CHAPTER TWENTY.
dog days are over.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     ANOTHER LONDON SEASON ENDS, AND ALL FALLS QUIET. For some, the future path is clear: Silas was overjoyed to hear that he would be having a fourth child, and so he mostly remains with Madeline in the city, close to the best doctors for the duration of her pregnancy. Lettie returned to Bath to remain a companion for Lady Strachan, keeping up a frequent correspondence with Winifred. For Anthony and Kate, the word is that they finally opened their hearts to one another and have been attached at the hip ever since. Even if the ton shared their cynical opinions, they were ignored as true love prevailed and wedding bells were to be ringing.

For others, the future is hazier. Benedict had removed himself from the Art Academy, nursing a broken heart and broken inspiration. Winifred had not seen him as she'd hoped on the morning she left London — certainly not the note she wished to leave on, as she wonders what he is occupying his days with now. She can only hope a sketchbook is involved somewhere.

     As for Winifred herself, she is at last back at Highbourne. Since returning from London, she has been thinking. That is the only way she can describe it. Her days to herself again, she has wandered around her home and the surrounding countryside, retracing her steps over years of a life she once knew with Joseph. The house without his voice echoing around it has become more familiar, and she finds herself expecting Joseph to walk through the door less and less. Equipped with the wise words of Violet, Lady Danbury and the others she spoke to, along with what she has learned about herself in these last few months, Winifred knows something has changed inside her.

     That is how, she thinks, she finally finds the strength to go to Joseph's memorial.

Winifred had woken up with the dawn one morning and gone for a stroll, keen to enjoy the weather before it got too hot at midday... and then she simply decided that she was ready. There was no second-guessing, no plummet into grief. She did not wish to turn up empty-handed, so on her way up the hill, she had taken one of the back paths through where tall grass and wildflowers grew. The skies chirped with birdsong and the sunrise illuminated the country as she gathered a bouquet for him — deep blue cornflowers, just like those Joseph had said he loved so much during his childhood. Then she had removed the ribbon from her bonnet (she could get another one, anyway) and tied the bouquet together.

She cradles the cornflowers in her arms like a newborn child as she advances up the hill. The churchyard appears, the same one where his funeral service was held, so Winifred knows she is almost there. It does not feel intimidating anymore... it just happens to be the setting for a particularly aching memory.

     At the top of the hill, just past the headstones and tombs inside the churchyard, is where Joseph is remembered. Beneath the shade of a tree stands a tall, stone pillar, much like the late viscount's at Aubrey Hall. Into the stone is etched the words:

In loving memory
of
LT. JOSEPH ERSTWHILE
beloved husband, brother and son
who died on the 21st day of June, 1813
in Vasconia, Spain
~
"MAY THE COUNTRYSIDE AND THE
GLIDING VALLEY STREAMS CONTENT ME."

     It all comes back to her now. They had thought Joseph would want his rank included on his grave, for how proud he had been to serve as a soldier. But the epitaph beneath reminds her of the husband she knew — the one who rambled through the country with her and adored the greenery. Winifred lays the cornflowers at the memorial's feet and strokes her fingers across the stone, feeling each indent and groove of his name.

     When she stands up, the breeze brushing her cheeks almost makes her forget the dampness of them. This view still takes her breath away. It was one of Winifred and Joseph's favourite places to stop and rest when they went for a local walk. Past the stone walls of the churchyard, green pastures stretch into the horizon with the dotted houses in the neighbouring village to be seen. Tunnels of sunlight break through cloud cover and shine patches on the view that illuminate its beauty. Winifred had been so paralysed by the thought of frequenting this place... now, she cannot think of why she left it so late.

     She almost feels like Joseph is standing here as she does, taking in this view with her.

     It hits Winifred then, that she has been wrong about there being nothing of her late husband to visit. Yes, his body does not lie here, but where he physically resides seems irrelevant now. She hears Joseph in his favourite songs, sees him in the rooms at Highbourne, feels him in the breeze around this hilltop. That will last longer than any gravestone.

