CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
the unthinkable.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WHEN WINIFRED AWAKENS, THERE IS A GREAT COMMOTION. It is the storm outside that stirs her first. Rain battering against the windows, at an angle with the howling wind. She has to coax her eyelids open, sealed with the adhesive of dried tears, before she can try to get her bearings.

     Next, she becomes aware of the voices in the corridor outside her room. Frantic, concerned, uncertain. Whatever could be the matter? Winifred lifts herself out of bed and follows the grim and milky morning light to her bedroom door. When she opens it, she is blinded by brighter light and the scurrying of various members of the household staff. Some are hurrying up and down the stairs, whilst two other maids have their faces pressed to the windows.

     Winifred picks up her pace now, brows furrowed as she walks through in her nightgown out of the guest wing. There she finds Madeline, also still in her nightgown, but much more awake — she is talking to the housekeeper in quite some distress. They catch each other's eye across the corridor and immediately bound towards one another. Winifred can feel there is a sense of urgency, but she hasn't the slightest clue what it is about. It only makes her more disoriented than she already is.

"Oh, Win, you're awake—"

"What in God's name is going on?" she asks, perplexed, "I heard everyone rushing about."

"We still don't know the full story," Madeline rambles breathlessly, "Silas went over to check on her—"

"Check on who?"

"There has been some sort of... accident, with Miss Sharma."

That is all she needs to say. In an instant, Winifred snaps wide awake, her heart plummeting with dread. "Kate? Is she alright?"

"I have no idea," Madeline shrugs helplessly. "All I know is that someone saw Miss Sharma being carried inside by the viscount, and she seemed to be unconscious..."

Accident. Unconscious. Kate. The words swirl around in Winifred's head, not quite piecing together in her newly-awakened state. Downstairs, the torrential downpour of rain suddenly blasts louder as the front door opens; Silas must be home. Or at least that is the perception, because Madeline immediately goes flying down the stairs, Winifred trailing closely behind her and her silky nightgown. The sight they find at the bottom of the steps is indeed Silas, dripping from head to toe with water.

"You're soaked!" Madeline cries, already rushing to pry the gloves off her husband's pruned fingers.

"I'm alright, my love," he insists; although his solemn expression would say otherwise.

Descending another step, Winifred holds her breath. "Were you just visiting the Sharmas?"

"I was..." Silas says grimly. "The story I was told is that Miss Sharma disappeared for a ride this morning, and was thrown off her horse. She suffered a cut to the head when she fell — when I was in there, she was still unconscious and getting stitches."

"Oh God," Madeline's whispers in horror. A similar dread washes over Winifred, only it manifests itself much more silently.

"It is a good thing Anthony was there, I'm telling you. He went after her in the rain and brought her back to Lady Danbury's estate."

"How long will she need to recover?" asks Winifred.

Silas meets her eyes, hesitating far too long for it to be hopeful. Oh. She understands exactly what that means. It is not a question of how she recovers, but if she recovers. "... I think it remains to be seen," is what Silas finally settles for.

The more people wake up, the news of Kate Sharma's accident rattles them equally. Abigail and Jemima are sobered over breakfast, Charles and Octavia's features are pinched with worry, and even Persephone lacks her usual bite when she questions why anyone would go out riding in such horrific weather. It was certainly the last thing Winifred expected to wake up to. Anything she had been previously dwelling on has, for now, been consumed instead with concern for Kate's wellbeing — she had come to enjoy her company, and appreciate the growing friendship they had. It feels like something special to have made a new friend, in a year mostly spent tied to the past.

Losing anyone now, let alone Kate, would be an agonising blow.

Winifred would not consider herself the most devout in her faith, having lost a bit of it throughout her life, but she still finds herself praying for Kate before she goes to bed. Tomorrow morning she will be better, she wishes for.

     If only it had been one morning.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     KATE Sharma remains practically dead to the world for a whole week; she sleeps comatose in her room, surrounded by bunches of flowers often changed out. In particular, a vase of lilacs from the Bridgertons is frequently replaced with fresh ones, under instructions from Violet (because no one wants to look at dying flowers when their loved one is ill).

Winifred knows this — she went to visit Kate one afternoon. Her friend lay completely still in bed, her arms folded on top of each other and her inky black hair released from its ties, surrounding her in shining waves on the pillow. Even in sleep, Kate retains her sharpness, although she appears more softened at the edges for not having to be dutiful to anyone. Is it peaceful? It would be difficult to say. And this is the kind of rest that Winifred does not want her to succumb to.

If social engagements were already ground to a halt before, they certainly are now. The Osbornes and the Seymours only have tea one afternoon and promenade another, otherwise they stay at home ruminating. With time, this begins to grind on everyone, including Jemima.

"Mama, do you suppose I could call on the Caldwells this morning?" Jemima asks hopefully.

"Not now, my dear," Octavia sighs, "I think it would be best for us to stay home for a bit."

