CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
mother and baby.

( + content warning: difficult childbirth/labour )

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     BRIDGERTON HOUSE HAS A WHOLLY DIFFERENT ATMOSPHERE IN WINTER. With all the ton's families usually spending the colder months in their country homes, it is a novelty for Benedict to see their house in Grosvenor Square hardened with frost. There is almost something more ghostly about it. Perhaps because of the ton being mostly being absent from London in this early February.

     Their time until now has been spent at Aubrey Hall, like every autumn and winter. It has only been different from any other time because Benedict has been the one in charge... well, technically. He has been responsible for overseeing some of Anthony's duties in his absence. And he must say, for all the times he teased his brother, dipping his toes into what it is like to run an estate has been no mean feat. There is a deeper respect he has gained towards what Anthony had thrust upon him at such an early age. This is what Benedict is the 'spare' for.

     But has he enjoyed playing that role for the time being?

     Surprisingly, yes.

     Benedict would never wish to be Viscount Bridgerton. But he must admit, having a sense of purpose was refreshing and a much-needed lift to his spirits. He has taken it in his stride, from simple tasks such as signing things off and keeping accounts, to organising larger events (with the help of his mother, of course, as a seasoned hostess) — even if the family Christmas did include Hyacinth lighting the tablecloth on fire instead of the pudding... the footman who extinguished the flame was the hero of the hour.

... In spite of the near heart attack that incident gave him, the sentiment still stands. Benedict enjoyed having something to do.

But now, the Bridgertons have been beckoned back to Mayfair. They are stood in the drafty entrance to the home in a huddle of attempted warmth. Well, those of them who are left — Colin is away on his travels, and Kate and Anthony have been on honeymoon for a good few months now.

"Well... home sweet home?" Benedict wrinkles his nose.

"Someone needs to make haste and light a fire, it is freezing in here," Eloise shudders, brushing past him.

     "Mrs. Wilson already has one lit in the drawing room," Violet says, "why don't you all go and warm yourselves in there?"

     The remainder of the Bridgertons present do so without hesitation. Eloise is even more embittered than she has been recently, perhaps by the cold; she certainly did not seem keen to be plucked away from Aubrey Hall so soon. Francesca, on the other hand, exhibits a quiet calm as she trots upstairs and keeps to herself. Of course Gregory and Hyacinth find something to bicker about on their way up.

     Benedict almost joins his siblings, but he catches his mother's watchful eye lingering on Francesca. He knows that parental gaze all too well. So he stays back, looking at her expectantly.

     "Has Francesca told you anything?" Violet asks in a hushed voice.

     "As always, no."

     "Well, there must be good reason that she asked if we could arrive in London two months before the season starts."

Benedict thinks he has his guesses. Although Francesca remains the enigma of his siblings, she is equally the most simple to please — she does not ask much from her family beyond peace and quiet. When she is not staying with their aunt in Bath, she is operating on her own terms quite happily. He suspects the case is similar now. Francesca seems to need some settling-in and self-preparation before her debut this year. She had tentatively suggested it to her mother and Benedict, and they saw little reason why it should be an issue... so here they are.

"I must admit, I was surprised as well. But I can hardly complain," Benedict smirks. "If it was always this quiet in London, I might be tempted to stay all year round."

     Violet either misses his sarcasm or ignores it. "We aren't the only ones. I would not be surprised if Lady Danbury is watching over Mayfair already... oh, and I believe the Earl and Countess of Colchester are in town!" His mother perks up in delight. "Their baby is due soon, and Lady Osborne always remains in the city for her confinement."

Benedict instinctively looks towards one of the large windows at the entrance, where through the milky winter's daylight he can see the Osborne house across the square. His mind gallops by association to Winifred — he vaguely remembers her mentioning the birth when he last saw her, all those months ago now.

"Do you suppose Lady Osborne's family will be in town for the birth, too?" he asks.

"I don't see why not," Violet hums. "They have been every other time. It was certainly the case, I remember, when Camille was born towards the end of the season a few years ago."

