CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.
when words fail...

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     THE SOOTHING EFFECTS OF THE DRINK ARE STARTING TO KICK IN. Good, Benedict thinks, for he needs a distraction tonight; mostly from himself. But tonight should not be about his own woes.

     Tonight, he drinks with his brother and friends, to mark the closing of Mondrich's bar. It was a tough decision on his part, but one that was made to help him and Alice assimilate better into the ton. They would never accept a working man into the upper echelons. As bittersweet as it is, there is still a jovial mood as Benedict sits with Colin, John and Matthew. And there is, after all, plenty to celebrate beyond this.

"Cheers, Lord Kilmartin," Colin raises his glass to John. "To having you join our family very, very soon, I hope. A pleasure to have you out with us."

     "The pleasure is mine," John replies.

     "Ah, your spirits seem high tonight," Benedict mocks his little brother, pinching his cheeks. "Have you gone all simple with love?"

     As Colin wriggles away from him, Mondrich walks back into the room with another bottle in his hands. "Gentlemen! One of my finest bottles of brandy," he says, exhibiting it to them all, "I cannot have it going to the new proprietor."

     "Another? You'll have us wish you closed the club every week!"

     "I wish you didn't have to close the club at all," Matthew sighs. "All that work..."

     Mondrich weighs the bottle in his hands, along with the decision he has made. "Well, it is done now. And sadly, this is the last bottle." He pops the cork off and pours into a glass the last drops... of which there are very little. It only fills one glass between the five of them. "Damn. I thought there were at least a few more pours," says Mondrich sheepishly.

     "Surely the drink is yours, to celebrate your last night owning this fine institution," Colin suggests.

"You mean to mourn my last night. I refuse your pity drink..."

     "Well," says Colin, taking the glass for himself, "if it is a pity drink, then perhaps I deserve it—"

     Benedict lets out a wheezing cackle of laughter, burst out involuntarily. Colin whirls around and shoots him a defensive look.

     "What?!" he rebukes.

     "You?" Benedict highlights again, to which Matthew snorts as well.

     "You are right. Love has made me so simple I cannot even write a sentence this week. It is torture, really."

Setting aside Colin's woe-is-me monologue, Benedict hones straight in on the thing that caught his attention, which seems totally casual to his brother. "What do you need to write?" he interrogates him.

A beat passes. Then, he admits, "I am... writing a manuscript, in fact."

"Oh? Are you?" Benedict coos, carrying out the obligatory brotherly mocking.

"What is it about?" Mondrich asks.

"I am editing the story of my travels. Or, in principle, I am..."

     "No! No, no, no, no..."

Benedict plucks the glass of brandy from Colin's fingertips, sinking back into the sofa with it in his possession. He cannot believe for one second that Colin is so unfortunate right now.

     "Why?" Colin scoffs. "You think you deserve it?"

"You at least have a direction for your life, while I am floating, purposeless, with no discernible path forward..." Benedict whimpers and pouts, pretending to be on the brink of tears; the other men chuckle at the display.

     "But are you not the happiest you have ever been?"

     A swirl of images splice themselves through Benedict's memory then. A blank canvas, not a speck of paint on it. The debutantes chasing after him, paired with the relief that he is not looking to be leg-shackled by one of them. Winifred smiling at something he said. Winifred pulling away when he leaned in to kiss her. Winifred dancing with him at the ball. Winifred declaring that she has no interest in finding anyone after her late husband. Winifred, Winifred, Winifred.

     To boil it all down... no, he is not the happiest he could be.

     Instead of sharing this with the group, Benedict scrunches his face and plants the glass back onto the table: "Oh, right," he says, "that is true, yes..."

     Matthew seizes the opportunity to take the glass, holding it up and smelling the sweet aromas of the brandy. "What about me?" he asks.

     "Oh, come on!" Benedict retorts, "You are on top of the world right now, Ribeiro!"

     "Well I cannot fault the career benefits currently. Designing a university building commissioned by Her Majesty has its perks," Matthew grins. "But the pressure is unbelievable. Everything I design, I am quite sure that it is the ugliest thing that I have laid my eyes upon, and that it will be the very ruination of London's landscape."

