CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
clandestine.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     IT IS A SLOW, DELIGHTFULLY UNEVENTFUL MORNING IN BERKELEY SQUARE; and during the social season, Winifred will take as many of these as she can get. She and Jemima sit at opposite ends of the sofa comfortably reading. Opposite them on the other sofa, Lettie does Lady Strachan's needlework (as the one with better eyesight and steadier hands), while the baroness slowly pets the sleeping pug on her lap. She is surveying Abigail practicing the harp — an instrument she has yet to master, but tries to put painstaking hours in to be proficient.

There is perhaps only one thing which could disrupt this peace.

A footman walks into the morning room, a silver tray holding some papers. "Mail for you, my lady," he tells the baroness.

"Thank you..." Lady Strachan plucks the papers from the tray. She holds them back, squinting to read the writing. A couple of them are sealed letters which she sets aside. Then she gets to a familiar pamphlet. "Ah, a new issue of Whistledown. Would someone with better eyesight do the honours?"

"Ask Jemima," Abigail ceases her playing and grins. "Her readings makes them ever so entertaining."

"Well, if I must be forced..." Jemima feigns nonchalance, walking past her giggling sister as she retrieves the pamphlet from the baroness. She remains standing as she clears her throat, as if to slip into her Lady Whistledown voice.

Here we go, Winifred thinks with a sigh.

"Dearest gentle reader..." she recites, over-enunciating in a fanciful fashion. "A question: what is the primary force that guides us along our paths? Is it our minds, or our hearts? When heart and head are in conflict, every choice may feel like agony." Jemima goes on to pace slowly around the room, while everyone else listens and continues with their activities. "One person in whom thought and feeling are united is Her Majesty Queen Charlotte. After their meeting at the Hawkins Ball, it seems the Queen's sparkler, Miss Francesca Bridgerton, may indeed be poised to become the new Marquess Samadani."

Lettie's head whips up with a crease between her brows. "Really? I thought I saw Francesca flee for the nearest exit when she was speaking to Lord Samadani last night."

Regardless of what Francesca did or didn't do, Winifred knows for certain that she will be hating the spotlight given to her; she receives hardly any gratification from what is said or written about her, unlike many appearance-obsessed members of the ton.

"I must say, Lady Whistledown seems decidedly less scathing this year," Abigail thinks aloud.

"And that is for the better," says Winifred stubbornly. "Anyway, go on, Jemima."

Jemima holds up the pamphlet to the sun and starts reading it again: "Of course, whatever maketh our collective hearts swell may yet make them break. The season is still early and oft has a mind of its own. Indeed, Miss Francesca is not the only one moving swiftly forth in courtship. Hear it first..."

     It takes a few seconds to realise the prolonged silence; that it is not a dramatic pause, nor a printing error that has left the sentence hanging. Winifred looks up from her book and sees Jemima's exuberance has completely vanished. Her pupils frantically dart across the previous words, as if checking to ensure she read something correctly.

     "Do go on, dear," says the baroness.

     "I, um..." Jemima stares down at the paper; her voice has gone back to normal, except it is weaker and wobblier.

     "Jemima, what is the matter?" Winifred asks.

     "I just... don't understand..."

     "Oh, give it here," Abigail gently snatches the paper from her grasp, flattening it out to read: "Hear it first from this author that last night, Miss Emilia Caldwell received and accepted a proposal from Lord Corning. After weeks of union between the families at society events, the enviably beautiful pair are set to bind themselves officially."

Jemima practically shudders at the news.

With a pleased smile on her face, Abigail looks up at her sister innocently. "Jemima, isn't that wonderful? I do remember Lord Corning and he's rather handsome indeed. She has done very well there."

"She never said anything," she mumbles, bitter with shock, "I– I mean, when did they even—"

"They have been together for quite some time," Winifred adds, "I suppose the proposal was a natural progression... are you alright?" She sits up with concern, for a pale-faced Jemima has just rushed over to the window facing out to the street. She desperately pries it open and inhales the whispers of air trickling inside.

"It's ever so stuffy in here," Jemima says quickly, "aren't you all feeling a bit faint?"

"... No?"

"Perhaps you should retire to your room for a few minutes, Miss Seymour," suggests the baroness. "To cool yourself down."

Without another word, Jemima storms off past them in a flurry, past a footman who tries to look impartial to the whole thing. The women left in the room all exchange confused glances with one another. Abigail, naturally concerned, rises half-way out of her seat with the intention of going after her sister. Winifred just gently shakes her head — Jemima seems like she could do with some time alone.

"I didn't think she would be so upset," Abigail frowns.

"Neither did I," Winifred sighs. "I can only hope she is in better spirits when we all go into town this afternoon."

At this, Abigail sits up in her seat, somewhat sheepishly. "Oh, about that... I cannot accompany you into town after all."

"Why? Do you have other plans?"

