CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
a day to hold meaning.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     THE VISIT HAD PASSED AS QUICKLY AS IT BEGAN. After their jam-packed day, Winifred and her sisters spent the rest of the long weekend together at Highbourne. It was a relief to be together with Abigail and Jemima in an environment she knew and enjoyed, and the feeling was clearly mutual. They were able to catch up on old times, whilst also exploring the village and staying up late together.

     On the morning her sisters left, a blanket of quiet fell over the house again. It had been a jarring contrast to the constant chatter from Abigail and Jemima throughout the last few days. So, Winifred had done her best to busy herself as she always did. She sketched in the garden, practiced her violin, went walking through the local country paths.

     She spent one whole afternoon reading and responding to letters she was behind on — from Lettie, Madeline, her brother-in-law Hugh, and even Sir Phillip Crane (thanking her once again for the encyclopaedic drawings). Winifred had melted into the chair in the study, one which used to be Joseph's predominantly. That is, whenever he was home.

     Winifred still has his blue-eyed gaze overlooking her from a portrait of him in his uniform. It is the same one she brought down from the nursery, a room which has since been cleared of all its child-ready belongings. Toys and cribs were given to the Erstwhiles, should they bring more children, and a few of the dolls she knew a certain niece of hers would be very keen to play with... it had been a weight off her chest to bid goodbye to the nursery.

     Still, having him watch over her from the painting frame now straddles a fine line between comforting and haunting. Winifred figures she should be accustomed to the solitude. It has surrounded her for long enough, even before Joseph died.

     But now it seems to be more deafening than ever.

     That feeling has been particularly strong in the days since her sisters left. It was only another few days later, on the fourth of October, that Winifred wondered whether it had all been leading up to this event — Joseph's birthday. He would have been eight and twenty.

     Unlike last year, when the thought of visiting his memorial had paralysed her, she made the effort to go to that hill where his name is etched. She brought a fresh bouquet of flowers to lay down, finding another bright-looking bunch already stood there when she arrives. Winifred suspected either Lance or Hugh Erstwhile might have stopped by to pay their respects.

     She had spent a few minutes there by herself, taking in the view. Then she placed one hand on the side of the stone.

     "Happy birthday, my love," Winifred had whispered.

     Then she went home. And the milestone had come and gone once again.

     Now, on the following morning, Winifred finds herself particularly restless. She is not much use sitting in the drawing room doing embroidery. Looking out of the window, she longs for the release that a brisk walk might bring her if she embarked on one. So she sets aside her half-hearted handiwork and gets ready, throwing on a shawl around her dress. She doesn't bother with her bonnet — it would be pleasant to feel the breeze caress every contour of her face and head.

After alerting her housekeeper that she's heading out, Winifred bounds down the steps, and is just securing her gloves when she is met with a visitor heading straight for her. She stops abruptly in her tracks; Benedict Bridgerton comes to meet her in the middle, a light-blue hunting coat over his usual attire. Just behind him is his horse being taken away to the stables.

"Oh, Mr. Bridgerton!"

"Good-afternoon... you are not busy, are you?" Benedict asks, noting her outing-ready clothing.

"Not at all. I had been wondering when you would drop by," Winifred assures him decisively. The walk shall clearly have to wait. "Are the viscount and viscountess not with you?"

     Clicking his tongue, he squints into the distance as he replies: "Ah, they are busying themselves, I'm afraid. Being around the newlyweds turned out to be a tad too intense... so it is just me today. Have your sisters gone home now?"

"Yes, a few days ago. Then I suppose it is 'just me' here, as well."

     Benedict chuckles lightly, folding his arms across his chest. He steps back to take in the sight of Highbourne, this old manor in all its modest but homely glory. A gaggle of geese waddle audibly in the distance by the water's edge as he observes. "So, this is your humble abode?" he remarks, a relaxed expression on his face. "It seems very inviting."

     Winifred turns around, taking a look for herself. She hums in agreement. "I think so, too."

     "And... you have a moat!" Benedict adds, nodding to the water surrounding them.

