CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.
widow's fire.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WINIFRED'S SLEEP HAS DWINDLED OVER THE LAST FEW DAYS. More and more, she finds herself occupied with thoughts she assumed she would never have again — thoughts about what it would have been like to share her bed with someone. And, well, all the subsequent feelings attached to it. The worst part is the guilt that has hounded her more with each day. She cannot help but feel ashamed, even if irrationally so, wondering what Joseph would think.

Things are changing. She is changing. And that frightens her.

     So on her morning walk, Winifred relishes the time alone to clear her head and walk briskly. She does a lap of Hyde Park by herself before taking to the streets next. She soon finds she has stumbled into Piccadilly with her momentum still charging ahead.

     When the skies begin to look dangerously cloudy, Winifred takes a detour into Hatchards Bookshop. A cloak of silence — at least for the standards of the gossip-mothering ton — falls over her once she steps inside. She is surrounded by shelves displaying old and new book spines, calling to her to be examined. Now that she has slowed down, she can hear her pulse roaring in her ears and feel her heart drumming within her chest. Deep breath, Winifred reminds herself as she inhales the musty scent of the bookshop.

She crosses over to the poetry section, never her first choice usually but it is something to focus on. Madeline appears in her mind as she reads the names of new works by Byron, Shelley and Wordsworth. Her sister was always far more enamoured with poetry than Winifred was. Nevertheless, reading their spines makes her smile. She is also reminded of Benedict... she swears she remembers a conversation they had at a ball in which they discussed this very subject. Winifred listened to his vehement dislike of Byron, although he cast that aside when he learned, horrified, that she found most poetry to be "cryptic beyond comprehension at best."

Winifred feels herself relaxing at the memory; then just like that, her muscles re-tighten. There is that guilty feeling again.

Then something else distracts her. A voice from opposite her, behind the books. No, two voices, one of them distinctly familiar. Winifred finds herself eavesdropping and peering discreetly through a crack between the spines. She recognises the bold posture and blonde hair immediately — Lady Tilley Arnold, from the theatre a few nights ago — but the man she cannot place. There is a flirtatiousness in their manner as they whisper and chuckle between the books.

"Will I see you tonight, Tilley?" he asks.

With some certainty, Winifred knows this is not the man Tilley was seeing at the theatre. She holds her breath.

"Yes," Tilley replies coyly. "You know the way in."

The man smirks at her, eyes shining, before he takes his leave. Winifred pretends to be occupied with a selection of Wordsworth poems, but it is too late — she has been spotted.

"Ah! Good-morning, Mrs. Erstwhile," says Tilley with confidence. She has captured her gaze from the other side of the shelf.

"Lady Arnold," Winifred nods politely.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Uh, no, I was simply browsing."

"I should probably do the same. The library at my estate is incredibly vast, and yet I always find myself attempting to expand it." Tilley has now circled around the other side, so she can face Winifred more directly. She tilts her head at her curiously. "Your sister is not accompanying you today?"

"No," Winifred sighs in relief. "I needed a morning walk."

     "Did you go through Hyde Park?"

     "... Yes? How did you—"

"Oh, I'm not psychic," Tilley chuckles, "but I know it is lovely this time of morning. My husband actually used to go for early strolls through there."

"He did?" Winifred asks, perking up.

"He tried to drag me along, but that was where our commonalities ended. The walks did him good. Or at least, you'd think they would have..."

Tilley trails off, and Winifred doesn't need to be a genius to guess why. The woman seems like she has had many more years to grieve than she has — yet she still seems to quieten at the thought of whoever her Lord Arnold was. She isn't quite sure what to add or how to respond. Instead, she finds herself returning with her own story.

"My husband liked a good walk too," she says. "He said he enjoyed the leisurely exertion as opposed to his training... he was a soldier."

"Ah," Tilley nods. She also seems to be good at putting two and two together.

They move to another bookshelf together — or rather, Tilley ushers her along, and Winifred complies like a lost sheep. Tilley seems to brim with her usual confidence again as she grabs another book to add to her pile. She gets the strangest feeling that the older widow is taking her under her wing in some way...

"Still, life goes on!" Tilley emphasises. "A walk does not have to be marred by the lack of, or change in the company you keep. I certainly keep plenty of company myself."