He just nods, his gaze shifting keenly to the door again. Then, in a flash of self-awareness, Benedict gently shakes his head.

"Did you want me to speak to Mrs. Wilson?"

"Oh no, dear, you go and warm yourself by the fire. I can take care of it."

"Are you sure?" Benedict tilts his head, slightly mischievous. "I do not mind. I am technically the head of the household whilst Anthony is absent—"

"And I am still your mother," Violet insists, "and you, my son. Go on and join your brother and sisters."

With a sigh, Benedict resigns himself and starts walking upstairs, all of the Bridgerton family portraits staring down at him from every wall. As he nears the drawing room, the sounds of an impeccably-played sonata draw him nearer — Francesca has already positioned herself at the pianoforte within ten minutes of being back in Mayfair. Benedict has to chuckle to himself.

And we're back.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WINIFRED gently knocks on the door, careful not to startle her sister too much in her condition. Madeline puts down the book she was reading — poetry, naturally, by Goethe — and releases a sigh of relief.

     "Oh good, you're here," she shifts slightly in her seat. "Please, sit."

     Quietly, Winifred pulls herself a chair up to sit next to Madeline. Her sister is heavily pregnant, the baby due imminently, but she can never simply stay in bed for her confinement. She finds her in a new part of the room every time she enters it. But Madeline has done this three times before, and Winifred would therefore hesitate before dispensing her own judgement too quickly.

     "How have you been settling in?" asks Madeline.

     "Oh, very well," Winifred nods. "Thank you for inviting me."

     "Thank you for coming," her sister insists, "all of you."

     All of them includes not just Winifred, but also Abigail and Jemima, and their mother. It was best for their father to stay at home again — travelling in the winter was especially tricky for his condition. It was almost guaranteed that Charles would be pacing the house restlessly until he heard that his daughter and grandchild were safe and healthy.

     In the meantime, the women from the Seymour family have all gathered for Madeline's fourth confinement and birth. Mothers were relegated to a period of strict rest just before, and after the birth. Being surrounded by their loved ones was a particularly great comfort.

     "I am only sorry you were not invited sooner... fourth time's the charm?"

     Winifred's lips thin into a smile. "So, what was it you wanted to tell me?"

     "Ah, yes..." Madeline's hand comes to rest on her belly, with a twinkle in her eyes; the same one that often appears when she has important or treasured news to impart. "Silas and I have been discussing who should be the godparents to the child. There was no question about it for us, especially to me, but I just had to ask you first... would you be the godmother?"

     Something pangs in Winifred's ribcage, something like honour. She has barely parted her lips to respond before Madeline interjects.

     "Only if you want to be! And you know I would have asked you earlier. In fact, I wanted to ask you when Lucian was born, but considering the circumstances I didn't want to upset—"

     "I know," Winifred promptly cuts her off. She knows what she is trying to say. A few years ago, she might have been here in London and being asked this same question instead of right now. But Lucian's birth was freshly on the heels of her own miscarriage — she thinks Madeline must have sensed something and did not want to upset her further. However, dancing around the subject had only irritated Winifred more...

     That miscommunication is now long behind them.

     "Of course I will," she pledges, right there. "I'd be honoured, Thank you."

     Madeline smiles, reaching her hand out. Winifred joins it with hers and squeezes it.

"It is lovely having you back," Madeline says, shifting the subject. "I worry about you, sometimes. All alone at Highbourne."

"I am not lonely. You needn't worry," Winifred assures her quickly.

Although... her sister's concerns are more on-the-nose than usual.

Winifred had always been someone quite happy in her own company, and even a content marriage did not change that. But recently, she has been finding it more difficult to ignore the gap left in her life without a companion. It traces back even to when Joseph was alive and away fighting somewhere; the difference is she at least knew he should come home, eventually. Now, the absence of someone to live with is a little more... real.