"Actually, yes. I have a caller." When Winifred raises her eyebrows at this, Abigail explains with a tinge of fondness, "Mr. Ribeiro is coming over after lunch. He has an audience with Her Majesty tomorrow, and I offered to help him. You know, with the etiquette and composure."

"Abigail," Winifred reminds her, "the most you have done within the vicinity of Queen Charlotte is to perspire nervously in her presence."

"... Well, yes, but those are just details—"

"Then it is a good thing I am here," Lady Strachan declares. "I have known Her Majesty since before all three of you were even born. Why, I remember the very beginning... try not to think too deeply about how old that makes me."

"You were at her coronation?" Abigail smiles in awe.

"Yes, and her wedding. I witnessed much of her early reign with a proximity I'm honoured to have had. Perhaps not as close as Lady Danbury, but you know Agatha — she can meddle quite brilliantly even with royalty. I also had three children to juggle in the middle of my life completely changing..."

As she talks, Winifred notices Lettie gazing at the baroness with a certain admiration. It is like she has heard this story before and never tires of hearing it again. The off-putting distraction comes from Regina, who has started snoring (or wheezing) on her lap. Lady Strachan then seems to realise she is getting off-topic and shakes her head.

"Anyway, bring your caller to me. I am certain I can help shake off the nerves; Queen Charlotte is not as formidable as she seems."

     Leaving Abigail at home with Lettie and the baroness, Winifred later manages to coax Jemima out of her room for their outing. They hail a carriage into town; Madame Delacroix's shop has expanded and relocated since the last social season, thanks to her business booming. With the Queen's ball imminent, it calls for something slightly more refined. They had set aside some dresses for Abigail and Jemima that were slightly more glamorous than usual.

     As they walk down the blossom-scattered streets, Jemima has barely uttered a word. The contrast between herself before and after reading Whistledown is stark. Winifred just walks along and hopes her little sister is tagging behind her.

"Do you plan on sulking all the way home, too?" asks Winifred after a while.

"I am well," Jemima bristles, not looking her in the eye. "Do I not look well?"

She raises a sceptical eyebrow at her sister. But since Jemima won't open up and tell her what is wrong, Winifred would rather not continue to poke, lest her claws come out.

They finds Madame Delacroix's new shop with its large display window; the shop bell thinking as the door opens. Customers already bustle in the front of the modiste shop as they examine rolls of fabrics.

Winifred cranes her neck around the thick curtains, hearing the familiar French accent of Genevieve Delacroix. She seems to be occupied with another client: "Do you see the way the fabric is draped over the silk satin? Trés magnifique, no?" she says.

     "It is stunning, Madame Delacroix," replies the voice of a slightly older woman, sounding delighted.

     "You can already see the bride in the mirror..."

     Yes, you can. Winifred and Jemima have now walked around far enough to see a glimpse of the debutante being served — it is none other than Emilia Caldwell herself. She is stood in front of the mirror, letting Madame Delacroix hold white and ivory fabrics over a silky chemise as she admires her reflection. Winifred steals a glance next to her, where Jemima suddenly looks as pale as the bridal colours being sampled.

     "It's lovely, Madame Delacroix, I—" Emilia says, all smiles until she catches sight of Jemima at the front of the shop. She almost stumbles off the podium with a sharp intake of air. She steadies herself again and averts her gaze. "Can I, er, change out of this dress? I'm suddenly rather hot."

"Are you unwell, dear?" the other woman, clearly Emilia's mother, asks.

"No, Mama. Just a bit overwhelmed."

"Of course. Take your time."

The Caldwells walk back to the privacy of a dressing room. Winifred moves to get Madame Delacroix's attention, but instead feels her arm being yanked backwards by her sister. She yelps in pain as they stumble into the afternoon light skewering them through the windows.

"Can we go?" Jemima asks in a harsh whisper.

"What?"

"We must leave. Now."

"Jemima," Winifred insists, "we are not leaving without your dresses."

"Then tell Madame Delacroix to hurry up and package the dresses," Jemima pleads.

Winifred glares at her incredulously. "Don't be rude—"

"Ah, bonjour ladies! Sorry for the wait..." Madame Delacroix appears in front of them pleasantly. They whirl around from their confidential stances, as if caught red-handed. Either the modiste does not notice their odd behaviour, or she is one very good actress. "I assume you are here to pick up your gowns?"

"We are indeed," Winifred forces a smile.

"Then follow me, right this way..."

However, Jemima lingers behind, frozen to the spot. "Hold on, where are we going?" she asks urgently.

"To try on your dress, of course," says Madame Delacroix.

"I am sure they will fit splendidly. I don't have much of an appetite. Healthy enough, of course, but nothing drastic that won't fit me into those gowns, so—"

"I'm afraid it is rather important that I check. Right this way, please."

