CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.
the colchester ball.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN
( June 1815 )

Dearest gentle reader,

With every social season that comes and goes, there exist its time-honoured traditions which the ton values so dearly. This author has become aware that, much to our delight, one of these long-buried traditions is set at last to make its grand return: the Colchester Ball.

It should be known that the Earl of Colchester's annual invitation to the grandiose Denham Hall used to be among the most coveted of the season; one perhaps only rivalled today by Lady Bridgerton's Hearts and Flowers Ball, when one is comparing country balls of the Home Counties. After one year too long of letting it collect dust, the young Lady Osborne seems intent on reviving this tradition, no doubt bigger and better than ever. Is the countess prepared to step into such daunting shoes of her husband's predecessors?

All eyes, indeed, shall be on this occasion — not least of all the eyes of this author.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THEY have been blessed with the most glorious weather for this country weekend, coinciding with the summer solstice. Under the shade of parasols and trees, the Seymours and the Osbornes enjoy the tranquility of Denham Hall's gardens; the last they will have before the rest of the ton start arriving.

Silas is play sword-fighting with the three elder children, the wooden blades clacking together between their laughter. Camille is the most energetic of them all, lionhearted enough to lead an army by the looks of it. Meanwhile, Madeline watches from the comfort of her chair, possessing a much healthier glow than she did immediately after Natasha's birth — nevertheless, the recovery has been slow. Her parents have travelled all the way to Essex too, sharing the table with her as they snack on tea and biscuits. Jemima is curled up on the grass reading her novel... at least she isn't hiding up in her room anymore.

Upon a blanket, Winifred sits with Abigail and gazes down at her goddaughter, who lies flat on her tummy upon a blanket. Natasha, now a four month-old, can look around and giggle toothlessly at the world. Everything seems to delight this child.

As they all sit together, they are updating the family on what has been happening in London.

"Tell me, duckie, who is this Mr. Ribeiro you speak so highly of in your letters?" Madeline asks, teacup hovering by her lips curled into a smile.

Abigail, broody and half-distracted by the baby, replies: "Oh, Matthew Ribeiro... we actually first met a while ago, when Jemima and I stayed at Highbourne. But then he was in London, and we just keep meeting one another. He's surprising, actually."

"How so?"

"He's... more passionate than he looks. He has passion for his work, of course — he is an architect — but his feelings run far deeper and stronger than I realised. Mr. Ribeiro seemed like a right curmudgeon when we first met. Oh, and did I tell you he's been commissioned by Her Majesty to design a building?"

"Yes, you did," Madeline laughs, then shoots her a coy look. "Well, I thought I might as well know, seeing as I invited him here..."

Abigail's eyes grow wide. "You– you invited him here? To Denham Hall?" she asks, blushing. Winifred notices their parents reacting to this. As much as they aim for a pleased smile, there is an undeniable strain of hesitance in their expressions. They exchange a glance, and then Winifred knows it is exactly what she anticipated — they will have to be convinced with regard to Matthew's worthiness.

Into the midst of their bliss, the nanny walks outside with an expectant look on her face. "My lady, I'm here to take Lady Natasha up for her afternoon rest," she says.

"Oh, yes, of course... just a moment." Madeline rises from her chair, crouching down to pick up Natasha from Winifred's arms. She whispered loving words into her daughter's ear, gently kisses her temple and then hands her over. After lingering to watch her be carried away, she then inhales a large breath. "Let's take a turn about the gardens, Winifred. I could do with a light stroll."

"If you wish," Winifred stands up, falling into step with Madeline.

The gardens have been quite decorated since Winifred's last visit. Papers lanterns hang from the trees, and the paths are lined with reflective golden shards like fragments of the sun. She can see Persephone rushing around

     "It looks like your mother-in-law is taking the reins again," she sighs.

     "Believe it or not," Madeline smiles, "she is actually helping. I haven't always had enough energy to carry out the preparations myself, and Persephone knows how everything works, so she is doing much of the heavy lifting."

     "Seriously?"