However, she would never say she was entirely alone. She does have her household staff, who have become better company and more intertwined with her life than those of her friends or neighbours. This Christmas, for instance, the roads were too frozen and snow-covered and seemed to relegate Winifred to spending the holiday on her own — so she made the most of it. The cook whipped up a modest Christmas dinner for them all, staff included, and Winifred invited them to eat at the table with her. After some apprehension over whether they were acting above their station, they accepted. She can say with some certainty it was one of her favourite Christmases she had ever spent.

There is nevertheless something missing, and she knows it. She is stubbornly sure she could never remarry. But Winifred would be lying if she said there were days where the loneliness didn't bother her.

... Of course, she does not reveal a word of this to Madeline.

"How are you feeling?" Winifred asks, easing the subject back to her sister. Her gaze flickers down to her pregnant belly.

With a motherly instinct, Madeline smooths her hand over the large bump with a heavy sigh. "Oh, the same as the last three times. I scarcely sleep, I am short of breath most of the time, and Silas refuses to let me do so much as stir my tea without assistance."

"Well, anything I can do to help, I am here."

"I know... thank you."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     THE task of bringing a child into the world is known for never being easy.

So when Madeline's water breaks during lunchtime, Winifred thinks she knows what they are in for.

     In the early stages of the labour, the doctor advises the mother's peace of mind. As her contractions endure, Madeline is encouraged to take whatever position is most comfortable, whether that be standing, sitting or lying down. Her relatives all do rotations to spend time with her — Octavia is there every time her eldest daughter beckons. Silas splits his time just as anxiously between the birthing room and wherever his other children are, not wanting to neglect either party. That is where Abigail and Jemima come in to distract Adrian, Camille and Lucian from the impending birth. Even Persephone makes herself useful and keeps the household otherwise running smoothly.

Winifred hardly gets a chance to sit down over the hours that pass. She is constantly on her feet, fetching something or someone in the house. More than happy to be busy, she almost ends up out-doing the housekeeper (even when Persephone prudently reminds her, "We have people who can do that," on multiple occasions).

A number of hours later, the winter sun having set outside, she has just climbed the stairs to the birthing chamber. She has an idea of what she might expect to find. When Abigail and Jemima were born, it had not been very long after this that their mother had to begin pushing. However, Winifred finds Madeline just as she has been the last time; sweating, crying out in pain and stood up as she clings onto the bed-post. The doctor looms pensively in the background as Octavia tries to rub soothing circles on her aching spine.

"I have more damp towels, as you asked for," Winifred pants, "and the maids are preparing some more."

Octavia simply nods thank you, already dabbing Madeline's skin with it. "There, my dear. You are doing marvellously."

"Oh, God..." Madeline groans and shudders, fingers trembling with pain around the bedpost.

"I think it might be wise to speak to Lord Osborne," says the doctor, calmly.

"Why? He is looking after his children," Octavia counters.

"Well, he may need to come and look after this one for a while."

"What is the meaning of that?!"

Madeline lets out another cry of pain, craning her neck down to the floorboards; her hair fall like dark, wet seaweed obscuring her face. "No, he is right... something isn't working... I should have... oh!"

"I'll find him," Winifred says simply, before anyone else can argue. If nothing else, she knows Madeline will not object to having her husband in the room.

She returns a few moments later with Silas in tow. "I'm here... I'm here..." He crosses over immediately to Madeline, now sat on the side of the bed. He completely ignores the doctor for a moment and kneels, then presses a kiss to her clammy temple. Even with her face contorted in pain, there is a twinge of relief that appears the moment his lips make contact. Then, gripping her hand, Silas turns around to the doctor. "What is the matter? I was told you needed to speak with me?"

"Yes, my lord," the doctor says through his teeth. "The birth is... not progressing as quickly as one might hope by this stage."

"And what does that mean?" Silas asks.

"It means there isn't enough room for the baby," Madeline gasps, after holding her breath through a sharp pain. She either does not see her husband's alarmed expression, or pretends not to.

The doctor elaborates: "The countess has not dilated nearly enough for what is expected, given how much time has passed."

"So..." Silas pauses for a beat, not daring to think the worst. "Would we need to take... action?"