     "And I have a moat," she echoes. "There is actually a wealth of history behind this place. It has been in Joseph's family for centuries."

Benedict nods with interest, his eyes still shifting around his surroundings, as if to drink in every detail. There is a slight pause in which Winifred worries she is boring him.

"...The moat is also quite convenient for banishing unwanted visitors," Winifred deadpans.

It takes a beat for the joke to register; she almost worries it doesn't, until Benedict's eyes widen in surprise and the rest of him breaks out into laughter. Winifred giggles along with him, secretly relishing the fact that she could make him laugh. It is a pleasing thing to witness, too. She has noticed how Benedict smiles, when he means it, with his whole face.

     "Uh..." Winifred's laughter quietens, as she tries to remember what she meant to ask. "Can I fetch you anything? Tea, something to eat? I could ask the housekeeper to bring some refreshments—"

"Oh, no, I am well for the time being," Benedict shakes his head kindly. "Anyway, are you sure you are not busy? Because you seemed like you were about to head out."

She wrings her hands together and admits, "Well, yes. I was about to go for a walk."

"Really?"

Benedict pauses, looking out to the trees and countryside stretching past the Highbourne grounds, then back to her.

"Could I... join you?"

     All Winifred has to do is smile.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

"ARE you tiring yet, Mr. Bridgerton?" Winifred calls back.

When she looks over shoulders, she can see Benedict lagging a few paces behind. She took him through the back garden at Highbourne to the trails that wind along the countryside and uphill — this part being one of the most taxing. Winifred can feel her heart thumping in her chest, the fresh air flowing in her lungs and her body buzzing with the exertion. The amber leaves of trees around them shade the path in cool patches between the autumnal sunlight.

"When you said walking, I did not realise that you meant..."

"Walking?"

"Precisely," Benedict pants, slightly out-of-breath.

"The uphill climb is the most taxing," says Winifred, all matter-of-fact, "but after that it should be less trying."

Behind her, she hears him laugh. "You sound like my grandfather. He could go rambling just about anywhere."

Overcoming the worst of the steep incline, the ground levels out and they come to a clearing; a winding path runs along the river's edge, and clumps of tall grass borders the water away from it. In amongst it is a low-lying tree trunk. "Here, sit for a moment," Winifred gestures to the wooden stump. She smooths her dress down and takes a seat, Benedict joining her at her side.

     For a moment, they sit quietly, catching their breath again whilst birdsong chirps around them and the river flows by. It occurs to Winifred that she so often walks this path alone — it used to be one she frequented with Joseph, but that was a long while ago now. She has been so accustomed to the solitude that it is a revelation to have Benedict sitting next to her right now...

     It makes a welcome change.

     "It is no wonder you enjoy walking here," he says, "it is beautiful."

     Winifred shrugs; her gaze remains fixed on the strip of sunlight down the middle of the river. "Yes. I suppose it grounds me, when I am in need of it. It clears my mind. There are some days where it can be the only solution if I am feeling... anxious, or confused, or lost."

     In her periphery, she can see Benedict turn his head to look at her, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

     "Do you often feel that way?" he asks.

     For a moment her heart clenches in her chest. Has she said too much? Something about it felt so easy, perhaps because she is here with him, in a place she knows so well. But now she finds herself wanting to backtrack. Instead, Winifred sighs and turns to look at Benedict.

     "Always. A little bit," she answers, the honesty surprising herself. "But here, I can step outside of it for a while."

     "Perhaps I could do with a bit of that at the moment."

     Now it is her turn to be concerned. "Does something trouble you?"

     "Well, 'trouble' is a strong word... but fine, yes, a little."

     "Then hop on your feet," says Winifred, "we shall walk until we find a solution."

She softly dismounts from the tree trunk, Benedict following suit. This time they stroll more slowly along the path and fall into step with one another. Winifred glances expectantly at him as they walk; she had wondered whether something was on his mind.

"As I am sure you already know, Anthony and Kate are leaving for their honeymoon soon, and I am being left in charge of the estate. Taking over his duties in his absence, as it were..." Benedict lets out a half-sigh, strained by a lack of complete relaxation. "I have no idea how it should go. But he has briefed me on what to do, in typical Anthony fashion."