     "Mhmm. We haven't come to any disagreements... yet."

     They giggle together, coming to stand above a pond which is being decorated with floating paper lanterns. "So, was this ball always the plan?" Winifred asks, admiring the handiwork. "It seems like you have been preparing it for months, and yet you never said a word to me."

     Madeline nods. "Yes, I'd hoped to do this for a while. It's been a long time coming. You know, there used to be a Colchester Ball every summer in the country. I would've been to one myself, but then Silas's father died, and the tradition just... stopped. And anyway, Persephone would never let me so much as touch the idea until very recently. Everything had been well underway, even when I was pregnant, but then of course the birth took a turn..."

     She flinches at the memory, reluctant to re-live it. "We almost cancelled it, but then that was when Persephone stepped in and promised to help my vision come true. Although there have been some compromises along the way, I'm quite pleased with how it has turned out," she says.

"Well, you have made me look forward to a ball, so that is an achievement."

     "My, what rousing words..."

     "Hush, you!"

     They link arms and walk in amongst the trees, as Madeline asks her: "Now, won't you tell me more about Mayfair? When I invited Penelope and Colin to this ball, they weren't even courting, and now look at them! Betrothed and besotted."

     "I wish I knew," Winifred sighs. Although maybe that isn't quite true. She could very happily live without dissecting every scandal or attractive match in the ton. "You know their engagement party wasn't short of dramatics. I told you about Cressida..."

     "Yes," Madeline frowns. "Well, neither she nor Whistledown will be ruining our ball. Not on my watch."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

AFTER a soothing bath, Winifred's reflection stares back at her in the vanity mirror. Her hair dried by the summer warmth, she has tied it up to create the illusion of waves at the end, and otherwise remains in her chemise for the time being. The candlelight illuminates the deep thought that mutes her expression.

     Tonight is the night. The sun is sinking belatedly on this solstice evening, and Winifred knows guests have been arriving in droves. The Bridgertons are probably staying somewhere else in this guest wing. Benedict is probably staying in this guest wing.

     She brushes the nape of her neck, as if it could wash away the flush of warmth that tingles upon it. For some reason she can't bring herself to get dressed yet. The dress code is simple enough — the garish colours of families like the Featheringtons or the Cowpers are on hold tonight, traded for a palette of creams, ivories and the palest shades of pink, blue and green. None of that is a concern to her...

     Winifred keeps fiddling with her wedding ring.

     Something has been changing. She used to find it comforting on her hand, and it's not to say that it has become a discomfort as such. It is just that its meaning feels different these days. When Joseph first slipped this ring onto her finger years ago, it was a sign that she was his wife. But then he died. And when she thinks about it, she has not been married in a long, long time. Not in the true sense of the word. Even with all the love in the world for her late husband, can she call herself married anymore when she lives this life of solitude? Is she even still a wife without a husband?

     There are doubts that will try to battle this feeling. You can't take it off. It reminds you of him.

     But that other voice has been getting louder recently, and its answer is simple but resounding — at the end of the day, it's a piece of metal. It will not change the way she remembers Joseph.

     So, Winifred massages the ring around her finger, coaxing it until it slips off. She holds it between her fingertips, examining it, feeling the bareness on her skin where it was. Of course she has removed it before for practical reasons — that was how she misplaced it last summer after her bath. What she hasn't done is the more deliberate thing... Winifred opens the jewellery box next to her, places the ring into it, and shuts the lid.

     There. Done. What now?

     Winifred feels strange. Shaky, but also free. And yet it also feels like an anti-climax. Why is it all so muddled—

     A sharp knock comes at the door, and she jumps like a spooked animal in her chair. Winifred grips the edge of the vanity table and gulps, hoping her heartbeat will slow down soon. "Come in," she says feebly.

     Madeline opens the door, radiant in a pale pink dress that has a faint, golden sheen of glitter. "Oh good, you aren't dressed yet," she grins, then turns to a maid behind her: "Bring it in please, Ruth!"