"A procedure, you mean? We would prefer not to, my lord, as the risks are... well-known. The baby does not appear to be in breech, so any interference should not be necessary."

Winifred spots Silas's eyes flit over to a table, where surgical forceps and tools catch a glint of candlelight. He gulps.

"But of course, progressing naturally also poses its risks. The countess is already exhausted, but should the labour be prolonged into the second stage, too, then we might have consider... such a procedure."

"So what is your plan? How can we possibly know which is best?" Silas asks, more firmly this time. Madeline's knuckles whiten around his hand.

"... We wait."

Through all of this, Winifred stays silent, completely alert and waiting to receive further instruction. Something takes over her in a high-pressure situation such as this one — everything becomes finely-tuned and focused, setting aside other wants and needs until it is completed.

     But when she heard of a 'wait', she expected a few hours more at the most.

     Oh, how wrong Winifred had been.

     The contractions persist all night, more agonising as they grow, and yet Madeline dilates painfully slowly. Sending the children to sleep whilst their mother is screaming the roof down a few rooms away feels awful — as much as he hates leaving her, Silas goes to try and help the staff soothe his daughter and sons. Abigail and Jemima are just as perturbed by the severity of the screams. Octavia is determined to stay at Madeline's side at all costs, but even she cannot do it forever. After hours of kneeling, her knees begin to throb and ache, and she needs to take rest...

     Just another hour, Winifred tells herself when she grows tired, and then you can take a break.

     The other part of her simply refuses. The more time passes, the harder it is for her to leave Madeline with any peace of mind. In the darkness of the night, Winifred is perched by her bed and gripping her hand through it all. It has been awful to watch — all the tears, drowsiness, panic, fear from her big sister. As she understands it, Madeline's experience giving birth to Adrian, Camille and Lucian had been comparatively much easier and rather swift.

     She certainly hopes it was nothing like this, shaking and shivering in her own sweat.

     "There you go," Winifred whispers, mopping Madeline's brow for what feels like the millionth time. Her eyes sting and strain against the candlelight casting shadows in the room.

     The door clicks open and a looming shadow walks in. Persephone's silhouette makes itself evident in the room. The dowager countess's hair is in one slick braid down her shoulder, gossamer threads of silver threaded through them. Seeing her in her robes and nightgown like this feels so... wrong. She takes one look at Madeline and Winifred, then furrows her eyebrows.

     "Why are you still here?" Persephone asks, perhaps harsher than she meant to be. "I can watch her now."

     Winifred shakes her head. "I can stay, too."

     Surprisingly, the dowager countess does not try arguing with her. Is that a hint of concern in her eyes? She keeps at a safe distance and crosses her arms while staring at her daughter-in-law.

     Madeline's breath grows ragged as her head lulls forwards. "Chamber pot..."

     Winifred does not question it, grabbing the chamber pot quickly from beneath the bed. Madeline grabs the rims of it and positions her face over it. She whimpers for a few moments, fighting both the pain of the contractions and her nausea, before she finally throws up. Then her head sinks back weakly into the pillow.

     "Just keep going, Mad," says Winifred, "you have done this three times before, and you can do it again."

     "I don't know..."

     "What?"

     "Don't know... if I can..." Madeline murmurs, her cheeks damp with sweat and tears.

     Alarm bells are set off immediately in Winifred's mind. Please not this. But Madeline is completely drained — she can barely sit up straight, the continuous pain scrambling her senses. She cannot give up now.

    "You can, and you will. However long it takes, you are going to make it through, and you are going to bring a beautiful, healthy child into the world... and I will be with you every step of the way. So will Silas, and Mama... we are all here. But you have to try for us."

     Madeline nods shakily, the contraction seeming to intensify. She suddenly lets out a loud sob, to which Winifred responds by letting her nestle her head into her chest. Persephone watches from the sidelines, looking sobered; she murmurs something to the doctor before they both step aside to the opposite end of the birthing chamber. Winifred does not eavesdrop too much — although she does catch the words "my grandchild" and "deserve the very best doctors" somewhere in-between.