     Unlike many who find comfort in talking to this spot, Winifred doesn't feel compelled to do so. Instead, she just sits next to his memorial in reminiscent silence. There is no clear-cut line in the sand for her grief. She is beginning to understand that now. But there is no doubt that something has shifted inside of her, for she feels less remorse and anguish, more bittersweet memories of Joseph. So, it is time she made her own way. Winifred rises to her feet and caresses the side of the memorial goodbye. I'm going now, she tells him wordlessly.

With each step she takes back down the hill, she feels like she can breathe again.

     The feeling permeates over the next week, during which Winifred receives a letter on one August afternoon. It is from her parents — chiefly Octavia's idea, they have invited her to stay for the weekend at Heyworth House, where on one of the days they plan to receive the Bridgertons as visitors. The concept seems to serve as a 'thank you' for the family's welcoming embrace when the Seymours arrived in London. She finds herself rising to the occasion at the thought of meeting the Bridgertons again in a more familiar environment.

On the eve of her departure to Hertfordshire, Winifred is busy packing her things — eager to have some input, instead of standing idly — with the help of Ellen. The chambermaid folds piles of clothing and gathers bonnets, gloves, anything that might be needed for the weekend stay. At this point, they have grown rather accustomed to the practice of Winifred packing to go away somewhere.

     "Will you be needing your walking boots, m'am?" asks Ellen.

     "You know me," Winifred replies, "I can't resist going down those paths through the hills."

     "They are stunning... I shall pack them for you."

     "Thank you."

     "And both your lilac and mauve pelisses are ready," Ellen adds cheerily, bundling them together as she scurries over to the open trunk.

     But as she does, Winifred stops in her tracks. Her reflection in the mirror stares back at her — she remembers a year ago, when she was draped in black, and then in these muted colours of half-mourning she has worn ever since then. When she looks at herself, Winifred does not feel like that woman anymore. The fabrics are no longer refuge for her, nor are they aligned with her state of mind. They are just extra weight on her skin which she is ready to shed.

     "What about the green?"

     She hears Ellen stop, freezing on the spot. "... The green?"

     "Yes, the green," Winifred says calmly, still studying her reflection. "I think it is time I put those old colours away, don't you?"

     At first, she is only greeted with silence. She turns around to see her chambermaid's large eyes shimmering with tears; a hopeful smile is spreading across her lips. Ellen has seen her through this whole journey, but even if she hadn't, she is always brimming over with every emotion felt to its fullest. Her fingers tighten around the bundle of half-mourning colours in her hands.

     "If you are certain, m'am..."

     "I am," Winifred nods softly. It feels freeing to say it out loud. Who thought a change of clothing could feel so monumental? Then with a gentle laugh, she reaches over and grips her maid's hand. "It's alright, Ellen, I am quite content."

     "Oh, I know you are. Excuse me..." Ellen sniffs happily and dabs at her eyes. "In that case, I'll put these away."

The maid slips away to the wooden wardrobe, putting each pale colour back into hiding. Winifred turns back to her reflection, at the mourning colours she has grown so accustomed to. It doesn't feel like her anymore. It would be a relief to start feeling less like a widow, and more like a whole person.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     SINCE leaving the Royal Academy, Benedict has felt a little too untethered for his liking. He has always been a free spirit, dipping his toes into different worlds and trying them on like new coats. But this was different. This had offered a sense of aspiration and belonging — and then the rug was pulled from beneath his feet. So when his mother had mentioned the invitation to see Winifred's family in Hertfordshire, Benedict jumped at the opportunity. Anything to keep him from moping about the house...

But coming here is more of a breath of fresh air than he thought. Nestled deep into the Chiltern Hills, Heyworth House is buzzing with the tranquil soundscape of the countryside. It is the kind of palette change that is most desirable after a season spent in Mayfair. Benedict steps out of the carriage to find vast green lawns, not sliced up with paving stones or topiaries, but left with all the open space to run around on. He tries to imagine a younger Winifred on these stomping grounds — a distant image, since she always appears so grown-up that he cannot help but wonder if she was always like that.

Nevertheless, he can see a younger Winifred rambling about the gardens and the hills. It is an endearing thought.

Benedict hears the crunch of shoes on gravel as Eloise and Gregory leave the carriage behind him. Similarly in the one beyond them, Violet leaves with Francesca and Hyacinth in tow. It may not be all of the Bridgerton clan, but it is certainly a generous slice of it. They have barely looked around at the grounds before their hostess is trotting down the steps.

