CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
good fortunes.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THE MORNING BURNS IN GOLDEN AUTUMNAL LIGHT as she opens the shutters. Winifred props her elbows on the windowsill, inhaling the crisp morning air that trickles into her bedroom. It is late September and the trees are beginning to burn with vivid autumnal colours, through an early haze of mist. Everything is so quiet — it is one of the reasons she loves dawn. It is so full of promise and the world is not yet disrupted.

There had been a time when Winifred lost sight of this beauty. She would drag herself out of bed and dread the day ahead of her. But now, she looks forward to what a new day might bring her, adamant that she should seize it to the best of her abilities. At first, she had to tell herself. Recently Winifred has started believing it on her own.

She looks behind her at the room. The bed is half-made out of habit, her efforts somewhat futile when she knows the maids will be stripping them down later anyway. A half-read book sits on her bureau next to a small pot of lavender. Beneath it lies an opened message from Lettie, regaling her time in Bath with the baroness once again. Winifred's eyes absentmindedly scan the open excerpt:

          "... Lady Strachan is keeping me on my toes since our return to Bath. She is still quite adamant that we should host a full Michaelmas dinner, including the goose, despite us not having a house full of guests — I should not be telling you this, but the Strachans are quite the splintered family. They make the Fitzroys look civil. I think she had been hoping you might at least be able to come, however the baroness says she understands you are occupied at Highbourne. Oh, but how I miss you terribly! Do not delay our next reunion any longer than last time.

          Best of luck with your visitors this weekend. You shall need it, especially with the youngest one..."

Indeed, Winifred knows she will need a drop of tranquility before the days ahead.

Today is Michaelmas, marking the end of the harvest. It is one of the quarter days in the calendar on which new servants can be hired, rents are due and leases can be begun. Winifred's childhood was always busy around this time as her father had a larger estate to run and tenants to see to. Her responsibilities may be less with Highbourne than his, but she still intends to make the most of it. Of course, there are also plenty of harvest celebrations, from a country fair in the local village to an autumnal ball later this evening.

On top of this she is expecting visitors — the first overnight ones she has received in months... no, years. Winifred is so accustomed to Highbourne being empty other than her staff, that it seems unprecedented to think that in a few hours, Abigail and Jemima shall be bounding up the steps. She had extended the invitation to them a week ago and, almost instantly, their mother had accepted on their behalf. There is a quiet adrenaline that courses through her at the idea of hosting someone at her home after all this time, even if it is only her sisters.

     Needless to say, there is much to be done before they arrive.

Only a short period of quiet remains before Highbourne will be busied. Most of her staff have already risen, or are about to — Winifred keeps them on their toes by being an early bird. She can already hear the stairs creaking as Mrs. Blyton, her housekeeper, does the rounds. Ellen and Maria are busy cleaning the fireplaces ready for their guests later...

Surely enough, a half hour later and the day has begun.

Ellen arrives and helps her get dressed, tying her stays in the absence of a lady's maid. Winifred's reflection smiles warmly at the maid through the mirror as she smooths down her beige pelisse. "Thank you, Ellen," she says. "And how are the guests rooms coming along?"

"Almost finished, m'am," Ellen nods resolutely, "Maria and I need only fluff the pillows."

"Excellent, thank you. I shall not keep you any longer."

The maid follows Winifred out of her bedroom, before splitting at the staircase as though a crossroads. Instead, Winifred is faced with a laser-focused Mrs. Blyton, who seems to be relishing in the idea of a busy day. "Good-morning, Mrs. Erstwhile," she greets her.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Blyton. We have quite the day ahead of us."

"Indeed. Which is why I hoped to run a few things by you?"

"Of course, fire away," Winifred trots down the stairs alongside her housekeeper, multi-tasking by peering into rooms and checking them as they go along.

