CHAPTER NINETEEN.
brightest in the dark.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     AT THE MOMENT, QUIET EVENINGS IN THE STUDIO are Benedict's favourites. From the twinkling glow of candlelight, to the tranquility and understanding between him and Tessa when he's painting her, it is no wonder he has found every opportunity to escape to his art. Sometimes, he cannot believe he lived this long without indulging in it like he does now.

Painting, recently, feels like a first love — a euphoria that Benedict is besotted with.

     This piece is coming together better than he could have hoped. Tessa is seated upright on a chaise lounge, a tunic draped around her body as she gazes into the distance. He peers around the side of his easel to get another look at his subject, only to find her gaze has shifted and she is smiling coyly at him. Benedict returns the expression, about to return to touching up the lighting on her tunic when there is a knock on the door.

     In the open doorway stands Rupert, one of Benedict's fellow students. "Bridgerton, Tessa," he greets them, "mind if I join you?"

     "The more the merrier," Benedict says brightly.

     As he joins them with his valet, who carries his easel to be set up, Tessa quips teasingly: "Mr. Bridgerton will be happy to have you here before the two 'me's' gang up on him."

Rupert raises a quizzical brow, then steps back to have a look at the handiwork in progress. Benedict can only stand idly by and wait in agonising silence for feedback — this is the one drawback of being an artist, perhaps. Watching someone observe what you put your heart and soul into, and hoping and praying their response won't shatter them both. Rupert's lips part in awe, looking between Tessa sat further away and the recreation of her in painting.

"It's remarkable," he finally says, breathlessly.

Benedict could have sworn his heart shot up through the ceiling to hear it. He lets out a relieved laugh, wrapping an arm around his fellow student's shoulders and hugging him in gratitude.

"I should think it your best work to date!" Rupert adds, still wide-eyed at the painting.

"Well, I think we have all earned a drink..."

Benedict meanders over to the table at the back, trying to play it more casual than the soul-doing-cartwheels type of glee he feels right now. Into each crystallised glass he pours a splash of port for the three of them. Indeed, this causes for celebration.

"I am glad to see you blossoming, Bridgerton," says Rupert, impressed. "I think many of us at the Academy assumed you'd be all drink and no paint."

     "Why ever would they assume that?" Benedict grins crookedly, handing him and Tessa their glasses.

     "Considering your acceptance. How it was based on, well, you know..."

"Rupert."

Tessa's voice takes on a new tone — warning, and immediately cautious as she shoots a sideways glance at Benedict. It is as though she is trying to protect him from something. The exchange is like a single droplet into the room's atmosphere, rippling out to alter it completely. Suddenly he gets a horrible feeling coursing through him. A chill trickling through his veins, cooling down the heat of his high spirits. It is as though he can anticipate bad news on the horizon, like a strange sixth sense.

He wants to hear it; and yet, he also wishes to go running in the other direction. Don't tell me, don't tell me.

"What?" Benedict asks, his voice sounding smaller than he'd hoped. "Enlighten me... please... what..."

Rupert furrows his brows at him, perplexed. "Your brother's large donation to the Academy. It's what secured your place. I thought you knew."

     Time slows to an awful, grinding halt.

     He begs it not to be true at first. "Brother's large donation" keeps echoing mercilessly in his head. The room feels cold now, as he stares around for confirmation; Tessa's gaze is now fused to the floor and unable to meet his. The walls feel tilted, his cravat too tight around his neck, and all of a sudden he wishes he could get out of here right away.

     No... please, not this time, Benedict hears himself thinking. For once, let me have this one thing, just for myself.

     But the longer he waits after hearing this revelation, the further it sinks in. Of course, he now taunts himself. It was too good to be true that he could enjoy something he thought was his, something he had earned, without it coming back to bite him somehow. All too rapidly, Benedict's vision is tarnished. He looks at his painting — moments ago, he was so proud of it, and now all he can feel is humiliation and heartbreak.

     If this is true, did Rupert even mean what he said just before? Or was he sucking up to another Bridgerton? It explains all the scepticism he remembers facing when he first joined the Royal Academy, why people seemed genuinely surprised at the work he was producing...