     Winifred blinks at them as they take over her room, placing a large, flat box atop her bed. Madeline invites herself to sit at the edge of the mattress, and the mischievous twinkle in her eye is noticeable.

     "What's all this?" she asks.

     "This is your dress," her elder sister answers.

     "I already have a dress."

     "Not this dress."

     "Madeline—"

     "Will you please open it? I cannot wait a moment longer!" Madeline pleads, pressing a gloved fist excitedly to her lips.

     What on Earth is going on? Befuddled, Winifred stands up, walking over to the box. There is a neat hand-written label attached with her name on it. She removes the giant lid, which reveals a thin layer of tissue paper masking the gown underneath. Her hand brushes it away like parting clouds...

     "Oh my—" Winifred gasps.

     She doesn't even know whether she should touch it. She carefully scoops her hands inside, lifting it as though the gown were a fragile newborn. Once held up high enough to see most of the dress, the handiwork has her in complete awe. The ivory dress is topped with a net of white silk organza — it is beaded and embroidered with small golden laurel leaves, as though they were falling down from a tree branch. It is exquisite, and yet simple. Winifred's first instinct is that she adores it, even if that feels frivolous to admit.

     "Well? What do you think?" Madeline presses.

     "I... I do not even know if it fits."

     "It will fit, trust me. Unless you eaten one too many cakes since February." When Winifred shoots her a quizzical look, her sister elaborates. "I wanted to surprise you with this. Originally, I would've gone about it my own way, but then we decided to come back to Essex. I needed your measurements, so I asked one of the maids to take some from your dresses while you were on a walk one day. Then I left those with Madame Delacroix so she could design it."

     "This is designed for me?" Winifred asks incredulously.

     Madeline beams. "You, and only you."

Suddenly she can hear Madame Delacroix's words from a little over a week ago. She had been musing over what dress, hypothetically, she would design for Winifred — "Perhaps something traditional, with a bit of earthiness, no?" — except that it had not been only hypothetical at all. In fact, the dress was likely done by the time they spoke. How sly Delacroix had been!

     "I cannot accept this," Winifred says, carefully laying the dress back in the box.

     "What? Why?" Madeline implores.

"Well, look at it! It's magnificent. I couldn't possibly wear it."

"Yes, you could! Besides, some of your other ball gowns can be a tad plain..."

Winifred has just enough awareness to shoot Madeline a glowering look there.

     Her sister gets up, reaching over and holding her hands together. "Winifred, listen to me. I am the hostess this time. And tonight, my only wish for you is that you enjoy yourself however you would like to. No chaperoning, no familial duties. I can handle that. This is your night. I know it isn't a fair return for all the ways you have helped me and our sisters, but I wanted to give you something special... just promise you won't waste this opportunity?"

It is one of the occasions where Madeline's unflinching compassion hits Winifred squarely in the chest. Now faced with it, it would be nice to have a night where she didn't have to worry about anyone or anything. She is realistic enough to know that is improbable to achieve by force of will, but she won't question her sister's opinion this time...

     Or at least, she knows Madeline well enough to realise this matter is not up for discussion.

     "Thank you," Winifred glances back at the box. "I don't really know what to say... I shall pay you back for the dress—"

     "No need—"

     "But Madeline—"

     "I will not hear it. Now, won't you try the dress on? I've been dying to see you in it!"

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

FOR someone rather indifferent to balls, even Benedict finds himself in awe when he and his family arrive. The giant rotunda in the centre of Denham Hall is grand enough, but is somehow made magical by the paper lanterns floating upon the long pond in front of it. Their candlelight sails between the lily pads and in the dark waters that reflect the stars above.

     Inside, the marvel only increases tenfold. As a house with a large ballroom built specifically for these events, it is bound to be spectacular, but this is something else. Juxtaposed with the boldly painted ceiling and the checkerboard floors are glowing candelabras like fireflies, all between more paper lanterns and cherry blossom petals dusted amongst their feet. Golden sheets reflect the last glimpses of sunlight bursting above the horizon and through the double doors. It feels like stepping through Heaven's doors.

