CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.
like no one is watching.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

IT IS STRAIGHT BACK TO LONDON THE NEXT MORNING; that is, a two day's carriage ride back to the city. Between inns and other rest stops on the way, Winifred has time to cast her mind back to the Colchester Ball. Even as its proximity to the present lessens, she swears she is still spinning in Benedict's arms, something blossoming right there...

     In the cold daylight, it had felt less like euphoria as reality crept in. The weight of her feelings sits on Winifred's chest and keeps prodding her for an answer, when she doesn't know what she wants. Or, more to the point, she is not prepared to consider what it all means.

     As their carriage trots slowly through the familiar streets of London, Winifred notices something different. Jemima and Abigail do too, peering out of their windows curiously. The atmosphere is wildly jovial — people singing with triumph to music bands performing, while others are toasting drinks on street corners. Every single one of these people seems to have a newspaper clutches in hand, either bent over it in rapture or waving it through the air like a flag. There is the distinct feeling that they have missed something huge.

     "What on Earth is going on?" Abigail wonders.

     "Looks like quite the party," Jemima remarks.

     As their carriage slows to a halt in traffic, roads blocked with crowds, Winifred unlatches her window and swings it open. A gentleman with one of these newspapers is walking by just as she asks, "Excuse me, sir! What is going on?"

     "Goodness! Haven't you heard?" he laughs incredulously.

     "No, we have been travelling for two days—"

     "Napoleon has been defeated at Waterloo! Here, read it for yourself, I shall purchase another copy."

     Winifred grabs the gazette so quickly that she almost tears the paper clean off. She fumbles with it in her hands, which are suddenly trembling, eyes skimming the page frantically for confirmation. She reads of the Battle of Waterloo, of the victory over Napoleon, and whispers the words hastily under her breath.

     "Is it true? Is the war really over?" Abigail leans forward and asks.

     "I'll believe it when I see it for certain..." Winifred answers, "but it looks like it, yes."

     Jemima and Abigail both beam, exhaling sighs of relief. "Aren't you happy, sister?" the youngest one asks.

     "Y– yes, of course I am..."

     In spite of this, Winifred's hands still feel like they are shaking. Abigail reaches out to squeeze them happily; Winifred then quickly pries them away with a reconciliatory pat afterwards. A tremendous ache has flared up in her throat, the abrupt urge to burst into tears clawing its way up. It surprises herself. She pretends to look out of the window to avoid her sisters seeing it — thus bearing witness to the celebrations in the streets, marking a new chapter with the Napoleonic Wars ending.

They are still living in Berkeley Square for the remainder of the season, however they are no longer the only Seymours in town. Madeline, Silas and the others are returning to Grosvenor Square and mixing with the ton while they still can. Joining them also are both of their parents — Octavia and Charles — which is already unusual. They did come last year, towards the end. But she senses there is another reason, to keep an eye on a certain daughter if she is nearing the prospect of marriage...

     When they walk back through the door of Lady Strachan's home, Lettie is already bounding down the steps to greet them. After exchanging quick stories about their time in the country, the topic swiftly changes to current affairs. "I assume that you have heard about Waterloo?" Lettie asks, just as Lady Strachan walks in.

     "Do not hound our guests, Miss Fitzroy," she chortles, "they have been travelling for quite a while."

     "Yes, we have," Winifred nods, making way for the trunks being carried upstairs.

     "The news only broke a day or two ago. And I tell you, here in London, it was all anyone could speak of in each and every ballroom. It made a nice change from Lady Whistledown's publications spread everywhere—"

     "Excuse me, Lettie — and my lady — I'm afraid I've been feeling rather nauseous... it must be the travelling," Winifred murmurs. "May I just escape to my room to lie down for a moment?"

     "Of course, of course," Lady Strachan gestures up the staircase, and then turns to Lettie: "See, Miss Fitzroy? You needn't pounce on our guests like an excitable canine."

     "Is everything alright, Winifred?" she hears Abigail ask on her way up.

     Winifred waves it off without turning around. "I'm fine..."