     Was he ever any good, after all? How can he know if it was a donation that got him in?

     What if there was some other fellow, far more talented than he could wish to be, who'd been denied his place all because of a Bridgerton?

     Just like a first love lost, Benedict's inspiration crumbles into disrepair.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     "OH, I can do that," Winifred insists politely, but the maid currently trying to style her hair has tunnel vision when it comes to her duties. No matter how many times she tells her, the young girl keeps trying to assist her, and there is no doubt she will try to put on her stockings for her next. It has been jarring the whole time she has been in London — back at Highbourne, Winifred only has help to get dressed when she absolutely needs it, and in that case she only has Ellen step in to lace something up or pin something else in place. But as a guest in a much more prestigious household, the maids are used to doing everything for their employers.

     Still trying not to seem impatient, Winifred manages to usher her away in the end, taking over the hairstyling. She does the same style she always does for these balls, gathering the majority of her hair into a bun, and with the remaining locks tidying them into a braid that winds around it. Simple but reliable. Even with the Featherington Ball, she has no intention of pushing out the boat tonight and doing something different.

     A gentle knock on the her door catches her attention. It creaks open before Winifred can say anything; she turns and sees Madeline slipping inside, shutting the door behind her. She is already dressed for the evening in a glamorous floral-print gown. Shimmering as she walks, she takes herself over to sit at the end of her sister's bed.

     "Please, make yourself at home," Winifred deadpans, glaring at her in the reflection of the mirror.

     "I just thought I would drop in and say hello..." Madeline then hums, watching her get up and pick up her stays as the maid trails behind her eagerly. "I think I'll take over from here, thank you."

     The maid stops in her tracks, looking to the countess for approval. A sweet nod is the confirmation she needs to scurry out of the room and leave the two sisters alone. A nostalgic smile playing across Madeline's lips, she waits for Winifred to slide her arms through the short-sleeved stays, before they drop at her sides. She holds the chest in place and lets her older sister start lacing up the back.

     "Been a while, hasn't it?" says Madeline.

     "Yes, it has..." Winifred murmurs.

     They used to help each other get dressed all the time while they grew up. Sharing a room, they would lace up each other's stays or help pin other garments into place, styling the other's hair on special occasions. It was much the same between Abigail and Jemima. The familiarity of Madeline's fingers fiddling with the laces on the back of her stays brings back a homely comfort to Winifred — even all these years later, they still know how to comfortably adjust the stays for one another.

     As she takes her time lacing her up, Madeline asks, "How are you feeling about this ball tonight?"

     "This might shock you to hear, but I am rather looking forward to it," Winifred replies.

     "Who are you and what have you done with my sister?"

     Chuckling, she adds, "Well, I'm not doing this for me. I am on chaperone duty. At your request, if you can remember."

     "Ah, yes, I do seem to remember something... too tight?"

     "No, that's perfect." After letting Madeline pull the petticoat over her head and fasten it in place, Winifred walks over to a cushioned chair and sits down, starting to roll her stockings up over her legs.

     Madeline gently hugs her own torso, fingers gingerly cradling elbows with an introspective look on her face. She watches in silence until her sister has pulled up the first stocking. "It hasn't been too much for you, has it? Being in London?" she asks. "I only hoped it would help you to get out of the house a bit more after... well, you know... but I know that having to face the ton every day would not have been your first choice."

     Midway through tying the first garter on her stocking, Winifred sighs. She isn't wrong. The ton has tested her patience many times this season. And on the one hand, she wishes she had spent more time at Highbourne, able to reflect on everything that has passed. But on the other hand, Winifred is far more grateful that she was given something to occupy herself — helping her sisters find a match. Even if neither of them found a husband at the end of it, she has at least fulfilled her sisterly duty to support them. It has, admittedly, done wonders to bring her out of the shell that was her deepest mourning period.

     "It has been tiring, yes," says Winifred slowly, "but... I have found other things to appreciate about the season. Individuals, mostly. It has been delightful to see the family more, and Lettie too. Then there are the new people I have met and become acquainted with. Miss Sharma, Mr. Bridgerton..." On the last name, Madeline breaks out into an unrestrained smile which she recognises instantly. "What are you smiling about?"