     "Are you doubtful you will be able to fill that role?"

     "Well... yes. Just being the 'spare' does not prepare you for all the skills that come with it, unfortunately."

     Benedict's voice is laced with self-deprecation the whole time he confesses this, so as not to be taken too seriously — but Winifred is no fool. She can gather that it is clearly weighing on him.

     "Your brother is going on honeymoon, not giving up his viscountcy," she points out. "I am sure you will be more than capable of holding the fort in his absence."

     "Speak for yourself," Benedict says, shooting her a crooked smile. "You certainly seem to be running a tight ship with your home."

     Winifred shakes her head defiantly. "That is entirely different. There is not nearly as much to manage here as there is at Aubrey Hall." However, when she glances at him, there is still a pensiveness about the second Bridgerton. She slows down and stops for a moment, prompting Benedict to also halt and look at her.

"I know you," she tells him, "and you will have no issues taking over for a while."

Benedict blinks at her. His chest inflates with a deep breath, slowly trying to take her words for gospel. He gives a nod of gratitude, a thank you, before they start walking again. Winifred will believe her words if he won't.

They stroll for a few minutes more, arriving where the path spreads into a long road covered with trees. A carriage is being slowly pulled along ahead of them, so they stand to the side and let them through. In the pause, Winifred notices Benedict has hesitated — something has caught his eye in their surroundings. He looks around with a slowly contemplative expression on his face.

"This place... it feels familiar..." Benedict's eyes suddenly light up with recognition as he turns to face her. "This is where we first met. Do you remember?"

Winifred furrows her brows. Then, it hits her like a wave. Of course. Through the fog of what 1813 had been for her, she suddenly recalls strolling along this very path — seeing two Bridgertons on horseback, unbeknownst to her at the time, and giving them directions. It was a day on which she had felt mostly numb to the world around her. And yet somehow, that moment sears through.

"Yes, you are right. About a year ago."

"Almost to the date," he adds.

"You were here with your brother, weren't you? And the both of you were so lost," Winifred remembers.

"We had been turning circles in the village over and over," Benedict recalls, amused. "If it weren't for you giving us directions, we might still be there, to this very day..."

Winifred tilts her head at him curiously and shrugs her arms, trying to bring her shawl further up her back as it slips. There is one thing she cannot quite understand.

     "I am surprised you remember it," she says. "That was such a fleeting moment, unimportant otherwise."

     Staring down at the ground, he replies, "I suppose... you made an impression on me."

     Winifred can only scoff at this. "When we then met in London, it took a good ten minutes before you recognised me."

     "I wanted to be certain before assuming anything!" Benedict exclaims defensively. Then, with a surprisingly earnest note, he adds: "I did not forget you."

     She manages a coy smile, but already she cannot help cast her mind back to that very day. Winifred feels so distant from the person she was a year ago. There is so much she has learned, for better or for worse, due to her new circumstances — most of all about herself. It feels bittersweet to experience such distance from that time.

But above all, Winifred thinks she feels proud.

"Do you think you will return to London for the next season?" Benedict asks.

"Possibly. Maybe even earlier than that," she replies, dropping her arms at her sides as they walk. "I think Madeline would like me to be there for the birth."

"How is she?"

"Mother and baby are well, I assume. She can still write me the lengthiest letters—"

     Winifred stops; a sharp inhale gets caught in her throat, one of complete surprise.

     Benedict's hand has just flown to the small of her back.

"Your shawl," he points out. His hand is pinning her shawl against her back, so it does not slip and fall to the ground. Benedict's touch relaxes there, the warmth spreading while he winds the other end of the fabric back over her arm, fixing her shawl back in place. Then, just like that, he retracts it — as though nothing more than a breeze brushing over her.

Except it was much more than that.

Winifred is rendered speechless; not world-tilting, by any means, but paused in time. It was the briefest of caresses that she barely had time to process. And yet, she could feel her attention hone in completely on the space where Benedict's hand had sat. The touch itself was not so much the most shocking thing of all... even if it was reminiscent of a simple touch she might have received when she was married, one she wishes she had never taken for granted.