     She climbs to the top of the stairs, retracing the route back to her bedroom. It is just as she left it. The maids are just finishing with her trunks, but she politely tells them to wait with unpacking for now. Winifred holds on by a thin thread until they are gone. Once the door is shut behind her, she sighs and undoes her bonnet strings, tears already beginning to sting her eyes. She walks over to the window and cracks it open, tendrils of city air rushing in and ruffling her dress. Then she sits at the edge of the familiar alcove bed, her weight sinking into it as she lets this moment wash over her in privacy.

     Winifred had not expected to be so affected by the news. She is happy, of course she is. But she had also found herself reading the headlines, and the first thing her mind had jumped to was wondering when Joseph would be coming home... until she remembered, again.

     So no, she isn't in a jolly mood just yet.

     She remembers those last few months before he left again. One night in bed, Joseph had whispered to her how he was thinking of giving up his post. "When the war is finally over, I am finished with this," he had said. And before Winifred could protest, he went on, "I will have done my duty on the battlefield. And when that day comes, I want to finally fulfil my duty as a husband. Who knows? Maybe we could have a family at last."

     The bittersweet memory lingers for a while.

     Then Winifred quietly wipes away a couple of stray tears trickling down her cheeks, before clearing her throat. She stands up and walks over to her trunks; the latches click open and the lid cracks as she lifts it. Unpacking gives her something to do. Winifred opens the wardrobe doors and the chest of drawers, beginning to place neatly folded articles of clothing inside each. A book she is reading goes by the bedside table, along with her sketchbook.

     At the bottom of one trunk, she pauses. Inside is the box from Madame Delacroix, the label still there with the silky ribbon. Winifred lifts out out delicately and removes the lid just a fraction. The little gold leaves on her dress from the Colchester Ball glint back at her — in a flash she is there again, waltzing amidst the petals and the candlelight, as Benedict Bridgerton leaves her with a feeling that still rattles her...

     Winifred quickly puts the lid back on. She would rather not encourage the dizzying push-and-pull of her heart right now. Carefully, she places the box at the bottom of the wardrobe, then shuts the doors. She shoots herself a glance in the mirrors to check her appearance is suitable enough. Then Winifred leaves her room and prepares to face the world again.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

MACARON warfare is no laughing matter. His brother and sister may be far younger than him, but that won't deter Benedict from putting up a fight in the name of his favourite flavours.

     "You looove the pink ones," Benedict coos, slumped on the chaise lounge as he tries manoeuvring a pink macaron towards Hyacinth's lips.

     "I love the colour pink, but I like the chocolate macarons– ugh, Benedict!" Hyacinth swerves and dodges his advances.

     Little more than forty eight hours back in Mayfair, and the family are already settled into their usual rhythm — of course, with the added excitement of Colin's wedding plans. Things even seem to be progressing with Francesca and John, who have seated themselves at the other end of the drawing room for some quiet. But at present, Benedict fights for his precious macarons.

"I've already said I wanted these two," declares Hyacinth.

"No, you can't have two," Benedict whispers back harshly.

"But I said—"

"You had three this morning."

"I have not!"

"Downstairs, this morning. I saw you."

"I've had one!"

"Not true," Gregory mutters and shakes his head.

"Gregory saw you," Benedict doubles down now. "Why are you lying?"

"I am not lying– Gregory!"

While the other two are distracted, Gregory swoops in and pinches a chocolate macaron for himself. Benedict gasps in horror at the betrayal. "What? I like the chocolate ones too," a smug-looking Gregory says.

"I wanted them!" Hyacinth whines.

"I have the solution..." Benedict says, tapping the rapidly-depleted macaron tray responsibly. He starts attempting to dish them out so he has the monopoly of chocolate macarons, only for Violet to look up from her embroidery and Eloise to snap her book shut.

"Put them back, stop," says Violet tiredly.

"Why are you getting involved?" he retorts.

"Can you not just divide them?" Eloise suggests.

The Bridgertons all start to bicker over one another, competing to be heard now that Eloise, Violet and even Colin are getting involved. At one point Benedict swears he hears John mumbling something from the other side of the room — but what does he have to offer to the infamous Battle of the Macarons, circa 1815? As Gregory keeps stealing chocolate macarons and leaving Benedict with mediocre banana-flavoured ones, it starts to look like there will be no survivors...

"Family!!"

