CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
the course of true love.

❝ the course of true love never did run smooth. ❞
— a midsummer night's dream: act i, scene i

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     MY DEAREST WINIFRED,

     It certainly sounds like the London season is off to a flying start as usual. I know you frown upon Lady Whistledown as a gossip monger, but she does provide an entertaining narration to what we both know can be a satirical scene. We are planning to return for the second half of the season — Silas cannot shirk his duties forever, as much as he is enjoying the quality time with his children.

I, myself, feel ready for having an occupation soon. I have been quite literally making leaps and bounds since the birth, taking plenty of walks (you see? I do pay attention to you!). Although I have my better days and my worse days. On the latter, I sometimes find myself sinking into a misery which I cannot place. There is an unexplained anxiety that arises in me, pulls me away from the children. These days were almost daily when I first arrived back in the country again. However, as time passes, I feel them growing weaker.

     In lighter news, Natasha is growing livelier by the day. A trifle less vocal than her siblings, thank goodness, but sparkling with a merriment that is contagious. She finds any excuse to smile and coos in delight quite often. I think you will be taken aback when you next visit and see how much she has grown.

     There is another matter I am bursting to tell you about, but it shall have to wait... for now. You will see soon enough.

     And last but certainly not least — the happiest of birthdays to you, dear sister. I do hope this letter arrives on time. Promise me you will celebrate your natal day, even if only by the smallest of means? You deserve it.

     Missing you always,
     Madeline

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     APRIL showers of course fall on Winifred's birthday. Not that she has ever truly cared for the attention it brings — it is just another day in her life, after all, and this day where she turns seven and twenty should be especially unremarkable. The morning began like most mornings in Mayfair have begun so far this season. She ate breakfast with her sisters, Lettie and the baroness, the only diversion being polite acceptance of their birthday wishes.

However, the real treat has happened today by pure coincidence.

The Royal Academy's annual exhibition has made its return, and Winifred is elated to be able to attend once more. (It also provides convenient shelter from the rain pitter-pattering on the gallery roof). She carefully peels apart the pages in the pamphlet which detail all the works on display, silently marvelling at all the names she recognises and is eager to see.

Abigail is the only one attending the exhibition with her this morning. More and more, it is clear that Lady Strachan has neither the time nor energy to always be attending social events (who does?), and Jemima preferred to stay back and prepare herself for the evening instead. Abigail doesn't have the same critical eye that Winifred does when it comes to art. But like with everything in life, she approaches it with a general delightedness, considering each work of art with equal amounts of care.

     Winifred is hoping to see someone else at the exhibition though. He may have dropped out of the Royal Academy's art school last year, but she hopes that has not squashed Benedict's artistic inspiration entirely. So far, she worries this might be correct. She never sees him sketching, or even acknowledging that his passion for art once existed. She misses that flair in him, and the clear happiness it brought him... needless to say, Winifred can understand why he might have chosen to avoid today's exhibition, even if she wishes he were here.

     She and her sister pass a room, a decorated library, in which the architectural drawings are displayed. They only mean to stroll past, but she feels Abigail halt in her tracks.

     "Look," she whispers, as if she had spotted a rare animal in the wild, "it's Mr. Ribeiro..."

     Winifred peers in through the doorway. Surely enough, poking through the crowds in his tall and slender stature, is Matthew Ribeiro. He stands with his hands behind his back and scanning the library as people critique the drawings. She looks back to Abigail, noticing her stare lingering on him. "Are you going to say hello?" she asks.

     "Of course. It would be the polite thing. Do you mind?"

     "Not at all." Winifred pauses, seeing Matthew cut through the crowds towards them. "Never mind, for he appears to have spotted us first."

     Matthew and the girls meet in the middle once more. He seems to be in his element, but also with an edge of vulnerability, as though he is waiting to be judged. By them, or someone else? "Miss Seymour. Mrs. Erstwhile," he greets them and bows his head. "Have you come for the exhibition?"

     "Yes," Abigail nods.

     "Have you spotted mine yet?"

     "Your...?"

     Matthew nods indicatively over to the podiums, where architectural drawings are being displayed. The penny drops for Abigail just as it does for Winifred. "You have work displayed here?" Abigail asks incredulously.

     "Seeing as I was a student at the Royal Academy's school of architects, I would like to think they would grant me such an opportunity," he deadpans, but fights a smile. "Try the next row over."

     The two women circle around, getting a better look at the different drawings. With Abigail, Winifred's gaze crawls along the small plaques bearing the names of the architects — names she too recognises — when they finally find his name, Matthew Ribeiro emblazoned beneath. The drawing attached to it blows her away. She had not expected something so ornate. The design for a small temple in a large estate is finely-detailed, each line drawn immaculately, in a baroque and neoclassical style akin to those found in Europe. He has his own distinct flair as well, the notes explaining the influences from Portuguese Manueline architecture.