     Regrettably, the contractions continue throughout the rest of the night and into the early morning. Octavia and Silas have already started dropping in to see her, unaware of just how long Winifred has been at her side. Only then does she allow herself some brief respite. She can barely stomach a light breakfast, her own insides knotted with tension, and then she is straight back again. Her first duty, she decides, is to fetch more damp towels (they had run out during the night).

     When she arrives back upstairs, Silas is found not in the birthing chamber with his wife, but stood just outside.

     "Silas? Is everything well?" she asks.

     "Yes, yes. Well– you know– considering..." Silas swallows thickly, shutting his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wooden panels of the door. "I hate seeing her like that. Perhaps worst of all, she hates me seeing her like that."

     Winifred nods, clutching the basket of cloths tighter.

     "We didn't plan for a fourth, you know. It just happened. And now—"

     "She is going to be alright," Winifred reminds him firmly, whilst willing it into existence.

     "I know," he sighs, "but I wish she did not have to endure such pain... and how can it be for this long? It wasn't like that with the others."

     A beat passes, where Silas looks like a shell of his usual self, upbeat and charismatic. His sleeves are rolled up and his cravat slightly undone; even his sleek black hair is frazzled from a sleepless night. "I'll be alright in a minute," he adds, barely in a whisper.

     "Of course..."

     Then he seems to remember something, but doesn't have enough energy to perk up. "Oh, we had a message from the Bridgertons this morning. Lady Bridgerton wanted us to know that, should we need any assistance or support of any kind, they are happy to help."

     "... How kind," Winifred murmurs, feeling a tug of fondness in her chest. It almost threatens to set her off-balance from this careful focus she has established for herself.

     By the time evening approaches again, finally, Madeline seems to have enough room for the baby to come through. But it is not that simple — drained from hours of relentless contractions, she has been drained of any energy she could use to push. She had only stolen glimpses of sleep between the waves of pain.

     Now positioned on the bed as instructed by the doctor, Madeline is surrounded by loved ones — Silas holding one hand, his arm around her shoulders, and Octavia holding the other hand, whilst Winifred sits further down. The struggling mother is drowsy, every time she tries to push hardly getting anywhere. It didn't seem possible she had any more tears in her, but they keep flowing in streams of frustration.

     "You are doing so well, my dear," Octavia squeezes Madeline's hand encouragingly.

     "Lady Osborne, on the count of three, you must push..."

     Madeline seems to despair at the doctor's command. "How can I possibly—"

     "You can," Winifred reminds her. "Think how far you have already come."

     Silas brushes the hair away from his wife's face, the motion prompting her to stare at him, desperate for encouragement. It is suddenly as if only the two of them are in the room. "I love you, and I love our children," he says, smiling slightly at her. "And I am going to love this child, as I know you will too. Just think of that. I love you, I love you, I love you..."

     He presses delicate kisses to her knuckles, each one giving her strength. There is something so intimate in Silas's words, Winifred almost feels like she is intruding. But they work. Something switches in Madeline. It is as though she can see the end of this and it re-ignites her determination. Despite her weakness, she manages to sit up better in her position, clamping the hands of her husband and mother tighter. She gives a nod to the doctor, as if to say, I'm ready.

     "On the count of three: one... two... three!"

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     BENEDICT remembers the night Hyacinth was born.

     He remembers that there was no great certainty his mother and his new sister would make it out together.

He can still hear Violet's agonised screams, and Daphne's sweet lullaby sung to comfort a trembling Eloise. He can see the flashes of lightning streaking the walls as the thunderstorm raged outside. He can remember Colin trying to cheer up his siblings, even though his face told a different story. He can smell the fear, sense how tightly-drawn Anthony had been as he tried to take on the responsibility of his mother's health in the wake of their father's death. And Benedict, well... he had felt so helpless.