A loud voice cuts them off. The Bridgertons all cease their chatter, surprised at Francesca raising her voice for once. Even she seems started by the sudden attention.

"Thank you," Francesca chuckles shyly. "John has a small announcement to make on our behalf."

"Very small indeed," John says with a hint of irony.

Intrigued, they wait in silence for whatever it is they have to say.

"Um... we are to marry."

The news blindsides them. Benedict's jaw drops, before he lets out a delighted laugh. Violet and Eloise rush straight over to embrace Francesca, while Colin also offers his congratulations — yet another Bridgerton will be getting married this year. Benedict takes the macaron tray over with him as he squeezes John's shoulder affectionately.

"Well done... the last macaron for you," he says, holding out the previous last chocolate-flavoured one to him.

John smiles, before taking it gingerly. Benedict must say he doesn't have any qualms against Lord Kilmartin. He just looks forward to knowing him better, since he will be part of the family soon — and they, part of his too.

Mid-celebration, Anthony and Kate appear in the doorway, a healthy glow about them. "We heard a commotion, is there something we missed?" Kate inquires.

"Francesca and Lord Kilmartin are engaged!" Hyacinth blurts out.

Anthony's eyes widen. "Another one? Heavens, do you ever think of waiting until Kate and I are in the room to announce such things?"

But there is clearly approval and love from both Kate and Anthony, as they embrace Francesca and congratulate John warmly. Having missed the entire debacle before, Anthony spies the macaron tray in his brother's hand and reaches to pick one for himself; Benedict swipes it away just in time so that he pinches at thin air.

"Don't even think about it," Benedict shakes his head at him, "I have been through far too much this morning."

"Very well," Anthony rolls his eyes, before seeming to remember something. "Actually I wish to discuss something with you, Benedict. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course," he replies, sensing a change in tone. Is it something serious?

     The happy-go-lucky brother takes a break, setting down the tray for Hyacinth and Gregory to feast on. Anthony leads him out of the drawing room, down the corridor and into his study. Benedict gets the feeling that he is about to be on the receiving end of a brotherly lecture again. He braces himself for this, but instead Anthony reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a crystallised glass bottle of port. It sloshes into two small glasses he provides.

Benedict studies the glass pushed towards him with curiosity. "Is this celebratory?" he asks.

     "Well, yes," Anthony says, "I think there is plenty to celebrate. Don't you?"

     "Certainly. But you could narrow it down, brother."

The elder Bridgerton inhales deeply, a satisfactory smile tugging at his sealed lips. "We are drinking to the future."

"To the future, then."

Benedict and Anthony toast and take a swig of port each, before falling into a contemplative silence.

"There is the baby, of course," Anthony adds.

Indeed, there is. The news had arrived the morning after the dramatic engagement party, originally intended to share that evening until Penelope had fainted — Kate was with child, and quite a few months into it too. The family had been thrilled to discover this, but were told to share the news gradually, as the couple wanted to treasure the journey piece by piece. Kate and Anthony seem to gradually be making the rounds in announcing the pregnancy on their own terms. Who can fault them for that?

Benedict smiles warmly at his brother. "You will make a wonderful father. I, for one, am still bracing myself for the prospect of little Anthonys running about the place. But I am happy for you."

     For some reason, his compliment seems to slide straight over Anthony's head. He looks at him with a baffled expression, bordering on amusement. It is like he is in on some big secret.

     "You do know what this means for you, don't you?" Anthony asks.

     Benedict blinks at him and tilts his head.

     Letting out a scoff, Anthony then says: "Assuming it's a boy, then your duty is done. You will no longer be the heir and the spare."

Even before the words sink in completely, they hit Benedict full-force. No longer the heir and the spare. He cannot remember a time when he wasn't on standby, floating around just in case he were needed. Hell, it had almost come down to that when Anthony and Simon duelled a couple of years ago. And yet it hadn't even crossed Benedict's mind that the possible future nephew coming from Anthony would change this.

"You're right. God, you're right..." he remarks, stunned.

Anthony leans down slightly, studying Benedict's paled face as he sinks down onto a chair. "This is good news, Benedict. Do not look so glum. I know the prospect of becoming viscount always horrified you."