     "This is yours?" Abigail's jaw drops. Her gloved fingers hover in awe over the drawings, as if tracing each line.

"It is a stunning design," Winifred adds.

"It stands out from the others. I do not jest, Mr. Ribeiro, you have a real gift."

Matthew shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant as he takes the compliment, although there is a flicker of gratitude in his expression. "Well, thank you. Even if it is a garden piece confined to the home of a nobleman."

"A very fine garden piece," Abigail emphasises. Then, with curiosity, she continues: "May I ask, why architecture? What made you pursue it?"

He takes a step closer to her, considering this. "My father is a carpenter. It seemed natural that I should follow his path, but my ambitions were higher than my station could afford. To my great fortune, he recognised this, and trusted me enough to forge my own path. Doing so led me here — to the Royal Academy — when I was a young boy." With more thought, Matthew adds, "I suppose... I was attracted to the fusion of creativity and functionality."

Abigail gazes intently at him as he speaks, paying little attention to the crowds around them.

"You see, Miss Seymour," Matthew says, more sincerely, "I am grateful to be where I am. Truly, I worked hard to earn this. But I would not be designing ostentatious garden pieces if I could choose it. I would rather be designing homes, public buildings that could be of use to a wider community. The very same thing I could have used when I was growing up."

     "That's... wonderful," Abigail nods. She did not seem to expect such a genuine response.

     Matthew nods slowly. Once again, Winifred feels like she is intruding on the two of them.

     "And it cannot hurt to have functional buildings that are easy on the eye, too," her sister adds, with a twinkle in her eye that makes him chuckle. Then she lets out a sigh. "I wish I had something of value to give back like that. Instead, I can only tell you that your motivations behind your work seem very... noble."

     "Is that a compliment, Miss Seymour?"

     "Have you not been listening? I have been praising you ceaselessly, far more than I should for your big head!"

     The two of them laugh, whilst Winifred sneaks a longing glance back out at the galleries. The pamphlet is clutched in her hands with her thumb indicating her favourite paintings to see. Abigail catches her look and curtsies conclusively to Matthew. Winifred feels a hint of guilt at rushing her sister through the conversation. If she could leave them alone, she would... but she would be mad to leave her unmarried sister alone with a man she hardly knows.

     "We should return to the rest of the exhibition," Abigail is telling him. "My sister is quite fond of the paintings."

     "Then I'll join you."

     Both sisters snap their heads up to stare at Matthew, surprised by his directness. His glance shifts awkwardly between them before he adds, "If... that is not an issue with you?"

     Abigail looks behind her shoulder at Winifred, who gives a single nod of approval. She supposes this way, she can keep an eye and chaperone her sister, whilst also giving them space and time to talk. Cautiously open-minded. With this stamp of approval, Abigail turns to him and replies, "I would like that."

     Winifred leads the way; as she does, she can hear their voices chopped between those in the crowds:

     "So, Miss Seymour, did you always have a keen interest in architecture? Or is this a recent development?"

     "I know a good-looking building when I see one, if that is what you mean."

     "What are your own interests?"

     "You would likely find my interests mindlessly dull. But I am — as you put it so delicately the day we met — well-versed in embroidery, among other things."

     "... I'm afraid I had my foot in my mouth that day."

     "I dare say you did. Well, since you asked, I also enjoy reading, riding my horse, dancing as I'm sure you know..."

     As they enter the inner galleries, the walls from floor to ceiling are decorated with paintings in all shapes and sizes. The sun does not pour through the glass ceiling today, instead casting a grey light from the rain clouds. Winifred weaves carefully through the crowds to the walls, whilst keeping her sister's conversation in earshot. She stands and observes. Silently taking them in, reading the inscriptions, moving along to the next one. All her thoughts about the paintings are internal.

Winifred looks over her shoulder, double-checking that Benedict definitely isn't here. He is not. She sighs, her heart sinking ever so slightly.

It used to be easy walking around galleries like this. She could easily be left alone in one for hours, and in all fairness she will happily do the same thing now. But Winifred had also never met anyone she could discuss it with so easily like she could with Benedict. Her mind is cast back to this very same exhibition in 1814, when they did just that. She misses his quips and critiques about the portraits he disliked, and the enchanted wonder that radiated from him when he gravitated towards a piece and could not fault it.

