CHAPTER THIRTY.
innovation, illumination.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     "HOW DOES IT EVEN STAY AFLOAT?" Abigail asks.

"You must fan the balloon with your hands to keep it levitating," Jemima replies cheekily.

     "A wondrous feat of engineering, is the correct answer," Winifred interjects, just managing not to roll her eyes.

The three sisters are accompanied by Lettie and the baroness, all of them staring up at the tethered hot air balloon on display. There has been quite a spectacle made of such an innovation — the exhibition in Hyde Park has attracted curious members of the ton in droves, from high and low in those echelons. Tents are set up around the giant balloon, merchants selling themed toys and confectionaries, among other trinkets like telescopes and model ships. A palm-reader has even set up her stall (but Winifred point-blank refuses to have her fortune told again).

     Next to one stall, the flapping ribbons from handmade kites are carried in the wind. Winifred turns her back to the balloon and holds one of the ribbons. It slips through her fingertips like water. She remembers Joseph telling her about the time he and his brothers fashioned a kite, whilst visiting their aunt and uncle in Dover. The image of that little boy chasing the kite along the white cliffs brings a smile to her face — it always did...

     "— What do you think?"

     Yanked back into the present, Winifred looks blankly at her sister. Abigail presents a gleaming telescope to her and extends it with a laugh.

     "What are you going to use it for? Spying on suitors?" Jemima jeers.

     "Hush, you," Abigail hisses, shutting one eye and looking through the telescope with the other.

     Fortunately for her, Jemima is soon distracted from any more teasing. "If you'll excuse me..." she mumbles. Before anyone can stop her, she treks across the grass to another tent, where the Caldwells have just arrived at the exhibition — Emilia greets her warmly, even as her arm is linked with the same young lord she has been seen with recently. Though as she introduces him to Jemima, Winifred cannot help but notice how conflicted Emilia appears...

     At the same time, another familiar face like a stray ship sails into Winifred's periphery. Matthew Ribeiro has his hands linked behind his back as he observes Abigail — from a distance at first, slightly amused, until she turns around and is met with his face right in front of the telescope.

     "Found anything interesting?" he asks.

     Abigail jumps out of her skin, blinking rapidly. "Mr. Ribeiro... how lovely to see you."

     Matthew almost seems surprised at the comment, and even more at his own sheepishness. "Oh, likewise. Er... I actually meant to ask if you were attending this ball tonight, hosted by Lord and Lady Hawkins?"

     "The Innovations Ball?" she asks. "Yes, I am. Why do you ask?"

The architect steals a glance over at the large and lavish tent, in which Queen Charlotte sits, before he leans closer and whispers something to Abigail. His attempts at confidentiality are thwarted almost immediately — Abigail's eyes widen immediately, her face exploding into a beaming ray of sunshine.

"The queen wants to commission your design?!" she exclaims.

A multitude of people nearby turn around, making Matthew cringe. "Yes," he whispers, half-laughing, "you needn't shout about it."

"Well, it is wonderful news, isn't it? I know you have worked hard for this kind of recognition, so congratulations are in order!"

"Thank you," Matthew rolls his shoulders back uncomfortably. "It must have captured the attention of Lord Hawkins, because he has personally invited me to attend this ball tonight..." The apprehension with which he approaches this idea is palpable — and Winifred can understand why. These balls are reserved for the top layer of high society, and very seldom does anyone below that class slip between the cracks. So the thought of a 'simple tradesman' having an invite would have some nobles tossing and turning in their sleep.

     Abigail must know this too, but she does not make a big fuss of it. "Do not worry. When you walk into that ballroom tonight, search for me. I will look after you."

     Matthew snorts. "You'll look after me?"

     "Yes. Or would you rather walk into the lion's den without any guidance?"

     All during their conversation, Winifred has stood idly by without saying a word. Between Abigail's closeness with Matthew, and Jemima always running off to meet Emilia whenever she can, she feels like a rather useless chaperone. Or maybe that is the role at its core — to be within a certain distance to ensure nothing untoward happens to her sisters.

     Winifred turns to Lettie, whispering through her teeth, "Do you ever get the feeling that you are not needed?"

     Lettie fights a smirk as she answers, "So much for being a chaperone..."

     Lady Strachan, who has been stood beside Lettie inspecting some model ships, has been silent until now. After quietly eavesdropping for some time, she suddenly walks between the two women like parting the seas. She does not bother introducing herself to the architect as she says, "Ah! This must be the famous Matthew Ribeiro," while planting her cane into the grass.

     "F– famous?" he stumbles.

"I have heard your name from Lady Danbury. She is close to the queen, you know, and has quite the penchant for spreading the word."

Matthew nods uncertainly. There is a beat of silence between them, and it occurs to Winifred that he has no idea who the baroness is. Most people in the ton know all the names and faces like the backs of their hands. Fortunately for him, Lady Strachan does not see, bothered by this... but she does wait expectantly for an introduction. Lettie finally steps in:

"Allow me to introduce the Baroness Dominique Strachan."

"Lady Strachan," he half-bows, "it is a pleasure."

"I must confess, Mr. Ribeiro, I had not heard your name until yesterday," says the baroness. "Are you quite new in your profession?"