     "He has been good for you, hasn't he?"

     "Who?"

     "Benedict."

     Winifred stares down at the second garter she's in the middle of tying; she has just messed up the knot and has to start all over again. But before she does, she considers what her sister is saying. Memories float before her of this social season, where most of the highlights, she realises, have featured Benedict. Compared to many of the new people she has met, he has treated her with no misjudgement or apprehension, no treading on eggshells around her as if she were fragile (even if she did feel very fragile indeed) — he seems to view her as a whole person, and the reminder has served Winifred well after months of feeling numb.

     "Yes," she finishes the garter knot and stands up, "I suppose he has been."

     "I should think you have done a great deal of good for him, too," Madeline adds.

     "Oh, I don't know about that," says Winifred modestly. She feels her cheeks flushing at the slightest of praise.

     "Well, I do. I'm glad to see the two of you getting along."

     Upon immediate reflection, Winifred starts to warm to the idea of this. She does remember that Benedict always gives the impression of at least being interested to speak to her — and that is more than many have done throughout the season. And what a wonderful feeling it is to be recognised. For that, she owes him all her gratitude.

     "Either way, I am glad you accepted my invitation to London," Madeline says, her voice suddenly filled with emotion. "It has been a great comfort to have the family together again... and you, especially."

     "It has, hasn't it? We should make more of a habit of it," says Winifred with a soft smile.

     Madeline looks across at the dress laid out on the bed, still somewhere in the lilac region with miniature flowers embroidered onto the chest. She crosses over and picks it up, sliding each sleeve over Winifred's arm. "If our sisters have anything to do with it, that might be sooner rather than later. Jemima has already expressed her wishes to come back next year."

     "Jemima said that?"

     "I was shocked, too. But Abigail still seems relatively keen," Madeline says as she walks behind Winifred to button her up, "even after everything with Colin. I don't know how you feel."

     "Well, it is not ideal... I suppose if you needed me..."

     "That depends. We'll have to see whether we can host you all next year, what with the baby on the way."

     "Yes, the—" Winifred suddenly catches up to Madeline's words. What did she just say? Eyes widening, she whirls around on the spot and stares at her sister. "The baby? The baby?! You are with child?"

     "Keep your voice down!" Madeline whisper-yells.

     "But you are, aren't you?"

     "... Yes, I am."

     "Why did you not lead the conversation with that?" Winifred asks, completely incredulous.

     "I was more concerned about you first," Madeline explains.

     "Oh, enough about me, I'm sick of talking about me," she huffs in response, now standing back to get a better look at her sister's abdomen. "For long have you known?"

     "A few weeks, perhaps. I recognised the symptoms back then, but I wanted to wait until my monthly course was late to be sure."

     Suddenly extra wary of her sister's wellbeing, Winifred leads her over to sit at the end of her bed. Now that she thinks of it, it does make sense — Madeline has been battling nausea and a fluctuating appetite for weeks now. These are the kinds of things she might have recognised if they were still living together, but she has never seen her sister in the first inklings of pregnancy before. She has, of course, experienced something like it herself...

     However, Madeline seems to be ruminating about the whole thing. "Were you planning for a fourth?" Winifred asks.

     "Not really, no," she shakes her head. "It just sort of... happened. I suspect it was while you and Abigail were at Aubrey Hall. We returned home late from the opera one night and, well, one thing led to another—"

     "Spare me the details!"

     "Anyway, you are the first person I've told..." At last, something warm seeps into Madeline's expression, flooding her with love and anticipation. Maybe she had just been bursting to tell someone, because she finally seems excited about it all. Winifred pulls her into a hug and rests her chin on her sister's shoulder.

     "I am so happy for you," Winifred muffles into her sleeve.

     "Thank you," Madeline sighs as she pulls away. "But not a word of this to anyone else just yet. I'm hoping to tell Silas the news when we have a quiet moment, and as you know, those are few and far between."

     She understands completely. Winifred squeezes her hand, just as the door swings open without any sort of knocking. Both the sisters jump out of their skin before adjusting themselves — Jemima swans in wearing only her chemise, followed by Abigail dressed just as the same. "What are you two talking about? We heard voices," Jemima remarks, flopping onto the bed and resting her head on one of the pillows.