In front of one oil painting, of nymphs in a forest with the light bouncing off their skins and tunics, Winifred shifts her gaze to the empty space beside her. She can almost see Benedict stood right there, his pale green eyes turned up to the painting and drinking it all in — except they weren't just green, were they? It was at this very exhibition last year that Winifred had noticed it. They also had a blueish hue in some lights, that water-like surface that held much more depth. The thought of them fills her with warmth...

"... Excuse me."

Those green eyes dissipate at the sound of an outside voice. Winifred turns around, seeing a gentleman standing politely at her side. He seems eager to see the painting where she is standing in his way. "Oh! Forgive me, sir." She side-steps to the left and exhales sharply. Her gloved fingers rub the nape of her neck, ebbing away the warm flush that had just lingered there. What on Earth?

"Were you caught up in the moment?" he asks.

Winifred blinks rapidly. "Pardon?"

"I cannot fault you for it. I find myself victim to the very same thing when I am in the presence of good art," the man adds, his friendly eyes crinkling at the sides.

"Oh..." she chuckles. "Then yes, I suppose I was."

"So..." He pauses, indicating that he does not know her name.

"Mrs. Winifred Erstwhile," says Winifred; just to avoid any confusion this time.

"Sir Henry Granville," he introduces himself in turn. "Mrs. Erstwhile, have you been to this exhibition before?"

"Last year, I did. Have you, Mr. Granville?"

"You could say that. My work is displayed just in the next room."

Winifred's eyes grow wide, delighted that she is talking to an established artist. "You have work exhibited in Somerset House?"

"A number of times, yes," Granville says, not to gloat, but more humbly stating a fact. "I have had the fair fortune to say that none of them have been skied... yet."

"Well, I shall keep a careful eye out for your piece as I do the rounds."

"Any favourites today?"

"... I am rather partial to a Turner landscape."

"Ah, yes," Granville sighs in admiration, "those are true beauties. Make sure you pay a visit to the Inner Room before you leave today. There is a magnificent Turner piece on display in there."

He gestures for her to walk first, and before she knows it, Winifred is examining the next painting along with Henry Granville. He is good enough company, with no inflated ego nor pretentious manner. She wonders what it must feel like to be an artist walking around this exhibition — knowing that everyone is judging your work, which you have likely poured your blood, sweat and tears into completing. He certainly makes it seem like another Tuesday for him, far from being a tortured artist.

Granville turns and asks, "Are you an artist yourself?"

"Oh, no, not me," Winifred shakes her head. "I sketch occasionally, for my own enjoyment, but I have never been interested in anything beyond that. I am much more of an admirer."

They turn back to the painting for a moment, tilting their heads in different ways.

"But a dear friend of mine is an artist. Or at least, he was."

Winifred doesn't know why she said it out loud, especially to this stranger. But Granville listens with great interest and hums in thought. "Hm. I do not know who this friend of yours is, but I find that hard to believe. Once you become an artist, it is impossible to separate from yourself."

She sees how that could be true. When she thinks of Benedict at the moment, she thinks about how he seems to be forcing his usual easygoing manner at times. Art was a part of him as much as breathing was. Winifred was so accustomed to seeing his hands smudged with charcoal dust or dried paint. Now, he cannot bear to even look at an easel, and what does that leave him with?

"He has lost his inspiration," she says. "His confidence took a fatal blow, I fear, and now he never looks back."

"I believe it was your hero himself, Turner, who said, 'It is only when we are no longer fearful that we begin to create."

Winifred's lips quirk slightly, almost smiling. "Wise words."

"I thought so too," Granville nods encouragingly. Then, glancing back into the crowds, he catches someone's eye — it is difficult to tell who in this packed room. "Well, I should find my wife. She gets lost in the art as much as I do, but we do not want ourselves becoming too lost."

"Thank you for the company, Mr. Granville," she says.

Henry Granville bows his head, looking poised to leave until he turns on his heel, an inquisitive look in his eyes. "Mrs. Erstwhile, if I may... this friend of yours sounds like a lucky man, to have someone who clearly cares for his happiness as much as you do." Then, with another polite bow, he disappears and brushes past other art admirers to find his wife.

     Winifred isn't sure she is meant to dwell on his words more than she does.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     THE Theatre Royal at Drury Lane is a shining beacon for the ton's activity. Aside from staging large productions from dramatic tragedies to farcical comedies, the audience seize the opportunity to gossip, make deals, conduct business transactions, order carriages, pass love notes... you name it. A night at the theatre is far more than just a performance to watch. Everyone performs.

     Either way, the evening is a long one, which Winifred is spending solely with Jemima tonight. Abigail turned down this evening, attributing it to stomach cramps she had started to feel after returning from the Royal Academy exhibition. The baroness was also tired, and required Lettie to stay and keep an eye on her, so it remains up to Winifred once more to take the helm. She might have preferred to stay at home and curl up on a comfy armchair — it is her birthday after all, even if she scarcely cares for it — but she would never want to deprive her sisters of an opportunity.