Giving in, Jemima shuffles reluctantly to the back of the shop, right in the orbit of the Caldwells. Emilia emerges from her dressing room and comes face-to-face with her — they both freeze on the spot. Neither of them can look the other in the eye, although it is Jemima who avoids her first. No hellos, no congratulations on her engagement, nothing. Emilia hovers with a desperation to be listened to, before she finally gives up and walks out of the shop with her mother. Only then does Jemima release a large exhale and walk into the dressing room.

Bizarre.

A few minutes later, Jemima walks out in her gown. Winifred cannot help but brighten at the sight. A navy blue gown with a lightly-bejewelled chest, it appears like a twinkling night sky when she walks. The only thing that dims its shine is the sadness of the girl inside the dress.

"You look lovely, Jemima," Winifred tells her.

"It definitely fits," Jemima replies curtly. "May I take it off now?"

"After some small adjustments," Madame Delacroix says politely, crouching around the podium already. The grim-faced girl stands rigidly through the whole process, the modiste rotating around her and ensuring her handiwork is correct. Then, once she is pleased, it leaves Jemima to hurry back to the dressing room to be freed from the dress.

     Winifred and Madame Delacroix exchange a sideways glance. "I am so sorry," the former apologises. "My sister has been in a rather sour mood all day."

     "Tout va bien, Mrs. Erstwhile. Your sister's temperament is saintly in comparison to some customers I have served..." At this, Madame Delacroix raises her eyebrows, as if reluctantly remembering some stroppy clients. "Is Miss Abigail not here with you today?"

     "Oh, no, she had a... prior engagement."

     "Ah, I see."

     They walk back towards the front of the shop, where the door bell is constantly tinkling with the flow of customers. As they walk, Winifred can feel Madame Delacroix looking at her with a sort of intent curiosity. They wind up stopping by the fabrics stand, where it is only a matter of time before the modiste speaks up.

"Mrs. Erstwhile, I have noticed you have never bought a dress from my shop. Why is that?" When Winifred opens and shuts her mouth guiltily, Madame Delacroix quickly interjects: "Oh, I should add, it is no criticism. I simply wondered why you have never been tempted to ask for a dress, tailored and designed just for you. It is always for your sisters."

Winifred smooths her gloved hand over one of the fabrics, thankfully less garish than some of the others. "I suppose I haven't seen the need for it," she admits. "I have never paid as much attention to the latest fashions. One of the many reasons I wonder how I wound up in Mayfair..."

"It is not about being fashionable," says Delacroix, "it is about having something that expresses yourself."

The designer's eye is clear in Madame Delacroix; she takes a step back, Winifred suddenly becoming her model. She hums thoughtfully as she winds a bouncing curl of her hair around her finger. A glint of inspiration washes over her slowly.

"You strike me as a woman who prefers simplicity and functionality. Perhaps something traditional, with a bit of earthiness, no?"

"Yes, I'd say so," Winifred replies.

"Just as I thought," Madame Delacroix smiles, suddenly glowing with satisfaction. "Mind you, rather different from many of the orders I have placed for my customers today."

Winifred raises her eyebrows. "Precisely. But make no mistake, I think the business you have built here is extraordinary. I am glad to see it prospering."

"Thank you very much," the modiste nods gratefully. Her accent seems to weaken for a moment, perhaps after years of living in England, and a real sincerity shines through.

Then she is all appearances again, as Jemima re-surfaces back in her pelisse she wore coming in. She fiercely tries to jam her fingers into her gloves without drawing a full breath. "May we leave now?" she asks curtly. After shooting her a withering glare, Winifred has the dresses paid for with the money that was set aside for them. They take a box each and walk down the street with them back to the carriage.

Jemima charges ahead a few paces in front of Winifred, at a speed she is not so accustomed to. Why is she running away? The more she runs, the more Winifred worries. "Jemima, slow down! Jemima!" she tries to call out not-too-loudly, drawing attention from the strangers around them. She reaches out and grabs her sister's shoulder, able to spin her around on the spot.

"What are you doing?"

"Jemima, wait– what is wrong? And before you say nothing, I know that to be false, because you have been in a petulant mood for hours now."

"Don't nag me—"

"I am not nagging," Winifred interjects firmly, but realises she may sound too harsh. She inhales a deep breath and lowers her voice. "I am simply trying to understand what has made you so upset. If you wish to direct your anger at me, very well. I can handle that. But do not take it out on Madame Delacroix or Miss Caldwell; who, by the way, I am quite certain is the root of all this somehow. Neither of you spoke a word to each other in there. You couldn't even congratulate the girl on her engagement. Why?"

     All whilst Winifred is speaking, she sees Jemima squirming in discomfort at each word. There is a fleeting moment where she worries her sister might even cry. Part of her feels awkward at the possibility — the two of them haven't historically gone to lean on one another. But before Jemima can possibly shed a tear, she sucks it all back in.

     "... I cannot say," Jemima murmurs; she isn't even looking at her.