Benedict lets out a half-laugh at this, although strained. Because this news seems to be hitting him harder than expected. Of course it is good news. Isn't this all he ever wanted? To be free and undefined by the Bridgerton name? And that still stands — but with it, Benedict feels completely untethered for once, and the loss of control and purpose taunts him out of nowhere.

Who is he, if not the spare?

Naturally, there are other details. "As a precautionary measure," Anthony says more modestly, "I would still like to make some arrangements in ink, in case the worst were to happen. But otherwise you are free to do whatever you choose."

Free. That word never usually terrifies Benedict, yet in this moment it appears daunting. It feels more vast than he can handle. Mulling over it, he gulps another mouthful of drink.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

THE walled garden in Lady Strachan's townhouse is a snug hiding place from the world outside. Winifred sits in it by herself, watching the sky turn to dusk as the last rays of setting sunlight vanish. A light shawl is wrapped around her shoulders as she cradles a book in her hands. It is becoming more difficult to squint at the words in this light; snapping it shut, Winifred expels a sigh.

     Tonight there is one of many balls across the city. Keen to catch up on what they have missed, Silas and Madeline have gone, offering to take Abigail and Jemima out for the night with them. Lettie and the baroness have also gone out for the evening, to have dinner with Lady Danbury in her home. Winifred had politely excused herself to have an evening to herself.

     In all honesty, she is starting to lose sight of why she is staying in London. The same goes for her sisters — Abigail pays little interest to other men these days, and it is crystal clear now that Jemima was never going to be. As for Winifred, she is not quite sure she wants to remain the convenient chaperone to be passed around her friends and family. She does not mind doing them favours on the one hand, happy to help, but at some point she has to stop and wonder what more life has in store for her.

     It seems about time that she took things into her own hands.

     How, exactly? Winifred is still trying to decide.

     The question still lingers as she hears padding footsteps on the grass. She looks up, seeing a footman's silhouette in the dusk. "You have a visitor, Mrs. Erstwhile," he announces. "It is a Mr. Benedict Bridgerton."

     Benedict?

     "Oh, um..."

     "I can turn him away if you wish—"

     "No, there is no need. Could you show him through to the garden? Thank you."

     As the footman disappears, Winifred shifts in her seat and fiddles with the strings on her shawl. This is rather unexpected. What's more, she feels a sudden rush of butterflies as she anticipates him. She has not spoken to him since the night of the Colchester Ball — after they danced, he had walked her back to the guest wing, departing with repeated "goodbyes" to one another. It had left her with a glow that had not been welcomed in a very long time.

     A minute later, Benedict appears escorted by the suspicious footman, who Winifred dismisses with a nod of thanks. Benedict's jacket hangs on his arm and his sleeves are rolled up. He looks as though he has been out somewhere. Drinking, possibly? Not enough to leave him drunk, just a shimmer of shed inhibitions upon his eyes.

     "Hello," says Winifred.

     "Hello," Benedict replies. He clears his throat. "Sorry to drop in like this, I just... well, I was passing by, and I– I thought of you. Although that vicious little guard dog at the door almost deterred me."

"That would be Regina."

"Oh no, I was talking about the footman."

Winifred laughs, making Benedict break out into a grin. Then silence settles over them again, gazing at a distance from opposite corners of the small walled garden. Moments like this make her miss the ease she had with Benedict when she didn't feel so much for him.

"I thought you'd be at a ball," she says, elbows nestled into her shawl.

"I could say the same for you," Benedict tilts his head. "Are you not still on chaperoning duty?"

"Yes," Winifred sighs, "but someone ought to tell Madeline that. She has stolen my sisters off my hands for the evening."

"Ah..."

Nodding in recognition, Benedict walks closer to her. He glances hopefully at the space next to her, to which Winifred shifts across on the stone bench. He lowers himself down and drapes the jacket over his knees like a blanket.

"I must confess," he says, "I was not particularly in the mood for partying this evening."

Shaking her head, Winifred admits, "Nor was I. Although the occasion probably calls for it. The last place I want to be right now is in a ballroom with prying eyes everywhere."

They glance across at each other like looking in a mirror. Are they talking about the same thing? They can't be, surely. Winifred sets her book to the side now, instead clasping her hands together on her lap.