Mrs. Blyton consults a lengthy list she holds in her hands: "The guest rooms are almost ready for your sisters, and I have ensured that we had the bed linens that Miss Jemima found less irritating for her skin. In fact, most things are prepared for home today. The real questions are regarding the Harvest Fair. Are we agreed that you are still not seeking to employ any more staff?"

"I would say so, yes... why? Do you think we require more?"

"Oh, I did not mean to insinuate anything! Merely that you should not feel that your finances are so stretched. I have checked and, should you wish to, you could be at liberty to recruit a couple more staff."

Winifred hums in thought, considering this. She has been treading carefully with how she spends and saves the money left to her after Joseph died. It was true that she had been luckier than many widows, having a husband who left her plenty to support herself and a father who'd ensured she would bring a sufficient amount into the marriage. But money cannot last forever...

"What else is on that list?" she asks, pushing that to the back of her mind for now.

Mrs. Blyton returns to her list without protest and continues inquiring about various things, which Winifred either agrees with or corrects. The two of them have built up a good team ethic over the years — the housekeeper knows Winifred to be a hard-working individual who enjoys having responsibility, even if she needs to remind her sometimes that she has staff to do certain jobs. But no one can judge them out here in the Kent pastures. Highbourne is its own little bubble full of quirks that has run smoothly up to now.

When Winifred pokes her head into the kitchen, the sweet aromas of preserves lure her in. In the middle on the cool stone floor stands the cook, Mrs. Foster, irate and flustered as usual. The short and stout woman is sweet enough, but very easily panicked when under pressure to cater for more than the usual.

"Are these to bring to the fair? The preserves are looking wonderful, Mrs. Foster—"

"Mrs. Erstwhile, it is all a mess!" the cook cries instead, grey curls flying out of her cap as she gestures wildly. "We haven't enough vegetables for your guests tonight. How am I supposed to make my onion gravy without any onions? Onion-less gravy! The mere thought of it—"

"For heaven's sake, pull yourself together!" Mrs. Blyton snaps impatiently.

Then, more calmly, Winifred adds, "These are only my sisters, and they are two of the most genial young ladies I know... even Jemima. You needn't put such pressure on yourself, Mrs. Foster. I am just grateful that you can grace us with your cooking once more."

It is all it takes for Mrs. Foster to calm down a little bit. She purses her lips into an endeared smile, shrugging sheepishly. "Very well, then. But we shall be needing a decent-sized goose if I'm to feed our guests."

"This is Mrs. Erstwhile's sisters we are speaking of," the housekeeper sighs, "not the feeding of the five thousand."

Leaving Mrs. Foster to get to work in the kitchen, she and Winifred check some last-minute things on their list. The latter is feeling a strange bubble of anticipation in her chest — this house has taken on a strange spirit after Joseph died, sometimes bursting with memories and other times hauntingly empty. Welcoming other people into it like this feels like a disruption to the status quo she has adapted for herself. Although, she should welcome it now. It has been long enough.

     But she finds little more room to dwell on that. At the sound of horse hooves, she knows her guests are arriving and Winifred rushes to the door immediately. Jarvis stands ready at the steps to welcome them inside. The carriage slows to a halt in the courtyard and the iron gates shut behind them; she can already hear her sisters chattering from this distance. Jemima is the first to emerge, landing squarely on her feet and squinting up at the house. Abigail disembarks more elegantly, clutching her bonnet ribbons that match her coral-pink coat. She is then followed by Polly, a maid from Heyworth House — two unmarried women couldn't be travelling alone after all.

     "Dear sister! Did you miss us?" Jemima teases.

"Not since a few weeks ago, no," Winifred deadpans, but still pulls her youngest sibling into a brief hug.

"I cannot remember the last time I was at Highbourne," says Abigail, after breaking away from her own welcoming embrace, "it feels like an age ago."

"That's because it probably was. Come inside, you two, so you can get settled in."