     No, it was the crackle of desire that shot through Winifred with it.

     It took her completely by surprise, one that still lasts in the passing seconds after. She suddenly becomes aware that her jaw may have dropped ever so slightly, or that she might be staring at Benedict a little too outwardly — the expression he gives her in return says it all.

"We should... go home," Winifred exhales slowly, "or else we shall be walking for miles."

"Lead the way," says Benedict with a little bob of his head.

She steps forward, taking the lead as they turn down the road to take a shortcut back to Highbourne. With Benedict trailing behind her, Winifred pulls her shawl even tighter around her and releases a tense sigh — then she loosens the shawl again. Is she too hot or too cold? She cannot tell. Her face becomes drawn with pensiveness, as if the imprint of his hand remained on the small of her back.

It was nothing, she tells herself, it was just a surprising sensation.

Nevertheless, Winifred remains significantly quieter as they start treading the path back home. She can soon spot the tip of the chimney at Highbourne, familiarity washing over her with relief. Quite happily she trudges towards the gate... only to realise she is alone.

Where has Mr. Bridgerton disappeared to?

Puzzled, she looks behind her to see Benedict mid-squat as he picks up something from the ground. Upon being noticed, he straightens up so fast she fears he might pull a muscle.

     "What are you doing?" Winifred asks.

     He hides one hand behind his back. "Nothing—"

     "No, I saw you pick something up from the ground," she implores, curiosity piqued now. "What was it?"

     Benedict freezes on the spot. Whatever is in his hand, he weighs up with an embarrassed sigh; he can barely even look her in the eyes. Then, after what appears to be much deliberation, he sheepishly uncurls his fingers to reveal a small rock sitting in his palm — rugged with a sudden flat, smooth edge on one side.

     Is that it? thinks Winifred, raising an eyebrow.

"It is just a rock," he murmurs.

"Evidently..."

"Before you think I am mad, let me explain myself. I suppose..." Benedict pauses, as though he cannot believe he is telling her this. He shuts his eyes and sighs again. "I... well, I sort of... collect them. Although perhaps that makes me sound more mad."

     "I had no idea you had such a keen interest in the Earth Sciences," Winifred muses, hesitant but increasingly interested now.

"I do not. These are for sentimental value, really. I've picked them up out and about ever since I was a child. They serve as a reminder, of days or moments which hold meaning to me. Good times and bad. I have one from the day my father died—"

     As soon as Benedict says it, he seems suddenly struck by the memory. He stops right in the middle of what he was saying and stares solemnly at the rock in his hand. She has only seen him speak about his father on one or two occasions. Both times, she had the distinct impression that it was not something he frequently did.

     A breeze sweeps through the silence, suddenly possessing a cooler edge that makes Winifred shiver. She tucks her hands under her shawl as her gaze softens towards Benedict. Her eyes flicker down to the rock in his palm and it fills her with warmth — this new fact is not embarrassing at all, but in fact endears him to her.

     "So... does that mean today holds meaning, for you?" Winifred asks quietly. Out of nowhere, she feels a youthful shyness in asking it.

     Benedict finally looks up at her once more. A glint of the setting sun catches his eyes, that brilliant greenish-blue hue even brighter than usual in a single glance. All he does is smile — not one of his more charmed ones, but something more genuine. With a soft chuckle, he brushes past her and overtakes to walk up the path.

     Contentment blooms in Winifred's chest.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

FOLLOWING some tea to refresh them after the walk, it is time for Benedict to go. He had stayed for longer than intended — the time slipped by like sand in the hourglass, with far too much ease.

"Are you all ready?" Winifred asks, watching him ready his horse to leave.

"I think so, yes," Benedict nods. "Thank you for today. The walk, the advice, the company. All of it."

     "Likewise," she replies nonchalantly. If only he knew. It had been quite a relief to have another visitor at Highbourne. When her sisters left the other day, it seemed to spell out her solitude more than ever. Benedict's visit had been a temporary distraction from that.