     "There," says Winifred, counting the coins in her hand. "Two shillings for the gallery. Well, four shillings in total for us both."

     "Keeping tabs on us, I see," Jemima murmurs.

     Ignoring her sister, Winifred presents the four shillings for two gallery seats upon entrance. After some judgemental glances, from those seeing no male chaperone with the women, they are directed to their seats. Fleetingly, she finds herself wondering if this is what Joseph would have wished her to use her pin money for...

"Is your friend here tonight? Miss Caldwell?" Winifred asks, pulling her gloves up her arms.

     Jemima sighs heavily. "No," she replies. "She must attend a soirée at an estate just outside London. I forget the details, but it seems to be a more intimate occasion. So instead I am stuck with you for the evening!"

     "Charming. Very charming."

This is going to be a long evening...

     The sisters arrive at the gallery, rows upon rows of rich crimson seats stood before the stage — gold upon green with a grand arched ceiling above them. Members of the ton are dressed up for the occasion (although not in their finest gowns, for no one would want melting candle wax tarnishing their attire over these next few hours, would they?). Winifred smooths down her dark green dress, as deep a shade as the purple Jemima's own gown is. They meander past the seats to find theirs, in the middle of the row just in front of the balcony.

Jemima has barely touched her seat before she is peering over the edge to get a better look. She may not enjoy everything about the ton, but tonight Winifred knows her youngest sister will be in her element. Theatre and literature are two of her greatest passions, and tonight is one of her favourite Shakespearean plays — 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' — so she would never turn down such an evening. Winifred is at least relieved to see Jemima enjoying herself. Her eyes sparkle even without the glow of candlelight, nor the company of Emilia, as she beams and looks around the theatre.

But Winifred knows there are other things to pay attention to at the theatre. She makes the effort to survey the gallery, trying to spot eligible bachelors walking in. She recognises a certain face and taps Jemima's shoulder to get her attention.

"There is Lord Cho," Winifred whispers.

"And?" Jemima shrugs.

"And he is available."

Once she realises what is happening, Jemima practically recoils. "Oh, no, we are not doing this. Not here. I'm here to watch Shakespeare, not to ogle after eligible young...ish men."

"I was only trying to help—"

"Well, you aren't."

Jemima has turned back to the stage, but Winifred's patience is already wavering. Deep breaths, she tells herself. Things are never contentious with Madeline or Abigail, but Jemima has a special way of knowing how to push her buttons. "You do realise you are here to find a suitable match, don't you? Mama did not send you and Abigail to Mayfair for a holiday. It may sound treacherous to you, but this is your livelihood we are speaking of," Winifred tells her sternly. "You could at least try to pretend as though you care about it."

"I do care," Jemima insists. "That is why I am not running into the arms of the first eligible lord. Now, will you stop lecturing me?"

Another deep breath.

"Well... just keeping caring, that is all."

Winifred knows exactly how Jemima sees her. Like a nagging governess. It is therefore difficult to make her see just how much she wants her to be happy — truly, she knows how her sister values personal freedom, and would not wish her to sacrifice that for anyone. But she would also hate for Jemima to not be taken care of. Marriage is protection in their world. It is the begrudging truth. Winifred was lucky to have a husband who provided her with that, and so is Madeline. Not everyone can be promised the same.

... But she does not want to argue. Neither does Jemima. She surrenders the subject just in time as some other theatre-goers arrive to take their seats. Winifred and Jemima both rise from their seats and let them through. One of them is a woman, with golden blonde hair and dark, lavish clothing dripping from her body. Every step she takes oozes confidence and self-reliance. Who is she? On her arm is a man, slightly younger, and they are leaning into each other and laughing about something.

The woman takes her seat next to Winifred. "Good-evening," she greets the two sisters.

Alarmed by the attention, they nod. "Good-evening," Winifred and Jemima both reply.

Then the woman turns back to the man — her husband, presumably — as they discuss the program and seem to speak flirtatiously with one another. Yet there is also the sense that the woman is keeping him at a safe distance, which is... confusing. Winifred averts her attention back to the stage and wrings her hands together in her lap.

"How long is this meant to last?" Winifred asks Jemima.

"Two, three hours maybe. Including an intermission."

"Good Lord..."

Jemima raises an eyebrow. "I hardly think you should be complaining about watching Shakespeare on your birthday."

"That is true," Winifred shrugs, smiling slightly. "Although I think tonight is your night. Is this not your favourite play?"

"Picking the best Shakespeare play is like picking a favourite child! I could not possibly— oh no."

     "What?"