     "So, when was it agreed that my room was the new communal space in this house?" Winifred remarks sarcastically.

     Ignoring her, Jemima suggests, "Conspiring to arrange our marriages for us?"

     "Do not tempt me," Madeline teases.

     "Mad, we won't have to stay all night at this dreadful thing, will we?"

     "We will be good guests. I, for one, hope to get an early night. But Winifred was just telling me she's actually looking forward to the Featherington Ball."

     "Winifred! What happened to you?" Jemima lets out a horrified gasp.

     "Stop being so dramatic," Winifred huffs, dodging the pillow thrown at her head just in time. "I only mean to say that it shall be a relief to get out of this house. But never mind that, what is this Madeline tells me about you wanting to return to London next summer?"

"Oh, yes," the youngest sister sits up cross-legged and hugs the remaining pillow to her chest. "Well, I found some benefits to this social season after all, despite my initial protests. Emilia Caldwell has extended the invitation for me to spend Twelfth Night with them next year—"

"Very fitting," Abigail interjects with a giggle.

"— Yes, very Shakespearean, you jest well. And there are so many other things to do in London. It can become ever so dull in Hertfordshire."

Madeline exchanges a look with Winifred, perhaps remembering how she used to rant about the very same thing when they were teenagers, before turning to Jemima. "You would be very welcome next year," she says.

"And then you can find a husband!" Abigail adds, meaning to be encouraging.

But Jemima's smile fades, slightly uncomfortably as she murmurs, "Yes... a husband..."

Winifred turns on the bed, where Abigail is brushing her fingers through her brunette locks. "And you, duckie? You want to return to London as well?"

More gracefully than Jemima had articulated herself, Abigail answers: "Well, I would not be opposed to it. In honesty, it would not matter where I went, but I suppose the breadth of choice in suitors could be broader in the city... is that not true?"

"If you think so," Madeline remarks with a sigh. "But until then, we have a ball in this season to prepare for. So unless you two wish to appear on Lady Featherington's doorstep in your underwear, I suggest you get a move on and get dressed."

The two younger sisters abide by this, but instead of heading back to their own rooms, they remain congregated in Winifred's bedroom. They are soon styling each other's hair, helping each other get dressed, all whilst poking fun at one another or giggling through inside jokes. It has been many years since Madeline, Winifred, Abigail and Jemima spent this much time together, and certainly the first time they have done it all as young women.

Tonight, there is no pressure to find suitors. Tonight, they are there to enjoy themselves.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     BEING their next-door neighbours, it is difficult not to have heard the plans for the Featherington Ball — even if it's because that family have a penchant for talking very loudly — but Winifred still finds herself surprised by its decadence. In the centre of the ballroom stands a rotating stage for the string quartet, while its guest orbit around the lavishly-decorated room.

     Tonight might well be the most at ease she has felt at a ball all season. The same goes for her sisters, perhaps because any pressure to find a suitor has been lifted. Their parents stayed at home, eager to have a night to themselves and look after their grandchildren, but Silas and Persephone are undoubtedly in attendance. Winifred stands and sips lemonade with her family as they talk the night away. She spots Lettie at one point with Lady Strachan, still acting as companion as she listens to her conversation with Lady Danbury.

     As for the hosts, the Featheringtons are even more boastful than usual — except for Penelope, who remains the wallflower. The bold hues of her daffodil-yellow dress and her flaming red hair inch along the windows and the curtains, remaining mostly unseen whether she likes it or not. Sometimes Winifred cannot understand how she comes from the same family as the other Featheringtons. It is only when she passes them that Penelope is noticed, namely by Abigail.

     "Oh, Penelope!" Abigail greets her, making the redhead jump. "You look lovely tonight."

     "There is no need to take pity on me," Penelope murmurs with a downcast gaze.

     "No, really, I mean it. And your family are hosting such a wonderful evening. It's a perfect way to round out the season."

     Seeming shocked by the genuineness of the compliment, Penelope slowly perks up and meets Abigail's eyes. "Thank– thank you, I didn't... well, I had my doubts."