"But why? We are not the ones supposedly in scandal!"

To everyone's surprise, Persephone agrees with her: "As long as the Caldwells do not take after Miss Bridgerton, then I think we can allow your daughter to step out of this godforsaken house," she scowls with particular distaste for the Bridgertons.

Everyone knows what this was about — on top of everything, the night of the Harmony Ball, Lady Whistledown published her most scathing report yet. Winifred only saw it a couple of days later to know what all the fuss was about. This time the subject was Eloise Bridgerton, surprisingly, but it had nothing to do with which young lord she has been sighted with... on the contrary, she had been sneaking into Bloomsbury and been sighted associating with political radicals, unchaperoned. It certainly came as a shock. Furthermore, it spells even worse damage control for the Bridgertons in the coming weeks.

The butterfly effect is in motion, as always. For if the Bridgertons are still so weighed under scandal, especially in this case, then Abigail has practically been barred from seeing Colin until further notice.

Persephone takes great responsibility in emphasising this. "And you, girl," she comments, "you shall not step a foot towards Colin Bridgerton until this scandal has blown over, do you understand?"

Abigail squirms uncomfortably in her seat, staring down at her tea. Her mother places a hand on her daughter's knee as she seems to prime herself for making an announcement.

     "Well, actually..." Octavia pauses, only to glance gently at her, "Abigail has expressed her wish to end things with Mr. Bridgerton."

     "Really? Are you sure?" Madeline stops in the middle of her piano-playing; not shocked, simply curious. Winifred, too, sets down her embroidery and furrows her brows at her sister, who seems to be sinking further into her seat. She cannot decide whether she is surprised or not. Perhaps taken aback, certainly, but it does not feel out-of-character for how Abigail has been showing her doubts recently.

     "She has already discussed it with her father and I, and we think it the best thing. There is nothing else to be said."

     "I had been hoping I would have a chance to discuss things with Colin today, but..." Abigail shrugs her shoulders weakly.

     "Good," Persephone huffs, "because a lady never ends a courtship. It must always be the gentleman."

     Ignoring the dowager countess's remark, Winifred glances at her sister with more curiosity. Abigail seems somewhat restless for being stuck in limbo with Colin. It is indeed rather unfortunate that it has coincided with the public avoidance of the Bridgertons at the moment (which, frankly, Winifred is beyond sick and tired of) but her younger sister remains the picture of amiable patience...

     However, she also remembers what Abigail had told her weeks ago, during their stay at Aubrey Hall. How she had expressed her ideas about finding a love match just like her two elder sisters had, and Winifred's own suspicions of her doubts about Colin being more accurate than she had let on. This is not a new development. So, it must be undeniably torturous to wait for so long.

     A couple of hours later, Winifred catches Abigail in the middle of the stairwell. "Ah, Abigail," she says, "I've been searching for you."

"You... have?" she raises her eyebrows.

"I wanted to ask you about earlier," Winifred lowers her voice, "about your decision to end things with Colin."

"Oh, yes. That. Well... I suppose things were not progressing as I had expected them to. And, to some degree, I think you were right. He seems too untethered to be thinking about settling down at the moment." Abigail pauses self-consciously as the housekeeper walks past, shoes clicking against the chessboard tiles. Her chest rises and falls with a slow, large heave of breath. "Am I being too hasty? I would not want to make it seem—"

     With a gentle shake of Winifred's head, she cuts herself off. "Forget what everyone else is thinking for a moment," she advises; a struggle they both share. "Is this what you want? If it could be your own decision, uninfluenced by anyone else?"

     "... Yes."

     "And you have no plans on changing your mind?"

     "No, I– I very much doubt it."

     Winifred sighs. "Right, then. Fetch your gloves and your bonnet."

     "Why? Where are we going?"

     "We are going to see the Bridgertons, and you are going to settle things with Colin before it drives you mad."

     Abigail's eyes bulge wide open, equal parts horrified and anxious. "Winifred! We– we cannot just barge in on the Bridgertons, especially given... everything."

     "Well, we can at least call on them this afternoon, and see if they accept us," she says firmly. "If they do, then you can say your piece."

     "But– but—"

     "You will feel so much better for doing this," Winifred assures her. It might seem far too bold for her sister, acutely aware of manners and social etiquette. Usually that might matter more to her too, but she can see Abigail straining the more she puts this off. She has the distinct feeling that, if she were face to face with Colin right now, she'd know exactly what to say to him. So why delay the inevitable?

     So they pass a message to a servant, carried across to the opposite side of Grosvenor Square where the Bridgertons live. Within another ten minutes, a response arrives, accepting Winifred and Abigail's visit imminently. When the former breaks this news to the heads of the Osborne house, the grounds seem to shake with indignation.

     "You cannot be seen there!" Persephone protests.

     Winifred can only sigh tiredly. Reputation, reputation, reputation. It makes the world go round in the ton. Suddenly, she finds herself itching to get home to the countryside once the social season ends.