"Not quite. I was taught at the Royal Academy, under the tutelage of John Soane. My parents wished for me to have such an opportunity. If I hadn't done that, I would have most likely become a carpenter... like my father." As Matthew is talking, Winifred's gaze shifts to Abigail, who stands beside him and stares up at him with a sense of pride. Looking at them, one would almost think they had been a couple for years. Then again, Abigail is generous in sharing her affections, so Winifred is careful not to jump to conclusions.

     "A carpenter's son... so, you have made quite the climb to be in this position, is that correct?"

     At Lady Strachan's comment, Matthew straightens his back, somewhat defensively. "Yes. And through a lot of hard work. My father taught me to never be ashamed of my roots."

     But her response is hardly what he, or any of them expected. He seems to anticipate her judgement and prejudice, when all he receives in return is a glowing endorsement. Lady Strachan has a twinkle in her eye as she replies:

     "Quite right. No matter where you go, my boy, remember where you came from. We cannot grow if we cut off our roots."

The whole interaction seems to have everyone just as caught by surprise — except for Lady Strachan, who continues to ask Matthew about his designs and whether he might take interest in commissioning something for her one day. Before they become too embroiled in conversation, she asks for Lettie to bring her a refreshment from another tent. Her companion takes this opportunity to steal Winifred away for some time to themselves.

     As they pad across the grass together, Lettie expels a relieved sigh. "Brief respite for us, at last!"

     "I am contented to be helping my sisters," Winifred reminds her responsibly.

     "Yes, I know, forever dutiful. And as am I to be Lady Strachan's companion. Yet in both situations, one must be able to recognise when to step back before you start breathing down their necks..."

     "I hardly think your arrangement with the baroness is as flexible as most employed companions... but I do see your point, I suppose."

     Leaning over a cake stand, Lettie adds: "Your sisters might be spreading their wings now. But trust me, they still need you here. More than they know."

     Lettie rummages through her pin money as she selects an eclair from the sweets tent. Across from them, Penelope and Colin appear to be loitering, whispering amongst themselves. Winifred notices the nervous way Colin shifts around the petit redhead this morning — like he is unable to look away from her every move. It is the most perceptive she has ever seen him to be.

     Then it occurs to her that if Colin is here, the rest of the Bridgertons must surely be too. She feels her mind having to wrangle the immediacy of her thoughts shifting to Benedict: where he is, what he is doing...

     Winifred and Lettie walk out of the tent with their eclairs, stood in the shadow of the balloon. They move to walk across the grass when a cluster of children cut through their path — the girl and two boys zip around at the speed of hummingbirds, boundless with energy and giggles.

     "Children! Watch where you're going!"

     The strong, motherly voice calls after them and briefly calms the turbulence of their fun. The voice belongs to Alice Mondrich, catching up to her children with a tired sigh.

     "I am so sorry, Mrs. Erstwhile," she apologises, "I thought I had taught them better than to be so rowdy."

     "You needn't apologise," Winifred just smiles and looks after the three youngsters. She has always been of the mind that it would be better to just let children be children. There is plenty of time in adulthood to become solemn and composed... Winifred sometimes wishes she had put all that off later on in her youth. "This is my friend, Leticia Fitzroy," she gestures next to her. "Lettie, allow me to introduce the new Lord and Lady Kent."

The Mondrichs seen overwhelmed by this new introduction, but accept it anyway. "Pleased to meet the both of you," Lettie smiles.

"How are you both settling in?" asks Winifred.

"Slowly... gradually..." Alice says. "I am starting to grow accustomed to the idea that we can make our own rules, whilst abiding by some of society's too. Although trying to mingle with other families remains a challenge."

She tracks Alice's gaze along to their children, where the daughter goes to say hello to another child at the fair, but the other girl is pulled away by her caretaker. Winifred finds herself thinking of Adrian and Camille. "I have a nephew and niece around the age of your children," she remarks. "Their family is out of town at the minute, but they are very open-minded and I'm sure they would embrace you into the ton."

"Thank you, that is very kind..."

"Do you both know the ton rather well?" Mondrich asks.

Winifred and Lettie exchange a glance. "I am the companion to Lady Strachan," says the latter, "so my time is mostly spent between Bath and London. I'd say I am getting to know my fair share of the ton in due time."

"And I am just here to chaperone for my sisters," Winifred adds. "It had been my sister's idea, originally, but she is absent from the season at the moment so I seem to have taken over."

"That is very kind of your sister," Mondrich says, "and of you, to give your sisters such opportunities... even if this place can make one feel like the odds are against yourself."

"It must be a relief to come home at the end of it all," Alice laughs.

"Yes... it is..." Winifred trails off; that shouldn't be as complicated a question as it feels. She would rather not stir up feelings about Highbourne right now, the way she is torn between calling it home and expecting Joseph to appear around every corner.

Sending a chill down her spine, an abrupt gust of wind sweeps through the park. Winifred reaches to clamp her bonnet against her head, feeling the ribbons whip around her chest and shoulders. A flurry of pamphlets advertising the hot air balloon also take flight in a torrent. In the distance, Winifred notices the balloon crease and crumple under the weight of such winds. Perhaps she should read one of those airborne pamphlets, to assure herself of its safety and the science behind it.

"Ah, I see you've all been catching up," comes a cheerful voice from behind. "Did I miss anything?"