Winifred moves behind another shelf and carefully considers her next words. She thinks about Mr. Suarez, her guest from the theatre date, and the different man who just left Hatchards. She cannot help but wonder how she does it — not to criticise her, but just out of sheer disbelief, when meanwhile her recent dreams have left her ashamed for wanting more.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Erstwhile?"

"I, uh... yes. Yes, I am well," Winifred nods curtly.

"You look a bit peaky," Tilley points out in a matter-of-fact tone.

It is only then that Winifred remembers she's yet to eat breakfast. Her stomach gives a growl right on cue and her mouth feels dry in yearning for food. It muddles with her conflicting emotions in her head and leaves her looking... well, she doesn't want to imagine that.

"Why don't I pay for these," suggests Tilley, holding up her books, "before we go and have some tea? Then we can discuss whatever is clearly on your mind. I find bookshops rather too quiet for personal affairs, don't you?"

She's definitely psychic, Winifred thinks to herself.

The next thing she knows, she is seated with Tilley in Gunter's Tea Shop. Winifred isn't sure how it happened. A rather sugary breakfast awaits her and, in return, she finds herself about to spill her guts to this fellow widow. Or rather, a powerful woman in the ton who she hardly knows, but steered her expertly into opening up. Whether this is good or not, Winifred has yet to tell. All she knows is that she is highly outside her comfort zone. Her mother once said (endearingly, apparently) that she had the "emotional transparency of a clam" with strangers... so it should be interesting.

"Now then," Tilley says, "what is it that troubles you?"

Winifred stares down at her lap. "It is... of a personal nature. I don't know that you would want to hear it."

"Very well. But sometimes, it is easier to confess to strangers than your loved ones. Consider me a neutral party."

Uneasily, Winifred sets her teacup down and surveys her surroundings. "Recently, I have been... feeling things again. Wanting things. Such things that I have not had since my husband died, and... I know not what to do with myself." Then she picks up her tea again and gulps down a mouthful; did she really just say that out loud?

     But Tilley does not appear to judge her. In fact, she nods slowly, as if she understands. Relates, even. It feels dangerously reassuring to have another widow validate this feeling. The closest Winifred remembers being to such a comfort is from Violet Bridgerton, but she has been understandably occupied with two daughters out in society this year.

She finds herself leaning closer and keeping her voice to a whisper as she confesses more: "It is the slightest of gestures that set it off. It started a few months ago, with the slightest touch on my back, and something just bloomed. Ever since, I have been restless in my solitude. My imagination has been running wild with thoughts of being... close to someone again. It's the little things, more than anything. Which is frustrating because I would never have normally considered such a thing after..." Winifred sighs and closes her hands around her teacup again. "Forgive me, Lady Arnold. You must think I'm mad."

"Not at all. Everything you just described, I have been there too. And so have countless other widows, I can assure you." Tilley clasps her fingers together and places them on the tabletop. "When I came out of mourning, I found myself longing for passion and intimacy again. Widow's fire. It is a real phenomenon."

Winifred swallows thickly. She shifts in her seat, checking again to see if anyone is eavesdropping. She can already feel herself flustered by the conversation.

"And what did you do to extinguish this... fire?" she asks.

"Oh, I haven't extinguished it," Tilley replies with a smirk. "I have nurtured it."

Nurtured it? Winifred raises her eyebrows at her.

"Carefully, mind you. One must be cautious not to get their broken heart mixed up with the passion. An easy mistake to make when you're missing someone." Reflectively, the widow sits back in her seat. "But I feel content that I already had my great love with my husband. I do not need it again. Therefore, it is freeing to take lovers with no strings attached..." Tilley sees the bewildered look on Winifred's face, and gently adds, "It is more common than you think, Mrs. Erstwhile."

     "I know," Winifred murmurs.

     Of course she knows, to some degree. She isn't naive. And she has heard plenty of stories about merry widows being liberated and free once their husbands died. But Tilley seems to remember her husband with as much fondness as Winifred remembers Joseph; yet here she is, exploring her freedoms and enjoying taking lovers. Winifred isn't inclined to judge her. It just... surprises her. It is a complete contrast to the guilt she has been feeling about the awakening attraction towards someone other than Joseph.