"Welcome, welcome!" Octavia beams, gliding over to Violet as they give each other a kiss on the cheek. "Dear Violet, how good to see you."

"Likewise," Violet smiles, "we were pleasantly surprised to receive the invitation. Thank you."

"Of course. You had all been so courteous and welcoming to my daughters and I when we were in London. After everything, we wished to return the favour for a day, isn't that right Charles?"

     "Indeed, it is," Charles contributes in a much lower-energy hum, but still amiable enough. Of course Winifred gets it from him.

     Violet steps aside and gestures to the daughter next to her, "I don't believe you have met Francesca?"

     "No, until today I have not yet had the pleasure," Octavia turns to the quietest Bridgerton with a friendly smile. "How lovely to meet you at last, Miss Bridgerton. Thank you for joining us."

     Francesca's lips thin into a half-smile but she remains shyly within her mother's orbit. Meanwhile, Benedict can feel Eloise looming in his shadow — rather unlike her considering how she is usually heard everywhere. It has been like this in the immediate aftermath of what Whistledown published about her. And to make matters worse, it would seem that something happened at the Featherington Ball that beaten her down even more (he still has not managed to coax that one out of her, although he has his suspicions after Eloise's knee-jerk reaction to Anthony asking if she had gone to see Penelope).

     "Are the viscount and viscountess not joining us?" Octavia asks, noticing the absence.

     "I'm afraid not," Violet shakes her head with a knowing smile, "I am sure they are... blissfully occupied."

     "... Ah. I see," the matriarch surprises her with a wink, making Hyacinth and Gregory giggle. "Well, come on through. We shall gather in the drawing room first, but the weather is so glorious today that we thought we'd dine al fresco for lunch and take advantage of it. There is plenty of green for us to sit and enjoy a lovely afternoon."

Charles, with his hands pinned behind his back, takes the opportunity to tilt his head playfully at them: "I hope your children are familiar with nine pin bowling, Lady Bridgerton," he murmurs.

Upon hearing this, Hyacinth lets out a gasp: "Oh, I do love a good game!" she exclaims.

"She is fiercely competitive, mind you," Benedict adds with a smirk.

"Aren't all the Bridgertons?" says Octavia. "Abigail has told me all about how sacred your pall-mall rituals are..."

As everyone walks up the stairs to file into the house, there is one person lagging behind — Eloise. Benedict turns around to see his sister tugging at her gloves and uncomfortably shuffling along. He falls two steps back so he can be in step with her, pretending to ignore the small eye-roll she gives when she senses a brotherly talk incoming.

"What is it?" she huffs.

"I was rather more concerned about what is the matter with you?"

Eloise lets out a sharp sigh. "It is nothing, really. I just... thought we were done with appearances before our return to Aubrey Hall."

Although he feels a pang of sympathy, Benedict shakes his head at her. "This is hardly comparable to polite society," he assures her. "If there is any family you can be at ease with, I am sure it is the Seymours." Lowering his voice, he adds, "If I recall correctly, there is quite an impressive library here..."

     That does the trick. Almost instantly, his sister perks up with an inquisitive stare — one of the ones Eloise wears when she is about to start badgering him with questions. Benedict simply remembered it from when Winifred had told him at the Hearts and Flowers Ball.

     "Do not look at me," he shrugs cheekily, "ask Mr. Seymour."

The families trickle upstairs towards the drawing room, where portraits are hung on the walls as they go. Some of them are various ancestors Benedict could not recognise, and others are more familiar. Then there is one of Winifred and Madeline on the landing; he finds himself slowing down to get a better look. They could only have been young teenagers, instantly recognisable; he notes the same seriousness in Winifred's face, only with softer features of an adolescent not quite grown into themselves yet.

He isn't the only one admiring the paintings, it seems. Violet stops on the landing and lets out a delighted gasp. "Oh my goodness, look at the both of you!" she exclaims, crossing over to a painting of Charles and Octavia in their youth.

"Ah, yes, that was commissioned for our engagement," Octavia smiles in reminiscence; behind her, her husband seems to exude a rare warmth at the memory. "If only age had been kinder to us..."