     And yet when faced with all that, Benedict finds himself only wanting to know where Winifred is.

     They have not seen each other since Colin and Penelope's engagement party, and since that night he has been secretly restless to meet her again. The only thing that could quell that feeling for a while was sketching something; even then, it all spilled out onto the page...

     "Oh, this looks incredible..." Violet gasps. "Doesn't it, Eloise?"

Eloise just nods, but even she seems rather taken by the decorations.

"I think this calls for a dance, don't you, Pen?" Colin extends his hand out to Penelope. Her cheeks blush delicately, almost the same colour as her pale pink dress. Kate and Anthony also follow suit. Then they join the dance floor with the other couples, spinning around to the sweeping romantic music played by the string quartet and pianist — the latter catches Francesca's attention immediately, as she swoops over to inspect the pianoforte.

"I think... I should like a better look at the rotunda," Eloise murmurs. "I have heard it is quite magnificent."

She isn't the only one — Benedict has already spotted Matthew, the architect constantly looking around in awe at Denham Hall's unique flairs. He has definitely visited the rotunda a number of times. For all he knows, that is probably what he is talking about animatedly to Abigail right now.

But now, Benedict realises, he is exposed. Without his family to guard him, he already senses some eyes on him. He has felt it more than usual since Colin got engaged... regrettably, it now leaves him as the new Bridgerton son to try and win. Averting people's eyes, he tries to blend in, swimming through the crowds of people. Maybe if he just wishes hard enough not to be seen, it will come true. Although perhaps that is not quite right. He would like to be seen, just for the right reasons, by the right person.

     He then spots a familiar debutante beaming at him and panic lurches through him. Benedict quickly spins around and tries to cut between two couples dancing. He stands at the sidelines, able to observe the whole room, scanning frantically for a distraction.

     Where are you? he thinks, Where are you when I need you?

     With a blurry twirl of skirts, the dancers part like the sea, the staircase suddenly visible again... and there she is.

     At first Benedict feels relief, as he always does when he finds Winifred. Then he stops. Looks again, a double take. He forgets how to breathe.

     She looks... stunning.

     It is Winifred, of course it is. But there is a new quality about her — yes, her hair is different, swapping her usual neat and tidy updo to let it cascade down her back in earthy brown ringlets. The dress seems new too, rather pretty. It can't be just that, though... whatever it is, it knocks the wind out of Benedict's lungs. She emerges slowly from the top of the stairs, half-obscured in shadow until she starts walking down. So much less guarded, looking around the room to eventually find him, then smiling involuntarily when she does.

     A torrent of emotions bubble to the surface, submerging him in something like euphoria.

     Benedict feels his feet padding along the floor towards her, before he quite processes it's happening. Winifred walks to meet him in the middle. No one else around them has taken any notice, which feels unfathomable to him. Is he the only one seeing this? Feeling this? They stare at each other for a few moments, taking each other in.

     "Hello..." Winifred says. A beat passes. "You look well."

     He realises he hasn't said a single word yet. Benedict closes his jaw, which had been parted ever since he saw her.

     "You look... different..."

     Oh, well done, he scorns himself. The highest of compliments.

     "The dress is from Madeline. And this– well, this is new," she pats her hair, self-conscious about it flowing so freely.

     Even as she appears sheepish, she still glows in a way Benedict hasn't really seen before. He now realises what is different. It is not just a dress, or a hairstyle, it is her. Most times, she is assured enough in herself but endlessly modest. Tonight, though, it does not feel like Winifred is trying to hide away — she wants to be seen.

     "You're beautiful," Benedict utters.

     He wishes he could be more eloquent, because the word doesn't quite sum it up. There is no one who compares. No one.

Winifred's expression tightens as she attempts restraint. "Oh... thank you," she replies, escaping her lips like a gasp of breath. She smooths down her dress solemnly and informs him: "It is just for tonight."

Something about her seriousness is so sweet, that Benedict can't help but smile. "Well, the night is not over yet."