It was as though Winifred could sense Benedict before she heard him. She turns around, met with his trademark smile.

"You look entranced, Bridgerton," Mondrich teases. But he is right. Benedict seems to be caught up, half his mind drifting elsewhere.

"I was, I suppose," Benedict hums. "I was just in that tent, where Lord Hawkins was speaking about this curious invention."

"I did not know you took such an interest in the sciences, Mr. Bridgerton," Alice pries curiously.

"Well, not really. But I met the most intriguing woman in there..."

"... You did?" Winifred asks, after a beat passes. It isn't what he said, but the way he said it — Benedict sounds rather charmed by this mystery woman. And Winifred is not quite prepared for the way that observation gets under her skin. She is unsettled by her own, internal reaction.

     But instead of letting her dwell, Lettie frowns over her shoulder. "What's the commotion over there?"

     Their group turns around, to the hot air balloon as it fights the gusts of wind that persist. Tendrils of rope have become untethered from the ground and slither quickly across the grass. Two men in the balloon fight to hold the balloon down, shouting commands at one another. Soon they give in and abandon the basket — the ropes go free and the device is about to take flight, at risk of crashing straight ahead, where bystanders are stood obliviously. It is Colin Bridgerton who tosses his coat aside and heroically runs up to seize one of the loose ropes.

     "HELP ME! NOW!" Colin yells.

     A few men go rushing forwards to assist — Benedict, Mondrich and Matthew among them — as they grab the spare ropes. Winifred stays with Alice and Lettie, stood helplessly at the sidelines. At first they all tug on the ropes at their own will, straining and puffing with the weight. No, pull together! Winifred wants to cry at them. But once they settle in, they find a rhythm to hoist the ropes together.

"HEAVE!" shouts Colin, and they all tug the ropes in unison.

"Oh God..." Abigail whispers, having just caught up to Winifred and the others. With the baroness leaning her weight on Abigail's one arm, the other hand clasps her heart and watches with bated breath.

"HEAVE!"

Just past the basket, Eloise, Cressida and Lord Debling have already fled the path of flight, but Penelope stands frozen — like a deer staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle. Why isn't she moving?! Suddenly she seems to awaken from her daze. Penelope stumbles back wide-eyed, collapsing onto a picnic blanket by the water's edge. But the basket still surges towards her despite the efforts of the men on the ropes.

"Miss Featherington!" Lord Debling hollers.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!" Colin yells once more.

At the very last minute, Debling rushes in and throws his body over Penelope's as a protective measure. The basket tumbles down the podium and along the grass, seeming all set to collide with them, until—

The ropes go taut. The basket freezes mid-air.

... Then slowly, it is reeled back like a fishing rod, finally stabilised by the rope-pullers.

Releasing a sigh of relief, Winifred and the women surrounding her exchange equally bewildered looks. Ahead of them, Lord Hawkins rushes past in a blur, eagerly prancing towards the ballon. "Hold it steady!" he urges the men, climbing into the basket. He gives Colin and the others the signal to let go — the hot air balloon rises into the sky as planned, a gentle ascendance above all the ton gathered in Hyde Park. Within mere seconds, the crowd is distracted from the flirtation with peril, instead applauding with joy at the spectacle.

"As you can see, the ton move on rather quickly," Winifred mutters to Alice, who laughs sharply.

Jemima comes jogging up to them breathlessly. "Did you see all that?" she asks.

"Yes," says Winifred. "Where were you? Are you alright?"

"I was in the sweets tent. One minute I was buying an eclair, and then the next thing I know, there's a great big balloon surging towards me!"

Abigail would usually be the one to chip in with typical worriment and doting at this point. But right now, that is reserved for someone else. She ignores them and runs straight across the grass to the men — at first she blends in with the flurry of debutantes now surrounding Colin, cooing about how much of a hero he is. And she does check on him too, as old friends, before her attentions are completely turned to Matthew. Abigail remains the only one to see to his wellbeing. Winifred can see him shrugging it off and saying it was nothing, but he is still curious as to why she cares so much, more than anything.

As for Benedict, he dodges the attentions of debutantes like plague-carriers, while perhaps one of the most exhausted after the brief exertion (and despite being at the back of the line too... Winifred supposed Benedict has the physique of an artist; not a traveller who has likely been a deckhand, or a former boxer, or the son of a carpenter).

"Well," Lettie chirps, "I think I know the story that shall be on everyone's lips this evening..."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

LORD Hawkins and his fascination with innovation seems to be a reoccurring theme, Winifred notices, as their carriage arrives at his estate. His home looks rather more like a gothic castle, but in the courtyard stands sculptures and scientific models for guests to admire. Flaming torches guide the way in for the guests as their carriage halts. The castle-lookalike only becomes more whimsical as they walk inside, with tall arching walls and mystical lighting.

The host himself is an active participant in the entertainment. Catching Portia on her way in, he lifts up a glass contraption and excitedly says: "Lady Featherington, may I present what Sir Humphrey Davy calls... a lamp!"

     Smiling sweetly and shrugging her shoulders, the matriarch has a one-word response:

     "No!"

     Mildly confused by the mismatched tone, Lord Hawkins watches in disappointment as the Featheringtons brush by. Winifred, however, is intrigued. Her curiosity gets the better of her as she crosses over to him. "Please, Lord Hawkins," she says, "I should like to learn more about this lamp."