"Stop it, you look wonderful. It just struck me when I saw it, because it must've been painted around the time we last saw each other. Well, before this season just passed, of course."

As the two women start chatting about yesteryears with the occasional interjection from Charles, everyone else is left stalling on the landing. Benedict finds his attentions pulled elsewhere. He had noticed the music when he first walked up the stairs — a violin and piano seamlessly weaving into a duet from the drawing room, perhaps Beethoven? However, now everyone had paused for conversation, he was stuck between these two rooms and desperately curious. When he glances over at the drawing room door, only a mere few steps away, it has been left ajar. Perhaps if he just... edged towards it...

Benedict manages to get away with this for long enough, until he is stood by the crack of the door. He takes one bold stride into the room to be faced head-on with the pianoforte. Madeline is sat playing, he can see, sunlight streaming through onto her face as her fingers press expertly into the keys. Then there is the other young woman stood by the pianoforte, who plays the violin with her back to him. Her hand draws the bow across the strings with focused precision, only to pour out the most stunning music.

     Of course he knows it is Winifred. But for some reason, it takes a few seconds of staring at her to realise it, for she feels... different. Benedict soon realises that he has never seen her bursting with colour before — quite literally. Unlike the muted shades she had been wearing in the ton, or even black, he is instead met with a dress in a greenish-golden hue that he cannot place. It reminds him of the colour of the leaves in September as they start to descend into autumnal shades.

     "I sound awful," Winifred grumbles halfway through the song.

     Madeline scoffs, still so absorbed in playing that she has not looked up and seen Benedict. "You are not awful. You are simply out of practice. And even then, you play beautifully."

     "I suppose so..."

     "It could be worse. At least you didn't let Jemima try and play."

     "Oh God—"

     "Bridgerton!"

     A third voice slices into the atmosphere, making all three of them jump. Silas has walked into Benedict's periphery with an eager smile — meanwhile behind him, Madeline looks up from the piano and Winifred stops her playing with a screeching halt against the strings. In the gap over Silas's shoulder, her eyes search for his immediately, but Benedict is otherwise stuck.

     "I thought that was you," Silas shakes his hand. "Your brother isn't here today?"

     "Well, Gregory is," Benedict muses, "but Colin is busy planning for his next excursion in Europe, and Anthony, well..."

     "Otherwise preoccupied?"

     "Something like that."

     "I understand," Silas grins, shooting back a glance at his wife. She smiles back brightly over the pianoforte and twists in her seat; her hand comes to rest naturally on where her baby bump is faintly beginning to show.

     Winifred has been busy putting away the violin on its stand, but turns around just in time to face Benedict again. Her hands link serenely in front of her as she purses her lips into a soft smile. Unexpectedly, he finds his heart skipping a beat. Of course, she always has been beautiful — Benedict noticed that from the very moment they met when she lifted the black veil from her face. And ever since, even when burdened, Winifred has carried it all with that same beauty. But today, she seems to have a lightness of being about her, therefore radiant in a way he cannot help notice.

"It is a delight to have you here..." Madeline says; then as the rest of the visitors file in, she adds, "... all of you!"

"You know us, we come in herds," Benedict chuckles.

     "Congratulations on the baby, Lady Osborne," Violet adds warmly. "I was surprised to see you both here today. I thought you were staying in London?"

     "Well, we are, but we couldn't resist one visit..."

"Come on, everyone, take a seat!" Octavia ushers everyone along, Abigail and Jemima now joining the drawing room (which is looking rather crowded).

     Extra chairs are provided and dotted near the windows. Benedict moves his rather deliberately next to Winifred, who rather modestly opted for one of the additional chairs instead of more cushioned seats. He lowers himself down next to her, slightly slumped with his arms folded across his chest; meanwhile she sits with the kind of posture every young lady and her mother was taught.

     "Hello," Winifred murmurs to him.

     Benedict turns to her and smiles crookedly. "Hello," he echoes back.

     "It is good to see you," she says, whilst the rest of their families are already babbling away.

     "It is really good to see you as well. You look..." Benedict stops himself halfway through his train of thought, willing himself not to say anything out loud. Winifred bows her head in a way that seems to suggest she knows what he's getting at — she looks different. "It was very kind of your mother to invite us here," he diverts, "I think she has saved us all from boredom."