     "I am sure Her Majesty is pleased with your designs," Colin tries to assure him, "or else why would she have recruited you? She chose you out of multitudes at the Royal Academy."

     "Perhaps. But perhaps you're right, Colin, that love has made me simple too."

     Benedict is glad he isn't the only one who did a double take at that. The other men also sit up in their seats, trying to catch onto those words before Matthew moves on casually.

     "Sorry, what was that?" John asks.

     "What was what?"

     "You said love. Who is the lucky young lady?"

     "Abigail Seymour," Matthew replies, not missing a beat.

     Benedict's jaw drops. "You love her? You declare that here, openly and freely?"

     "I did not realise I was to be interrogated for it. But to my misfortune, yes, I... love her."

     It is clear that Matthew means every word. And yet there is nothing grand, no big spectacle about sharing his love for Abigail. It a simple but profound fact to this man that he loves her. Benedict finds himself struck by the ease with which he said it. But... misfortune? Before he can ask what he means, Matthew has already surrendered the glass of brandy.

     "I think the drink is mine," says John. "If I am correct in reading that the winner of this game is whoever is the most fortunate—"

Both the Bridgerton brothers jump in, bracing themselves for something dripping in romance: "No!" Benedict cries, "Please do not start saying sentimental things about our sister—"

"I was going to say I am the most fortunate amongst us, because I have spotted another bottle..."

     John rises from his seat, circling around their seats to the corner of the room. Behind a plant, he retrieves a miracle — another shining bottle of brandy. They all laugh and cheer for him as he takes a meek little bow, bringing the bottle back around to pour them each a glass. When all their glasses are filled, the five men rise up and hold up their glasses in the air.

     It is John who proposes the toast: "To Mr. Mondrich's fine club."

     "To the club!" they say together, clinking their glasses and downing their drinks.

When they stumble outside later on, the streets of London are quieter... that is, they are empty of the normal daytime bustle. Benedict is quite used to wandering the city in the evenings, where enticing coves of secrecy and colour reveal themselves, free spirits abounding. But right now, he just feels lost. Benedict tries to examine any stars in the sky and feels entirely insignificant beneath them.

"Thank you for seeing this place off with me, gentlemen," Mondrich says again, hand on his heart.

"It was our pleasure," Colin replies. "I think I will sleep at the new house tonight. I might as well get used to it, before the wedding..."

"I'd best be heading home myself," says John.

"You go on without me," Benedict waves off his younger brother, who is hailing a carriage ride for them all.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, I'll walk. I could do with the fresh air."

"Then I will join you," says Matthew. "My lodgings are on the way to Grosvenor Square... not quite as grand, though."

     Benedict chuckles, scooping his coat onto one arm. The two men walk alongside one another down the cobbled, moonlit streets, each lost in thoughts and feelings only heightened by the brandy — their minds are simply elsewhere. For Benedict, he doesn't know exactly where it is. Certainly not in London right now. He feels the need to be somewhere else, to escape for a while and freshen his palate. Maybe he could even slip away to the country... see what this My Cottage place of his is all about...

     After walking in content silence for a couple of minutes, Benedict looks over at Matthew. He looks like a man who knows what he wants to go after in life. Whether that be his career or, indeed, his love. The words come tumbling out before Benedict can stop them:

     "So, are you really in love with Abigail?" he asks.

     Matthew's brows fly up in surprise. Then he cringes slightly, chuckling.

     "I didn't mean to say that earlier. It must have been the brandy."

     "But is it true?"

     "Of course it is," Matthew nods earnestly.

     Benedict sighs, almost in awe of its simplicity. "You make it sound so easy."

     "It is far from that. Believe me, I have wrestled with it, but I do not wish to fight anymore," he says, more honesty flying off-the-cuff. "The real obstacle lies with her parents... I do not think they like me very much."

     "Nonsense. Why wouldn't they?"

     Between looking side-to-side before crossing the road, Matthew shoots him an incredulous look. "Because, I am a tradesman. Abigail would be marrying below her station. I keep trying to think of a way to make this work... it keeps me up in the night." He tilts his head up to the moonlight for a moment, making the creases of thought in his face appear more severe.

"Well, keep trying," Benedict nudges him optimistically. "Do not let anything stand in the way of true love."