     Something about it stings Winifred a little bit. She just hopes it did not show. "Listen, I know I am not your favourite. I'm not Abigail or even Madeline," says Winifred softly. "But am I really so unapproachable that you feel the need to hide things from me?"

For a long while, as people meander around their space they have cut into the current, Jemima stays silent. Winifred watches her with mounting concern; she is not sure she has even seen Jemima this pensive and restrained before.

"No, I just really cannot say," she finally answers, with carefulness. "You will simply have to trust me."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

BENEDICT has managed to steal some time for himself before tonight's ball (they always seem to come around quickly, don't they?). He sits alone in the study, the one usually occupied by his brother, and before that their father. He knows the sort of thing he should be doing in here — sorting through these papers on the desk that he has dug out, because Lord only knows how for long they have been neglected. Even Anthony cannot keep everything too tidy all the time.

But Benedict isn't looking at any of that. Instead, he is staring at a blank page in his sketchbook. He had unearthed it from its hiding place in his room; the one he had pretended to forget about, yet he knew exactly where to look when he felt compelled to see it again. It feels strangely foreign sitting in his hands right now.

     He has been thinking about Winifred's words to him the other night. That voice has been following him around for the last few days, ever since they spoke at the Hawkins Ball. More than anything, Benedict had been shaken by how determined Winifred had been to get to the root of his trivial struggles. Except that she did not find them trivial at all — she did not see his art as a hobby he once flirted with, but an ingrained passion of his. Benedict isn't sure even he saw it that way after leaving the Royal Academy. But he would like to be reminded again.

He does miss dipping into a sketchbook — or even more so, painting — however he intends to take one small step at a time. Benedict only hopes that Winifred is right; that this is some essential part of him after all.

     So here he is, with a blank page. What will he do about it?

     Benedict quietly puts pencil to paper, keeping the nib there for a few moments. He reminds himself to draw inspiration from his own life and experiences.

     An amusing idea comes to mind. Benedict begins drawing his sister, Francesca, only an outline to begin with. Then it becomes more detailed as he captures her quietly jubilant face sitting with her hands in her lap. The picture is burned in his memory from the other day, which had been particularly odd...

     The family had been expecting Lord Samadani to call on Francesca in the morning, when in walks an entirely different man; no normal introduction, and he had not even known her name until he asked for one of Violet's daughters. He proceeded to introduce himself as John Stirling, Earl of Kilmartin, who Francesca had apparently met at the ball the night before. Benedict could not help but notice the instant likeness in character between them, both reserved and preferring the quiet... so much so that they sat in silence together for his whole visit. A baffling thought for the Bridgertons, indeed, but Benedict thought them rather sweet.

     The pencil scribbles across the page with fair ease. Francesca's proportions sit perfectly on the page, only lacking further detail. Benedict begins to draw John, but then shakes his head. He doesn't know the man well enough to capture him on the page. Perhaps he shall come back to this sketch later; something tells him he has not seen the last of John, if Francesca has anything to say about it.

     But as he turns the page over, Benedict is quietly surprised at himself. It is certainly not an overnight switch, but he does feel he has achieved something. There is something a little more personal than having just imitated the techniques of the greats, or drawing nameless models and bowls of fruit in a classroom. Even in his small, faint outline of Francesca's sketch, he can recognise his sister's idiosyncrasies.

     Faced with another blank page, he begins drawing another outline. Another woman. This time, she is not a Bridgerton. Benedict finds himself slowing down as he does draw her. Taking more care, precision, stopping to think. He extracts her from his memories like a fine thread, remembering the defined but smooth contours of her face, her never-changing hairstyle, the way her hands cross and intertwine in front of her...

     Benedict soon realises whose silhouette is forming on the paper. Winifred. And he could draw so many more too, if he felt brave enough. he just knows that it makes his heart beat a little bit faster when he thinks too much about it.

     Almost frightened by himself, Benedict sets the pencil down with a sigh and rubs his eyes. A glance at the clock makes him sit bolt upright; he has been here for hours.

     There is too little time to sink into another drawing now, but he tells himself tomorrow. Tomorrow, he will rise early in the morning, and he shall deliberately set aside time where he can privately try and draw something. No matter how awful it looks. Easier said than done, he knows, but he sees no other option.

     Assuming his mother will be on his case soon, he stands up to leave the study, only to knock into the desk on his way. After cursing under his breath at the sharp stab in his shin, Benedict groans at the sight of discarded papers on the floor. All muddled up, he bets. He crouches down and does his best to gather them back together — old ledgers with scribbled cursive, recognisable in their sharpness as Anthony's hand. There are some unfamiliar papers too, filed in-between as Anthony has updated or revised the older copies.

Benedict refers back to one of the oldest-looking sheets faded slightly browner with time. His heart ebbs with fondness as he recognises his father's handwriting, much calmer than Anthony's, as if he had all the time in the world. Benedict takes greater care handling these pages, afraid to rip them or tarnish them in any way.