     "Yes, I thought so too," Winifred half-smiles. "I'm even happier to see that you made it here, too, considering we... never said a proper goodbye in London."

The masked disappointment in her voice is impossible to ignore. Damn it, how it made him feel guilty. Benedict did deeply regret not saying his goodbyes properly to Winifred — the night of the Featherington Ball had admittedly been a rough one, where he left early to gather the rest of his things from the Royal Academy before he left for good. The disappointment that then greeted him when he returned to Grosvenor Square was a merciless one. His paints were put away, his sketchbook stashed where he wouldn't need it anymore, and some of the drawings within them that he now loathed were tossed into the fire... but not all the drawings. Benedict didn't have the heart for that.

By the time he woke up the next morning, Winifred and her sisters had already departed. It bothered him more than he thought as it doubled down on his broken spirits. Nevertheless, over the last few weeks, Benedict has been picking himself up again. He can still joke with the family and tease his siblings unrelentingly (even Anthony, whom it was difficult to hold a grudge against when he is now happier than ever as a newlywed).

However, all of that feels trivial now that he is sat here.

"You're right," Benedict winces. "I apologise for how curt I was that night, and for not even seeing you off—"

"I understand. You were hurting," Winifred states; her sympathy sounds more matter-of-fact, which is strangely reassuring. "But since you have made it today, I suppose it is all water under the bridge."

     Then she smiles at him, so much more than she ever did in London, and Benedict knows he made the right decision to come today.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     "EXCELLENT shot, Hyacinth!" Jemima cheers.

The gleeful eleven year-old beams at the applause from her audience, all sat out on the lawn to picnic and watch a game of nine pin bowling. Hyacinth had just knocked down seven skittles in one clean shot. Tied with Winifred for being the best at the sport, Jemima is coaching the young girl on how best to eliminate the remaining pins.

Winifred watches the scene fondly from her chair, sandwiched between her father and Francesca — the three of them acting as the quietest participants. But the atmosphere is one of ease, especially for the Bridgertons after quite a tumultuous season in London. Even Eloise is able to relax, having smashed Benedict's prior record when she stepped up to the mark and now returned to her usual quick-witted quips. One thought is abounding in Winifred's mind as she watches it all unfold:

Today is a good day.

And she is starting to believe there will be many more ahead. The smiling faces, the setting aside of her doubts for one glorious afternoon... Winifred did not think she would experience this again. It is often fleeting, but becoming more frequent again in spite of her grief.

     Winifred claps again as Hyacinth knocks down the remaining three skittles, frolicking triumphantly back to her seat. "Think you can beat that, Gregory?" Benedict teases his little brother playfully.

     "Oh, watch me," the boy stands up determinedly and paces over to re-set the skittles.

     "Do not injure yourself, Gregory," Hyacinth chides, "I fear you might pull a muscle... that is, if you have any—"

     "Hyacinth!"

     "Sorry, Mama..."

     Across the green, Benedict's laugh dances her way and contagiously tugs her lips into a grin. Winifred looks over at him; he looks content, that twinkle in his eye, even if his inspiration is still lacking. Speaking of inspiration... whilst everyone is busying themselves with the picnic or Gregory stepping up to the mark and bowling, Winifred rises from her seat and pads across the grass to Benedict's chair.

"Mr. Bridgerton?" she asks, and he cranes his neck around to look at her. "May I have a moment? I would like to show you something."

Benedict is shielding his eyes from the sun, but she can see the flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "Yes, of course."

"Follow me..."

Winifred waits until he, too, has risen from his seat before they walk back to the house together. There is something she has been meaning to show Benedict since she knew he would be visiting, but the opportunities to get him alone have been difficult to salvage. Now that it has arrived, she feels an anticipatory sweat break out on her palms. Do not worry so much, she tells herself, it is only Benedict.

They enter the parlour with the opened terrace doors, sunlight streaming in. Benedict waits on the spot whilst Winifred crosses over to the mantelpiece, where she had carefully slotted in the item earlier — she retrieves it now, the leather-bound sketchbook clutched to her chest. It is not usual that she shows this to people... there are special exceptions.