     "But this is an important matter!" Madeline protests, standing up to her mother-in-law. "It is for both of their goods, Abigail's and Colin's."

     "Fine. You may do what you wish, but know this — it breaks every single rule. The Bridgertons have brought themselves to shame, thanks to their disastrous excuse for nuptials and that daughter fraternising with low-lives. These are the rules we must abide by, for we have images to uphold. It is simply the way things operate... and I must say, I had thought you more accepting of that, Mrs. Erstwhile."

     Ever so calmly, but not lacking in fire at all, Winifred feels her patience snap.

     "I am perfectly content in following rules, Lady Osborne," she deadpans, "but not when the rules are so unfathomably daft."

     Persephone snaps her jaw shut. For once, she remains silenced. Madeline and Silas exchange a glance, thin-lipped as they try to stifle a smile of satisfaction at the swift put-down. Abigail's mouth has formed into a delightfully stunned 'O' in the beat that passes.

     "Come along, Abigail," adds Winifred casually, offering her arm to her sister. They walk out into the discomforting humidity and cross through Grosvenor Square where the wisteria outside the Bridgerton home beckons them. With each step closer, she can feel Abigail's grip tightening on her arm, hearing deep breaths being taken as she mutters words under her breath: "A very fine man" and "Not certain we would be well-suited"... it is as though she is rehearsing a monologue before a play.

     Once let inside, the girls are brought upstairs by the butler, passing the gleaming family portraits to wait outside the drawing room.

     "What if I offend him?" Abigail suddenly asks in a whisper.

     Shaking her head, Winifred replies, "You won't offend him. Just explain it truest to how you feel. You have done nothing wrong."

     "Mhmm..."

     "Now, remember, I'll be right in the room with you... if that is what you wish?"

     "Oh, yes please," Abigail nods quickly. "Not breathing down my neck, of course, but having you there would be a tremendous comfort."

     "Alright," Winifred purses her lips into an encouraging smile.

     The girls are let inside, where fewer Bridgertons seem to present than usual this morning — Gregory and Hyacinth are up to mischief as always, but other than that, it is only Violet and Colin present. For a fleeting moment, Winifred finds gaze trawling across the drawing room to look for Benedict. No, she reminds herself, this is about Abigail. So, after courteous introductions in the first few minutes, she tries to hurry straight to the point.

     "Forgive my curtness, Lady Bridgerton, but I believe my sister wishes to speak with Colin..." Winifred shoots a glance at Gregory and Hyacinth, before adding: "Privately, if possible."

     Colin sits up straighter, his interest piqued as to what this could be about; Abigail cowers as though she has already disappointed him. Meanwhile, after her initial surprise, Violet seems to adjust to this development. "Oh, yes, of course. Gregory, Hyacinth! Why don't you go out into the garden?"

     "But I wish to know what is—"

     "Hyacinth..."

     With a grumble, Hyacinth trails behind her brother out of the drawing room, clearly wishing to eavesdrop on whatever is about to take place. Once they are gone, a strange quiet falls over the drawing room. "Shall we?" Colin breaks the silence with a little chuckle, gesturing to the sofas over on the left. He and Abigail wander over and take a seat, the latter taking extra care to make herself comfortable and poise herself carefully.

     "Would you care for some tea, dear?" Violet offers. Since they are staying as chaperones, they might as well get comfortable.

     "Thank you, Lady Bridgerton, that would be lovely," Winifred takes a seat and lets the dowager viscountess pour her a fresh cup. It is only in this moment of stillness, the two of them sat together, that her skin prickles with remembrance at just last week — when Violet had dropped in to check on her. So much has happened since then as Kate's accident has overshadowed many of her worries... but upon reflection, she feels that her perspective has taken a subtle shift since that day.

     Violet seems to be thinking of this, too, for she kindly whispers: "You look well."

     "I am," Winifred whispers back. And she means it. Though it is only the beginning, she can feel herself turning to the future.

     After studying her for a few moments, Violet smiles softly at her; she seems to believe it too. Something in her smile feels like a beam of sunlight shot straight through her chest, warming Winifred from the inside, all full of hope. She suddenly feels a lump forming in her throat and hastily takes a sip of tea to shove it back down.

     At the other end of the room, Colin leans forward in his seat. "So, what is it you wish to tell me?" he asks, somewhat cheerily.

     Even from this far away, Winifred can see her sister's face drop.

     "I don't quite know how to say this... actually, I do," Abigail clears her throat. "I'm just going to talk first, or else I might never get it out."

Colin nods, slowly growing to look less care-free than he did before, as he perhaps senses this is no laughing matter for her.

Abigail, all earnestness, looks him in the eyes: "I am not sure that we should continue this courtship, or whatever this is. Now, Colin, make no mistake — you are a wonderful man. You are kind, you are witty, and I adore your adventurous spirit. I have no doubts that someday, you will make a woman very happy... I am just not convinced that woman is me. It is difficult for me to envision us as husband and wife."