"I heard the happy news about Kate and Anthony," she remarks. Kate had told her when they were still in the countryside that she was pregnant, and had been for quite some time. "You must all be thrilled."

Benedict lets out a strange chuckle. "Yes... yes, I should be glad."

"I don't know, should you be?" she challenges him tentatively, detecting something in his tone.

"Of course."

"Then why did you flinch as soon as I touched on the subject?"

"Ugh, I don't know..." Benedict rubs his eyes tiredly. "I am happy for them, truly. But I suppose I realised that whenever they have a son, assuming they do, then I'll no longer be the spare. Which is a good thing. I've just never been anything else."

     In moments like this, Winifred is reminded that Benedict is not as carefree as he looks. It somehow surprises her each time. Right here, she catches a glimpse of the tumult beneath it all, how much of his identity (or a lack thereof, at least to him) is pinned onto being the second son. It was the same thing when he quit art school — it send him into a spiral of self-doubt.

     "Well, when one door closes..." she suggests, letting him fill in the blanks.

     Benedict nods feebly. "You're right. I know. I'm being silly."

     Winifred shakes her head quickly. "No, I do understand how you feel. Not precisely, but..." She tilts her chin up to the skies, a darkening blue hue without the sunshine anymore, the first pin-pricks of stars appearing. A wave of sadness crashes over her. "There are to be fireworks tonight. All across London, people are having parties and celebrating the great victory. And all I can think about, when I see the soldiers in red cheering or waiting for the others to come home, is that Joseph should have been one of them."

     Next to her, Benedict bows his head, her words ticking through his mind.

     "I don't know. It isn't like I thought he would come back. But it just feels ever so final now. This is it, this is the future now."

     "I'm sorry," Benedict says, "I didn't even think about that—"

     "Don't be. Why would you have thought it?" Winifred tightens her lips into a smile. "Anyway, I shall make sense of it eventually, I am sure. I simply need time to reflect. But for now... I do not mind the company."

     They fall into a comfortable silence, although tinged with a heightened awareness of every move and breath the other takes. From an open window in the next building, a tender and passionate melody tinkles into the evening air — Mozart, she thinks. Winifred can spy the lit window from down here and the shape of a young girl's silhouette sat in front of a pianoforte.

     "Where is that music coming from?" Benedict asks. He tilts his chin up softly, and Winifred's eyes linger on the outline of his face in the dim light.

     "The neighbours," Winifred replies, still looking at him. "Their daughter always practices pianoforte in the evenings with the window open. Thankfully for us, she plays beautifully."

They both listen, caught up in the exquisite playing; although not quite as virtuosic as Madeline's or as precise as Francesca's playing, it is most pleasant. Benedict suddenly rises to his feet with a twinkle in his eye. He turns around, rolling his shoulders back to loosen his posture.

"I feel like dancing," he says.

"Pardon?"

"Let's dance. Right here, in the garden."

Winifred's brows shoot up. "Have you gone mad?"

"Absolutely," Benedict grins, but he clearly isn't backing down. "We have the music, the setting, the lack of prying eyes — you said it yourself, the large ballrooms can feel like a lion's den. So let us dance like no one is watching, if that is what you wish."

     She shakes her head slowly, although she does not protest. It is highly improper. Yet somehow, he draws out a more spontaneous side to herself that she never knew existed. He holds his hand out towards her and Winifred finds herself taking it. No glove acts as a barrier this time and their palms touch skin-to-skin. She notices how slender Benedict's hands feel, not the strongest by any means but with the expression of an artist. They hold Winifred's gently as she stands up and walks to him.

They start to dance. It is less formal than a ballroom would require, more of a light swaying on the spot in each other's arms, wherever the feeling takes them in these four walls. How bizarre this feels — a low chuckle sits in Winifred's throat, even when she already starts to feel lightheaded in Benedict's arms again.

"See? It is not so bad after all," Benedict hums. "You are quite the dancer."

"Hardly."

"Well, you have not stepped on my toes, nor have you twisted my arms out of place. I would judge that as quite decent aptitude on the dance-floor..." There is a pause, in which Benedict seems to grow shyer. "... Just like the last time."

     Winifred involuntarily sucks in a breath, suddenly unsure where to look. Her gaze flutters downwards but he follows it.