     "Very well, Mrs. Erstwhile..." Lord Hawkins lifts up the lamp eagerly; meanwhile, Winifred is pleasantly surprised that he remembered her name. There is a guest list, she supposes, but still. "Davy has been experimenting with different designs to light coal mines safely. This is the final design he has settled on. The design is very simple, you see, with this wire gauze chimney surrounding the flame — the metal absorbs the heat, whilst still letting the light pass through."

     "I see... and so therefore, the flame could not react with the methane gas in the mines," she adds on.

     "Precisely! It is so pleasing to meet those who keep in touch with scientific developments," Hawkins grins. "Is science a frequent topic of conversation in your household?"

     Winifred cannot help but beam at his praise. "Hardly. But my father let me study his books when I was a child," she admits. It is not often that a woman's interest in the sciences — at least beyond the natural sciences, anyway — are not met with disapproval. Even though her father did not stop her from studying his scientific books, he also warned her to be careful in how she indulged in such interests, aware that it would not be well-received. It was not a womanly thing to speak of engineering, physics or similar spheres.

     But she has the fortunate feeling that Lord Hawkins could not care less about those rules.

     "Your father is a wise man. This is just one sample of the future. Here, allow me to demonstrate..." says Lord Hawkins. He turns a small dial on the lamp, illuminating it with a small flame. It takes Winifred's breath away. She urges the others to gather around, her sisters watching with interest, but not quite to the same degree as her own — they seem rather more interested in dispersing through the ballroom. Winifred suddenly wishes to tell her father all about this, for she is sure he would enjoy this. Perhaps she will write him a letter when they go home tonight.

     Still feeling the glow of candlelight float in her pupils, Winifred stands up straight again and smiles politely at him. "Well, thank you, my lord. That was truly fascinating."

     "Thank you for lending a listening ear, Mrs. Erstwhile. Do feel free to roam about the grounds as you please. There is plenty to see... sculptures, models, paintings—"

     "What kinds of paintings?" Winifred asks eagerly.

     "Oho! I am glad you asked," Hawkins chortles in delight. "Keep searching, and you will find them. I've snagged some good pieces over the years. No, it is not just the sciences I take interest in... I am a great believer in the Renaissance man."

     "I shall be quite occupied, then," she says, already looking around the walls for any signs of paintings. As she does, she spots her sisters filtering into the crowd and pin-points her gaze onto them before she can lose them. "Good-evening, Lord Hawkins, and thank you again."

     "Thank you. Please, enjoy yourself."

     That is certainly the best start to a ball Winifred has experienced in a while. She wishes all society events had something from the sciences or humanities to exhibit. It would be a great deal more interesting, instead of forcing small talk all for the sake of socialising and networking. She expels a disappointed breath as she finds Jemima has already run off; Abigail, however, wades through the crowds at a slower pace.

     "There you are," says Winifred as she falls into step with her.

Abigail purses her lips into a smile and nods across the room. Her gaze has fallen upon Matthew — he is backed up against a wall, stealing uneasy glances at passing debutantes as though they were prowling tigers. He has dressed up for the occasion, in his Sunday best for tonight, and seems to have tidied his hair and re-surfacing stubble more than usual.

"Mr. Ribeiro!" she calls out, not too loud across the room.

Matthew whirls around on the spot at the sound of her voice. When he finds her, he has to do a double take. He has not seen Abigail so glamorous before. She ascends the small staircase in her shimmering peach gown. Winifred hardly knows whether she should follow or step back — so she lingers at the top of the steps, where Matthew can see her in full view.

"You polished up rather nicely," she hears Abigail say.

"So did you... an understatement, really," Matthew clears his throat nervously.

"What do you make of the ball?"

"It is... expensive."

"Yes, I know. I was quite overwhelmed by it all when I first arrived here."

"And you aren't anymore?" Matthew tilts his head at her.

Abigail shrugs, bowing her head. "Well, I've gotten better at hiding it. Have you danced yet?"

"I don't..." He glances at the dance-floor with uncertainty, shifting on the spot. "I don't know the steps."

"That did not stop you at the Harvest Fair, did it?"

"Yes, but that was very different."

"Mr. Ribeiro, I have danced with you once before, and I know you have rhythm. I have plenty of space on my dance card."

To demonstrate this, Abigail lifts her wrist and dangles the card in front of his face. Matthew retracts himself before stooping to inspect the empty dotted lines. "You wish for me to pen my name to reserve a dance? What is this, a contract?"

Abigail suddenly grows bashful, worried she has given a wrong impression, or perhaps scared him off. "Unless you do not want to dance—"

"Abigail..." says Matthew, and she freezes; as does Winifred. Sparks seem to fly through the air. "... If I have learned anything in your company, it is that you don't need a dotted line to capture my attention."

Winifred watches her sister be rendered speechless. It is a departure from his usual nonchalance, business-like and rough around the edges. Abigail nods gently as her breath is stolen away. She leads Matthew to the dance-floor as if Winifred were invisible. The elder sister can feel alarm bells ringing in her head — she knows that look. Well, she knows how other people can wear it, but it is the first time she has seen Abigail be struck like lightning with it.