The Bridgertons would not wish that upon anyone. So, when they had heard of the prolonged childbirth opposite their house, no second thought had been needed to offer a helping hand. The children have all come over to Bridgerton House along with Abigail and Jemima — the screams could be heard all through Osborne House, it was said, and the youngsters were particularly distressed by it during the night. The rest of the household have all remained to help the countess through the remainder of the birth.

A solemness tightens the air in the drawing room, but Violet is doing everything she can to put her guests at ease. They are not the only ones on edge. Benedict knows he is reflecting upon that awful night from years ago, so he would imagine his siblings who could remember it are doing the same.

"Here you go, dear," Violet hands Abigail a cup of tea.

"Thank you," she nods, her voice steady; but the cup rattles against the saucer as she takes a trembling sip.

"The doctors are very good here. And Lady Osborne is strong, I have no doubts she will get through this."

Adrian, who has been dangling his legs over the sofa next to his aunt, suddenly asks: "Is Mama going to stop screaming soon?"

The brutally honesty is like a knife to the heart. A beat of silence cloaks the room, shaken by the little boy's question. He may be the oldest son, but only a week shy of his seventh birthday, he cannot possibly put on a brave face.

Abigail more than steps up to the occasion. She pats the seat next to her, putting an arm around her nephew as he sits there. "It cannot be much longer now."

"I heard a doctor say they had concerns..." Adrian's bottom lip quivers slightly, his eyes shimmering. "She will be alright, won't she?"

"Adrian, your mother is one of the strongest people I know. She shall conquer this, as will your new brother or sister..." With a playful glint in her eyes, she hugs him nearer and adds, "Then think how much you can dote on them afterwards! Your mother would be very appreciative."

"I could read to her..." he sniffs.

Elsewhere, little Camille suddenly pauses her game with Hyacinth and confesses: "I miss Mama..." in a low mumble.

While Benedict frowns, Violet hands him another cup of tea. "This is for Jemima," she whispers.

He looks over to the other end of the drawing room. By the crackling fireplace, Eloise and Jemima are seated together, the latter hugging her knees to her chest and looking rather pale. Francesca is sat opposite them, offering a quiet and comforting presence. When Benedict approaches with the tea, he notices Jemima's fingernails are mostly bitten down.

"For you," he says kindly.

Jemima takes the tea wordlessly and holds it in her hands. She keeps staring out of the window, almost nauseated with nerves.

"Surely something must happen soon..." Eloise proclaims; it may be an attempt at comfort, but more than anything, it shines a light on her own fears. Benedict seems to remember his younger sister being particularly affected by the ordeal when Hyacinth was born — the colour bled from her face rapidly when she heard of Madeline struggling.

"Things have been happening the whole time," Jemima counters weakly. She takes a shaky gulp of tea and stares at the liquid. "I could not stand to be in that house... and yet I know I should be there, helping."

"You are still there for your sister. That has not changed," Francesca assures, as Benedict sits next to his sister.

"Indeed, you are coping far better than I—" Eloise begins to say, then cuts herself off.

Heaving a loud sigh, Jemima glances over at her sister's natural way with comforting the children. Then she stares back out of the window. "Not sure that I would be of much use, anyway. Look at Abigail with the little ones. And Winifred... well, she may as well be made of steel. She has operated like a machine ever since Madeline went into labour. I haven't a clue how she does it, so focused. It was the same when we were children..."

There is a lingering pause, but one that Jemima clings onto, as if she wishes to say more. The Bridgertons have the good sense not to interrupt; it feels clear there is something she wishes to get off her chest.

"When we were younger, quite a few years ago now, our father fell ill... very ill. I must have been seven or eight years old. For a few nights, Papa was so ill that we had our doubts whether he would make it through. Mama refused to leave his side the whole time. So aside from our governess and the staff, we were making sense of it on our own..."

Jemima's expression sours at the memory. "Madeline tried to comfort all of us, but she couldn't stop crying. And I remember Abigail, she– she kept kneeling down and blowing kisses under the door to our father... but Winifred? She was stone cold. She simply snapped into action. It was her who ensured we all went to sleep at night, ate all our meals during the day."