     "About you or the ball? Either way, you should not," Abigail smiles at her, "I am sure my sisters are as grateful for the invitation as I am."

     To make the point, Winifred and Jemima (who were eavesdropping) nod encouragingly. Penelope purses her lips into a smile now, although still teetering on disbelief and scepticism of her kindness. Then she seems to spot someone over her shoulder, wiping her smile clean. "Well," she clears her throat, "I suspect you should be wanting to see Colin now. The next dance is starting soon..."

     Then before anyone can hear the sadness in her voice, Penelope scurries away to another corner she can hide in. Surely enough, Colin Bridgerton has just walked into the room. He and Abigail share an amicable glance across the room, one that knows things the rest of the ton doesn't... yet. They are too preoccupied with the cloud of scandal that hangs over them. The whispers only increase as the viscount walks into the ballroom, followed by Eloise latched queasily onto Benedict's arm.

Eloise looks like she has seen better days. She always looks extremely uncomfortable at these balls, but tonight there is an extra layer of insecurity which dampens her spark. Even from over here, Winifred swears she can see the girl's knuckles whitening around her brother's arm. It is not until she spots Penelope that she makes an excuse to scurry off and hide from the rest of the ton. Now left alone, Benedict scans the room to find Winifred looking at him.

     He gives her a nod, as if to say Fancy seeing you here.

     Winifred nods back, replying Likewise.

     Strangely, she had noticed Benedict seems to be in lesser spirits tonight as well. From the moment he walked in, there was an air of weariness about him, and she can only wonder what happened between seeing him in Gunter's Tea Shop to tonight. Before he can approach her for a chat, however, one of his friends dives in the way and loudly exclaims "Bridgerton!" before beginning to catch up.

     Instead, it is Anthony who she finds approaching her. At first, Winifred thinks it must be some sort of mistake, or that he is passing her to get to Silas. But he stops in front of her and bows politely.

     "Mrs. Erstwhile."

     "My lord..."

     He has his hands pinned behind his back, although not looking quite as tense as he did a few days ago. "I hear you and your sisters will be returning home tomorrow morning," the viscount remarks.

     "Yes, bright and early," Winifred confirms it.

     "Lucky you," Anthony smiles with surprising honesty. "I think by now, my family and I are itching to escape to Aubrey Hall the moment this season comes to a close."

     With a surprised chuckle, she shrugs one shoulder. It would certainly be understandable, given how much 'scandal' they have tempted in just a few months. "But might there be nothing to keep you in London a little while longer?" she asks knowingly.

"... No. I did take your advice, or I at least tried to."

So he did visit Kate. "And?"

"It seems that Miss Sharma intends to return to India, regardless," Anthony lowers his voice, and he truly does sound devastated at the thought.

Winifred sighs, hands tightening around the glass of lemonade in her hand. She opens her mouth to say something — although she doesn't know what advice it would be — when she stops herself, seeing the two new guests walk in behind the viscount. Edwina and Kate walk in side-by-side, the latter looking more radiant than ever in spite of her accident. Her gown sparkles in a bright saffron shade and her hair has been released from its usual tied-up style, falling in a sleek ringlet down one shoulder. She catches Winifred's gaze warmly, but really, she knows Kate is only looking for Anthony.

"I would not speak so soon, my lord," Winifred says. To this, Anthony catches the hint and turns around. Just like that, his attentions are shifted. He is never so easily removed from Kate's orbit once he is in it.

     Around them, couples are taking to the floor for the next dance. To the ton's horror, Kate and Edwina step up to the mark, taking the place where a man and woman would usually dance. People are immediately muttering things under their breaths about how the Sharmas seem to tempt scandal wherever they go...

     But it is not the Sharmas that Winifred overhears whispers about.

     A stone's throw away, she hears Cressida Cowper gloating to her friends. "Colin Bridgerton asked you for a dance?" one of them asks her in disbelief. "But I thought he was courting that girl from the country, Lady Osborne's sister... I cannot for the life of me recall her name."