Then he sees something that makes his breath hitch in his throat.

He sees his own name, Benedict Bridgerton, written by Edmund. He skims and jumps over the rest to land on two other words, next to his name, that stump him:

"My Cottage?" he reads it out in a mutter.

"Benedict! Where are you?"

His mother's voice pierces through the wooden door from downstairs. Rolling his eyes, Benedict teasingly calls back, "Awakening from winter's hibernation! I shall be right down!"

... But he hesitates with these papers in his hands. He does his best to place them neatly back on the desk, something he can return to later. Benedict makes a mental note to ask Anthony about what he saw. Because unless he has turned a blind eye, he does not remember the name of this estate at all, and yet it has been written next to his name. A multitude of questions start bubbling in his head, one of the first being (not-so-urgently):

     What sort of a name is "My Cottage"?

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

QUEEN Charlotte has a penchant for showing off, and her ball this year at the palace is no difference — Winifred feels even more out-of-place than she usually does at the other balls. To mark the occasion in particular, the guests have gathered around the mosaic floor in the middle of the ballroom adorned with fake ruins and crumbling pillars. In the middle are two dancers, the male shirtless with golden scales painted on his chest, and the female barefoot in a floaty purple dress, imitating the story of Eros and Psyche.

     Winifred steals a sideways glance at Jemima as the play starts. She imagines she would enjoy this sort of thing. But when she looks across, all she sees is a sullen stare cast on the dancers. Sighing, she turns back to watch the performance.

The moonlight pours onto Psyche as she lies motionless on the ground. But with a single touch from Eros, fingers to pulse, she comes alive with a gasp for breath. Both of them have been afflicted with love before they can do anything about it. The ton watches intently and Her Majesty from her high balcony as the graceful dance unfolds.

     But unexpectedly, Winifred finds herself unable to look away. She becomes drawn to their touches, feather-light one moment and hungry the next. Eros wraps his arms around Psyche and lifts her into the air; as an observer, her breath is stolen away. Her focus magnifies on their airborne embrace. A painful thought occurs to Winifred:

     When was the last time I was held like that?

     By her husband, of course.

     Eros and Psyche swoop beneath each other's arms, twirl around each other, crane their lips up to the other's. It is not just their touch but the love emanating from them that makes the hairs prickle on Winifred's skin. It all takes her back to a life that seems so very far away now, yet it remains lodged inside her like shrapnel. The moments she and Joseph had together had been beautiful — every touch, every word, every look burned in her memory. God, she misses him.

     Then it shifts like sand, the feeling separated from just Joseph, turning into a craving for closeness in the broader sense. For all her autonomy now, something in Winifred also aches to be two instead of one, just like these dancers. To be held again, to be loved again. But she knows it is not so simple... Is there really a chance she will never have that again?

     Lifting Psyche into the air, Eros balances her steadily on his shoulders, before bringing her down to earth softly like a falling leaf. The music quietens to silence; it is replaced with appreciative applause from the watchful ton.

     Winifred blinks rapidly, and only then does she realise a tear is slowly slipping down her cheek.

     Startled by herself, she wipes it away and claps with everyone else. She glances at her sisters either side of her — Abigail's pupils are dilated and lips parted with a look of awe, while Jemima lip wobbles as she applauds loudly. Winifred feels a hand rest on her arm, belonging to Lettie as her friend gives her a concerned expression, having seen her tears. All she does is give a nod of reassurance and pat her hand.

     Winifred looks out at the crowd, not expecting to focus on anyone. Instead her gaze falls upon Benedict's.

     He is already looking at her.

     If she was not stirred by the performance before, something is unleashed again with a single look. Winifred quickly averts her eyes in an attempt to not feel so overwhelmed. Excusing herself from her group, she finds a darker corner of the ballroom where there is mercifully a seat available. She lowers herself onto the gilded chair and looks up at the ceiling, admiring the unfathomable beauty of the palace.

     "Good-evening, Mrs. Erstwhile," says a confident but friendly voice. Lady Arnold approaches her with lips pursed into a smile. "Did you enjoy the ballet?"

     "Yes, I did, it was very... powerful," Winifred answers.

     "Yet another art form which can transform the complexities of our emotions into something tangible."

     And don't I know it, thinks Winifred. She had not been expecting nor particularly wanting company in this moment, but she does not protest when Tilley sits down in the chair next to her. The older widow's gaze pierces through the faux Greek columns towards Benedict as he talks with Eloise.

     "Mr. Bridgerton is on good form tonight, is he not?" Tilley says, gently but pointedly.

     Winifred stares across at him too, watching a grin break out across his face at something his sister said. "Yes, I dare say he is."

     Her answer is met with silence. When she turns to face Tilley, she is looking at her with sympathy and... regret? She folds her hands on her lap and faces her chest towards Winifred. There is a knowing smile playing on her lips as she says: "Mrs. Erstwhile, I hope you know that my intentions were nothing serious by dancing with Mr. Bridgerton that night at the Hawkins Ball."