     "Have you seen the gardens yet? They have been decorated so exquisitely," she says, after a long pause.

"No, I haven't. At least one of us knows their way around."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THEY had strolled through the gardens for what felt like hours — the topics were gentle and light, but everything else between them had been charged with a depth and intensity of feeling. Winifred is not blind to this. In fact, she lets herself feel it. At the risk of sounding like her fairytale-besotted sister, there is something magical about tonight. She would like to make it last for as long as possible, because who knows what tomorrow will be like?

     "Would you like a drink? The lemonade looks rather refreshing," Benedict offers, as they walk back into the ballroom.

     "Yes, thank you..." Winifred watches Benedict wade through the crowds, letting out a shaky but happy sigh to herself. She is actually having a good time, a really good time.

She takes a moment to scan the ballroom, wondering what she has missed. Abigail has taken Matthew onto the dance-floor again; he stumbled over and over, but struggles through if it makes her happy. Meanwhile, Jemima is stood with their parents, who are whispering something to each other as they watch Abigail.

Madeline swoops in as soon as she sees Winifred, one hand holding a glass of lemonade. "There you are! Having fun?" she asks.

"I dare say I am."

"Oh, wonderful. Do you have a drink?"

"Benedict is getting me one," she answers.

"Ah..." Madeline nods slowly, a smile tugging at her lips; whether it is because of the first-name slip, their absence from the party or something else, Winifred isn't sure. She just knows that it makes her even more aware and she retracts into herself.

But that mood is soon squashed when Persephone crosses the room to meet her in-laws. She seems determined to tell her something, albeit slightly reluctant. "Madeline, I just wanted to say—"

"I know," Madeline cuts her off, "I know the napkin colours were slightly off. But we found an alternative last-minute, and they match with the rest of the theme anyway—"

"Listen, child!" Persephone snaps, then takes a breath. "I only wished to tell you that... the ball has not turned out as badly as I had anticipated."

With that said, she nods curtly and exits before any more compliments can be exchanged. Winifred scoffs under her breath, whilst Madeline's jaw drops next to her.

"She heaps on the praise, doesn't she?" Winifred sighs.

Madeline squeezes her arm and gasps. "No, you don't understand, that was– coming from her... well, as far as I'm concerned, she might as well have said 'I love you'!"

Benedict makes his way back over, Madeline leaving quickly before he gets there. He hands Winifred a glass of lemonade, which cools her hand through the fabric of her evening gloves. She takes a sip, feeling the refreshing zest prickle on her tastebuds.

"You know," Benedict smiles crookedly, "I think the Osbornes have managed to keep the Whistledown scandal entirely out of tonight's ball. Which is quite an achievement."

"They have," Winifred agrees. And he is right, it is a miracle. Ever since Cressida announced the bombshell that she is Lady Whistledown — which still doesn't sit right with Winifred — there has been chaos. Many people have no interest in the Cowper girl anymore, if it means she is the one who has bad-mouthed their family name once or twice. Nor has she been invited to many balls since, but Madeline had innocently extended that invitation before she knew about the Whistledown scandal. Luckily for everyone, the beauty of the Colchester Ball has provided a distraction...

     It all seems redundant, anyway. Neither of them care deeply about what happens with Whistledown. Especially not tonight.

     Winifred is happy being in Benedict's company. Although, she can't help but notice his attentions shift as people prepare for the next dance. He watches gentleman walking up to debutantes with dance cards dangling off their wrists; they take their dainty hands and leading them underneath the giant crystal chandelier. Benedict studies them with a quiet curiosity, his body turned towards the scene. Winifred can see he is itching to join the upcoming waltz.

     She understands, of course she does. He can't spend a whole evening hanging around with her. "You can go if you want," Winifred says matter-of-factly.

     "Pardon?" Benedict turns back to her.

     "What I mean is, you do not have to wait for me, if there is someone you wish to dance with."

     At first he looks baffled. Then he looks her up and down, cracking a smile.

     "You," he says.

     It's her turn to be left confused now. "What?"