Winifred leads them inside the house, stepping straight into the shoes of big sister once more. Their modest supply of trunks follow in a trail up the staircase. Abigail and Jemima are clearly delighted to be sleeping in separate rooms — after being used to sharing a bedroom most of their lives, any opportunity to split up is a golden one. She can hear their happy outbursts as they explore, Ellen and Maria already helping them to unpack.

"I suggest the both of you unpack swiftly, for we have a busy day ahead!" Winifred reminds them, stood on the landing. "We shall have ourselves something to eat before heading to the Harvest Fair, and then leave enough time to return home and prepare for the ball in the village—"

"Yes, yes, we know! You needn't nag us about it..." Jemima crows back.

More graciously, Abigail adds: "Tonight should be a great deal of fun. I do love a country ball, they are so much more relaxed than in the ton."

"I shall see the both of you downstairs!"

Once her sisters have settled into the guest rooms, they join Winifred in the parlour for a light lunch and some tea; Abigail and Jemima make sure to fill her in on everything she has missed at Heyworth House since she last visited. Soon enough, it is time for them to leave, and Highbourne bustles with guests and staff readying themselves in equal measure.

     Winifred ties her bonnet strings in the downstairs mirror, a dark brown against her warm rust-coloured spencer jacket. She smooths down her ivory skirt and faces Abigail, who is already waiting at the door. There is still no sign of Jemima yet. She impatiently sticks her head out to the staircase.

"Jemima! Are you ready yet?"

She calls up the stairs, ascending them at the same time. It is only when she is halfway up that she finds her sister. Jemima is stood on the landing, a quiet pensiveness about her — she is staring up at a portrait hung on the wall, of Joseph and Winifred together. They had scarcely been married for a year when they had it painted.

Winifred, feeling her heart swell, pauses on the steps and observes the portrait from afar. In the silence, Jemima senses her sister and turns around sheepishly. "Sorry to keep you waiting," she says.

"It is quite alright," Winifred shakes her head.

"Is it strange that I keep expecting him to appear around the corner?" Jemima asks, her brows pinched together, "Or to hear his voice coming downstairs?"

"What do you think I've been doing for the past year?"

Her youngest sister hums in solemn understanding, turning back to the portrait. Winifred had not even considered how strange this might be for her sisters — they did not attend the funeral. The last time they were in this house, so was Joseph. Jemima had always been particularly fond of him, thoroughly enjoying whenever he would visit them in Hertfordshire.

Winifred tilts her head at the portrait and smiles as Jemima walks to meet her. "I've always liked this one," she says, "there is a particular lightness in his eyes."

"Yes, indeed there is..."

A beat of silence passes.

"It is just a shame they could not get your nose right."

In an instant, Winifred's expression drops as she lightly smacks Jemima's bicep with her gloves. "You had to go and ruin it, didn't you?" she sighs.

"Ah! I was only jesting—"

"Just go downstairs..."

Jemima brushes past her sister down the stairs, and even Winifred cannot help but smile slightly. As wriggles her fingers into each glove, she steals one more look at the portrait. The serene blue of Joseph's eyes stare back at her. Recently, she finds herself walking past him most days. But there are the ones where she has to stop and take him in all over again; just a reminder of how she misses him dearly.

And then it passes, and she can breathe easier.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     HARVEST time is rampant in the local village. Decorative bunting lines the streets and flutters above the bustle of the crowds. On large lawns, market stalls have been set up brimming with crops and preserves from this year's harvest. Today is a melting pot of all classes, high and low up the social ladder — Winifred finds it refreshing, for there is less requirement to perform. She, her sisters and Mrs. Blyton explore the fair together, the latter ensuring they have all the ingredients for their Michaelmas dinner later on.

     Of course there is plenty of entertainment to go around. Abigail and Jemima are far more interested in things like the fortune-telling tent, which they badger her incessantly to join them for. She manages to resist their attempts for a while, instead distracting them with watching the apple-bobbing or the locals dancing on the green...