"Since you were so adamant to see my drawings, I thought... well..." Winifred, resigning herself, extends her arms (and the sketchbook) towards him. "You can be the judge of my artistic abilities."

     Benedict glances down at the book, taking it, then back up at her. "Ah, but I thought you said they were not art?"

     "You know what I mean..."

     After a subtle roll of her eyes, he chuckles and carefully undoes the string latch. The book is held carefully in his hands as Winifred hovers by him, awaiting his reaction — Benedict opens it to the first page and his eyes grow wide. "Oh, wow!" he exclaims. By the tone, it instantly validates her abilities, squeezing out a sigh of relief from her. "These are magnificent. And you really thought to hide these, all this time?"

     "I am not hiding them," Winifred justifies, "I just do not exhibit them, usually."

     "They almost give the impression of engravings."

     Her heart gives a flutter of recognition. "Actually that is how I started refining the little details. I could never conjure an image from my mind, so I copied some of the engravings I found in my father's books."

"Quite genius, really," Benedict grins. "Wish I'd thought of it."

     With each page he flicks through, carefully so as not to smudge anything, he drinks in every detail. Winifred can watch his eyes poring over the pencil lines of every leaf, every tree, every curve in the landscapes she has drawn. Benedict lingers especially long on a drawing of a doe she did, one of her more recent additions to her sketchbook. Something about watching him study her work with such care endears her greatly — it is a hobby Winifred usually guards so close to her heart.

"Lots of landscapes and nature, I see," he says.

"Yes, that is my comfort zone," Winifred nods. "I have never been good at drawing people. Particularly faces... and horses."

     Benedict laughs lightheartedly, the page open on a drawing of a birdbath. "You must really enjoy it. Sketching, I mean."

     "What makes you say that?"

     "You can see the love and attention that you pour into every line, every little detail... I am not calling you the next great artiste, if that is what you are so stubbornly against, but—"

     "I know what you mean," says Winifred. She is gazing up at him, filled with gratitude. Her head is leant over the book, almost brushing against his shoulder when he turns to look at her — they suddenly seem to realise their close proximity.

     Benedict shuts the book and hands it back to her, taking a step back. "Thank you for showing me," he says.

     "They aren't much. Of course, your sketchbook is of another league."

     The compliment seems to fly straight over Benedict's head; his jaw clenches slightly, the subject still a sore one. That twinkle of inspiration she swears she just saw in his eyes fades away again. Winifred hugs her sketchbook back to her chest and studies him when he isn't looking. She finds herself reflecting on these last few months, how much she has enjoyed his company in a time where she expected life to be grey. Many people have guided her along this wretched year, but she realises Benedict is the one who has brought more colour than she could have ever hoped.

Winifred is not sure she believes in destiny. But she is grateful that her path crossed with Benedict's this year. How could she ever express that to him? How could she spell out what he has done for her without realising?

     "You know, I hadn't so much as picked up a pencil after Joseph passed," Winifred confesses. "But then you, well... I suppose you inspired me."

Her honestly startling him, Benedict's lips part. Curiosity and surprise fill the pale green of his eyes.

"What I am trying to say is, thank you."

"Whatever for?" he asks.

"I don't know... for being you? For some reason, you have never treated me differently because of my circumstances; like a lonely widow painted into the corner. You have been so patient, so kind. You reminded me of the things that I used to love." Winifred takes a deep breath, gazing at him as she formulates the right words. "Your companionship has meant more to me than you could ever imagine. I think that you should know that."

     It is seldom that Winifred lays everything out so barely like this. Usually she would feel pulsating regret and doubt after doing so, but this time, she is determined that Benedict must know what he has done for her. She has rendered him speechless at first. The Bridgerton shifts on the spot, his expression softening.

     "You have come to mean a lot to me as well," Benedict finally says. "Your companionship, I mean..."

     A silence stretches between them, where the only sound is their breathing mixed with the chirping of the birds outside. It is only the loud cheer from the nine pin bowling which snaps the pair back to attention.

     "But I suppose we shall be seeing less of each other, now you and your sisters have returned home," he adds nonchalantly, hands resting onto his hips.

"I wouldn't say that. Although I am still struggling to believe it, Jemima is quite keen to return to London next year."