     "Would you do me the honour?"

     A beat passes. When Benedict doesn't falter, Winifred realises he is serious. She feels her mind immediately fling itself into overdrive, while her heart is pounding like a steady drum. The last time she danced, it was in Joseph's arms. What's more, Winifred didn't expect someone to want to dance with her anymore.

     "Are you sure there is... no one else, with whom you would rather..." she trails off in a mumble.

     "They aren't you, Winifred," he says softly. "As long as you will have me. I just... had to at least ask."

     He extends his hand out and opens his palm. An invitation. Winifred swallows thickly and stares at it for a moment. She turns around, and for a moment Benedict must think she is rejecting him. But she is only placing her drink down on the table. She pivots again to face him and lifts her hand above his. It hesitates just above his skin, where she can feel the warmth radiating from it, her fingers curling and uncurling in a flash of uncertainty...

     It feels daring, but she is ready to at least take a leap. Just for tonight.

     Her hand comes to rest in his. Benedict takes it tenderly, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles. The simple gesture takes Winifred back to an ease of intimacy she used to have with Joseph — it is a slippery slope towards making comparisons. For the first time in years, she finds herself not observing the dancers, but being one of them too. They blend in with the other couples there, Abigail and Matthew, and Penelope and Colin being among them. She also notices a few bystanders who have spotted them, some whispering as to who the next Bridgerton bachelor is dancing with.

     Winifred feels hopelessly nervous as the string quartet warms up. The opening notes to the song play, each dancer bowing or curtsying to their partner. Her left hand joins Benedict's right one, already halfway to being in hold. Winifred keeps her eyes down to the floor as she mentally reminds herself of the steps. Her breath is held like a pebble in her throat, trying to adapt to this sudden closeness between them. Is this too much, too soon?

Benedict's hand rests flatly on the small of her back. Oh... she hasn't been held like that for so long. Her gaze trails upwards to meet his — in his eyes, she finds complete calm. It pours through her like honey. Doubts and comparisons simply flutter away.

I've got you, he seems to tell her.

And Winifred finds herself trusting him completely. Her other hand rests on his shoulder, now enclosing the rest of the ton outside of their little bubble here.

They step together, spinning delicately under the chandelier light. Winifred and Benedict keep their eyes on each other as they do — even if they had to look away, they aren't sure they could. Each step starts to open something up within Winifred. Being in each other's arms like this has an innate intimacy. A semblance of feelings for Benedict has come and gone over the past few months, but dancing with him makes that unavoidable and potent.

The music builds, sweeping and romantic as Benedict twirls her around. She feels her burdens lift from her on the way, and can't help a smile spreading across her face as he pulls her back into his body. Seeing Winifred's happiness makes him beam too. Then she is turned so her back rests snugly against the edge his torso, arms extended as they step with the music.

While the pair are caught up in each other, Violet Bridgerton catches a glimpse of her son and Mrs. Erstwhile from a balcony. She thinks it sweet, at first — she knows Benedict is not always keen to integrate with the ton, but is glad to see him offering a dance to Winifred. But then something strikes her in her son's expression. She has never seen him look like this before. So... captivated. Violet usually thinks him someone who hops between interests or fancies as he pleases. Right now, though, Benedict looks like he wouldn't wish to be anywhere else. The sight puts a smile on her face.

Across the room, Octavia and Charles Seymour also notice their second daughter on the dance-floor. It surprises them to say the least. After Joseph died, Winifred had hardly shown any interest in delights such as dancing again. When they look closer, they see how uninhibited she looks as she dances with Benedict. Octavia wonders what is going on in her daughter's head; Charles has a feeling he knows exactly what is going on, and that is what worries him. He does not want her to be hurt again... although if he could see her smile like that often, he would be a most content father.

Towards the end of the dance, upon the key change, Winifred feels a pang of realisation. The feeling that is amplified rapidly as they go, it is one she recognises, but is startled to be met with it again. She felt it first when she took a walk with Joseph Erstwhile among a carpet of bluebells near her childhood home. It crept up on her, and then it never left. It was a once-in-a-lifetime feeling if you were lucky, people told her...