     "Look at who we are to be seated with."

     Winifred leans back in her seat, catching the same glimpse of the red-headed brood as Jemima does. Portia Featherington leads the pack, followed by Penelope — she looks in better spirits after what Whistledown wrote about her. The gossip writer claimed that Colin Bridgerton was giving Penelope lessons on how to attract suitors. Even if he was, could that be a bad thing? Winifred sees it as Penelope seizing control of her fate, and a helpful act from Colin. But clearly the girl's family think otherwise. Portia still herds her like a helpless sheep, along with Prudence and Philippa and their doting husbands, Harry Dankworth and Albion Finch...

     All of them are to occupy the empty seats on Jemima's side.

     It is difficult not to hear the Featheringtons talk over one another as they squeeze along the row, frills and puffy sleeves being squashed. Penelope takes the seat beside Jemima — who seems relieved that she is next to her, of all the Featheringtons — whilst Portia and the rest fill in the gaps along the rest of the row. Whilst Jemima asks Penelope whether she looks forward to the play, Winifred turns in her seat to look for any familiar faces.

Right on cue, she spots the Bridgertons walk in. Violet first, followed by Eloise and Colin, and finally Francesca with one arm hooked through Benedict's. So he was not unwell. Just as she suspected. He seems in perfectly fine spirits as she can see him conversing with his family. Clearly there was no ailment holding him back from the Royal Academy today... nothing except a broken heart and lack of inspiration, maybe. But it is nevertheless good to see him now.

As Winifred looks, Benedict catches her eye by accident and perks up. They nod hello, as always. Then he spots the plethora of Featheringtons blocking her in. He winces instinctively and mouths, "Good luck," cracking a smile from Winifred.

     When she looks back, Jemima has a strange, interrogatory expression on her face.

     "What?" asks Winifred.

     "What?" Jemima fires back.

     "You are acting strange."

     "You're acting strange!"

     The lights dim, and Winifred huffs in frustration. "Just hush now, and watch the play..." she mutters. Jemima appears to abandon whatever she was interrogating her about. Everyone applauds as the giant curtain rises — the first scene begins as Theseus, the Duke of Athens, makes wedding preparations for his wedding to Hippolyta. Winifred cannot help but notice that people are still whispering, or even speaking at normal volumes as the play ensues. They even appear to arrive in droves, fashionably late. It is poor punctuality in her eyes.

     If Jemima is displeased, however, she does not show it. She hangs onto every word of the actors down on the stage. Winifred watches her sister's expressions change. She seems to be one of the few completely engrossed in the play. On her other side, the blonde woman also seems very attentive to the actors.

     'A Midsummer Night's Dream' does bring back memories of Winifred's childhood, mainly of the amateur theatricals her sisters liked to stage. It was never something she willingly did but she was left with little choice. There was often a pattern in the characters they played. Madeline was the beautiful and virtuous characters; Winifred filled the role of strict or straight-laced characters; Abigail was often playing bubbly and charming roles; then Jemima, arguably the most talented of them all, was unafraid to morph into any role necessary. She had no fear when it came to the stage.

     Winifred enjoys them, but Jemima lives and breathes these plays, as she does her favourite novels. There is a distinction.

     A while later, an intermission of twenty-five minutes is called, allowing the audience to disperse in the theatre and grab refreshments from the saloon. Jemima had just finished her rapturous applause and is excitedly engaged in conversation with Penelope about the actors. Unsure where to turn, Winifred folds her hands on her lap and looks to the seat on her other side. The blonde woman is watching her husband leave and walk away; "I'll see you in a moment," she says. Once he is gone, she turns to Winifred.

     "Enjoying it so far?" she asks.

     "Uh, yes, thank you," Winifred nods. "Are you?"

     "I suppose I have seen far worse massacres of a Shakespeare play. Forgive me, what is your name?"

     "Winifred Erstwhile."

     "Lady Tilley Arnold," she introduces herself.

     Winifred turns around and looks into the crowd, where the man disappeared off to. "Don't let me keep you, if you wish to re-join your husband."

     "Oh, he is not my husband," Tilley laughs sharply.

     She feels a pang of doubt. Then who is he? By the title, Lady Arnold must surely be married, and if he is not her husband...

     "But– then who—"

     "He died."

     The truth practically slaps Winifred in the face. "Oh," she manages to get out. How did she not connect the dots sooner? She just hadn't expected it. Something had dropped in Tilley's voice as soon as she said it — a chink in her confidence, a shadow of the grief she has overcome — and Winifred suddenly feels like she is looking in a mirror. It is like one of those moments where it will suddenly hit her, out of nowhere, that Joseph is gone. And then there would be the guilt that she had somehow forgotten about it... except she never forgets.