"You are a sentimental one, Mr. Bridgerton, aren't you?"

"Perhaps..."

Benedict has barely walked a few more steps in front of him, when Matthew suddenly pivots to throw a question back at him:

"So, when are you going to tell Mrs. Erstwhile how you feel about her?"

He spins around in the spot, gaping helplessly at Matthew. His heart accelerates into a dizzying drumroll in his chest. "Wh– I, I don't– pardon?" Benedict stammers.

"Forgive me, but I am not blind," Matthew tuts, almost offended that he would be unaware otherwise. "You two have been dancing around each other for as long as I have been in your company. You are almost constantly in one another's orbit."

     When he puts it like that, Benedict figures he is right. Winifred might as well be the sun around which he turns. And here, with Matthew's prodding, maybe he does not have to hide that so much anymore. But there are other things that keep him from revealing himself. It always feels like a push-and-pull between them. Just when something almost happens... then it doesn't.

     "So? Will you?" Matthew presses on.

     "I– I don't..." Benedict sighs, deflated. "It is not that simple."

     "Why?"

     "Winifred is a widow. She was married once before, to a man she loved deeply, no less."

     "And that deters you?" Matthew interjects.

     "Oh, no, not like that," Benedict quickly clarifies, although struggling to find the right words. His hands fly about the place, as if trying to grasp the answer out of thin air. "I suppose... I am just not sure if... if she wants to find someone again."

     "Has she told you this herself?"

     "Yes. And– well, it seems clear enough to me, anyway."

     His friend's face twists in thought at the moment, grappling the neck of a lamppost. Matthew does not seem entirely convinced of his explanation. Benedict stops in the street so that he does not walk too far ahead. Finally, letting go of the lamppost, Matthew says: "Well, I suppose that situation would require more delicacy. You are at least being very considerate."

     "I suppose..."

     Matthew adds, "But have you considered that the obstacles here may lie less with Winifred, and more with yourself?"

     Benedict stands speechless, coat sagging in his arm. That makes him think.

     "Maybe it is time that you started to think about the future, and... what you wish for that to look like. That's the sort of perspective that has been forced on my part, anyway. Just do not keep making up excuses out of your own fear." Matthew drums his fingers on the metal of the lamppost. Then, glancing up at a window of an inn, he points to it in recognition. "These are my lodgings."

     Numbly, Benedict turns and sees the sign. "Oh..."

     Matthew walks over and pats his shoulder firmly. "Good luck, Benedict," he says.

     "You too," he replies, genuine but still in a haze.

     The architect walks inside, the wooden door shutting behind him. Benedict could almost be home soon, but he won't be yet. He keeps walking — there is plenty more soul-searching he needs to do.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     "THIS is the word of the Lord. Thanks be to God..." says the priest, stood in the pulpit.

     On this Sunday morning, the summer shines brightly through the stained glass in the church. Winifred and her sisters, amongst the rest of the ton, sit and listen to the reading of the banns for those to be married. They must be read three times before they are free to be wed. It is as much of an event as it is a requirement — Winifred remembers the anticipation building with each week her name was read alongside Joseph's.

"Now, today, I publish the banns of marriage between Mr. Colin Bridgerton and Miss Penelope Featherington. This is the first time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony... ye are to declare it."

     Winifred looks over her shoulder to see the reactions of them both. First she sees Penelope, smiling and blushing to herself as she glances over at Colin; in the silence that follows the priest's asking for any objections, he makes a face and pulls at his cravat in mock worry.

     After no one raises a word, the priest nods. "Very well. Mr. Bridgerton and Miss Featherington shall be married here in three weeks' time."

Her gaze shifts from one Bridgerton brother to the other one. Winifred finds Benedict is already looking at her, and her heart stutters. She quickly turns back around in her seat as he, too, turns his attention to something else.

     Winifred slowly dares to look behind her again, this time not being startled when she meets eyes with Benedict. He smiles softly at her, and she tentatively returns it. The memory of his lips lingering near hers, wanting, sends a flush of warmth up the nape of her neck. Those words he had whispered to her: "Suddenly, everything makes sense." She shakes her head to try and shed the feeling, but it does not back down.