     ... But Winifred can only fight them off for so long.

     Before they are to disappear into the tent, she pulls aside Mrs. Blyton for a word. "There is a quite a turnout this year," she tries easing into the subject, "I wonder whether it was quite as busy when I missed the fair last year."

     "I am not sure, madam."

     "Listen... what you said earlier, about hiring new staff..." Winifred wrings her hands together; she has been deliberating on this the whole journey down to the village. "Perhaps it would not be so unwise after all. Now that there really is only... one of me... then it could not to bring on someone new, could it? Do you have any suggestions?"

     The housekeeper's lips grow thin with sympathy. "Mrs. Erstwhile, I only meant to suggest earlier that you need not worry about our circumstances. We can manage. But if you did want to hire someone new... a gardener could be a good option. I might have come across quite a good candidate at the fair. He has had considerable experience on other estates."

     It is certainly not a bad idea — having someone who could keep a better eye on the gardens at Highbourne, even if they aren't sprawling like other large estates, and give them some tender-loving care. Things have become rather overgrown recently. And come to think of it, the kitchen garden could thrive better if someone kept a better eye on it.

     "That could be good," Winifred says quietly.

     "Especially if, should the situation arise once more, you are returning to London next year... do you think you might?"

     Sighing, she shrugs her shoulders. "Truthfully, I do not know. There is a chance I might be visiting Madeline to see her new child. But you have a point. Better to be prepared, I suppose."

     Perhaps sensing Winifred's apprehension — stuck somewhere between her stubborn desire to do things right, to assure herself she can handle all of this — Mrs. Blyton grips her basket more tightly. "You know," she suggests, "we do not have to hire anyone new today, simply because it is Michaelmas. This gardener is an acquaintance in the village. If you were suddenly interested, I could contact him quite easily."

     "You could?" Winifred asks, her chest inflating with relief. "I could do that. I shall sleep on it."

     "Very well, m'am."

     "Until then... I suppose my 'fortune' awaits. I will meet you later on."

     Mrs. Blyton's brow quirks in puzzlement, seeming bemused by the fortune tellers herself. "Best of luck, Mrs. Erstwhile."

     With the housekeeper departing into the fair, Winifred joins her sisters and goes inside the fortune-telling tent. She uses her own money to pay for both of their fortunes to be told — staunchly refusing to hear her own — and sits obediently as Abigail and Jemima listen to what is said to them. Throughout the dragging minutes that are spent in the tent, she becomes more and more disillusioned with her time in there. Abigail is told to "embrace the unexpected" when it comes to her destiny, whilst Jemima is warned to "beware of passions led astray."

     Winifred is only thankful she did not pay for her own reading when, on the way out, the fortune-teller advises her to "let the heart lead, and the head follow suit every so often."

Exiting the tent with a shake of her head, Winifred complains: "What utter nonsense."

"Not the superstitious sort then, sister?" Jemima teases.

"I don't believe you should have to pay for such vague, baseless claims. Are you truly convinced of any words that just came out of her mouth?"

"Only time will tell..."

     "Besides, I do not see the attraction of looking into your fate, anyway, should such a thing exist," Winifred adds hastily.

     Almost instantly, she regrets it. Damn. Jemima's lips curl into a mischievous grin. "So you are a little superstitious, then? Don't want to jinx anything?"

     "Oh, will you stop—"

     "Actually, I agree with Winifred," Abigail interjects, wearing a bemused frown as she fiddles with her gloves. She stops in the middle of the field whilst pondering her fate. "I haven't the slightest clue what my fortune meant. 'Embrace the unexpected'? What am I supposed to make of that?"

"She cannot tell you that," Jemima reminds her. "If it is your destiny, you must be patient."

Abigail grumbles under her breath, "I wish my destiny would hurry up and realise I have a decent dowry..."