     "I– I don't know if I could do that," Winifred adds with a shake of her head.

     "And you do not have to," Tilley reassures her firmly. "Nor should you feel inclined to remarry, simply because your impulses are awakening again. You can take control of your own life."

     As Tilley takes a bite of cake, Winifred watches her in awe and confusion. More than anything it baffles her that a clearly powerful widow such as Lady Arnold would bother with someone like her, especially since they are more or less strangers.

"May I ask something? Why are you taking the time to advise me?" asks Winifred. "I hardly know you."

Tilley stares at her, reminiscent. "Perhaps because... you remind me of someone."

A beat passes, in which Tilley finishes her bite of cake, then looks back up at her with a determined expression.

"And because I do not think you fully realise the position you are in. The sooner you realise it, the better. No one wants to be a widow, but I would be lying if I said there aren't some freedoms that come with it. In finance, leisure... intimacy."

     Winifred feels her skin flush hot. Time to down some more tea.

     "Next time you are at a ball, look around you. Look at the Lady Danburys, the Lady Bridgertons... even me, if you like. What do we all have in common?" Tilley waits for her answer, watches her narrow her eyes, and smiles knowingly. "We are widows. We practically keep the ton running."

An inkling of cynicism distracts Winifred. As much as she likes the idea of widows running the ton, she is also acutely aware that Lady Arnold and the aforementioned widows are all titled and wealthier. Winifred is a soldier's wife, with no title, counting the days she can make her jointure last and support her staff. Therefore she finds herself more cautious about taking certain liberties; or at least, she does not see herself having the luxury of them.

If only it were that easy.

But all of this talk seems to have Tilley riled up about the matter: "You know, there is such a clear double standard. No one bats an eyelid if a man remarries before his wife's cold in her grave, but when a widow even gives the inclination of wishing to move forward, people are up in arms about her chastity. And then you still get the opposite issue when others ask when you are getting married again. I mean, honestly—"

     Tilley cuts herself off, realising her voice has crept up a little too loudly. A couple of surrounding customers in the tea shop jump, startled by her outburst. She reaches for her tea and takes a sip to cool off. Winifred is still digesting her rant — she recognised almost every anecdote she gave, every judgement that Tilley has heard the same as her.

     "Forgive me... I am not known for being even-tempered," Tilley chuckles, although hardly apologetic.

Winifred's lips purse and tighten into a sad smile. "I understand what you meant... no matter what we do, we will always be judged."

"Precisely. So, what have you got to lose by taking the reins?"

Something clicks. For all her hesitance before, Winifred thinks she understands Tilley's message. She is in control of her own life, isn't she? Even if society tells her she isn't. The only one she can stop from feeling guilty is herself. That might take some time to unlearn, but Winifred can certainly start trying soon.

     "... Thank you," Winifred says sincerely.

     Tilley just smiles knowingly.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     AFTER the day he's had, Benedict could do with a stiff drink. It has been pandemonium thanks to his little brother — with a hot air balloon coming to town, Gregory had tried clambering up onto the roof of Bridgerton House to see the view. Before he could see anything, he slipped, breaking his arm upon landing. Violet had panicked at the thought of the injuries being far worse and Gregory was in pain, Benedict scrambling to get a doctor from town to visit. Fortunately, he would make a fine recovery, and was now sporting a sling and a bruised ego.

You did well today, his mother had told Benedict at the end of it all. She keeps saying that whenever he does something right in Anthony's shoes. Like an affirmation that he is a decent second son, a reliable spare.

     Mondrich's club is still pleasantly busy, despite Will and Alice often being torn away by their new status now. The owner has managed to sneak in today and takes pleasure in polishing glasses behind the counter. Benedict sits on a stool and sips at his drink.

     Heavy but quick footsteps grab his attention. In a blur, a tall man he recognises to be Matthew Ribeiro collapses onto a stool and props his elbows onto the counter. Where did he just come from? "Mr. Ribeiro," Mondrich greets him, "welcome. What can I get for you?"

"Just a drink, please," Matthew murmurs, seeming dazed. When Mondrich reaches for a bottle, he adds: "Do you have anything stronger?"