... So what does that make this? Yes, there is still something distinct about it. Joseph was conscientious and sincere, and there was something so obvious and comfortable about the path they took. Then Benedict is artistic and spontaneous, but also incredibly perceptive and overflowing with affection. Winifred goes about things differently with him, feels another facet of herself brought out by him. However, one thing is clear to her. That feeling is the same one.

Love.

It feels like a river's icy sheen cracking after a long, long winter — Winifred had forgotten what it felt like to swim.

Winifred and Benedict link hands, her right in his left behind her back, and the other two meeting in an arch at the top, as they rotate on the spot. The position brings them together so closely; chest-to-chest, heart-to-heart. The room seems to fade away around them, even as they switch hands and now rotate the other way. She feels themselves slowing down, but the music is still going a bit longer. Her face remains tilted up to his, unable to tear herself away. Their smiles wiped, both of them stare at the other as they are faced with their own epiphanies.

The music ends just as Benedict's eyes flicker down to her lips. It is only clear by the couples who have finished their dance with a bow, blurry in Winifred's periphery. He starts letting go of the hand behind her back to do the same, but her fingers follow his for a moment, her subconscious not ready for it to end yet.

Unlinked again, they realise just how closely they are still stood together. Winifred takes a step back, waking up from a dream.

"Would you... excuse me, for a moment?" Winifred asks, hardly recognising her voice.

Benedict nods quickly. "Yes– yes, of course," he stammers.

Overwhelmed, she cuts past people to reach the gardens, gulping a breath of fresh air as soon as she can. Her hands still tremble from the rush of it all — so many things lifted from her shoulders, and yet a few new things piled on there too. Winifred shuts her eyes and presses her fingertips into them. In amongst the dizziness there is happiness, but also so much doubt after dancing with Benedict. She has the impression this is something she cannot undo.

     Lady Tilley's advice to her enters her memory, about being open to exploring her feelings...

     But this was not the plan. Winifred fell further than she was ready for, and now she doesn't know what to do with it.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

This chapter was for the hopeless romantics... how are we feeling?!!

Needless to say that their first dance was a HUGE moment for them. For Winifred, it shows her opening up to the possibility of another love, and relishing in the feeling of close physical contact like that. And for Benedict, I hope compared to the other dances he's had in Act Two, you can see the contrast of him being unserious flirty to this dance, where he is basically melting and so fixated on his partner. Basically it flung open the floodgates for their feelings to rush in, and good luck shutting them out now because it's all aboard the Benifred train! 🚂

I've wanted to write my own personalised ball scene for ages in this book, and the Colchester Ball was that opportunity! I got into the mood by watching loads of my favourite dance scenes in media: references like War & Peace (2016), Cinderella (2015), Enchanted (2010), The Sound of Music (1965)... and plenty more. I was feeling quite swept-up by the end of that.

I also wanted the Colchester Ball to have its own identity/look, like so many of the Bridgerton balls do. I feel like traditionally Silas's family would go all out for a ball, and this one was no different. But it also has a softer touch with Madeline's input, which probably made it less dark and imposing than previous Colchester Balls. Things are quite light, golden, basically a celebration of life... which is why I wanted Winifred to come out of her shell at this ball. I made a little moodboard for it, including the references (from Chatsworth House) that I imagined the ballroom/staircase to look like:

The music was also important to me as well, and there were a couple of string covers/versions I chose specifically.
1. General theme for the ball + Winifred's entrance — 'golden hour (cello version)' by JVKE. Sooo magical.
2. Benedict & Winifred dance — 'I Have Nothing' by Duomo (cover of Whitney Houston). This one is just THEM, I mean the original lyrics fit their dance so perfectly...

Finally, here is (roughly) what I imagined Winifred's outfit & hair to look like:

Thank you so much for reading, this is a chapter I've anticipating since I first started this fic, so I hope you enjoyed it!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 26/01/2024