     "Why should it matter to me what your intentions were?"

     Tilley tilts her head at her, and Winifred sighs in defeat. Damn, she's good.

     "I would rather not become entangled with him anyway," Tilley adds, "after seeing the connection between the two of you... I am right, aren't I? There is something there?"

     Winifred stares down at her lap, watching the light swim on the fabric of her dress. She isn't an idiot. It has been dawning on her recently that she isn't feeling attraction again for just anyone. Benedict Bridgerton is the one who has given her that inkling again, and Benedict Bridgerton only.

     But beyond that, she cannot see this proceeding any further. Unrequited, unclear, whatever you may call it, Winifred doesn't think she is even prepared to enter territory where she might open herself up to... someone else. At least not yet. Or maybe. For as long as she is uncertain, she maintains that such feelings are better kept under control.

     "I will not attempt to deny that I... care deeply for his happiness. But I do not expect anything to come of this. Nor would I wish for it." Winifred is suddenly overcome with guilt. She turns to Tilley and blurts out: "I am not trying to replace Joseph—"

     "No one said you were," Tilley interjects, almost fiercely. Perhaps because she would never dream of doing the same to her late husband either.

     The two widows sit contemplatively for a moment, no exchange of words needed at first.

     Then Tilley whirls back around to face her with a sharp inhale of breath. "There is no rule book on how to handle all of... this. Whatever you do, just promise me that you will do it without shame. This process is less about knowing when the 'timing' is right or doing what you think will make others happy. It is more about knowing yourself, and what you are prepared to do or not do. And that takes time. So, like I said, trust yourself. Do you understand?"

     Winifred nods, alleviated slightly by her advice. It is validating to hear it from a woman of such strength and self-control, yet who also seemed to have a great love match now lost.

Tilley rises to her feet and clasps her hands together. "Well then, I'm going to find some other avid ballet lovers to converse with. Do keep our chat in mind." Turning on her heel, she disappears back into the crowds of people. Winifred soon gets up and edges slowly back into the ton's orbit again, figuring she might as well re-join them.

She finds her way across the ballroom to see Benedict. He is talking with an elderly couple about the ballet, saying something that makes them laugh. Mid-grin, his gaze lands on Winifred and he straightens up. Politely excusing himself from the conversation, Benedict walks over to meet her at the sidelines. They come together just as the other couples on the dance-floor finish their routine.

"Evening," Benedict smiles, but with a touch of quiet concern beneath. "That dance was rather moving, wasn't it? I meant the ballet, of course, not the quadrille. Although I have been moved to insanity by a quadrille before—"

"Yes, the ballet was wonderful..." Winifred chuckles. She gets the feeling that Benedict had noticed her during the performance, and this is his way of checking up on her. She gives him a small smile, as if to say she is well. Then she stares across the room at Francesca, who is talking with a young lord; Winifred sees a huge grin suddenly brighten up the girl's face like she has never seen before. "It looks like Francesca and Lord Samadani are growing closer by the day, doesn't it?"

Benedict swallows his sip of ratafia, then replies: "That is not Lord Samadani."

"What? Then who is—"

"John Stirling, Earl of Kilmartin."

"And how—"

"It is a long, but very entertaining story," Benedict summarises for her.

"I have the time," Winifred edges nearer to him with curiosity.

Benedict opens his mouth to speak, but is instead cut off by the swooping figure of his mother. "Darling! There you are– oh, good evening, Mrs. Erstwhile," Violet intercuts somewhat erratically. "I am so sorry to interrupt, but I'm afraid we have to be heading home."

"What? Already?" his brows crease in protest.

"Francesca has requested it," Violet adds in a lower voice, just to him. "I do not know why, but that is now our course of action. So please, do me a favour and fetch Eloise for me."

Benedict turns to Winifred and sighs regretfully. "I'm sorry about this," he mutters, to which she shrugs. Violet also shoots her a sweet and apologetic smile.

Then the Bridgertons are whisked away, leaving her chosen proximity with Benedict on an anti-climactic note. Oh well. So much for exploration. Winifred takes it as a sign that she should return to check on her sisters. Before the next dance, she crosses the ballroom to meet Abigail by a lit candelabra.

"Everything alright, duckie?" she asks. Slightly embarrassed at the nickname, Abigail gives a curt nod. "I haven't seen you speaking to many others this evening. Did you not reserve a dance with someone tonight?"

"I did not feel up to it this evening," Abigail admits. "I'm sorry, I do not know what has come over me."

"Well, you cannot dance at every ball..."

But Winifred still thinks this has more to do with a certain architect they know, who appeared at the Hawkins Ball as an exception, and whose absence Abigail has noticed.