Passion.

It is curious that she thought Abigail to become infatuated too easily. Quite the opposite seems to be true now, where for once she seems entirely unfocused on everyone else, forgetting their opinions or what they might say. All her attention is on Matthew as they stumble and turn to the music. The couples dancing around them shoot them sceptical looks — what in heaven's name are they doing? — and are practically frothing at their mouths when the pair forget obligatory steps altogether, instead making up the moves as they go along. They have created their own little reality within the rigid structure of society.

Winifred feels an inkling of anticipation at where this might lead. More importantly, she worries that the ending might not be the happy one Abigail had been hoping for...

"Those two make a charming pair, don't they?"

Next to her, a vision in dark blue like the night sky has appeared. "Lady Arnold..." Winifred curtsies to her, and then sighs. "That is my sister, actually."

"The other one? Hm," Tilley hums. "Well, my observation still stands. You can't deny passion."

     Winifred just makes a non-committal noise and wrings her hands together. She looks properly at Tilley this time, who makes her look like a plain slate, she is sure. Her dress flows in waves of midnight blue, whilst her blonde locks have been swooped up into a crescent not dissimilar to the moon outside.

     "Have you seen anyone yet?" Tilley asks her.

     "Seen anyone?" Winifred echoes cluelessly.

     "The night is still young, is it not? There are plenty of wandering souls in this room... a number of them presumably happy to waste the night away with someone."

     Winifred looks at the crowd, as though putting them at an arm's distance; once the realisation hits her, it squeezes the self-assurance right out of her. Tilley is suggesting to pick a lover from the faces here... or something along those lines, anyway. "I couldn't possibly, I– I wouldn't even... absolutely not..." she shifts uneasily on the spot.

     On the one hand, there is no part of her that wants to form any sort of connection like that again, because how could they compare to what she previously had?

     Then there is that quiet whisper inside her... gently craving one more reminder of how it felt. Even if it is all she is to be granted, she might be thankful that she experienced it.

     "Look, there is no pressure. I am simply reminding you that it is perfectly alright to explore, remember? Regardless of what people will say, there are plenty of dark corners in this castle, or even plentiful songs to dance to..." Tilley surveys the crowd with a glint in her eye, lips slanting into a slight smile. "I know I'm going to dip my feet into the water tonight."

     "Oh yes? Have your eye on anyone in particular?" Winifred asks, only half-focused, until the reply comes:

     "That Mr. Bridgerton over there."

     She doesn't mean... Winifred follows her gaze in disbelief, where it plummets like a sinking rock onto Benedict stood at the other side of the room — he is swirling a drink in his hands and speaking to Colin, who hardly seems to be listening himself. But all of that is irrelevant. Winifred shocks herself with the violent distaste she feels towards this new information.

     "Who– Benedict?" she blurts out.

     Tilley turns to her, brows furrowed. "Yes, but they do blend into one a little bit, don't they? Do you know him?"

     Bristling, Winifred replies, "Fairly well... I did not realise you two had met."

     "Only earlier today, at the balloon exhibition," Tilley explains. Ah. It all makes sense now. "He came storming into that tent and turned into quite the bumbling mess when faced with myself. But... I have to admit that, once recovered, Mr. Bridgerton does have quite the charm about him."

Winifred stares so intensely at him across the room that she might burn a hole through the wall.

     "... Yes, I suppose he does," she murmurs in surrender.

     "Right then. I'm going in, before he gets clobbered by that gaggle of debutantes over there."

     "Oh, wait—" Winifred reaches after her helplessly, only brushing thin air with her gloved fingertips. Tilley has already waded through the crowd and gone to find Benedict. Colin detaches from him absentmindedly, leaving the older brother to turn with great interest to the merry widow. Already, she can see that his body language is so different than with any debutantes. He is intrigued by her, just like he had said earlier today...

     And Winifred is far too aware of how that fact bothers her.

     She would rather not watch. The air outside is refreshing tonight, and she knows she is not the only one craving it tonight, for she witnessed a young lord making his own escape just moments ago. Winifred heads for the door but is instead barricaded by a barrage of Featheringtons — loud and flaming-haired, they pay no attention to her as she tries to squeeze past. She suddenly feels a violent impatience to be alone with her feelings, whatever they are, without the distractions of obligation or anything else. Otherwise how can she ever come to terms with them? Winifred wishes she could dissect them. Almost like anatomy.

     Her path is diverted again, this time being met with a familiar face. "Ah, there you are," says Lettie. "I was just searching for the baroness. Have you seen her?"

     Winifred simply shakes her head.

     "Where are your sisters?"

     "I don't know. I am sure I will bump into them eventually, on my next lap..."

     Lettie clings onto her glass tighter, frowning at her friend; perhaps she senses the uncharacteristic hands-off approach to her chaperoning... or something else, in the way the closest of friends can seem psychic. "Are you alright?" Lettie asks. "Has something happened? The last time I saw you, you were having the time of your life fiddling with that lamp, and now look at you. Practically having a fit of the blue-devils."

     "It's nothing, I just..."

     "Just what?"