     From their small table, Violet shoots Winifred a confused and bewildered glance, clearly not anticipating this conversation. All the latter can do is idly take another sip of tea.

     "I do like you, very much. And I think you like me too. But I don't think we want each other." Abigail pauses, a deep-seated longing seeping into her voice. "I really want to be wanted by someone. I do not think it is naive to hope for love and passion in a marriage, do you?"

Speechless, Colin simply manages a shake of his head. All he has contributed since she introduced the subject is to blink. Evidently, he had not seen this coming. But he does not seem too upset by it, either — more perplexed than anything.

"Although, I hope I am right in saying that there is no ill feeling between us. I have enjoyed my time with you during this season... but... I must be pragmatic about this."

     A beat passes. Still, there is nothing from Colin, which only heightens Abigail's anxieties.

     "Are you angry at me?" she asks apprehensively.

     Finally, it seems to register, Colin snapping to attention with a firm shake of his head. "No, of course not... though I must admit, I am rather surprised."

     "I understand."

     There is another long pause where neither of them say anything, the Bridgerton boy seeming to digest her words. Violet and Winifred have stopped bothering to look like subtle chaperones, instead listening intently to every next word.

     Measuring his limited response, Abigail murmurs: "I think if a counter-argument does not immediately come to mind, you might feel the same way. Let us be honest, Colin. Do you really think you might have proposed by the end of the season? And that is not a criticism."

Winifred had been thinking the exact same thing. Colin is still very young, and keen to discover the world and his place in it, such as with his travels across Europe. She does not see anything wrong with being young and unsure. However, she does take issue with prematurely rushing into something such as a one-way route to marriage.

"Yes, I suppose you are right..." Colin sighs, opening up with candour. "Tell me honestly, was it me? Did I do something to deter you?"

"Colin, no, you did nothing wrong! I simply think that we are meant for different people. And we both deserve to find who they are, in our own time..." Abigail takes a long pause; her glance trails over him, with a curiosity she cannot hide from him. "Perhaps you have already found yours."

"Do you really think so?" says Colin, with a clueless excitement.

Clearly he has no idea about Penelope Featherington, then. The notion of this seems to surprise Abigail. She retracts slightly, squinting at him. "Do you really not see how...?" she says at first, before dismissing it with a wave of her hand. "Never mind. I shall not sit here and spell it out for you."

     "So... I suppose this is it."

     "Yes. But we may wait with announcing it until a later date, if you wish — I know your family has enough on their plate at the moment. I only wished to break it to you privately, on our own terms first."

"Sweet Abigail. Always softening the blow," Colin smiles. Winifred can see it, then; the genuine fondness between them that is much better instilled in friendship than romance. Surely enough, he shifts in his seat and hesitantly asks: "Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if we could still be friends? You have been wonderful company, wants and passions aside, and I would hate to toss that away."

To this, Abigail beams wider than she has in months. "I was so hoping you would say that."

Both of them appear to relax instantaneously. Whether Colin and Abigail realised it or not, this must have been weighing down on them, because they suddenly flourish without the pressure of something becoming of their courtship. Winifred slowly exhales a sigh of relief — she had hoped he would take it well, but this is better than she could have imagined. From across the room she manages to catch her sister's eye, who appears like a freshly-watered flower. As for Violet, aside from being perplexed as to where that conversation came from, she cannot be anything else but pleased and relieved at how smoothly it went. It must be rather tame compared to what stress Anthony and Eloise have brought on recently...

When it is time to go home again, they are mostly waiting for Abigail and Colin. The latter seems to check if the coast is clear before saying he wishes to inform her of something. Winifred only catches the phrase, "I have recently been looking into the new Lord Featherington..." before he lowers his voice so only his friend might hear. She wonders if the best she can do is give them a moment almost alone. So, she wanders down the hallway without them, reflecting on how rewarding it feels to have hopefully done something good for her sister.

As she walks, she passes a door left ajar with a fleeting glance. But the man sat inside catches her gaze and reacts — Anthony Bridgerton, rifling through some papers in his study. He sits up straight upon seeing Winifred, stopping her in her tracks. "Mrs. Erstwhile," he greets her.

"My lord," she gives a short curtsy in return.

She holds her breath, quite unsure why Anthony seems to be holding onto her presence; as if he wishes to speak with her. He gives a short nod to one of the leather armchairs in his study.

"You may take a seat, if you like," he offers.

"Oh... thank you."

With little other options, Winifred slowly walks in and lowers herself into the leather arm chair. Behind her, a large portrait of Edmund hangs, his features still genial even as they are immortalised in paint. It reminds her somewhat of how Joseph was when she first met him — but more than that, she can see so much of Benedict in his father, that when she looks at the painting it wraps her up in a comfort of being with someone who understands her. Winifred spends a few moments staring behind her at this portrait until Anthony speaks up.