Benedict finds himself trying to imagine the story — yes, he can see it so clearly. And it hardly surprises him one bit. Winifred has always given the impression of shouldering everyone's burdens without a second thought. He doesn't need to look out of the window to know how tirelessly she must be working right now.

"So, I am hardly surprised that she is keeping the ship afloat tonight, just as she did back then. She was our anchor..." Jemima chews on her lip for a moment. Then, sheepishly, she adds: "You won't tell Winifred I said that, will you?"

     "Said what?" Benedict replies.

     For the first time that evening, Jemima almost smiles.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     TEN o'clock.

     Benedict blinks tiredly at the clock face in Anthony's study, unsettled the further time stretches on. It has been another four hours since they opened their doors to Abigail, Jemima and the children. The windows in Osborne House continue to be tirelessly lit up. At this point, Benedict saw no point in trying to return them home, so — as long as they did not mind — they were welcome to sleep here for the evening.

     A gentle knock on the door stirs him. Benedict keeps his eyes shut.

     "Come in," he blurts out.

     It opens just a crack, Violet standing in the doorway. "Have you heard the news?"

     He snaps wide awake in his chair. "Is it over?"

     "It's over. The countess and her baby are alright. Mrs. Erstwhile just told us."

     Benedict's sigh of relief catches in his throat.

     "She came here? Is she well?"

     "I think so," Violet whispers, through the stillness of the house. "But she was keen to return home again. I thought you might want to see her out, if she has not left already."

     Benedict gets up out of his chair, already heading for the door. His mother gently bids him goodnight before he sets off through the house — briskly walking, but not so loudly that he might wake the rest of the family. Dim candlelight guides him through the halls of Bridgerton House, into the open staircases

He looks around, searching through the silence. He almost thinks she has left...

Then his gaze drops down the staircase. A woman is sat near the bottom on one of the steps, her shoulders drooping as she rests her forehead on the heel of her hand. Benedict takes a couple of steps down; he feels concern run chillingly through his veins. His footsteps must alert her, for the woman's neck cranes around to look at him. Winifred's hair has half-fallen out of the bun which is usually so carefully-styled, and the bags under her eyes carry hours worth of worry.

Oh, Winifred. He has never seen her looking so shattered.

"Are you alright?" Benedict asks, walking down to her level.

Winifred just waves a hand, replying hoarsely: "I needed to sit down. I shall only be a moment." Then her hands come to rest limply on her lap, completely drained of energy. Benedict grunts softly as he lowers himself to be seated next to her, perched on one of the steps nearest to the ground floor.

"Is your sister... how is she?"

A beat passes, where Winifred swallows thickly.

"Towards the end, Madeline stopped making sense. It is no wonder, really, with nearly seven and thirty hours of enduring such pain. She was so exhausted she could barely scream, let alone push when it came to it..." Winifred heaves an enormous, weary sigh as she stares ahead into the distance. "But they say she should recover just fine, with enough rest. They did not have to carry out a single surgery. Madeline did it all on her own."

Benedict exhales a sigh of relief; almost more for her than for him.

"And the baby is well," she adds. "It's a girl. Her name is Natasha—"

On Natasha, Winifred's voice cracks, as though it had been worn down with sandpaper. A thick teardrop slips down her cheek as she no longer finds the strength to hold them in — no sobs or weeping, instead almost like an involuntary leakage from exhaustion. Seeing her cry, even if just a little, makes something ache in him. Benedict quickly reaches for an unused handkerchief in his pocket and hands it to her. Winifred nods wordlessly in thanks and begins trying to stem her eyes with it.

"I apologise, I—"

"Please, don't," Benedict insists.

Suddenly, all he wants to do is wrap her up in his arms. The simple yet fervent desire surprises him. His hand even hovers behind her back, lingering in the space between with outstretched fingers... before it lands despondently on the carpeted step, next to her dress.

"You have been incredible," he tells her.

"It was nothing special," Winifred sighs, "she needed me."