     Winifred doesn't hear her, already focused on something else. The string quartet plays a slow, sultry song as the couples have taken to the floor — and right there in the middle is Benedict dancing with Lady Arnold. He observes her with a sort of wry curiosity through their dance, his stare unflinching as their hands meet and his settles on her waist. They each sweep a leg around, turning into the next steps, when Tilley holds her hand in front of his face. Benedict stops, bemused, letting her take over the dance... he suddenly realises that she has taken the lead, in the traditional hold of the man in a dance. But he lets himself be carried away with it anyway.

All the while, Winifred stares at their closeness and feels her muscles tighten until rigid. Jealousy is not something she often allows herself to feel; she finds it a highly useless emotion... but here is Benedict, dancing with Tilley, who she knows to ooze confidence and charisma. And when she looks at them, all Winifred can think is this:

     She doesn't want Benedict to be dancing with anyone else. She selfishly preferred it when he was jokingly dancing with debutantes, not when he shared something palpable with another woman, even if it is someone she regards very well.

But then that means...

What does that mean?

"Winifred?" Lettie asks again.

She shakes her head. "Excuse me, I just..." Winifred trails off. Feeling a beat of guilt for ditching Lettie, it is soon overcome by the relief she feels not to be watching Benedict dance with Tilley. She slips away from the crowded ballroom at last and finds a quiet alcove in the marble staircase. Winifred leans against the cool stone walls and lulls her head back, letting her intertwined hands cushion her tailbone.

The bump of her wedding ring digs into her skin at the most inopportune moment to taunt her — she scoffs, twisting it underneath her glove. Hello darling, she thinks numbly, imagining the reminder as Joseph tapping her shoulder. Then she clings the one hand tightly with the other as she thinks, thinks, thinks. Winifred is not naive. She knows people do not feel jealousy over nothing, especially her. She can connect the dots easily enough... and they lead to Benedict.

Accepting it, accepting what she feels, is the hard part.

Winifred stays in the quieter stairwell for quite some time. It is clear by the number of songs that pass as she stays stagnant. She stares at some of the sculptures and paintings already adorning these walls and wonders what other treasures are to be found. Lord Hawkins did say the castle was full of them. At one point, a couple walks past whispering about paintings displayed upstairs. Winifred stores the piece of information away safely in her memory in case needed.

"Hello, you."

She turns her gaze to the side, landing on Benedict. He is stood in the arched doorway leading to the stairwell, almost framed like a painting with the dancers behind him. His arms hang by his sides as he looks at her with a quiet sort of attentiveness; as though trying to match this more subdued space. Winifred smiles at him but can feel that her eyes do not follow suit.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," says Benedict, walking forwards to join her.

"I just needed the quiet... although there is plenty to look at."

"Yes, Lord Hawkins does collect some curious items, doesn't he?"

"I thought you were with Lady Arnold?" Winifred asks pointedly.

"I was," Benedict nods slowly, "but there is only so much conversation you can have in one evening. I met her earlier today. I must say, she is quite the character... she mentioned you, actually."

This makes Winifred stand up straighter. "Did she?"

"Yes. I brought you up, and she mentioned how the two of you had already met."

You brought me up? Why? Winifred wants to ask him, but she keeps her lips sealed shut. It only confuses her feelings even more into a blend of colours. Because if he was spending time with Tilley and dancing with her, in what conversation would Winifred be a natural topic? She rubs the corners of her temples with her fingertips tiredly.

"Don't you wish to speak to Lady Arnold further?" she asks. "Because if you are interested in her, I do not think running off after me is a good way of communicating it."

As if she could not be more puzzled, Benedict's expression also warps into confusion — there is a blankness in his eyes at first, which takes one felled swoop into good-natured mirth. "I do not want anything serious with Lady Arnold," he says, "and I'm quite sure she would agree with me. She just asked me for a dance and I went along with it. 'Tis a party, after all."

Winifred furrows her brows at him. "But I thought... the dance, you were both so—"

Benedict swiftly interjects, saying, "If I were really serious about asking someone to dance with a courtship or more in mind, I would not be subtle about it."

"That is easy for you to say. Most times, none of us can see these things for ourselves."

"I am not interested in Lady Arnold like that."

Winifred pauses, then nods. She suddenly feels like a fool for jumping to a conclusion. When she thinks about it, Benedict is too free of a spirit, and Tilley expressed herself that she did not want anything formal. But knowing this still did nothing to change the way Winifred felt when she watched them dance — having revealed this inadvertently feels like turning herself inside out.

     When Winifred looks up again, Benedict's face has suddenly switched. Filled with intent, he takes a large step towards her.

     "Would it matter to you if I was?" he asks, completely serious.

     "Of course not, you are at liberty to pursue whoever you choose—"

     "But would it matter to you?"

Winifred meets Benedict's eyes, her lips parted. The words seem to fizzle out on her lips... but what words? What would she say if she could?

"Excuse me– ah, Mr. Bridgerton!" The voice of an elderly gentleman has intercut Winifred's thoughts. No! Not now! The pair step back, allowing him to walk through, only for him to recognise Benedict. "Good to see you. Your mother tells me you have been holding the fort for the viscount in his absence. And very well, I might add."

"Ah, thank you, Lord Fuller..." Benedict says through a non-committed smile. His gaze flickers between the man and Winifred, desperately hoping for him to leave them alone.

"You must all come to my library exhibition this week. My whole collection shall be on display."