"Today, I also publish the banns for Lord Jasper Corning and Miss Emilia Caldwell."

     Oh. There it is.

"This is the second time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it."

     In her periphery, Winifred sees Jemima stare very pointedly at the cold marble tiles on the church floor. It is the second time she has had to hear Emilia's marriage announced in church like this — on top of the additional buzz that already surrounds it, with it being a good match. Every time it chips away at Jemima. And yet, she has no objections. None that she says, anyway.

     "Very well. Lord Corning and Miss Caldwell shall be married here in two weeks' time."

Winifred shoots her sister a sympathetic look that she can't see.

The priest ends with reading the banns for Lord Charles Cho and Miss Emma Kenworthy. When there is silence in response, he shuts his Bible, smiling out to the congregation. "That brings me to the end of my words today. Now, go forth in peace to love and serve the Lord."

Winifred rises from her seat, along with her sisters, Lettie and the baroness. They walk forward to re-join Madeline and their parents nearer the back of the church; Winifred is lagging behind when she finds herself merging with the Bridgertons filing out. Benedict hangs behind last, falling into step with her.

"Good morning," she says.

"Morning..." Benedict smiles, his chest inflating slightly. Then he blinks rapidly. "Uh... that was a good service."

"Mhmm."

"Where are you all headed next? We were thinking of promenading in Regent's Park, and—"

"I'm afraid I have to be somewhere after this," Winifred tells him. As they leave the church, she squints past the sun to examine the clock face on the chapel tower. She is still on time, although she had better leave soon if she wishes to be punctual.

Benedict tilts his head, surprised. "Oh? Where are you off to?"

"I am visiting my brother-in-law. He's in town and I just... felt the need to see him. I wrote to him a few days ago, and he kindly agreed to meet me."

Winifred feels that is the simplest way to describe it. Not lacking honesty, but it waters down her visit quite a bit. The truth is that she wrote to Lance to confess her feelings about the future, and what to do about Highbourne. He had written back promptly and invited her over for tea.

As Winifred puts her thin lacy gloves back on, she catches no glimpse of the flash of jealousy that makes Benedict squirm.

"I had better go," Winifred says. "But will you be at the Mondrich Ball?"

"Oh– uh, yes, I will," Benedict nods.

"Then I shall see you there."

"See you there..."

Winifred trots down the steps from the mighty church doors, walking comfortably but briskly to say quick goodbyes to her family. Then she goes to the edge of the street to hail a coach. She finds a vacant one after a few tries. As the coach sets off to Lance's townhouse, Winifred begins to mentally prepare for what they could discuss. It would give her comfort to hear what it is that the Erstwhiles think of her wanting to leave Highbourne. She also wants to ensure that her voice is heard in the whole process.

The coach soon arrives at Lance's lodgings — he lives in Belgravia, in a stucco townhouse he recently moved into. It is one small brick in the slow build of his reputation as a barrister in London. Even with connections, Winifred hears it is extremely difficult to move up in the ranks and make a name for oneself.

His butler answers the door, but Lance soon comes bounding down the steps to greet her. After they smile and exchange greetings, Lance shows her through. "Here, let my butler take your things," he offers. "How was your trip through town?"

"Oh, not too long," she replies, "I was just at church in Mayfair."

"Still rubbing shoulders with the ton, then?"

"Somehow, yes..."

Lance chuckles lowly. "I'll call for some tea."

They go up to the drawing room, which is refreshingly modest compared to some of the lavish ones Winifred has seen in Mayfair. Lance does not seem like a man who busies himself too much with tidy appearances. Legal books are stacked next to the armchair that he sinks into. Over tea and biscuits, they first catch up on general small talk and goings-on in their lives — she relays some of the amusing happenings in the ton, as well as the wellbeing of her family, while Lance returns with this along with a subtle summary of a client he is working with.

But after a while, the inevitable subject rolls around.

"I wanted to thank you, Laurence, for meeting me today," Winifred says. "I appreciate you taking the time to talk it through with me."

"Of course," Lance nods, setting down his teacup on the table. "I read your letter, and I think that your feelings are perfectly reasonable. I am sure we can find some sort of solution..." There is an awkward pause, before he adds: "But if it is any consolation, I shall not spring any untoward questions upon you this time."