     Perhaps it is why she finds herself saying more than she usually would, to this complete stranger.

     "I'm so sorry," Winifred says earnestly. "So did mine."

     Tilley's head snaps up and her eyes meet hers. Now it seems to be her turn to stare into a mirror image. A beat passes, in which they both realise they might have unexpected common ground. (Winifred is finding this to be increasingly true... there are more widowed women than she can keep count of). With a sharp exhale and a hum, Tilley nods with a sense of recognition. "People say the first year is the hardest. It was the second, for me."

     Winifred's eyes widen. "How did you know it was the—"

     "I just know. I remember that look." (What look?! thinks Winifred desperately, as Tilley goes on). "But keep doing what you seem to be doing. Going out, exploring. And do not let anyone tell you to remain chaste and sit in your widow's weeds forever."

     "... I wouldn't."

     "Good." Then, ever so casually, Lady Tilley rises to her feet with the fabric of her dress whooshing over the seat. "I am going to find Mr. Suarez in the saloon. I would suggest you grab a refreshment before it gets too busy... or rowdy, I might add."

     As Winifred watches Tilley disappear into the distance, still left in silent shock, Jemima taps her shoulder. "Who is she? What were you talking about? Go on, do tell me!"

     She just shakes her head. "I'm rather parched. Let's get something to drink."

Winifred and Jemima make their way to the saloon where, just like Tilley said, many audience members are now gossiping and laughing over drinks. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling and twinkle like stars in the dim, hazy light of the saloon. They fetch themselves glasses of lemonade to refresh themselves and stand by one of the walls sipping at them. In the crowd, a young lord passes them and nods hello to them both.

     Jemima's face twists, staring after the man. "Well? What do you think?" Winifred asks.

     "He has a nice... hat."

     She blinks at her sister. "A nice hat?"

     There is general disinterest in wanting to be married, and then there is this.

     "Look, you asked for me to appear interested in suitors—"

     "Mrs. Erstwhile, Jemima!" A quiet but slightly panicked voice asks; it belongs to Francesca, with Benedict in tow after her. "Do you mind if we stay here for a moment?"

     "Hiding from suitors? Then do join us," Jemima chuckles.

     "Something you have in common with your brother, I see," adds Winifred, looking pointedly at Benedict.

     Soon, they are being caught up on the beginning of Francesca's season. She remains rather overwhelmed with all the attention she is receiving. Violet has been doing her best to manoeuvre her daughter into finding a love match, but it still eludes her. Francesca seems quite happy to find a kind enough man with whom she can spend her life. A much more practical mindset, although far more common than Violet Bridgerton might realise...

"There is still plenty of time," Winifred reminds her. "You should not feel the need to rush into anything."

Francesca's lashes flutter as she inhales a deep breath, nodding uncertainly. Benedict notices and gently nudges his sister, playfully, which lifts her spirits. She bows her head and nudges him back, before releasing her arm from his. As she asks Jemima what she thought of the musical arrangements throughout the first half, it opens a space in which Winifred and Benedict are almost alone. He straightens as he looks at her, inhaling and exhaling.

Winifred bows her head to the floor. "I attended the Royal Academy exhibition this morning..."

She can hear his hesitation without even looking at him.

"Was that today? I had not realised."

Even Benedict senses that this is a poor cover-up. As Winifred glares back up at him, he is wrinkling his nose in embarrassment. "Was it good this year?" he asks, instead.

"Indeed, possibly better," Winifred replies. "Although I had hoped that I might see you there."

"Really?" asks Benedict, uncharacteristically shy.

"Yes. I assumed you'd fallen ill, but thankfully I was wrong."

"I am sorry if I kept you waiting."

"That is quite alright," Winifred sighs, still staring at him. She narrows her eyes slightly; she wishes they were somewhere else right now. If she could, while she has Benedict at least acknowledging something related to art, Winifred would at least ask him about whether he had drawn or painted anything recently. And if he hadn't — which she suspects to be the case — she would hope to find a way to bring back his inspiration.

But they are not alone. They are in a crowded saloon, the minutes of the intermission slipping by like sand in an hourglass.

     Jemima is soon coaxing her away, and they are quickening their goodbyes. Just as Winifred turns on her heel to leave, her sister squeezes her arm and asks, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

     "... Yes, I am," Winifred admits. "The play is very good."

     "I told you it would be time well-spent on your birthday. I'm not such painful company, am I?"

     "The main appeal is, of course, that I need not listen to you whilst I am watching the play."

     Jemima exaggerates her frown, cracking a smile from Winifred. For all their clashing and bickering, it works well enough for their relationship.