Abigail's eyes suddenly widen as she spots something over Winifred's shoulder. She coughs and splutters on the sip of lemonade she was taking, causing a few looks from bystanders. "Abigail!" she exclaims, waiting until her sister signals she has avoided a choking crisis to relax again.

But Abigail is still incredulous. "Look behind you," she whispers, "it's Colin!"

Winifred turns around. Very quickly, she sees what she means, and she almost splutters at the sight too. There is Colin Bridgerton, appearing seemingly out of thin air — she didn't even know he was at this ball — and approaching Lord Debling and Penelope. He breaks up the courtship on the dance floor, avoiding eye contact with Debling completely. Needless to say, interrupting a dance like that is unheard of in polite society. Once warding him away, Colin takes over the dance with Penelope, who is visibly fuming as they shuffle around the dance floor and bicker to each other.

"What is he doing?" Winifred whispers.

"He's gone mad with something, that is for certain," Abigail adds pointedly.

She frowns at her sister. "Do you know something I do not?"

"Well, I have just noticed the two of them these last few weeks. I don't know how or when something switched, but the change in Colin is quite clear — he's besotted with her, of course."

Winifred tracks Abigail's gaze back to the dance floor, and she can see it. She remembers the inklings of Penelope's long-nurtured infatuation with her friend, but never has she seen Colin look so hungry for her in return. This is new — or simply newly realised. As the dance ends, his face shatters into complete despair as he watches Penelope run off after Lord Debling.

To their alarm, Colin speeds over towards them. They soon realise he is making a beeline for the table of drinks; he picks one up, taking unnerved gulps. "Well..." Abigail stares him down. "Fancy seeing you here, Colin."

Colin's glance flickers towards her and he sighs. "Good evening, Abigail. How are you—"

"Oh, please, I think we are past pleasantries now," Abigail scoffs, surprising both Colin and Winifred. She points up the staircase to where a quarrelling Debling and Penelope are stood. "You made quite the scene over there, you know."

"Yes, well, perhaps it was in vain..."

"How so?"

Colin turns to her, as if he has some large confession to make. "I am... in love with Penelope."

"Yes," Abigail nods without missing a beat, "and?"

"And– and I fear it is not reciprocated... well, clearly it is not, for she is marrying him—"

"Not reciprocated?!" Abigail blurts out in disbelief. She takes a meaningful step towards Colin, her words filled with urgency: "Did you tell her how you feel? Or did you simply complain about her responding to Lord Debling's intentions? Regardless, you must tell her, Colin. Whether to lift her up or let her down, it is never good to keep a lady waiting..."

     Abigail says the last part rather intentionally, and the reference is not lost on Colin either. He snaps out of his daze for a moment and shoots her an apologetic look, remembering how his uncertainty had left her confused about their courtship last year.

     "You know I don't hold it against you," she reminds him, "but forget about that. You must hurry and act at once, before it is too late!"

     At her words, a newfound determination burns bright in Colin's blue eyes — or maybe it was something else they could not see. Because he suddenly bolts straight past them, bounding up the staircase at high speeds giving chase to Penelope as she flees.

     "Oh! No, Colin, I did not mean right now—" Abigail stammers, calling after him, only for it to be futile. She is left awkwardly lingering on the spot with Winifred as they stand in the aftermath of it all. "Well, uh... I did not anticipate that he would be so proactive."

     "What came over you just then? That was quite the speech," Winifred remarks.

     "I haven't a clue. But quite frankly, I have had enough dramatics tonight."

     "Should we take a leaf out of Francesca's book and depart early?" asks Winifred, to which Abigail nods in relief. "Have you seen your sister?"

     "I do not know," she looks around curiously. "I think she went wandering about the palace."

     Oh, wonderful. Fortunately for them, Lettie and the baroness are quite happy to leave early too, so they stay with Abigail to wait for a carriage. Meanwhile, Winifred embarks on her palace-wide search for Jemima. She could quite literally be anywhere — that girl pays no attention to fenced-off areas at any event.

Winifred spends time pedantically combing through faces in the crowds, picking them apart for any familiar signs of her raven-haired sister. When she finds nothing back in the ballroom, she descends back down the flora-adorned staircase to search further. Palace guards stand stoically on watch as she passes them one-by-one. Where could she be? Knowing Jemima, she probably found her way out to somewhere the rest of the party won't reach.

     The gardens of the palace are unlike anything Winifred has seen — vast greens, immaculate topiaries, fountains spouting towers of water. Everything speaks of a beauty that Jemima would escape to. Only a handful of guests have made it out here, mainly ones who want to hide in the shadows (Winifred wrinkles her nose and tries to ignore the giggles of a man and woman she hears behind a tree...).

     "Jemima? Where are you?" Winifred calls out, frustrated. May this be the last time she lets her run off like that.

     Then she hears a familiar voice — too faint and quiet to discern the words, but she knows the tone immediately. It is coming from the inside of a huge pergola, dripping with so much greenery that it obscures the people inside, especially in the nighttime. She strides nearer, and the voice becomes instantly recognisable as Jemima's.