"I take it you are feeling better now?" he asks.

She pivots in her seat, going blank for a moment. Better? Then it dawns on her how heatstroke had been an excuse. "Oh, yes," says Winifred, "I am feeling much better. Thank you."

"That is good..."

Anthony seems quite relieved, and he even softens his expression after saying it. Now she recalls the night it had all come crashing down, Winifred can see his face after he bumped into her. Catching her in a moment of vulnerability. He seems to tread carefully now, and she cannot quite tell whether he suspects more than she lets on.

"Benedict was particularly concerned about you," Anthony adds as an afterthought.

"... He was?" Winifred asks, surprised at the way her heart flutters with fondness at this fact.

"I shall pass on the good news to him. He is at the Royal Academy today, like he is on most days."

Of course he is, thinks Winifred, her lips teasing into a fond smile. She can imagine him indulging himself in the arts, stood in front of an easel or draped over a chair — why can he never sit properly? — with his sketchbook. Benedict's enthusiasm since becoming a student has been contagious for her.

Turning more solemn, Anthony sets down his papers and stares at her. "Mrs. Erstwhile... I owe you an apology," he says, shame etched into his features. "I am well aware that I have treated you strangely in the past, perhaps even coldly, and it is one of my deepest regrets. I have no excuses, only an explanation for my behaviour."

     Winifred had not expected this. However, she does feel keen to receive an explanation. Although it has bettered over the last few months, she has always felt that Anthony struggled to be around her. She still distinctly remembers the way he almost retracted when he met her at the Royal Ascot. Winifred is quite certain she has done nothing wrong to bring on such behaviour, so she would like to hear his reasoning.

     "The truth is..." he stops, swallows thickly, before continuing. "When I first met you, in your widow's weeds all those months ago, and at all of our encounters since, all I could do is be reminded of how my mother was in the wake of my father's passing... how unreachable she had been. It was a time I do not enjoy re-living."

     "I am more than just a widow," says Winifred quietly.

     "I know, and I am truly sorry for viewing you as such until now. It was incredibly short-sighted of me."

The regret is clear in his taut voice. Deeply sighing, she replies, "Thank you. Although I do understand. Death is... a difficult subject."

Saying the word out loud seems to do something to Anthony — his jaw clenched, fingertips pressing tighter around the papers he has picked up once more. Now that she thinks about it, Winifred can sense just how much it paralyses him. She had seen that same tension in him when she'd caught the viscount by his father's memorial at Aubrey Hall. He looks poised to take off running in the other direction.

"Have you paid a visit to Miss Sharma yet, my lord?" Winifred carefully changes the subject.

"No," Anthony avoids her eyes, "I cannot bring myself to witness her in... that condition."

     Something clicks, there and then. She looks at Anthony and sees the bigger picture — just how deep his feelings run for Kate, not just some passing flirtation, but a true and everlasting connection. He is in love with her. So painfully in love that the very thought of losing her would make his world come crashing down. And Winifred knows for a fact that Kate feels the very same way. Something about making this connection stirs her. Maybe it reminds her of how she feared for Joseph when he was away, and the pain that followed when he never came back. She feels much more fragile in these last couple of weeks as she puts herself back together. Before she can stop it, she can feel it bubbling over...

     Winifred sees the tears clouding her vision before she feels them.

     "You cannot let her slip away."

     She hears her own voice, wobbly and slightly strangled. Anthony looks up and stares at her with a stricken look on his face. He hangs onto every word as she continues to speak.

     "Finding someone like that, it is... a gift. If you feel a shred of what I think you feel for Miss Sharma, then embrace it," Winifred urges him, feeling a teardrop slide down her cheek. "Losing my husband was an... unimaginable source of pain. But in spite of all our trials and tribulations, I would not have had it any other way. Please, Lord Bridgerton, do not count yourself out of having such a person in your life."

It could be the sunlight pouring through the window, or it could be threatening tears starting to glimmer in Anthony's eyes. He fiercely blinks them away but he seems rather undone by her words. Winifred is just wondering whether she had overstepped when there is a gentle knock at the open door — Anthony inhales sharply and regains some composure. Not now, he seems to think.

"I will join the family in the drawing room momentarily—"

"Anthony."

Violet clutches her abdomen in the doorway, her eyes glazed with fresh emotion. Winifred and Anthony both look over to her — once they see her expression, it falls into place.

"She's awake?" Anthony asks.

"Mrs. Wilson heard from one of the maids," Violet nods happily.

Oh, thank heavens. Winifred falls back into her armchair with a hand pressed to her chest. Kate is awake. She knew she was a fighter, but as the days gone by, the hope had begun to dwindle... a visit must be due. She opens her mouth to express her joy at this news, but promptly stops herself at the sight opposite her:

Anthony Bridgerton has crumpled.