     They re-discover their seats in the gallery and watch the second half of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' — the stage comes alive with comedic misunderstandings, dancing fairies and romantic confessions. Everyone watches intently, including Queen Charlotte perched in her royal box. With some closing words from Puck, the play ends, the theatre rising up to applaud the actors. After this five act play comes a farcical after-piece, which some of the audience stay for. But others leave, including Lady Tilley Arnold with her date. Winifred also notices Jemima stifling a yawn in the corner of her eye... if even she is tired, then they should call it a night. She, herself, cannot wait to hit her pillow and catch up on her sleep.

     Winifred and Jemima arrive at the exit, only to find the rain drumming on the road outside. The street lamps shine a dim light on the shards of rain falling through the air and striking the ground. April showers, Winifred thinks despondently again.

     "It has been like this all day," she then says out loud.

     "I quite like the rain," Jemima remarks wondrously. "There is something so dramatic about it."

     "We'll see how dramatic you find it when you contract the flu. Go back inside until the rain ceases, or we can find a carriage to hail... whichever comes first."

     The sisters go back inside to stand in the entrance hall. Although Jemima stands with her face right by the window, her raven hair blending in with the darkness of the night as she spies for a carriage; or perhaps she is admiring the raindrops. Winifred stands a few paces back, keeping an eye on her at a distance that won't be so suffocating for the younger one. Other theatre-goers are preparing to leave Drury Lane in droves, only to see the rain and scowl, gossiping with others whilst they wait in the shelter. The buzzing atmosphere is enough to drown out anything Winifred might be trying to think...

     So she almost doesn't notice the footsteps approaching her from behind.

     "When were you going to tell me today was your birthday?"

     Winifred jumps — both at the question, and the smoothness of Benedict's voice. She whirls around on the spot and stares at him wide-eyed. "How did you know?" she demands in an incredulous whisper.

     "Ah, so it is your birthday," Benedict grins triumphantly. "I heard your sister mentioning it as you left the saloon."

     That figures. Winifred reckons Jemima would make a fine actress on the stage, for if nothing else she is excellent at projecting her voice louder than polite conversation deems appropriate.

     "I never like making a fuss over it," she dismisses. "It is just another day."

     "I did not mean to embarrass you, I simply wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I'd feel guilty for letting the opportunity pass."

     "... Thank you," Winifred replies.

     A beat passes, an exchange of warmth in their smiles. She looks around for any sign of his family; there is not a single other Bridgerton in sight.

     "Seven and twenty is a rather unremarkable age, though," she adds modestly, "so I see little cause for celebration."

     "Nonsense! Seven and twenty is a fine age. Why, at seven and twenty, I was..." Benedict trails off, narrowing his eyes in thought. Then he wrinkles his nose and shrugs comically. "Actually, I haven't a clue what I was doing at seven and twenty. Does anyone?" He smiles crookedly as he watches Winifred laugh, noting the ease that lifts from her demeanour. A curious spark suddenly appears in his eyes, unclear where it might lead him next. Benedict walks a couple of paces back like a man on a mission.

"Where are you going?" Winifred asks.

"Every birthday calls for a decent gift, does it not? Ah... this'll do."

Benedict pauses by one of the tall flower arrangements in the hall. Rather discreetly, he plucks a crimson rose from the bunch and holds the stem between his fingers. Winifred's knee-jerk reaction is one of horror as she checks the coast is clear. "Benedict!" she hisses, slipping out his first name. "You can't just take one of the—"

"Why not? No one will notice," he shrugs.

"Put it back."

"Are you– are you being earnest?"

"Yes, put it back! Someone worked hard to create that display."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Benedict bickers with her, whilst fighting laughter, "please, just take it."

     He holds out the single rose to her, bridging the gap between them. Winifred sighs and reaches out, fingers closing around the stem just beneath his own hand. An invisible pull of static charges the minuscule chasm separating their skin; one that she widens and breaks before anything can become of it. Winifred retracts her hand, twirling the rose by its stem.

     "Thank you," she murmurs. She looks up at Benedict, whose debonair charms seem to wobble at the sight — Winifred finds it more endearing than anything he could put on or rehearse. There is suddenly an air of shyness between them, the rose in the middle. The connotations of his innocent gesture do not seem lost on either of them...

     At first glance, one would think it rather romantic.

     Benedict coughs nervously as he spies something out of the window. "Ah! There's a carriage for you both. Better claim it before anyone else does."

     "Oh– uh– thank you!" Winifred chokes out. Her skin feels rather flushed and her heart had just fluttered a moment ago. Hastening her farewell to Benedict, she ushers Jemima outside and into the carriage. The raindrops that pelt their skin on the short sprint to the carriage cool her down again. But still flushing red, as the horses carefully trot to Berkeley Square, is the red rose between her fingers...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WINIFRED tosses and turns that night.