     But there is someone else with her in there.

     "— Jemima, be quiet," Emilia is whispering desperately, "someone is going to hear us. Just... allow me to explain."

     "What is there to explain? You are getting married," Jemima hisses back; she sounds heartbroken. "You know, you could have at least had the decency to– to warn me about it."

     Winifred freezes a few metres away from the pergola. She is the only one within earshot of the pair, but does not wish to give the impression of eavesdropping. The ferocity of their argument startles her.

     "I thought I made things very clear..." Emilia sighs, sounding pained. "Besides, it would have had to happen sooner or later. That one or both of us would get married."

     "Why?"

     "Why? Think of the consequences, Jemima! It would be silly to dream that we could share something in the same capacity without—"

     "I wanted it to be us!"

     Mid-walk away from the argument, Winifred freezes on the spot. Jemima's voice sounds foreign to her as she cries those words. And yet, she recognises something in her strangled tone: wanting, heartbreak...

     Love.

     "I do not care if it sounds silly to you, because it is not silly to me," Jemima confesses. "It is very real, and it is very devoted — or at least it was."

     There is a crunch of gravel, and the way Emilia's voice next lowers sounds as though she has taken a step closer to Jemima. "I know, I– I'm so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. And I didn't know Whistledown would publish it before I had a chance to tell you. But... you have to understand, I need this protection. Lord Corning is a longtime friend of mine and a good man. We get along very well, and he will look after me."

     Jemima sniffles. "Does he know about... you?"

     A very long beat passes.

     "... Jemima, you must think I do not care for you. Therefore you are sorely mistaken. You know, we can still share be together." Emilia's voice heightens as she scrambles to find solution. "No, listen, I– I know plenty of couples in the ton who married for convenience or otherwise, people do it all the time! We could find a way..."

     Winifred cannot listen any longer in good conscience. She walks away as quietly as she can, putting distance between the private conversation. Her mind is racing at the epiphany — Jemima and Emilia... she does not know the nature of their relationship, whether it ever truly crossed the boundary of friendship beyond words, or if this moment was the turning point.

     But now she has heard this, it suddenly makes complete sense. In fact, Winifred feels blind for not having noticed it before. However, the realisation is quickly followed by a feeling of solemnity and sympathy for her.

Because Emilia is right — she and Jemima cannot be together in the traditional sense. It would be forbidden by society.

     When she sees Emilia run back into the palace from afar, Winifred does not continue her search for Jemima. She waits for her sister to find her. It is a couple more minutes before her sister finds her again at the steps leading back inside. Shadows from the torches adorning the outside slice Jemima's expression into brokenhearted shards. She stops slowly in front of Winifred, who is at a loss for words — does she know that she listened? And would she care if she did?

     "There you are," Winifred settles on. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

     Jemima says nothing. Not even a quip to bite back with. She doesn't think she has ever seen her look so forlorn.

     "We are heading home early," she adds tentatively. "The carriage is waiting out by the front."

     Her youngest sister nods, dragging her feet up the steps. Winifred then pulls her silky shawl tighter around her body to follow Jemima out. It is only as the indoor lighting illuminates Jemima's face that she sees the tear stains on her cheeks. She stops her walking by placing a hand on her shoulder. She wishes she had something of comfort to say; usually she stumbles when it comes to Jemima.

"Jemima—"

"I don't want to talk," Jemima croaks.

Without another word, Winifred lets her go.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

Winifred, Jemima, etc: *yearning & miserable*
Meanwhile in the distance: 🎶 give me everything toniiight 🎶

I know I said I'd take a bit of a pause before updating again, but I couldn't help myself for this one 🤭 originally this chapter was going to end with that Benedict POV, however my scenes for the Eros & Psyche ball weren't as detailed, so I chose not to drag things out too much. I hope the pacing was okay?

The big focus this chapter was on Jemima and Emilia, and how things have come to a head because of the latter's engagement. I think their attraction has been underlined at for a while now, but this is the first time it has been spelled out more definitely. It hurt my heart to write the tension & heartbreak — Emilia is more aware of the social implications of two women being together in that era, and although Jemima does as well, I think she is more hurt as she values staying true to herself. It's a messy, painful situation (especially right now) but we'll see how things go... hopefully it wasn't too depressing? I didn't want to make it like that.

But ahhh, we need to talk about another bit! So, My Cottage (still can't get over the name) is from Benedict's book and is his home in the countryside. I haven't read his book, only excerpts, but the bits I read most were all from My Cottage, and I really wanted to include it in this fic somehow. It's going to be a mix of things I've heard and my own interpretations — so FYI for distant future readers, this is NOT based off anything in season 4 of the show!

P.S. this book hit 70K reads recently, and I'm completely flabbergasted so THANK YOU!! 🫶🫶

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 29/09/2024