"We shall try. Thank you—"

"Please do. You can even bring the little ones if you wish. How old is the youngest boy again? Eight or nine?"

"... Gregory is fourteen, my lord."

"Well, I never! Growing up so fast. But do bring him along if he wishes, a growing boy shouldn't be denied it. Good evening, Mr. Bridgerton..."

Relieved of pain, Benedict nods curtly at him. "Good evening..." All throughout the interaction, Winifred could only watch from afar, feeling the closeness which they had before slip away like loose threads. By the time Benedict has managed to politely usher him away, it is futile. The moment is gone. She knows that, even as he looks back at her expectantly. In the silence that follows, he catches on and his shoulders sink.

Then Winifred has an idea.

"Have you explored this castle much?" she asks.

"Perhaps some," Benedict shrugs. "Why?"

Winifred studies him carefully, then ascends up one of the steps. "Follow me. I would like to show you something."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

BENEDICT feels... strange. Something is uncurling slowly in his chest, like paper touched by a flame.

     He has been drawn to plenty of people over time, of all shapes and sizes and walks of life. Lady Arnold was simply another one of them. She was exceptionally intriguing — Benedict followed her onto the dance-floor like he would a fascinating beam of light. The dance they had shared had been miles beyond anything he had performed with Miss Stowell, or any other young lady of the ton for that matter. He had a good time... flirting with the possibility of, well, anything. He would be lying if he said he hadn't felt some attraction.

     And then here was Winifred. Standing alone, away from the crowds, not asking for attention. Yet she reels him in every time. Benedict follows her blindly. He had wanted to know so badly what she might say next, if it weren't for Lord Fuller interrupting at the wrong damn moment...

     Benedict trails behind Winifred up the staircase in the Hawkins estate. Although guests still trickle through, most of them have been left behind in the downstairs ballroom, allowing for more room to breathe and think up here. He hasn't a clue where she could be leading him.

"In here," Winifred nods to a small inner room.

     Following her inside, Benedict feels the background noise shrink away behind him. One tall window pours in a beam of moonlight from outside, otherwise the room is only lit by candelabras on the burgundy-coloured walls. To one of them, a tall bookcase stands with various literary works and history books. To the other, a large painting is hanging, immediately striking even when stood from afar. Winifred stops deliberately in front of it and shoots him a rather pointed stare.

     Ah. He sees what she is doing now.

     "What do you make of it?" Winifred asks, still staring.

     Benedict sighs. He knows Winifred will not let him off so easily. So, he walks slowly up to the painting and stands beside her. He searches the painting, and inside himself too. Trying to stir something up without feeling bitter or humiliated. But after a few seconds... something does emerge. He looks closer at the painting — it shows a huddle of scientists crowded around candlelight, illuminated by a new invention set out on the table. The shadows cut sharper than the awed looks on their faces.

     "It looks like a Derby piece," says Benedict curiously. "I think it is, but I am not so familiar with this one."

     "Apparently Lord Hawkins had this commissioned just for him," Winifred adds. "I overheard."

     "Why does that not surprise me?"

     They stand side-by-side, silently looking at the painting, absorbing every feature.

     "There is something striking about it. The shadows, the light..." she mentions.

     Benedict tilts his head at the painting, letting his thoughts well up over him. "That contrast between the light and the dark is so sharp. Quite reminiscent of a Caravaggio, I suppose. It should be harsh to look upon, but instead it just feels... enlightening." He continues to look upon the painting by himself, thinking about the use of tenebrism by the artist; he recalls learning about it at the Royal Academy.

It is only when his attention falters that he realises how quiet it is. You could hear a pin drop, which is remarkable considering the party going on downstairs. Benedict also has the suspicion that he is being watched. He slowly turns his head to find Winifred looking not at the painting, but at him. She has a strangely triumphant look on her face. When she softly speaks again, it feels so loud in this silence that it rattles his heart in his ribcage:

"Art is still your passion, is it not?"

"Well, I just– I can't—"

Benedict grasps for the words like loose straws. That seems to be an answer enough for Winifred, for she looks back at the painting with a slow nod of her head.

"I thought as much," she says.

Maybe because she is the only one he can fathom admitting it to, Benedict murmurs, "I did try to draw... once or twice. When I was alone. But they were abysmal."

"I do not believe that for one second." At Winifred's words, he gives a self-deprecating shrug; but she is not done yet. In fact, she launches straight into the deep end. "Your brother's donation was a misguided choice, I agree, however his intentions were in the right place. He wished to guide you with some purpose, not to destroy it completely."

     It all comes spilling out of Benedict from there. "And I have made peace with what Anthony did," he says, "I do not blame him, really. But surely you must see how it defeats the point. How can I ever know if that was my path when it was bought for me? How am I meant to be anything other than a Bridgerton, when being a Bridgerton was what got me into the Royal Academy?"

"Benedict, if your art is so precious to you, then pursue it on your own terms."

He fidgets restlessly, his chest swaying aimlessly to face the painting again. Of course he would love to paint again. He really, really wants to feel that again, if he could. But...

"I would not know where to begin," says Benedict despondently. "Lack of inspiration. That went when I left the Royal Academy."