Benedict can't quite tell if the man is happy or devastated. Matthew's expression is unreadable, a blank slate as he takes a gulp from the glass and lets out an abrupt sigh. Curiosity piqued, he moves over one chair closer to sit next to him. "So, what's the occasion? Good news, I hope," Benedict smiles crookedly at him, "for a drink that strong should surely be a celebratory one."

Matthew scoffs in quietened disbelief. Reaching into his breast pocket, he unveils a crumped letter. "Read it and find out for yourself."

Taking the letter from him, Benedict furrows his brows. It isn't until he noticed the royal seal emblazoned on the paper that he begins to understand Matthew's shock. He quickly unfolds the letter and skims his eyes over the words — it reads that Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte had recently attended a private viewing of the Royal Academy exhibition. She was in search of skilled architects from whom she could commission a design for a new public building in London. Matthew has emerged as her favourite candidate and is to have an audience with Her Majesty this week.

"Mr. Ribeiro, this is incredible news, congratulations!" Benedict waves the letter in the air.

"Thank you..." Matthew chuckles, although his shoulders remain rigid as he grips onto the side of the counter.

"Are you not thrilled?"

"Thrilled would be an understatement. I think my soul might have left my body when I read that letter. It is a wonder I stumbled here without getting run over."

"Then why the sullen face? We should be celebrating your achievement."

Matthew slides the letter back to him, his eyes poring over the words to convince himself again. Then he lets out a sigh, deflating the tension from his body. "You're right. I think it has yet to sink in. But Bridgerton, this is the queen we are speaking of," Matthew emphasises. "What could she have possibly seen in my work, that was so much better than my contemporaries? I'm a complete unknown in their eyes!"

"Perhaps she wanted a fresh pair of eyes for the design?" Mondrich suggests from across the bar, eavesdropping. Benedict nods and smiles in agreement.

The architect goes quiet again, lifting himself up. "... This could change my life, you know. An opportunity like this."

"And let us hope it does." Benedict lifts his glass, the drink sloshing at the bottom. "Here's to new opportunities."

Matthew grins and makes a toast with Benedict. The two men take a sip from their drinks, feeling the alcohol seep into their systems and temporarily ease their doubts. A couple of young lords pass by the bar, shooting a sceptical look at Matthew and wondering what a tradesman is doing in their gentleman's club. No matter what Mondrich says, there will always be some judgement. So Benedict simply shoots them a tensely friendly smile over his drinking companion's shoulder — as if to say, Is something wrong? That seems to do the trick...

"Yet another thing to which I owe the Royal Academy my gratitude," Matthew thinks aloud, tapping the unfolded letter.

Something uncomfortable crawls beneath Benedict's skin. Regret, humiliation, sadness... as many of the negative emotions as he can muster. "It is a fine institution," he mutters half-heartedly, although he does mean it deep down. He only wishes that his fond memories of the Royal Academy and what it taught him weren't tainted by what ended it. It was just something else Benedict thought he could do. And yet, without it, it feels like there is a gaping cavity within.

Benedict shifts in his seat, scratching his brow anxiously. "Do you know, I actually– er, I mean, I used to attend? As a student of art."

"I know," Matthew replies.

"You know?"

Staring at the bottom of his glass and swirling the liquor, the architect shrugs one shoulder casually. "I may have been a humble architect in the smaller, underfunded part of the Royal Academy," says Matthew, "but word still gets around. There were whispers of a Bridgerton joining our ranks."

Benedict's heart jolts, discomfortingly so. Suddenly his cravat feels too tight.

"What sort of whispers?" he asks, unable to hide the insecurity in his voice. He envisions all his fellow students talking behind his back about the nuisance of the Bridgerton name getting him in, that someone else deserved that place far more than he did...

But Matthew doesn't stoke the fire. "How should I know? I didn't even know what a Bridgerton was. It could have been a style of clothing, for all I know."

Benedict is so caught off-guard by his answer that he laughs.

"Anyway, what's in a name?"

"You'd be surprised," Benedict mutters. It's all he ever hears, all the bloody time.

"Although I did hear you quit," Matthew adds, only mildly curious. "How come?"

Time for another drink. Benedict finishes off the remaining drink in his glass and lets out a loud sigh. Tilting his head back to the ceiling for a moment, he shuts his eyes. "I was just... there for the wrong reasons," he concludes, turning back to face Matthew.