     It has become a routine for her to dwell on the cold, empty side of her bed. Every time she would roll over and stroke the pillow, she would be reminded when she found nothing that Joseph was gone. Beyond her reach in a way it was too painful to fathom. More and more, the pain eases, but the sting never quite leaves. Still, it is becoming a little bit more bearable.

     Tonight, though... tonight is different.

     After lying awake and staring at the tiles in her alcove bed, Winifred rolls over and strokes the pillow. And for the first time, she wonders what it might be like if another man were lying next to her. Someone who isn't Joseph.

     As soon as the seed is planted, she feels a rush of guilt swoop through her stomach. How could Winifred think such a thing? It feels unfathomable for her to consider it. Joseph was supposed to be the one. She just hadn't expected to live without him so soon. That future without him may be long and difficult to comprehend, but Winifred is even less sure that she could fathom opening her heart to another. Does the human heart even have such a capacity?

     ... And yet, here she is. Wanting. Longing.

     Lonely.

     Her gaze settles on the single red rose Benedict gave her from Drury Lane. It stands in a small glass filled with water, enough to keep it alive. The red petals are blooming and ripe with a passionate shade of crimson. There are things she misses. Being held, being caressed, being loved. Whether she likes it or not, Winifred can feel something is changing inside her. Awakening.

This feeling, whatever it is, refuses to let her sleep...

... Elsewhere in Mayfair, Benedict Bridgerton also lies awake in his bed.

He is accustomed to having sleepless nights before. It seems to be a part of his soul that never quite rests, which comes wide awake at night when he should be slipping into a peaceful slumber. Although eventually, he tends to drift off one way or another, or he simply remains nocturnal. Either path is one he is quite well-versed in living.

     But not tonight. Definitely not tonight.

     Benedict's mind is racing. What is the matter with him? He had the strangest feeling as he was tossing and turning in bed. He rolled over, and he tried to imagine waking up beside someone. Mind you, he is no stranger to such a situation. Benedict has enjoyed his freedoms and woken up beside a few different faces from time to time — lying in with Genevieve Delacroix above her modiste's shop, or tangled in the sheets with Tessa in the art studio. He knows what that is like.

     No, that's not what he means. Benedict wonders what it would be like to wake up next to someone every day.

     The question has been plaguing him ever since he returned home from the theatre tonight. That look Winifred gave him before she left had tripped him up. She keeps doing that lately. Benedict may prefer to stay in the shallow end of relations, but he thinks he knows when he is teetering on the precipice of something deeper. It feels... frightening. He knows Winifred is not like other women, and this is not a simple story of attraction. It is complicated. He feels unusually cautious. Not just for her heart, but for his too.

     Benedict is not sure where he is going next. However, he has the growing feeling that he has passed the point of no return.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

This chapter was so fun to write! I sometimes felt season 3 lacked in the variety of events/locations (e.g. as well as balls, season 2 had the Royal Ascot, Aubrey Hall, and probably something else too) so this chapter was a way of including that. Any excuse for me to indulge myself in regency research, there was A LOT of it I had to do for this chapter... anyway I'm about to yap in an author's note again so brace yourselves.

I'm pretty sure the Royal Academy exhibitions were only in June, but screw it, Winifred deserved a little birthday treat and the Bridgerton timeline is all over the place anyway. It was strange writing these art gallery scenes without Benedict there; I want to explore his lost inspiration for art more than season 3 did, and it will definitely be referred to later. Managed to sneak in a little cameo from Granville, too! And then of course Matthew & Abigail were being cute. What do you think of them so far?

The theatre scenes were really fun as well, it included lots of additional research about how it worked in the regency era. I mainly wanted to use these scenes to focus more on Jemima instead of Abigail. It was interesting to explore Winifred's relationship with her, because I feel like it's quite different and perhaps more difficult. Let's say they don't click naturally! And clearly Jemima is not interested in finding a husband. To be continued...

And there was another familiar face at the theatre as well — Lady Tilley Arnold, who is going to have a neat little arc with Winifred (involving less threesomes though). I actually liked Tilley's character and still wanted to involve her in a way that didn't include her fling with Benedict. Again, to be be continued...

A little Easter egg: I picked 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'  as the play they see purely because it was Luke T's first professional role, as Lysander at the Globe Theatre!

By the way, here is how I imagined Winifred's theatre dress, because it looks too good not to share:

And as for that last scene, with Win & Ben struggling to sleep... well... what can I say except 🥰🥰🥰 (the music for that scene, Vivaldi's Winter 2, is linked at the top of the chapter!)

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 05/08/2024