Winifred narrows her eyes at him, scrutinising him with care. He suddenly feels rather too transparent standing here. "I have noticed something about you," she remarks. "It seems to me that you never settle into just one thing. You always shift from one passion to another, trying them on like new coats. You absorb yourself completely in them — whether throwing yourself into your art, or stepping into Anthony's shoes — and then you abandon them just as swiftly."

     They stand opposite each other now, only a couple feet apart. Benedict feels like he is being picked apart, feeling exposed in a way he didn't even know he could be; he cannot decide whether it is a relief or downright terrifying. Nevertheless, he hangs onto Winifred's every word as she speaks with stubborn precision.

     "Perhaps your inspiration has been lacking because... you are viewing yourself as the Royal Academy student. Or Turner, or Gainsborough, or even Derby." To demonstrate, Winifred nods to the grand painting beside them, but does not tear her eyes away from him. "You will never be them, no one can. So what about you? What makes Benedict Bridgerton?"

A crackle of static rolls up his spine, the question snapping him into focus.

"Look around you, in your life, at what inspires you. Observe your family, your friends. Draw your inspiration from that. It is more than any classroom can teach you or take away from you. But you will never know what you are capable of unless you dig deeper for once..."

     Benedict has nothing to follow up with. He just stares at her, feeling that his jaw slackened long ago. In the silence that expands, Winifred comes down from her bullet-pointed speech and eyes him cautiously.

     "Did I speak out of turn?" she asks.

     "No, not– not at all. Very eloquently put," Benedict half-laughs, half-exhales shakily. "I was just... um..."

     What can he possibly say after that? He has never had anyone hold him under a magnifying glass like that; when he abandoned his art, for instance, apart from the odd exchange with Anthony or Eloise, it was never mentioned again. Benedict himself never expected anyone to bring it up in such detail again. Perhaps he had convinced himself that the whole artist thing was just a passing fancy. But Winifred's insistence — however frustrating at first — has brought him straight back to wanting it all over again. Is it inspiration? No, there is no need to jump the gun just yet. Even the most elegantly-put monologue could not revive that in one go. Nevertheless... it is the first real spark in a long time.

     "Thank you. I did not realise you took my artistic woes so seriously."

     "You know I take everything seriously."

     "Oh, well, that is true."

     They both beam. Winifred then shifts from her deadpan delivery, to complete sincerity. "I care about... your happiness," she replies, ever so softly.

     Yes, Benedict thinks, I see that now. And what a dizzying, wonderful, nerve-wracking feeling it is.

     "Well," he says, "as ever, I shall take your words to heart."

     "Please do," Winifred replies.

     Benedict stares at her. He shakes his head, almost in slight disbelief. "You are... truly remarkable. Do you know that?"

     The muscles flare in Winifred's throat at a sudden intake of air. Benedict realises, too, that there is another spark, not just for his art. He knows it when he sees her. He just knows that he has never felt like this with anyone else...

If only Benedict knew what to do with that knowledge.

     Winifred clears her throat, averting her gaze to the polished floors. "I should... I should find my sisters," she says.

     "Of course," he nods. Don't go, another part of him would rather say. But he understands — Winifred is too dutiful to leave those who need her alone for too long. She watches his eyes flicker back to the painting, a coy glint in hers.

     "I'll leave you two alone..." she whispers on her way out.

     Benedict laughs softly, watching as Winifred's goes. He waits until her silhouette is swallowed by the shadows, obscured by the wall. Then he sighs and turns back to the painting. It feels like being left alone with an old friend. Benedict steps closer to the painting and inspects it more closely, trying to notice everything. And maybe — with a bit of luck — he hopes to find some inspiration.

     If he does, he knows exactly who to thank for it.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

This was a whopper of a chapter, so well done for making it this far 🫡  but speaking of milestones...

One year ago today, Turning Page was published! That year has flown by, and to see the feedback it's had in that time and how far I have managed to make it so far astounds me. A thousand thank yous for your continued support! Your feedback makes this fic an absolute joy to write ❤️ I don't know exactly how many chapters this book will have yet, but I know roughly the maximum, so I think this chapter also marks the halfway point if we haven't reached it already... ohhh the things you've yet to see...

A side note: I still wanted to include the Benedict/Tilley dance because I actually thought it was really cool, I immediately noticed the switching of who was leading the dance! (But what was that song choice and the editing in the finished version? The recycled Harmony Ball music didn't fit at all. Apparently it was meant to be a string quartet of 'Promiscuous' by Nelly Furtado, which would have fit wayyy better). Anyway, I wanted to reassure you now that this is as far as things go with Ben and Tilley — I just liked the dance too much to exclude it, and also if it meant jealous Winifred and silly flirty Benedict, I was all for it.

A couple of music bits I imagined from this chapter:
1. Abigail & Matthew dance — 'Waiting for Love' by Midnite String Quartet (cover of Avicii)
2. Benedict & Winifred talk, i.e. "Would it matter to you?" — 'Rather Be' by Stringspace (cover of Clean Bandit ft. Jess Glynne)

While I'm feeling very inspired for this fic, there might be a *slight* pause in updates for a bit. If that is the case, it's because I want to block out the next few chapters in terms of what happens & progresses. Call me a perfectionist, but I want things to build just as I'd like in this slow burn! Hopefully this chapter was enough to sink your teeth into until then.

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 12/09/2024