With a feeble nod and trembling lips, he has tossed aside his papers and holds his head in his hands. The only sound piercing the room is that of his crying: slow, tearful breaths of a man finally able to let it all out, because Kate is awake. The very sight tempts Winifred to shed more tears, because if even Anthony is weeping, they all might as well do it.

"Thank you," Winifred whispers to Violet, who just nods. She feels it best for the mother and son to share this moment alone.

Besides, she has a very dear friend to visit.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     "OH, Kate..." Winifred breathes at the very sight of her. Her heart could dance with relief — Kate is sitting up in bed, still slightly tired but well-alert to her surroundings.

"Winifred," Kate outstretches her arms eagerly. It is a gesture she did not expect from her, but Winifred doesn't question it. They go in straight for the hug, careful not to squeeze the newly-awakened patient too tightly.

"How are you feeling?"

"On the mend, it would seem. I heard you came to visit me."

Winifred smiles at her. "Yes, I did... you appear in much better health than you did then."

Kate smiles back, even if only weakly. She has a cup of her favourite chai tea steaming next to her, which she reaches towards to take a sip of. After she does, she eyes Winifred with great curiosity, also filled with concern. "And how are you feeling?"

     "Me?" she furrows her brows.

     "At the soirée, you... suddenly ran off," Kate remarks sadly. "And the last thing I heard, before my accident, was that you had fallen ill."

     "Ah..." Winifred hums. She must admit, it is rather strange receiving continuous good wishes for her health — she has usually prided herself on being as healthy as a horse. But nevertheless, she appreciates the concern. "I had a... wobble, of sorts. It had most likely been a long time coming. However, it looks as though I shall move through it soundly."

     Without needing to say much else, Kate seems to understand that this is more about heatstroke. She reaches out and squeezes Winifred's hand. "You must know... I do not have many friends such as yourself, Winifred. I seem to push most of them away. And the rest, well, they remain in India. But in the short time we have known each other, you... for whatever reason... have been patient and understanding."

     "Trust me, Kate, when I say the very same for you. Perhaps we could correspond when you..." Winifred hesitates, then asks, "Where are you going after the season ends?"

     Like the sun being obscured by the clouds, Kate's face drops. "I will return to India," she says coldly.

"Oh... I see."

Winifred cannot help but feel disappointed at this outcome. Then again, she should not speak too soon — with a bit of luck, Anthony will pull his finger out, and he will confess his love to Kate. Even a reverse confession would suffice at this point. She believes so strongly that, after everything, there is no point in them denying their connection.

"I am sure you will be sorely missed when you leave," Winifred says, not referring just to herself.

Gaze downcast, Kate sighs. "Perhaps. But I think it would be... better if I left, for everyone."

"Do not assume such things. Give it time."

With another squeeze of her hand, the two friends catch up on more casual matters, such as the weather and the latest amusements in the Osborne household. Eventually, Winifred takes her leave to give Kate an opportunity to rest again. She walks through the corridors of the Danbury estate feeling in better spirits than she had this morning. On her way out, she passes Edwina and Mary, who thank her for the visit with overflowing gratitude — it seems the cracks in the Sharma family are beginning to heal again. Then she is almost on her way out of the door, when the tap of a cane against the floor tiles stops her.

"Wait a moment, Mrs. Erstwhile!" Lady Danbury calls out. She approaches her in shades of deep maroon, her fingers curled around the handle of her cane. "I wanted to extend my well wishes, to you in light of recovering from your heatstroke. A nasty condition."

"Oh, thank you," Winifred exhales shakily.

Lady Danbury then squints at her, with a look so piercing she feels like all her secrets are on display. "I have not had the chance to speak to you so often this season. As you have probably gathered, I have been very occupied with the Sharmas. But... in spite of our limited acquaintance, I could not help but notice your predicament."

"My... predicament?"

"The first year of widowhood is often the hardest. I have been a widow, too, and I remember what that felt like."

Oh. Winifred must admit, the suddenness with which Lady Danbury brings this up steals her breath away. But as she is still feeling slightly delicate, she finds herself opening up with less resistance than usually. The hall is so silent that a pin drop could be heard, so the echo of her shoes turning on the spot feels deafening. "It has... not been easy, of course," she confesses. "The struggle has been finding out how to... move on—"

"Move on? You have got it all backwards, my dear!" Lady Danbury proclaims. "It is not about moving on, but moving forward."

The words stop Winifred in her train of thought, pausing to consider this.

Drawing a deep breath, Lady Danbury suddenly seems reflective as she casts her mind back to the past. "My marriage was nowhere near as harmonious as yours, I can attest to that. It was very far from a love match. Nevertheless, when my husband died, I was left stunted... I did not know what to do next. Even in the areas where I was liberated, my life as I had known it was forever changed, even if I struggle to call it grief. And although time has passed, I always carry a bit of it with me every day, for better or for worse. Not left behind. Simply brought along."

     As Winifred listens, the noblewoman takes a step closer with a tap of her cane; there is a determination in her eyes that she is desperate to express.