     "Name or no name," Cressida crows, "I suspect Mr. Bridgerton finally woke up and recognised all the debutantes right here in front of him. I wonder if next season, the young Lady Osborne will reconsider dragging in every relative from the country to muddy the ballrooms."

     As a ripple of haughty laughter spreads through the group, Winifred feels her blood boiling; it is a good thing she has little to no hot temper, otherwise she fears what she might to do the Cowpers. It is seeing Abigail's face drop which makes it all the much worse. She is clearly trying to put on a brave front, and yet she has always cared deeply if people have a high opinion of her.

     But something changes in that moment, like a flipped switch. Something releases her in a flash of liberation as Abigail grabs Jemima's hand. "Come on," she says, "let us give them something else to talk about."

     "Where are we going?" Jemima hands her lemonade to Winifred, before being dragged away.

     "To the dance floor, of course!"

     "Are you sure?"

     "Don't make me change my mind," Abigail joins the group dance, a slightly nervous but equally thrilled smile spreading across her face. Jemima stands in the position where her male counterpart should be, much like Kate does for Edwina. The four sisters share a mischievous glance as the music starts, giggling and weaving through the dance moves with a disregard for the increasing whispers around them. It is a joy to see Abigail looking so free again — she adores dancing, and Jemima's deliberate eccentrics throughout the dance only make her laugh and enjoy it more.

     Elsewhere in the ballroom, Colin dances with Cressida — a pairing Winifred is still trying to wrap her head around — as he seems to be saying something flirtatiously to her. It is only as the dance ends when he subtly unhooks her necklace, adorned with rubies, and takes it in his hands. After a bow, he shoots a look back at Abigail, who does not seem surprised at all. They nod towards one another knowingly. Then on top of it all, Colin crosses over to Penelope and ever so gently takes her hand in his before leading her out of the party.

     What in God's name is going on?

     She is still perplexed as Abigail and Jemima return breathlessly and grinning. "Colin is certainly venturing out tonight," she comments, "pursuing Cressida and Penelope all in one night."

     "Is he? I hadn't noticed," Abigail replies, feigning innocence.

     Well. This is strange. As two sisters scurry off to fetch themselves more lemonade, Silas pokes his head into Winifred's periphery. Her brother-in-law is wearing a puzzled expression she thinks is a mirror of hers. "Is Abigail acting peculiarly around you, as well?" he asks.

     "What do you mean?" asks Winifred.

     "It was most odd. Yesterday morning, I mentioned in passing to Madeline how I had met with Lord Featherington and been hearing about some gem stone mines in Georgia," Silas recalls, brows furrowed. "Your sister was in the stairwell and she suddenly cried, 'Don't give him your money!' I was baffled to say the least. But it seems she was clued in on something about Lord Featherington," he adds now in a whisper, so the rest of the ton will not hear him, "and how he is not as trustworthy as he looks. I could tell that from the start, and I'm not much of an investor myself anyway. Although I suppose it was considerate of your sister to... er, well, alert me."

     Winifred widens her eyes slightly. The plot thickens... regrettably. More and more, she keenly looks forward to returning to the calmness of Highbourne and its countryside. She has decided she does not care to learn further about whatever Lord Featherington is up to. For one year, she has had enough of the ton.

     The evening continues to pass by, dance after dance, drink after drink. It is only during a quieter moment between dances when Winifred sees Anthony (at last!) approaching Kate. She holds her breath and cannot help but watch them from the sidelines. After everything, she would take great pleasure in seeing someone find a true love.

"About time, don't you think?"

Benedict's voice pulls her back out of her intrigue. Turning around to face him, Winifred sighs and ignores Kate and Anthony's exchange. "I was wondering when you would come over and say hello," she says.

"Sorry about that," he apologises, "I was doing the rounds with Eloise, and then I got caught out to chat with a few people."

"There is nothing to apologise for. You were being a good brother."

"I'm good at something then," Benedict chuckles, but there is no amusement in his voice, only disappointment and jadedness.

The plucking of harp strings over the slow melody from the string quartet fills the dance floor, one which Kate and Anthony have taken together. Winifred and Benedict bear witness with the rest of the ton in the beginning as the dance commences — the couple cannot take their eyes off each other, meanwhile the others start exiting the dance floor so as not to be seen with them. "Just keep looking at me," she sees Anthony's lips move to Kate, "no one else matters."