As if the penny suddenly dropped, Jemima rolls her eyes lightly and pulls her shawl tighter around her arms. "Really, Abigail? You used your fortune to foretell your marriage, of all things?"

"Don't you judge me, Jemima! I would like to see you try and– oh!"

Winifred can barely warn her of anything. A gentleman brushing past had trod on the bottom of Abigail's skirt, pinning it momentarily to the grass with a disheartening rrrip! — the rest unfolds like a domino effect. As he leaves without noticing, she staggers back at the sudden loss of balance. It sends her careening into the chest of the nearest human body. The human body, in question, is a different young man with a rolled-up paper under his arm. His papers soon become an afterthought as he's startled by Abigail launching herself at him. So his papers plummet towards the ground... straight into a muddy puddle.

The curse that he utters without reservation is one Winifred would rather not repeat.

Abigail, needless to say, is the most flustered she could ever be. She immediately scrambles to compose herself and takes a measured step backwards from him.

"Oh, sir! I am so sorry, let me help you—"

"I can handle it, thank you very much, Miss," the man interjects, annoyance seeping into his voice as he crouches down.

"No really, I should—"

"I think you have done enough."

Only between the blur of everything happing does Winifred get a better chance to look at him, as does Abigail — his long, battered leather coat now brushes the grass at this low level, his waistcoat buttoned-up properly but with a few loose threads. All they can see is the dark kinks of hair sat atop his head until he looks up. A single glance taken at his russet brown eyes seems to make Abigail pause for a moment.

"Wonderful... just perfect..." The man turns over the muddied papers in his hands, trying to shake them off like a wet dog.

"Are you alright?" Jemima meanwhile asks Abigail, noting her new wardrobe malfunction; a piece of fabric is peeking out from the bottom of her petticoat like a train.

"Yes, I'm fine," she assures her, turning her attention back to the man. "Once again, I am very sorry, sir. Was it important?"

"It was. But clearly not important enough to some."

Abigail blinks at him in disbelief; there is a sudden switch in her expression, dissolving from guilt to irritation. "Are you suggesting that I deliberately sabotaged your precious papers? That was an accident! Someone trod on my dress, if you hadn't noticed, and now it has been ripped at the bottom."

With a soft grunt, the man slowly stands to his full height, gazing her up and down on his ascent. He suddenly towers over her; Abigail scarcely reaches his shoulders.

"Nothing a needle and thread won't fix, is it? I know you ladies of polite society are well-versed in your embroidery," he fires back nonchalantly. "Good-day, Miss."

     Leaving an incredulous Abigail behind, he brushes past her with his muddied roll of paper. She watches him go with her jaw clenched in as gracious a seething anger as possible. Winifred has to say she is rather surprised — it takes a lot to ruffle the feathers of someone as patient as Abigail Seymour, and this unnamed young man did it in an instant, in one way or another. She and Jemima could barely get a word in to intervene or interject.

     "What an impertinent man!" Abigail huffs.

     "Oh, Abigail– your dress—" Winifred swiftly steps in, pinning her hand to the back of Abigail's dress, which now seems to be crumbling at the seams. It is not catastrophic yet, but she is concerned what another tumble in the country may... reveal. "Perhaps we should be heading home soon. After all, the more you can prepare for tonight's ball, the better."

     "So long as he is not there," she mumbles.

     Winifred sighs tiredly. So much for a worry-free visit to Highbourne.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     IF half of the ton could bear witness to tonight's ball, Winifred imagines they might positively recoil. Others, she reckons, might find it refreshing. She is amongst the latter. It is one of the few and far between occasions in which the social classes readily mix together — local tenants could just be stood next to a land-owning gentleman doing business.

The dances are not so occupied with the ballroom steps of polite society, but rather jigs and country dances that might be found in a tavern. They are quicker-paced, more jovial, plenty of cheering throughout. Merry tunes are played by a string quartet, less orchestral and more filled with fiddle maestros. Above, a warm glow fills the town hall from the candlelit chandelier, and the twinkling stars of the night sky beyond. The doors are wide open for the ball-goers to flow in and out freely.