     "I never dance this much," she mumbles.

     Although she doesn't say it out loud, the thought crosses her mind that even Joseph never used to be able to coax her into sharing a dance so easily — then almost immediately, she feels horrible for trying to make any comparison. A twist of guilt in her gut makes her flinch.

     "But did you enjoy it? At the Colchester Ball?" Benedict asks.

     Winifred looks up at him again, exhaling slowly. "Yes... very much."

     He seems radiant to hear it. "Me too," he says, and twirls her around on the spot.

     She grins but then catches her shawl before it slips off her arms. Winifred takes his hands again, a soft hold — Benedict has drawn her in ever so closer than before. One of her hands creeps further up his shoulder, resting there and feeling the muscle gently contract beneath it. The other hand grips his own... and then Winifred notices something. She holds Benedict's hand up to the light, squinting at smudges of something dark and powdery across the heels of his hands.

     "Are these charcoal stains?" asks Winifred.

     "Oh– um, yes, I must've forgotten to clean them off..."

     She stares at him pointedly. "Do you mean to tell me that you have started sketching again?" When she shrugs one shoulder with a smile, it might as well be a yes; Winifred's joy brims over. "Benedict, this is wonderful!"

     "They are very rough sketches at the moment," he plays it down.

     "That does not matter. What matters is that you have started again." Winifred is surprised at how much pride it gives her to hear of it. "I know your art is a private pursuit, but if you ever wanted to... show someone, I– well, I would be honoured."

     "You know I would not have started again if it weren't for you."

     "Oh, come now—"

"It is true..."

She can feel their movements slowing down, not sure whether it is she or Benedict who stops first. Her hand still clings loosely onto his smudged one. His fingers curl around hers, his other hand coming to rest on hers, as if to create a protective shell. All the while he cannot look away from her. Winifred feels her thoughts loosen as her heart hammers wildly in her rib cage. The intensity she feels looking at him now is one that startles her. It burns.

"Most days," Benedict says, in a low whisper, "I feel as though I am walking through a perpetual fog. I am unable to see two steps in front of me. But one look at you is all it takes to sharpen things into focus. Suddenly... everything makes sense."

     Winifred's mouth goes dry. Clarity? This is anything but, she thinks. All logic and reason dissolves on the spot. She almost fails to notice herself leaning closer to him, drowsy with desire. Benedict casts his gaze across her face, landing on the sight of her lips. There is a part of her that is hungry for him right now and that has been starved for too long. Every little touch makes Winifred feel a little bit more alive again — the hands both intertwined with hers, the delicate graze of their arms together. She could kiss him if she wanted to...

     Then she notices something. The music has stopped.

     Winifred comes to. The sensation is like a swooping drop in the pit of her stomach. Slow down, she hears herself think. She plucks her fingers free, so now her hands are atop Benedict's, lowering them down soberly; he is still stuck in a daze as she tries to give him a weak smile.

     "I think Lady Strachan will be home soon," she says.

     End of story. After a moment to process, Benedict swallows thickly, giving a curt nod of understanding. He scoops up his jacket from the bench and stares back at her.

"Well... goodnight," he says.

     "Goodnight," she mumbles.

Winifred watches him go back into the house and, presumably, take his leave. It is a strange, cut-off ending to what had been such a charged moment. But she intended for it to be that way. It had to be. Winifred intends to keep a leash on these feelings; she reined them in this time, although it was a close call.

     Her head pushes her heart back where it has been for so long, into the shadows.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

FIREWORKS whizz and pop outside the window, illuminating the walls in vague multi-coloured flashes. None of them burn as bright as the crackling fireplace Winifred is sat by, her stare absorbed in the flames.

     She almost does not hear the door open downstairs as Lettie and Lady Strachan return home from dinner. Now with Benedict gone again, they are the first voices to be heard in the house for a while, including Winifred's own. Regina, the spoiled pug snoozes comfortably on a lavish cushion next to Winifred's feet.

The door creaks open, and in walks Lettie, her ruby red dress sparkling in the fire light. "What an evening! Oh, I do wish you had been there to see it. We played bridge with Lady Danbury and I managed to outsmart her. I couldn't believe it... she did challenge me to re-match though, and naturally, she won that." Blissfully happy, Lettie smiles, then stifles a yawn as she outstretches her arms. "The fireworks are still going, I see. The parties seem to be on practically every street... are your sisters home yet?"

