in the doorway, but all Winifred can do is nod tensely — her whole body feeling so wrought that she could snap with the gentlest of touches — while she continues her search. After a few moments, she realises Violet is still in the doorway.

"Mrs. Erstwhile, are you quite well?" asks Violet, her voice suddenly thick with motherly concern.

"No..." Winifred feebly admits, surprising herself. "I– I don't understand how I could have lost it..."

"Lost what?"

"My wedding ring."

Violet's face floods with understanding, suddenly paler in the light. "Would you like help finding it?"

"I'm sorry, Lady Bridgerton, but I– I think it would be best if you left," Winifred says shakily, "seeing as I already have three maids on the case, and if even they cannot locate it, then– then—"

She tries to get the words out, but she can't. Her breath lodges in her throat like a stone. The room feels skewed and tilted and her fingers won't stop tingling. What is happening? Winifred grips onto the side of the chaise lounge with whitened knuckles. In her periphery, she sees Violet approaching in her gown like a calming cloud of lavender.

     "Sit down, dear, and take some deep breaths..." Violet guides her to take a seat, joining her at her side. She begins to take deep breaths through the nose, carefully exhaled through the mouth. Winifred tries to mimic it; to feel the expanse of breath in her ribcage and its full expulsion out of her. It proves effective after a minute or so. The only problem is the release. Instead, she now finds her eyes fuzzy with unshed tears.

     And Winifred just knows that if she were to start crying now, after all this time, she might never stop.

     A short knock at the door makes them both jump. The door opens and it is one of the other chambermaids, younger than Sally, cradling something in her hand. "Mrs. Erstwhile? We think we found your wedding ring," she says.

     Winifred rises to her feet instantly, her heartbeat in her throat. She rushes over to the chambermaid as she opens up her palm... and there it is. The faded silver, the miniature diamonds set into the metal.

     "It was next to the bathtub," adds the maid, "you must've removed it when you had a soak this morning."

     She gingerly takes it from the maid and slips it onto her right ring finger, which still tingles. Looking at it now, it feels so foreign to her. Winifred knows she has always worn her wedding ring proudly, even when she moved it to the other hand upon her husband's death... but that is just it, isn't it? The weight feels different now. She was so keen to slip back on the ring, to return to the comforted feeling she always has when she wears it. Except the feeling doesn't come this time.

Winifred was so eager to feel like his wife again, and now all she can do is remember that Joseph is gone. Permanently.

"Thank you so much for your help," Violet tells the maid politely, before shutting the door behind her. She whirls around on the spot, pressing a hand to her chest. "Well, that is a relief. I knew it could not have gone far—"

She speaks no further; for Winifred suddenly lets out a hiccup of a sob.

It surprises her as much as it does Violet. Knees buckling in, her body weight collapses back onto the chaise lounge to sit, clutching her abdomen and helplessly choking back tears that have already begun to flow. Violet's face drops as she immediately rushes to sit by her. It as though she understands why Winifred is crying, even if she doesn't know herself. Of course she knows. The fellow widow simply sits in silence, overflowing with empathy.

"Does it ever stop hurting?" Winifred asks, once she can get the words out.

"I..." Violet's eyes suddenly begin to shimmer, taken aback.

She grips the edge of the chaise lounge, hot tears spilling down her eyes as everything unravels. "I am so... furious..." Winifred cries, "You are told that one day, you will find the man who you will spend the rest of your life with... who– who will become your whole future. Then I meet Joseph... and then he dies." She is crying harder now, attempts to slow her breathing gone out of the window. "What do I do now? What was– what was the point if he just—"

Winifred cannot utter a single word more. It feels like she is being ripped apart, when she had tried so hard to stay in one piece all year. Everything comes unbound all at once.

"I know..." Violet simply whispers, and she believes her. Winifred realises it is all the comfort that Lady Bridgerton can give — that there is no answer to such pain.

In one swift move, Violet sits forward and wraps her arms around her, enveloping her in an embrace that knows exactly what she is going through. It catches Winifred completely off-guard. But it does, finally, release the pin that has been holding everything together. So she lets herself crumble in her arms, holding onto Violet for dear life.

     She cries, and she cries, and she cries.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Me: How can I make this chapter sadder than it already is?
My brain: Psst! Add the score from One Day (2024) to match with the last scene!
Me: O–okay 🥲

This chapter was heartbreaking to write, to say the least. The flashback was basically trying to show the guilt Joseph had started feeling, that he felt he had not given Winifred the life she deserved (and on top of that, he has PTSD from fighting in the war that he has tried to hide from her). Then the scene with Winifred finally breaking down had been a long time coming, misplacing her wedding ring was like the catalyst for it to all come tumbling out. Originally it was going to be Octavia or Madeline comforting her, but I thought it would be powerful to have Violet there: a fellow widow whose experiences are the closest to Winifred's.

The next chapter is going to focus a lot on Winifred's grief and how she will come to terms with it. Also, it will be the last chapter which includes a Joseph flashback. Thought I would give you some warning — grab your hankies... and also I promise this sad part doesn't last forever 😭

P.S. On a different note, thank you so much for 10K reads 🥹 it means the world!

P.P.S. You may have noticed the gorgeous new book cover made by the talented @/nightwvngs – I adore it, thank you Ashton!!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 02/04/2024