"Untoward?"

He swallows thickly, praying he won't have to spell it out. "Well... you know... the rather impulsive proposal—"

"What proposal? I do not recall a proposal," Winifred cuts him off quickly, and deliberately. Of course she remembers what he is referring to — how could she forget the most random proposal ever made? He sprung it on her last time they met, lacking in any affection, but coming from a well-intentioned place of giving her security after Joseph's death.

Lance seems to hate that moment as much as she did. So, with a warning stare, Winifred tries to tell him that it is all water under the bridge... as long as he promises to take it to his grave. Exhaling slowly, he seems relieved to put that behind him. Now he is content enough to move on in the discussion.

"First of all," Lance begins, "with regard to Highbourne, we should be agreed on what it is that you are entitled to."

Winifred sits up straight, hoping it exudes responsibility; although that is not to say she lacks confidence in this moment. "I should hope that is already the case. I am well aware of what has been left to me. There was Joseph's military commission, the jointure that was settled before we married. And it is my understanding that I remain entitled to my dower share of the income from Highbourne."

     "One-third, that's right. Then you may also recall that, because you did not have any children, we remain the legal holders of the property."

"Yes, I did know that..."

As much as she loves Lance, sometimes Winifred finds herself bristled by his tendency to over-explain the simplest of things. It bloats what could otherwise be a very straightforward discussion in her eyes. She does not need reminding of this fact.

Nevertheless, the point he raised is right. And it reminds her that the property is less in her hands, and the idea of her doing anything independently with Highbourne is more far-fetched. Even if she could, Winifred is not sure she would want to anymore. She would not want to run the risk of still being haunted by Joseph in every room.

"I wrote to Hugh," Lance says, "and we had a discussion about all this. He suggested that you could move into the dower house with us in Canterbury."

     Winifred blinks at him in surprise. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly. The family will need it."

     "First of all, you are family. Second of all, they shan't be needing it for a while. Our father is ailing, but he still lives in the main house, and who knows how long he will be..." Lance stops, suddenly losing the air to speak about his condition. From what Winifred has heard, her father-in-law's health is far from improving at the moment. Composed again, Lance continues: "Anyway, the day that the family needs it is far, far away."

     She isn't at all sure about this. "And what about when that day comes? Shall I be driven out?" Winifred asks.

     He shakes his head. "Don't be ridiculous! Hugh would never do such a thing to you."

     I'm not being ridiculous, thinks Winifred privately. Is it ridiculous for a woman to be concerned, for her future and her security?

     "You could even be a governess or fill some similar role," Lance suggests practically.

     "I would rather not serve my niece distantly. I would rather be an aunt to her." Shaking her head, Winifred brushes this offer away, thinking of how to articulate why. "If I lived in the dower house, I fear I would become the solitary nanny, available to babysit and chaperone whenever it suits the family. As kind as the offer is, I... I'd need to know that I could wield some independence, too."

     Lance considers this for a moment, nodding slowly. "That is understandable, and a very good point. All I ask is that you do not rule it out entirely. We are happy to help you, and I'd like to think that Joseph would have wanted us to."

At this, Winifred softens. "Thank you. I– I do realise that, too."

They both take a sip of tea, to wash down any emotions threatening to bubble upwards.

She watches Lance open and close his mouth for a few moments, fiercely debating inside his mind whether to ask what he wants to. "I know we said not to venture near the subject-that-shall-not-be-named, but... is remarriage still off the cards? With some other gentleman, I mean?" he asks, with bated breath.

Winifred feels herself freeze. The question makes her stop and think more than it would have a few weeks ago. Or maybe longer, maybe shorter. She doesn't even know anymore.

"... No," she replies quietly, "no one comes to mind."

She must admit, Winifred did not expect Lance to be so open-minded about her remarrying. Obviously aside from the incident-that-shall-not-be-named, he has not expressed any particular discomfort about it. She is so used to other people around her having an opinion on her marital status and what she should do with it now — quickly bind it up with someone else, or remain chaste in solitude until her last breath.

"Lance? Do you really not mind me remarrying... with someone else?" Winifred asks.