"I'm sure that Madeline does not think it was nothing."

She turns to Benedict, eyes glistening. "I should be thanking you, as well. Your family was such an unexpected support, and it's– it's more than we could have asked for."

"We remember what it was like," says Benedict, shrugging one shoulder.

"With Hyacinth, you mean?" Winifred asks; the directness catches him off-guard. How did she know? She averts her stare to the floorboards. "When I came in, Eloise was awake, and she told me about that night. It must have been very difficult to witness."

"... It was. And it was not very long after we had lost our father, so... it goes without saying that the stakes were incredibly high."

She nods, listening attentively. Benedict feels a strange twist in his chest before he can say anything else on the subject — one which, he only seems to realise now, he seldom speaks about to anyone else. It is certainly not a pleasant thing to reminisce of with his siblings, including Anthony (who he is sure would rather forget the whole thing). Maybe it is because he has scarcely slept, but Benedict finds himself re-living that night in a flash. Not just that one, either, but the madness that had followed the swift bee sting that claimed Edmund Bridgerton.

His second son had only shed his tears in private, and then hardly ever again.

Benedict inhales sharply, focusing his attention back on Winifred. "But we made it through. And so did you, tonight."

Winifred sighs, her eyelids having fluttered shut. He notices her head lulling slightly, clinging briefly to a hint of sleep, before snatching it back as she half-opens them again.

"When did you last take rest?" asks Benedict, frowning.

"... I'm not sure."

"Winifred, you should really go to bed."

"She might still need me—"

"You have done more than enough," Benedict insists, firmly this time. "Besides, what use would you be to your sister if you can barely keep your eyes open?"

     Realising she cannot argue with this, Winifred exhales through her nose, a muscle flaring in her jaw. When she comes to look up at him, her lips have thinned into a weak but grateful smile. Her hand comes to rest on the carpeted space next to his own hand.

"Thank you, Benedict," she says quietly.

He returns the smile gently, sympathetically, before his gaze drifts down to their hands and the scarce space between them. In a moment of bravery, her pinkie finger flinches towards his. Benedict inhales sharply. It is as though that limited space just became charged with something. Something that makes him reach out, too, his fingers grazing the step, nearer to hers. They could almost be touching...

Winifred curls her fingers together, retracting them and instead folding her hands on her lap. "I should go," she says. She hands him back the handkerchief he had given.

Standing up with her, Benedict asks, "Do you want something to eat or drink? Or... anything?"

"No, thank you. I think I'll go home and collapse into bed. But I do not know whether to wake the others—"

"Oh, do not worry about them. They can stay for the night."

Winifred picks up her skirt, nodding with resolve. "Alright... well, goodnight," she whispers, walking down the remaining steps.

Benedict watches her go for a few more paces, his hands dangling at his sides. Then he trots down a couple more steps and calls out, "But if you do need anything else, you know we are—"

"Only a few doors away," she says softly. "I know."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Well... that was rough. Childbirth is no joke, so can you imagine it in an era with no painkillers and less medical understanding than we have today? I think we should take a moment and give Madeline a round of applause for getting through this chapter (also Violet, because EIGHT KIDS?? That's a huge amount even in the 21st century!). Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, it was an interesting opportunity to explore a bit of backstory for the Bridgertons and Winifred's family. Also I think this might be the first childbirth scene I've written? I hope it didn't freak you out too much...

Also, FYI: I haven't really focused on the Queen Charlotte timeline, which supposedly took place in the winter between seasons 2 and 3, so take that with a pinch of salt. I swear the present-day scenes said it was 1817 and yet Kate and Anthony are meant to be on their honeymoon? Yeah, anyway, take it with a pinch of salt.

Thank you for reading, as always! I was worried this chapter was a bit clunky, but ah well. We have one more chapter before the events of season three kick off. I'm only dragging them out because for some bits, I'm waiting to see how season 3 ends first.

P.S. Anyone else looking forward to season 3 part 2 next week? The new trailer got me SOOO EXCITED!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 07/06/2024