She missed out on this joyous occasion last year when she had been in the thick of deep mourning. Frankly, Winifred remembers having little concept of the world outside during those first few months. It feels refreshing to come back now; it might be one of the few balls she would willingly attend and stay all night.

Joseph had loved it too. When he could not be there, Winifred would write and tell him about it.

But when Winifred glances across at her sisters, she finds them beaming wider than they often ever did in London. There is no pressure to look for suitors tonight. Tonight, they can simply be. She would rather focus on that for now.

Abigail is busying herself searching the sea of guests for handsome faces. "Have you seen the man on the fiddle, Jemima?" she calls out loud.

"He is a most impressive player!" Jemima laughs.

"No, I mean– have you seen him?"

"... I know our parents could be stricter with suitors, but duckie, good luck trying to marry a fiddler."

Winifred squints through the crowd, suddenly noticing a rather familiar face. "Is that not the man you met earlier?" she asks, pointing across.

Abigail follows her gaze; her smile drops from her face instantaneously. They can all single him out, tall enough that he cannot quite blend in. She could not miss him if he tried. "Regrettably, yes," she mutters. But there is also a masked curiosity flickering in her eyes like candlelight. It is no wonder she does not look so surprised when their eyes meet; it is as though she was seeking it.

"Is he coming over?" asks Jemima. A beat passes. Then, "Oh good Lord, he is coming over."

"What do you think he wants?" Abigail asks in a frantic whisper.

"Guard your dress, sister—"

"Shush!" Winifred silences their bickering, just in time as he approaches them. She greets the man with a subtly unimpressed look.

To her surprise, however, he appears to humble himself. He appears nowhere near as heated or agitated as he did earlier. "... Good-evening," he says, head hung slightly in shame.

"Good-evening, sir," Abigail says coolly.

"You must think me a complete ass."

They didn't see that coming. Taken aback, Abigail blinks wide-eyed at his frankness. "Pardon me?"

"I wanted to... well, apologise for my brash manners earlier," he says with matter-of-fact honesty. "In the heat of the moment I lashed out. I was raised better than to take out my qualms on those who do not deserve it. It was unfair, Miss...?"

     "Abigail. Seymour."

     "Miss Abigail, I do not expect your forgiveness, I only meant to extend this apology to you."

     She sighs as she tilts her head at him, gaze unmoving. "What is your name?"

     "Matthew," he straightens his posture, "Matthew Ribeiro."

     "Well, Mr. Ribeiro, I suppose I could find it in my heart to let this pass. But what was so important in those muddied papers?"

"I was at the fair for business. They were drawings, if you must know."

"You are an artist?" Abigail asks; Winifred perks up simultaneously, casting her mind to pencil sketches dancing across a page.

Matthew furrows his brows together, shaking his head with a scoff. "Not quite. I am an architect. In theory, anyway."

"I am not certain I know many architects..."

"Well, not after today, you don't. I was potentially getting a job today. Then I had no drawings to present."

Abigail instantly flinches at the mention, cringing at their earlier interaction once more. "I really do apologise for that, it was a terrible accident."

"... I know," Matthew almost smiles.

The entire time, Winifred and Jemima have been watching from the sidelines again, unsure whether to step in or not. Abigail only notices them after she returns a smile to Matthew. "Oh, how could I forget?" she chuckles. "Mr. Ribeiro, these are my sisters, Mrs. Winifred Erstwhile and Miss Jemima Seymour. I am sure you remember their faces."

"Yes, they are ringing some bells. Good-evening," Matthew bows his head and links his hands behind his back.

"Do you dance, Mr. Ribeiro?" she asks abruptly.

He seems flummoxed by the question, squinting at the dance-floor. "Uh... I can't not dance, I suppose."