     "So, what do you do with your time now? Do you still paint?"

     Benedict lets out an awkward laugh, feeling unusually put on the spot. "I, er... I go to parties, and I dance. Sometimes. And I'm filling in for my brother, the viscount here and there." After saying it, he feels himself sitting and waiting, as though the next words will burst through the doors with a jolly disposition. But there is nothing. That is all he seems to do these days, isn't it? The realisation as he says it out loud makes Benedict want to shrink into himself.

     "Oh..." Matthew mumbles. With a feeling of disconnect, he turns back to his drink. That was a conversation killer.

Great, thinks Benedict. You're speaking to an honest man who has worked hard to earn his living, and all you can think of in return in partying and dancing?

Fortunately for him, Matthew doesn't appear to hold it against him. He's too busy of a man for that. He finishes off his drink and sets the glass down on the counter. "I think I should stop there, before I end up giving myself a hangover when I should be preparing for my audience with a monarch."

"Indeed," Benedict smiles half-heartedly.

"Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton," Matthew adds, "for being good company."

He nods politely. "Likewise."

Matthew grabs his coat from the chair, tossing it over his shoulder like a swirling sail of dark brown. He pays for his drink and heads towards the doors to make his exit. Benedict, however, remains at the counter and drumming his fingertips on the surface. He feels... hollow. Unwittingly, he has opened up that Royal Academy wound again, like a scab that would heal well enough if he wouldn't stop scratching it.

Because the more he bleeds, the more he misses it.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     EVEN in a smaller venue like Stowell House, it is easy to feel claustrophobic at society events, and Winifred isn't even participating in the marriage mart. She can spot another kindred spirit in Francesca as she uneasily navigates suitors with her mother attached at the hip. The newly-debuted Bridgerton is currently being chaperoned during a conversation with an eligible bachelor. Over his shoulder, she makes shy eye contact with Winifred. It is only after he leaves that Francesca excuses herself from her mother's company and makes her way over.

"Good evening, Francesca," says Winifred, trying to sound reassuring.

"Good evening, Mrs. Erstwhile. Do you mind if I stay with you for a minute or two?"

     "Of course not."

     Winifred side-steps, allowing Francesca more space to stand with her and observe the party. The young Bridgerton shuts her eyes and exhales a deep breath to calm herself. "How are Abigail and Jemima getting on?" she asks in an effort to be considerate.

     "Oh, Abigail is quite keenly trying to mingle," says Winifred. "And Jemima... well, you know her. Dodging every attempt at flirtation. How are you?"

     "I'm exhausted," Francesca admits. "I cannot seem to converse well with anyone so far. I am hoping the queen will find a suitable enough match, and then I can be done with all this."

     "Would you not want to make your own choice?"

     "Well... yes, ideally. But I am simply being pragmatic."

     Winifred hums thoughtfully, looking out at the crowds. She gets deja vu remembering when she was also dreading speaking to them as a young unmarried girl. "If it is any consolation, you are already doing a far better job than I did," Winifred tells Francesca. "I was nervous too, but where I lived there were a few more clergymen and landowners than earls and viscounts. You know, my mother kept having to remind me to smile more often, for I seemed to be scaring off the suitors."

     Francesca giggles, breaking out into a beautiful grin.

     "You see? That lesson has already been learned," Winifred grins back.

     "Even that I'm tiring of," Francesca jokes self-deprecatingly. She massages her cheekbones. "My cheeks are beginning to ache from all these polite smiles."

Winifred chuckles, but then her laughter fades to be replaced with sincerity. "Just stay true to yourself and your principles, whoever you choose."

     "Thank you," she sighs.

Supposing that she should return to her mother, Francesca bids her goodbye for now and meanders past people to reach Violet. Winifred turns her attention back to her own sisters — both of them seem to be staring at something unidentifiable. She tracks their gazes and tries to feel included. "What is it?" she asks.

"Who is that?" Abigail asks in return.

"Who?" Winifred huffs.

"Lord something-or-other, I did not pay attention," Jemima replies, not looking away.

"Will someone tell me who we are looking at?"