     "But here is the important part, Mrs. Erstwhile," says Lady Danbury. "I am not the same woman I was when I was married to Lord Danbury. Nor am I the young girl I was before I was wed to him. I trust that it will be the same for you, Mrs. Erstwhile... you will have changed in this past year. That can be the more terrifying thing. Which poses the question — how shall you move forth in this new chapter?"

Then, in typical Lady Danbury fashion, she slowly disappears from the room with her cane clicking alongside her footsteps. Winifred is left in pensive silence. The woman's words ring so true to her. She wonders how that can be, because they have not spoken enough throughout this season. So she carries those words with her out of the door, hoping she can do her best to put them into practice.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     BENEDICT is late. He is oh so very late.

     He should have woken up at home. But instead, this morning, he found his limbs intertwined with Tessa's in a small art studio. Damn it. The Royal Academy has been his refuge for the last couple of weeks in particular — when he is exhausted of the ton, he can find like-minded people there. It hardly improved after Lady Whistledown reported on Eloise, and the misery surrounding the so-called Harmony Ball (which no one but the two families attended) only heightened. Then, of course, there was Kate Sharma's accident. He remembers the rush and panic as she was carried unconscious into her bedroom, Anthony soaked to the bone and seized with overwrought fear for her health. The week that then followed was long and tense, overshadowed by the imminent question of whether Kate would wake up.

     ... But still. He should not have overslept here.

     A milky morning light had gushed in through the window, which by the time Benedict got dressed, said his goodbyes and left, had turned to a darker charcoal cloud above him. It looks like there will be a high chance of rain. Wonderful, he thinks to himself with a grumble, the last thing I need is to catch a cold. He walks through the streets of London, much quieter in the early morning, with his sketchbook tucked underneath his arm. As he gets nearer to Grosvenor Square, he picks up his pace, hoping to beat the imminent downpour before it starts. The air feels tight and humid like it will happen any second now.

     He is quick, but not quick enough. The skies burst open to unleash rain like Benedict has never seen it before — lashing the streets, soaking him in seconds, obscuring his vision. He quickly shoves his sketchbook underneath his jacket to offer futile protection. Meanwhile the other few passers-by strolling in the street cry out, rushing to the nearest houses or alcoves to shelter in.

     For himself, Benedict bolts to the nearest shop window he can find. He blindly tries the door handle and is overjoyed to find it opens. Hurrying inside, he shuts the door behind him and seals out the thundering torrential rain in the street. He can hear his breath heaving after the sprint to shelter, feel the droplets rolling off his boots and hat, which he removes to brush off. But that smell... sweet and sugary... with a glance at a notice board, Benedict notices he is in Gunter's Tea Shop. It must have barely opened at this time in the morning.

     "Mr. Bridgerton?"

     Benedict's heart does a somersault. He whirls around on the spot to find the owner of the surprised voice — Winifred, staring back at him. She must have been caught out by the rain too, for brown strands of hair have slipped from her bun and are painted to her cheeks like brushstrokes. The last person he expected to see was her. Winifred has been gone for a couple of weeks now, after she mysteriously fell ill. He had not anticipated how much she would occupy his mind while she was absent. And now that she is standing here... he can find nothing to say.

Wake up, Benedict.

"Mrs. Erstwhile," he steps away from the door so he isn't blocking it, a step closer to her, "I did not think I would find you here."

"I suppose you were caught out by the rain, too?" she asks.

"Oh, uh, yes. The heavens seem to have opened up... though I am sure it is only a shower."

Benedict glances through the window, then back to Winifred. Somehow it has only taken him this long to realise she is not alone. An older man, with the same brown eyes as her, looms at her side with his hands held behind his back. He can presume who the man is before he is told; the two are clearly related, not just from their resemblances, but the way they carry themselves. Benedict knows who Winifred gets it from. "I do not believe I have introduced you both," Winifred realises. "This is my father, Charles Seymour. Papa, this is Mr. Benedict Bridgerton."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," says Benedict.

"Likewise, Mr. Bridgerton," Charles replies curtly.

With an awkward beat that passes, Winifred's father slinks off to the cake displays, abandoning the conversation. "I apologise, he is not the most talkative with strangers..." she confesses as Benedict chuckles. "I thought I would take him out for a stroll in town, you know, to get him out of the house. But then the rain..."

     "And here I thought you just had a sweet tooth," Benedict muses.

With a soft smile, Winifred links her hands together in front of her, but he notices she isn't wringing them nervously like she often does. That is a good sign. When he casts his mind back to the last time he saw her, Benedict remembers a rather different image — paler, more withdrawn, drawn so tightly she looked ready to implode. He certainly had an inkling that it was more than heatstroke, too, although she had disappeared before he could ask any more questions. It is certainly a relief to see how relaxed she looks now, compared to that evening.

"How are you feeling?" asks Benedict. "Anthony said you were feeling better."

"I am, actually," Winifred says, with a particular tenderness. "Thank you for being so concerned."