"Well, I adore it. So may I suggest this: if you join me for the next dance, then we may depart this evening on good terms, before never meeting again. That is as good as forgiveness, I think."

"... Very well," Matthew sighs. He seems the more stoic type, or certainly not the one to take to a dance floor — but he can adapt well enough.

Winifred and Jemima slowly look to one another, eyebrows raised as if to ask: Are you seeing this too? But in light of tonight's relaxed atmosphere, neither of them are in the mood to question it too deeply. Jemima, herself, is ready to dance along with Abigail too. She strolls out into the centre of the dance floor before stopping in her tracks; she pivots on her heel and tilts her head at the sister left behind. "Winifred, are you coming?" asks Jemima.

"Oh, no, you go on without me," Winifred shakes her head.

"Are you certain?" Abigail asks sweetly. "It would not be improper, you know."

"Come now, when was the last time you danced?" Jemima encourages her.

But she stands staunchly in her decision. "I am content here, watching. You go and enjoy yourselves."

Realising any more persuasion might be futile, Abigail and Jemima take to the dance floor without her, Matthew somewhere in that sea of people too. Her sisters are right — she probably could dance if she wanted to, now that she is out of mourning. But there is a keen emphasis on the wanting to. There is a part of her that is uncertain she could bring herself to. Even before, dancing was scarce for her, and Winifred only wanted to share it with one man...

Now she remains a bystander, instead enjoying the perks of spectating. The country dance is an upbeat and jovial one, everyone beginning in a circle. Dancers run into the middle and clap on time before backing out again, linking arms with a partner and jogging the circumference of their group. Abigail and Jemima are paired first, immediately beaming and laughing together as they do. Then, weaving through the group, they switch partners and the whole routine loops again.

Winifred has the strangest feeling, watching them.

She suddenly feels so old.

How can that be, when she is only six and twenty? She knows that, truthfully, she is still quite young. But when she looks at Abigail and Jemima enjoying themselves, Winifred sometimes feels miles ahead of them in years and experience — even if such experiences were not always the desired ones.

     It certainly feels like a lifetime when she was on this very dance floor with Joseph. Winifred can almost see it now, the bittersweet memory playing out in front of her eyes. She hears his laugh dance across the music and remembers the touch of his hand against hers...

     Just before Winifred is submerged in memory, she feels a tap on her shoulder. She jumps out of her skin at the sudden contact, whirling around on high alert to see who it was. The face she is instead met with replaces her fear with delighted shock.

     "Kate?" she exclaims.

     The new viscountess is practically glowing as she clasps Winifred's hands in hers. "I thought we might surprise you," says Kate, followed closely behind, by her husband Anthony.

"But I thought– I thought you were on honeymoon?" Winifred's brows knit together, though her smile is wide. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

"Technically, yes," Anthony's eyes are luminous with married bliss, "but we thought we would include the hunt in our honeymoon before setting off—"

     "You mean I thought it?" Kate cuts him off.

     "Did we not agree it was a mutual decision?"

     "The decision, yes, but it was my suggestion in the first place."

     Kate and Anthony link hands, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes; they are so evidently besotted that Winifred cannot help but smile at them. They lean into each other's bodies, lips almost brushing, until they suddenly seem to remember they are not alone. Kate clears her throat pragmatically but keeps her arm linked with Anthony's.

     "Anyway, we did not come alone," Kate adds, somewhat coyly.

     A beat passes, where Winifred parts her lip to ask what she means — she only stops herself when she catches sight of something in the crowd. A familiar pair of green eyes growing nearer, accompanied by that smile and the comportment so characteristic of Benedict Bridgerton. Her heart does a sharp drumroll with surprised joy as he comes to stand by Anthony. "Mr. Bridgerton!" she exclaims, loud enough to be heard over the music and dancing.

     "Hello, yourself!" Benedict calls back.