     "Really. It was... much appreciated, Mrs. Erstwhile."

     Winifred grimaces, unconsciously, at the statement. Something about it does not sit right. It never used to bother her. But now, it simply feels out-of-place.

     "What is it?" he asks.

     She could not possibly say. It would sound silly, surely.

     "Mrs. Erstwhile?"

     There it is again. "It feels strange to hear you call me that."

     "... That is your name, is it not?"

     "I know, but 'Mrs. Erstwhile' sounds so matronly coming out of your mouth," Winifred remarks. It is not just due to their closeness in the recent months — of all the people to stick by formalities, having Benedict still address her so formally feels bizarre.

     The Bridgerton laughs, caught by surprise. "Then I suppose you shall be wanting a new name."

     "This is ridiculous," she murmurs, "forget that I mentioned it—"

     "Might I call you Winifred?" Benedict asks; sincerely, this time.

     It roots her to the spot. Much like the sudden caress on their walk, Winifred finds her mind lingering for a spacious moment on that word. Her very own name. It should overstep those unwritten codes of polite society's etiquette — but that feels completely irrelevant right now. All she knows is that Benedict is close, and close enough that being addressed as Mrs. Erstwhile and Mr. Bridgerton feels like a spent charade.

     Something feels right about the way Benedict says her first name.

     "Only if you might allow me the same courtesy," she replies.

     He pauses. Then he nods, agreeing. "Just between us, of course."

     "Of course..."

     A comfortable beat passes, though charged with something inexplicable. Benedict then exhales softly and looks out at the moat. Winifred looks too, searching for whatever he has his eyes on.

     "I do not know when I shall next see you," he says, detectable apprehension in his voice.

     Winifred fiddles with the corners of her shawl and replies, "Who knows? Perhaps a few months?"

     "Something will bring us together, I am sure," Benedict adds as he mounts his horse. "It has worked for us thus far."

     As she smiles softly, the Bridgerton mounts his horse. She tries not to think too much about how quiet the house will be once he is gone. Now that the sun is slowly sinking down, the chillier October breeze is nipping her skin.

"Goodbye, Benedict," Winifred says.

Benedict's gaze shoots up and locks on hers, slightly startled. Almost as though he had not expected to hear his name in return. His lips part slightly as he looks at her, and in return, Winifred feels a long-lost comfort. Then he seems to compose himself, nodding goodbye and slowly trotting away on horseback.

As he disappears from her periphery, she stands alone in the middle of the courtyard. She tilts her chin to the trees and closes her eyes. The deep breath she inhales, the lungful of air, does nothing to dispel the knot twisting in her stomach... although it is not unpleasant, per se. Merely unsettling. She knows one thing:

The seasons are changing.

What that means for her, Winifred cannot yet be certain of.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Not sure if this chapter flowed very well, and it was a bit shorter, but my gripes about that are overridden by the Benifred treats we got. The hand-on-back touch!! First name basis!! Love how in any other fic this would sound silly, but in a period drama, this is mind-blowing stuff. This chapter was one I wanted to use to really introduce Winifred's first inklings of feeling something for Benedict 👀 believe me, this is only the tip of the iceberg.

The rock-collecting detail about Benedict is something I pinched from his book! I haven't read AOFAG fully, but I did find a copy once and flicked through for any little details I could add as I write his character — I'm not waiting until season 4 (fingers crossed) to learn and add those. Side note, I'll probably write my own storyline whenever we get to the end of season three in this book. One of the biggest reasons is actually because I want to enjoy Benophie with a clear conscience when they arrive, instead of trying to write around Sophie... but now I'll shut up before I accidentally spoil anything.

There are two (??) chapters left that take place before season three, however I'll probably try to space them out a bit more. I just thought chapters 21 & 22 went well together.

P.S. this fic recently hit 30K reads and counting?? I'm gobsmacked and honestly a bit nervous and overwhelmed, but thank you so much! Hello to any new readers, I hope you are enjoying the ride.

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 23/05/2024