He nods, not feeling the need to probe with any further questioning. Things are beginning to look up — Kate Sharma has been awake for two days now, and Winifred is back. Benedict notices her eyes wandering to the sketchbook under his arm.

"Off to the Royal Academy again?" she asks curiously.

"Hm?" Benedict fumbles. "Oh, yes, I was just on my way..."

Definitely not returning home from a late night dalliance. But it is extraordinary how that memory seems so far away now. The night Benedict spent with Tessa pales in comparison to standing here, face-to-face with Winifred.

Nevertheless, he continue with the Royal Academy thread; he might even go back tonight if he is not needed. "But I suppose I should not spend all of my time there... have you heard of this Featherington Ball?" asks Benedict. His family received the invitation a few days ago, the first they had received in weeks, and it took everything in him not to roll his eyes.

"Yes, I have."

"What an original name."

With an amused scoff, Winifred shrugs. "I don't know. I like it. No beating about the bush with that family, I think."

     "So, you'll be going?" he asks.

     "Yes. I have made it this far into the season, haven't I? Might as well round it out." Then she gives a pause, glancing downwards at her shoes and then back up to him again. "Are... you going?"

     "I think I will, actually," says Benedict. "See what all of the fuss is about."

     As he draws breath, he notices the thundering of rainfall outside has slowed, if not ceased. Benedict and Winifred look out of the window to see the ripples on the paved streets shrinking at last. A tranquil quiet falls over them and the shop in wake of the rain stopping.

     "Ah, what did I tell you?" Benedict smiles crookedly, "Only a brief shower."

     "Quite refreshing after this heatwave, I suppose," Winifred sighs.

     "Yes... well then, I had better be going. I am running rather late." He is reluctant to leave this moment with Winifred, really, but now the rain gives him no excuse. And he is acutely aware that his mother might grow suspicious if he wanders into the breakfast parlour too late...

     "Of course, I understand."

     "Are you going out too?"

     "Well, I was, but..." she glances back at her father, who is not-so-subtly giving the cake stands a longing gaze, "I think my papa is starting to look rather tempted by the cakes, so who knows?" Winifred smiles and adds, "But I will see you at the Featherington Ball?"

     "Yes. The final ball of the season... at last."

     Benedict delights in the little chuckle that extracts from her, as steps back to the door. His fingers are gripping the handle when he suddenly remembers something — it only occurs to him now to ask. So he abandons his exit for now and pivots back to face Winifred.

     "Mrs. Erstwhile, when is it you are due to leave London?" he asks.

     "First thing in the morning, after the Featherington Ball," she answers.

     A wilting disappointment drags Benedict's spirits down. "That is... rather soon, actually," he says, eyebrows shooting upwards. "You must be looking forward to returning home."

     "Yes. I think it is about time I did."

     "Well, then. I will see you... when I see you."

     "Alright," Winifred murmurs with a shy smile.

     "Goodbye."

     "Goodbye."

     Benedict opens the door with a tinkle of the shop bell, stepping out as the smell of freshly-fallen rain of the pavement hits his senses. A gleam of reflection off the puddled blinds him — where did that sun come from? As the weather takes its strange turns, his mind wanders back for a moment to the woman in the tea shop. He cannot help but feel dejected at the thought of Winifred leaving so soon. Simultaneously, he puzzles himself over why this feels so monumentally different to, perhaps, another friend leaving town. It stalls him on the spot for a few moments...

     ... Until he remembers that right now, he is still very late. Damn it. Benedict picks up the pace and hurdles puddles to get home to Grosvenor Square, hoping he won't be the next Bridgerton to give his mother a headache.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

That last scene with Benifred in the shop was originally going to be the start of the next chapter, but I was missing Benedict, so I brought it forward. Was it inspired by 'Persuasion'? Yes, yes it was 🤭 (by the way, I'd highly recommend the audiobook on Spotify read by Cynthia Erivo, I devoured it over a few days!)

Anyway, now that I'm done babbling about Jane Austen, back to this chapter — we are nearing the end of the social season now. Abigail has decided to end things with Colin, and luckily it was mutual/amicable (good thing too, because it's all aboard the Polin train for season 3) but never fear... I might have other plans for our Abigail 👀 and Winifred also got to talk to Anthony. I want them to be closer in Act Two, so I feel like this is a big step for them. Finally, I wanted to shoehorn in a Lady Danbury interaction with Winifred, because I haven't written a lot of them (yet). I hope it didn't feel too forced, but I also feel like Lady Danbury is rather nosy and perceptive anyway, so it wouldn't be OOC for her to be like "hey, let me share some wisdom real quick"

We only have two chapters left before the end of this first act! I can't wrap my head around that. At the rate I'm going, I reckon I could finish Act One by the end of April.

But in more recent news, who else is FREAKING OUT over the Season 3 trailer?! I'm so flipping excited!!!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 12/04/2024