     Winifred smiles at him, shaking her head, then turns to Anthony and Kate. "Are there any more surprises this evening?"

     "I'm afraid not," says Benedict instead, "we could not fit another Bridgerton into this town hall if we tried."

     The newlyweds, seeing the eagerness for the two to catch up, step aside and let Benedict stand next to Winifred instead. She tries to get a good read on him in the heat of the moment. He seems well enough — humorous, alert, charming. She had been wondering, in light of how he handled leaving the Royal Academy (and his art) behind. At least it seems to be a good progression since their last meeting at her childhood home weeks ago.

     "Quite the celebration, isn't it?" Benedict says, delighting to see all walks of life.

     "It is," Winifred agrees. "What brought you here?"

"Well, I am not honeymooning, just to be clear... I am merely tagging along for the hunt, I suppose. What about you?"

"... I live here."

"My apologies. Here tonight, I meant," Benedict laughs.

"I am hosting my sisters at the moment. They are here for the weekend, to see the harvest celebrations. We thought it might be enjoyable..." Winifred and Benedict look out onto the dance floor together, clocking Abigail. She and Matthew have now met in their circle of dance partners. There is only a slight hesitation before they join hands, bounding around the dance floor together.

Then the music comes to an end, the dancers slowing to a halt and applauding the musicians. Abigail and Matthew's chest heave, out-of-breath, but beaming from the exertion of a good dance.

"For how long will you be in the area?" Winifred turns and asks Benedict.

"About a week, I suppose," he shrugs, "give or take."

"Perhaps... you could pay me a visit at Highbourne?" she suggests hopefully. "All of you, the viscount and viscountess included. My sisters will only be here until Sunday morning, after which you might have more peace and quiet if you dropped by."

The strikes of candlelight against Benedict's face merge and change as he smiles crookedly at her; but there is sincerity in his gaze. "I will certainly take up that opportunity, as I'm sure Anthony and Kate will too," he nods. "Thank you. I shall be looking forward to it."

Winifred inhales a light breath, humming softly. "As shall I."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

We're back, baby! And season 3 part 1 is out! (I've already watched it all and already having withdrawal symptoms). These next three or four chapters take place before the third season begins, therefore giving me time to watch it all and plan a bit, while also letting me indulge in this fic that I love writing so much. It feels good to be back. There are a few things I'd like to mention about this chapter...

First of all, NEW CHARACTER ALERT: introducing Alfred Enoch as Matthew Ribeiro! You got a little sneak peek of him in the interlude, but now he is here in all his glory. Anyone sensing a spark between him and Abigail? I'm excited to explore this dynamic more, and his character as well. He might not appear for a little while now, but keep your eyes peeled.

(Fun tidbit: the song I imagined Matthew, Abigail & Jemima to dance to is 'I Want To Hold Your Hand', a cover of The Beatles by the Vitamin String Quartet. It's so upbeat and jolly! As for the choreography, it's basically just like the country dance from the Harmony ball in 2x07)

Next, it was so fun to write about Michaelmas and harvest fairs in the regency era — I really wanted to write something with that vibe. I did some research to the best of my abilities, whilst also taking my own liberties to end up with the fair and ball we get in this chapter. If you would like to read more, these websites in particular were very helpful for me, the links are below (although you can't click them in this chapter):

• https://thebeaumonde.com/main/harvest-time-in-regency-england/
• https://vanessariley.com/blog/2023/10/03/michaelmas/

Finally, the Bridgertons (yes, including Kate now 🫶) are in town! I know Kanthony supposedly go on a 6-month honeymoon, but I wanted to squeeze in more scenes with them, and it felt feasible that Kate would not want to miss some hunting. Anything that means Benedict and Winifred can reunite again. Speaking of Benifred, I think you guys will enjoy the next chapter, there is a great focus on the two of them...

And with that, I'll end yet another far-too-long author's note. See you in the next one!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 17/05/2024