Jemima tries to point discreetly, directing Winifred's attention onto Emilia Caldwell. She is stood with her family, but mainly wrapped up in conversation with a fairly young and handsome lord. Now she thinks of it, she has noticed the pair becoming increasingly attached at society events in the last few weeks. And on her morning walk Winifred saw the Caldwells promenading with him.

"He's the one whose family Emilia visited the other week," Jemima clarifies.

"When we were at the theatre?" Winifred asks, and she nods in confirmation.

"Perhaps they are courting?" Abigail suggests.

To this, Jemima scoffs and shakes her head. "No. Surely not. She's never given any indication of... anyway, he's rather like an irritating leech. Every time we try to speak, he is looming there as well."

Winifred pinches the bridge of her nose tiredly. Suddenly she finds herself empathising with Francesca — she could use a moment just to herself. Perfect timing, too, as Lettie and Lady Strachan return through the crowd from speaking to Lady Danbury.

"Lettie, could you... possibly..." Winifred searches for the words; she hates being an inconvenience.

But Lettie already reads her mind. "We'll watch them. Enjoy the fleeting peace."

They squeeze each other's hand, gratitude ebbing from Winifred's before she departs. For all her willingness to return to London again, she sometimes questions her sanity in such a decision... this endless rotation of events is draining to say the least. She wanders over to a tray with small glasses of lemonade and grabs one for herself.

     In the corner, hidden from the party is Penelope Featherington. Her gown matches the moonlight outside, somehow adding an extra shade of melancholy as she relegates herself to the corner. The wallflower has been the subject of much scrutiny this past week — aside from the theatre, this seems to be Penelope's first social outing since what Whistledown wrote. Winifred thins her lips and nods hello to her. The redhead perks up, surprised not to be invisible for once, and curtsies back.

Winifred opens her mouth to speak, feeling guilty to see her so sidelined—

"I need you to hide me."

Benedict's voice makes her jump. Winifred whirls around, finding him stood directly in front of her. "Pardon?" she asks.

"Or just– distract—" he pauses, looking frantically over his shoulder, then back at her. "Make it look as though we are in deep conversation. Please."

     "Alright... but why?"

     "The debutantes are onto me." When Winifred muffles a laugh at this, Benedict's eyes widen urgently. "No, I am quite serious! The girls and their mamas seem to be more ravenous than ever this year. At a ball last week, I offered Miss Stowell a dance — the polite thing to do, surely? It was very pleasant... but now she follows me around like a shadow."

"Benedict," she shakes her head, "a dance is never just a dance."

"Someone could have told me that before we did a quadrille together!" Benedict shoots another look behind him and quickly turns back to her, leaning in more. "Oh Christ, here she comes. Appear casual."

     He proceeds to prop his arm on the table next to them and the other on his hip, practically the opposite of casual. Winifred sighs and remains as she was; she does catch a glimpse of the debutante Benedict seems so keen on escaping. Miss Stowell and her mother converse in sign language as they brush past them, eyes wide with a fervent eagerness towards the Bridgerton (although Lady Stowell seems more displeased that he keeps avoiding them).

     "Is she gone? Is she closing in? What's happening?"

     "... They have left," Winifred whispers, and Benedict exhales a sigh of relief. "You really have dug a hole for yourself."

     Benedict curls his back upright again, grabbing a drink for himself for the tray and gulping it down. "I know. I might end up like one of them by the evening..." He nods to 'them' on the wall, by which he means the mounted stag heads on the walls that stare out at the guests.

     "Oh, don't be so dramatic," she scoffs.

They chuckle together, then it thins out to comfortable silence. With the humour and the chaos subsided, they suddenly feel more aware of each other's presence. Benedict straightens his jacket and Winifred stares down at the misty lemonade in her glass. Despite the slight shyness that has set in, they struggle to avert their glances completely from one another.

     "Anyway, how are you?" he asks.

     "I am well," Winifred replies.

     "How's your day been?"

     "Is this your attempt to appear casual again?"

     "No, it is genuine this time," Benedict smiles broadly.

Winifred sets her glass down on the table and clasps her hands together. "I had tea this morning with a new friend. At least, I think she is a friend. It all happened rather spontaneously."

"Winifred? Spontaneous?" he teases in mock disbelief.

"Alright. How was your day, then?"