"No..."

Lettie sinks down into an armchair opposite Winifred. Concern catches up with her as she surveys her solemn friend.

"Winifred? Are you well?"

"Yes," Winifred says, still staring at the fire. "I've just been doing some thinking."

"Oh yes? Do tell," Lettie eggs her on lightly. A pot of tea sits and grows cold on the table, so she pours herself a cup next to the other half-full one.

"I cannot continue to live at Highbourne."

Lettie's cup freezes by her lips as she shoots her a surprised stare; she is awaiting elaboration, withholding judgement until she hears more. Winifred sees this and shifts in her chair.

"Not in the long-term, anyway. Every time I'm in that house, there is a reminder of Joseph and the life I had before. I don't know. It feels... false, to inhabit that life still."

     "I see..." Lettie chooses her words carefully. "But Winifred, are you sure you aren't just affected by the emotions of the day? What with the news from the continent, and—"

"I have felt like this for a long time, Lettie," Winifred says firmly. "This is a decision that feels right, if not overdue."

For a long while, Lettie scrutinises her, trying to measure whether she is telling the truth. Then she appears to decide that Winifred is content with her decision, for she sets her cup and saucer down with a sense of resolve. "Very well. But Winifred, do you know what you will do?"

She shakes her head and sighs. "I have no idea yet."

"Perhaps... you could find yourself an occupation? I know you enjoy having something to do. And I got lucky with Lady Strachan, so maybe there are others who are looking for, say, a companion or a governess?"

"Maybe," Winifred says hesitantly. "If nothing else, I shall write to my in-laws. They might have a better opinion of what to do with Highbourne."

"Not better," Lettie reminds her. "See this as... taking control of your own fate."

It sounds so adventurous when Lettie says it. Of course it would, in her eyes. But for Winifred it is a means of survival — she does not know if she can endure a life of being haunted by Joseph at every corner in that house, no matter how much she loves him. And now with Benedict in the mix... she craves a simple solution to all of it. However it is not as though she thinks her options in society are much better, no matter what Lady Tilley or anyone might tell her.

Still, it would be nice to think that Winifred had control over her own fate. She hasn't often felt like it in her life.

"How about you sleep on it? And if you still feel convinced when you wake up, I will check the advertisements in the papers," Lettie announces helpfully, picking Regina up and cuddling the pug onto her lap. Winifred makes sure to shoot her a look of gratitude in spite of all her weariness. Outside, the fireworks continue to fizz and explode in the air, painting brilliant colours of hope in the night sky.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

AN ALMOST KISS SCENE?!? 💕 We're really in it now, you guys. And we only have five chapters left of Act Two. That doesn't sound like a lot, but those chapters are going to be JAM-PACKED with stuff.

There were some big things to happen in this chapter. Firstly, a sprinkle of (slight) historical accuracy, by mentioning the Battle of Waterloo. I tried my best to make it sort-of accurate with how the reaction was in Britain and was trying to read up on it. At first I thought about including Waterloo in the background as a name-drop thing, but then I realised how it would have affected Winifred — it reminds her of how Joseph probably would have been coming home now, if he were alive. So there's grief there, but it is also making her think about her future and what she wants out of her life, and one realisation is that she can't see herself staying at Highbourne long-term. We'll see where this takes her...

(And that last scene with Lettie is where I imagined the song at the top of the chapter to be playing, i.e. a strings cover of the beautiful 'What Was I Made For?' by Billie Eilish)

Also wanted to throw in a little moment for Benedict realising he's no longer the "spare". I'm sure season 4 will explore this a bit more, but I sometimes wondered how he reacted/felt once Anthony and Kate announces the pregnancy news. Idk, maybe I'm reading into this too much.

Originally I wanted to update Turning Page on Valentine's Day, but I've got a lot going on at the moment and it was just more convenient to post it earlier. (I'm looking forward to the live Q&A some of the cast are doing on the 14th — a bit like they did last year, only I guess it's more Benophie focused this time. I'm not signed up to the event but fingers crossed there are some crumbs for season 4)

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 12/02/2025