     "She is? Well, I do not think there is a need us to wait that long. I prefer the country, anyway..." Benedict watches the smile spread across Winifred's face. "I am sure we will see each other again soon."

     "I should very much hope so," says Winifred.

Upon Eloise calling him for his turn to bowl, Benedict walks back out into the garden; not without a tender smile towards Winifred. She feels a swell of warmth trickle through her like honey. Simultaneously, her mother passes the Bridgerton on her way inside the house to fetch another parasol.

"I didn't interrupt anything, did I?" asks Octavia.

"No, we had just finished the conversation," Winifred says, placing her sketchbook down onto the table.

When she looks back up again, her mother is tilting her head at her. Octavia's eyes are overflowing with unbridled pride for her daughter; the same look that had struck her when Winifred arrived at Heyworth House in her green pelisse, out of mourning colours for the first time in over a year. "You have come a long way, my dear," she reaches out and caresses her cheek. "Leaps and bounds, in fact. I know how difficult this year has been for you."

Winifred catches Octavia's hand and stares down at the floor.

"I do miss him," she murmurs.

"Of course."

"Every day, in some sort of way."

"I understand..."

"But..." Winifred inhales sharply, looking up again, "I also know that I cannot sit and wait for Joseph to return one day, because he never shall. He would have wanted me to move forward."

Octavia sighs deeply, her hand reaching down to squeeze hers. "All I can remind you of is that you need not endure this alone. We are all here, for anything you might need from us."

She is usually so determined to refuse help where it is offered. Today, however, Winifred is grateful; she squeezes her mother's hand back. Now she knows she is wandering into uncharted territory. Without Joseph, she now wonders what her future will hold — how she will re-define and re-shape her life outside of marriage, outside of him, outside of them. As daunting as that task feels, a small beacon of hope burns somewhere in all of that fear.

     Whatever comes next, Winifred is ready. She has to be.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

WE DID IT! ACT ONE IS COMPLETED! Now brace yourself for a lengthy author's note, because I have a lot to say...

First of all, the timing of this chapter is perfect, because today (April 22nd here) is Winifred's birthday!

What did we think of this chapter? Maybe I lied about it being less emotional, but I hope it was more in a bittersweet/heartwarming way rather than absolute devastation. Winifred has finally come out of her mourning period, and is no longer wearing mourning colours — of course grief is not linear and I intend to keep showing that. However, I hope it feels clear that she is in a much better place than she was before. It was nice to return to Heyworth House, I loved writing the Bridgertons and Seymours together. And then Benifred at the end!! At the end of Act One, I wanted to show they clearly care a lot about each other, but where those feelings go is kind of hanging in the balance for now. Benedict is definitely starting to clock something...

Now, onto Act Two. Since season three hasn't premiered yet, it is limited what I can tease because I don't really know what is in store. But I have a few ideas planned regardless of what happens in the third season, so here are some sneaky peeks that I do know:

• Winifred trying to adapt to life as a single woman. Faced with the more "pragmatic" side of being a widow, if that makes sense? How society views her and how she functions in that world.

• As for Benifred, I feel like Act One was setting up them having a connection, but in Act Two I am ready to lean into the romantic feelings. Things are going to be picking up, so hold onto your bonnets! (Also this second act should overall have a more lighthearted vibe than the first).

• For supporting characters, I would like to give more attention to ones that didn't have as much in Act One, such as Jemima and Lettie.

• Expect some new characters?! Only one or two though, it's crowded enough as it is. There is one character I'm rather excited for you to meet.

• Did I mention ROMANCE? With that, love is in the air for not just Winifred... 👀

I will wait with publishing anything for Act Two until season three drops (for obvious reasons) but I will say the first three or four chapters take place between seasons two and three — i.e. over the autumn/winter — so I've already started planning them a bit. Hopefully you can look forward to that!

Finally, I would like to take this moment to say THANK YOU for reading so far! Right now this book has 15K reads, which is wild to me. I never knew I would enjoy writing this Bridgerton story so much, and a large part has to do with the lovely feedback I have received along the way. It gives me so much joy to see how invested some of you have become in Winifred's journey. So once again, thank you.

Until then, dear readers! I'll see you after season 3 has dropped — EEK!! *does a happy dance*

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 22/04/2024