"Oh, you know, the usual..." Benedict shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. "Gregory fell off a roof."

"He what– is he well?" Winifred asks in concern.

"Yes, fortunately he only broke an arm. The doctor has given him a sling to wear until the fracture heals. It was a rather chaotic morning, as you can imagine, and we were all running around like headless chickens. Until he started wailing, our mother thought he had been knocked unconscious by the fall."

"Sounds like a rather dramatic turn of events."

"Indeed..." Benedict laughs. "I am sure Anthony would have found a more efficient way to get a doctor, but—"

     "Your brother would have only been proud of how you handled the incident," Winifred says earnestly, "just as you have handled his other duties in his absence."

     He smiles again, a little more shyly this time as he shifts on his feet. She almost wishes she could shake Benedict by the shoulders and make him believe it — sometimes, she cannot help but feel his self-esteem has wobbled on many levels since he abandoned his art. It is as though there is a desperation to be good at something, anything. Winifred remembers how free-spirited he had seemed the year prior, his mind inspired and enriched.

     "Thank you. Although I think that is down to having good role models from whom I can mimic," Benedict admits. "Anthony, of course. My mother... you."

     Winifred furrows her brows — pleasantly surprised, but taken aback. "Me? Why?" she asks.

     "Because you're..." Benedict sighs, giving a soft shake of his head. He is staring at her so intently that Winifred feels the room dim around them. "Well, since I've met you, you have never seemed without a purpose. And if you are ever uncertain of your purpose, you do not hesitate in seeking out another one."

     She opens her mouth to object, but he interjects, "Even if that isn't how you feel, it is what shows. It is like a guiding compass for those of us who are perhaps more... aimless."

     Winifred doesn't quite know what to say. As far as compliments go, she is not the best in accepting them. But it is one of the more meaningful ones she can remember receiving in her memory. There is a strange gratification she feels in learning that Benedict regards her in such a way. It gives her a lift of the soul to hear it.

     "Thank you," she says finally, "that's very kind of you to say."

     "It is only the truth," Benedict replies. Winifred gazes back at him, endeared by his words, before he suddenly freezes in panic.

     "What? What is it?"

     "Miss Stowell is heading straight for us. Time to make my quick escape —" Benedict leaves his glass on the table, shaking the tray altogether, "— I'll see you on my next lap of Stowell House!"

     "Goodbye..." Winifred waves, as if he were a passenger on a ship bidding farewell. Indeed, Miss Stowell and her mother appear straight afterwards and halt in their tracks once they see he has disappeared. They frown quizzically at Winifred, now alone, and peer around the room for any sign of him. She nods politely to the two women. Only when they have left does she grin, a laugh being teased from her chest.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

First of all, I have to scream about the news that WE FINALLY HAVE SOPHIE!! I'm sure Yerin Ha will do a fantastic job, I can't wait to see her alongside Luke in season 4.

Anyway, back to this chapter! I'd like to break down that scene with Tilley and Winifred. I hope it didn't feel too random? Since learning that there would be a widow character in season 3, I wanted her to have some kind of encounter with Winifred. The phrase "widow's fire" is a real thing, I've been reading about it on forums by widows. Winifred is working through guilt that she feels attracted to someone who isn't Joseph, and I wanted Tilley to be someone who helps her navigate this a bit — she is confident in her sexuality, doesn't shame Win for feeling the way she does, and also had a love match so it validates this even more. On top of that, Tilley highlights some benefits of being a widow in terms of independence and freedoms she could have. Lots of food for thought...

As for the boys, we love to see Matthew thriving and having his work recognised. But I also wanted to give a chance for Benedict to have another friend (they can have heart eyes over Winifred and Abigail together hehe). Matthew's perspective on the Royal Academy and pursuing his craft is quite different to Benedict's, partially because of their different social classes. All of this is leading to Benedict re-discovering his artistic side again, with time.

Finally, I'd just like to make the point that Ben & Win are veryyy much crushing on each other now. I don't think they see it as requited, but they are aware of their crushes... I know things have been slow burning for a while (and they still will) but soon you can expect things to ramp up a bit 👀

P.S. I nearly deleted this whole chapter by accident, and I think I saw my life flash before my eyes—

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 21/08/2024