Watching them together fills Winifred with a bittersweet feeling. Dancing with someone like that, so unified, feels like a distant memory and yet only like yesterday. But watching the love pour out of them into each step does not make her envy them, only happy that they are so lucky to experience it.

"Tonight is not so bad, after all," she concludes.

"That remains to be seen..."

Her brows knitting together, Winifred shoots a suspicious glance at Benedict. "Is something the matter?" she asks, "I thought it was my job to be the solemn one."

"I am sorry, I'm ruining the good mood—" Benedict begins, disgruntled.

"It's alright, I just... wondered. Though I suppose if the evening is not to your liking, at least you have the enviable option of running off to the Royal Academy."

Clearly this was not the right thing to say. He physically flinches at the mention of the Royal Academy, humiliation casting a shadow over his usually bright greenish-blue eyes. Benedict's look is downcast as he mutters, "Not tonight, perhaps."

"Inspiration running low?" Winifred tilts her head at him.

"Something like that..."

A beat passes, where Benedict folds his arms across his chest and meets her eyes with a cold soberness.

"I will not be returning to the Royal Academy. I am quitting."

"You– what?" Winifred takes a step closer to him, incredulous at this news. It is not the turn she expected at all. "But why? I thought you were enjoying it, and– and you seemed to flourish."

"It's irrelevant. As it turns out, I am an imposter," says Benedict, each word stinging him to say. "I was only accepted to the Royal Academy because of a large donation from my brother."

"Oh..." Her heart plummets into her stomach on his behalf. That is awful news. Especially when she remembers how Benedict explained to her his eagerness to be pursuing something that was his, not because he was a Bridgerton. And now it all links back to his family and status after all. The effect of discovering this seems to have shattered him completely. Of course Winifred knew this pursuit of art meant a lot to him, but it is only now that it really sinks in for her.

"Perhaps it is for the best," Benedict sighs. "I might as well know the truth now, which is that I am simply not good enough, and I never was—"

     "No, that is not true," Winifred interjects sternly, "do not let yourself believe such a thing!"

     "It is alright, Mrs. Erstwhile. I understand now... it was not meant to be."

     But she shakes her head at him, hating how lost he looks right now. The rest of the ton is luckily too distracted by the dance to notice their conversation right by the window. "Mr. Bridgerton, I can understand you wanting to leave the Royal Academy. It is what a man with integrity would do. But this donation does nothing to change the fact that you have talent. I have seen it for myself. It would be a waste for you not to continue down this path—"

     "Except that it would, because how many others have been lying to my face?" Benedict blurts out, more sensitively than before. His hands fly to his hips as he tries to re-compose himself with a deep breath; he has no interest in being troubled with what no longer feels attainable. "Anyway, I am officially withdrawing tonight."

     "Do you not think it too soon?" Winifred asks carefully, "You only had the news a few days ago."

     "On the contrary, why delay the inevitable? I cannot keep my spot in good conscience."

     The dance draws to a close, the tremble of the strings quietening as the couples disperse back into the crowds. Benedict clears his throat and straightens his posture, unable to hide the hurt on his face. Winifred just wishes she had better comforting words for him. Lady Featherington rears her head in the silence in an explosion of colour, eagerly announcing that she has a surprise outside waiting for the ton. What could it be? There are murmurs as the crowds shift, but one Bridgerton stays in place.

     "I must take my leave, Mrs. Erstwhile, and find my brother," Benedict announces abruptly, already stepping away.

     "Wait! Will you not be staying for longer tonight?" Winifred asks hopefully.

     "No... I must do this. Will you be here when I return?"

     "I– I do not know. We were planning on leaving the ball early."

     "Then... I wish you a pleasant rest of your evening." Benedict swallows thickly, turning his body fully to face her now. For the first time since they spoke tonight, a little more warmth leaks into his gaze the longer he looks at her. "For what it is worth," he adds, "thank you for at least believing I could do it."

     "Mr. Bridgerton—"

     But he has already turned and left, squeezing through the moving tide of crowds. Winifred is swept up with the current, soon re-joining her sisters and the Osbornes as they file out into the gardens of the Featherington home ("I can see the nursery window from here!" Silas jokes, staring over at his own house in the distance next to that of their hosts). Everyone stands idly under the sky, waiting and wondering what treat is in store for them.

     All Winifred can think about for now is Benedict. She wonders where he disappeared to, knowing he seemed so clearly pained by the truth about his place at the Royal Academy. Deep down, she knows he is probably doing the right thing, not staying on in a spot bought by a family name — but she does not think that has to mean he gives up art entirely. And right now, that is the impression Benedict is giving her. Winifred also suspects that Anthony had the best intentions at heart, even if it did backfire spectacularly and knock his brother's confidence lower than what he began with.

     "Everything alright?" asks Madeline, appearing at her sister's side.

     "Mhmm..." she nods. "What do you suppose this surprise is?"

     "As long as it isn't Prudence Featherington singing, I will take anything," Jemima scoffs.

     Gazing up at the sky, the stars twinkle and reflect in Abigail's eyes. "I suppose this marks the end of this season," she says thoughtfully. "We all return home tomorrow, and then it is back to the everyday."

"Woefully, yes," Jemima sighs.

"Until next year, perhaps?"

Winifred goes quiet and glances sideways at Madeline, knowing what she knows now. Her sister seems to catch on. In this calmer moment, the ton spread out and not squashed into the ballroom, she seems to take her chance. "Silas..." she murmurs, before leaning in to whisper something. Winifred watches carefully as her brother-in-law's face turns from general amusement to a sudden explosion of joy.

"Another one?!" Silas exclaims, but he is drowned out—

WHOOSH!

A firework soars up into the sky, splitting open with a BANG! that sprinkles sparks of green under the stars. Then another pink one cracks and fizzles in the air, then a blue one, all to the amazement of the crowds gathered below. The beautiful spectacle captures everyone's attention in a celebratory performance of colour and sound. Each whistling firework makes Winifred's heart soar, unable to contain even her own awe.

Only two people seem to pay no attention to the festivities — Madeline and Silas, who embrace under the fireworks in their own celebration of their fourth child.

As Winifred tilts her head to the multi-coloured skies, she feels an overwhelming sense of hope. Hope for the future, hope for making peace with the past, hope for the life she wishes to seize now. The season has been full of ups and downs, often frustrating, but she realises that she would not have had this year any other way. With the frustration, it has brought equal amounts of colour and joy back into her days and broadened her horizons, even when she thought it would be impossible.

     And now, at last, it is time to go home.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Ugh, Benedict learning that Anthony made the donation to the Royal Academy crushes me every time ☹️ well, if he won't continue his art, I will, because I recently got myself a really cool sketching and drawing set! I always have the wrong equipment, but this has everything from charcoal sticks to putty erasers. Can't wait to channel my inner Benedict...

But in other news, we're finally finished with the ton for now! And to summarise — Madeline is pregnant, Abigail and Colin are over (but she was 100% in on his plan to expose Lord Featherington and I love that), and Jemima is quite keen to return next year and keep up her friendship (👀) with Emilia. I can tease the beginning of Act Two and tell you that we'll be taking a mini-break from the ton, because the first three or four chapters will be similar to Act One in that they take place over the autumn/winter. It gives me time to still keep writing whilst watching and planning plot stuff related to the third season once it premieres.

Until then, we have one more chapter to go in Act One. It will hopefully be heartwarming and perhaps a little bittersweet, with some emotion as always, but we will see the rounding-off of this first step in Winifred's story. She is coming to terms with a life without Joseph in it, and is now focusing on experiencing it to the best of her abilities. There will also be a scene or two that'll probably have you squealing, so you can look forward to that...

P.S. I'm living for the season 3 promo but equally so stressed out — they just dropped so many stills (like 80 of them?!?) out of nowhere, and so many were with BENEDICT! I WASN'T READY SHONDA!

Anyway, see you in the last chapter... of Act One! Thank you so much for all the support so far, it means the world and your lovely feedback makes writing this story so worthwhile.

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 16/04/2024