At first he smiles at her choice of words, actively avoiding him in the question. Then he shrugs. "Not really. There could even be some financial gain if you chose wisely, and I cannot argue too much with that. Besides... who would I be to dictate that choice? I'm not exactly qualified to say. I am far too busy to make any woman happy in a marriage. And you know how poor my judgement and timing can be."

     They both grin at this, fortunate enough to able to joke about that time.

     "I think Hugh minds, though," he adds, through a sip of tea.

     "Does he?" Winifred asks worriedly.

     "Not maliciously," Lance quickly clarifies. "I think he would just be... rattled, at the idea of you married to anyone other than my brother."

She sits with this observation as she gulps more tea. This day has certainly given her plenty to think about.

After finishing the rest of their tea, Winifred suggests she should be making her way home; Lance has plenty to work on this afternoon anyway. He shows her to the door on her way out. For all the twists and turns their conversation took, Winifred is glad that she came here today. Is there clarity? Perhaps not, but at least she is not sharing this secret feeling all alone.

"Lance, could I ask you to not proceed with anything until I return to Highbourne?" Winifred asks.

"Of course," he nods.

"Especially for my staff," she insists, reaching for her gloves. "I would rather tell them in person. And anyway, I would not wish to leave without the knowledge that they are already in new employment with fair salaries—"

"I promise, we will not do anything. You have my word."

She can tell that Lance means it. Winifred exhales a sigh of relief. She goes to thank him, but is instead distracted by Lance's abrupt change in expression; he is staring down at her hands.

"Winifred," he says, "I do not mean to alarm you, but you aren't wearing your wedding ring."

Oh God. She forgot about that. Winifred stares down at her bare hand, which has worn her wedding band for most of the years she's known the Erstwhiles. In the many days that have passed since removing it, she still feels secure in keeping it off her hand. But she had not considered how it would make Joseph's family feel — after all, he was their brother — and now she feels a pang of awkwardness. She feels singled out in a way she was ill-prepared for.

"... I know," is all she can muster.

Lance doesn't seem to get it at first. Then the crease in his brows fades, understanding flooding his features.

Winifred cannot quite tell how he feels about it. "That seems reasonable" would probably be his standard response here. Whether he actually thinks that is another matter. But for the time being, Lance is doing a good job at seeming that way, and that is good enough for now.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     IN the slew of balls that have consumed in the last week and a half, Winifred looks forward more to this one — the Mondrich Ball. It is held at their newly-inherited estate, floral decorations and refreshing mint green colours lit in warm candlelight. Will and Alice look over their guests with nervous anticipation, trying to gauge their reactions and see whether they can be further accepted into their world.

From where Winifred is standing, she certainly sees no fault. She ensures that she tells this to the Mondrichs herself. Madeline is also very bright about it all. She had introduced her children to theirs a week ago, wanting them to have friends in the ton; apparently Adrian had spent happy hours rolling hoops with their daughter, Daisy.

"What do you suppose is inside that contraption?" Madeline asks, stopping her mother mid-sip of her drink.

"Inside it? I thought it was merely decorative," Octavia muses. "Oh, how very clever!"

As much as she likes her family being all together, Winifred feels herself fading into the background more. There is that feeling again, of not being useful anymore. She itches to move forward somehow. To not remain... static. Sighing, she smooths her lacy gloved hands down her dress, also white and embroidered with blue flowers.

     Beside her, Abigail and Jemima also survey the room. The former has been waiting for Matthew to arrive, since she knows he was kindly invited by the Mondrichs. The latter stares from afar at the soon-to-be Emilia Corning, whose wedding is in less than two days time. Perhaps they understand the feeling of wanting to be elsewhere, too.

     Elaborate fanfare of trumpets suddenly cuts off the string quartet's music. A man in livery announces to the room, "Her Majesty, the Queen!"

     The various guests exclaim and whisper amongst themselves as Queen Charlotte walks into the ballroom. Having her be present at one's ball is an undeniable privilege. In her towering powdered wig and voluminous, lavish gown, she turns her nose up at the decorations and her hosts.

     "As I assumed... lacklustre, at best," the queen mutters to her footman.

     Right on cue, another footman for the Mondrichs walks up to the contraption in the centre of the ballroom. He turns a handle attached to the side — the walls of the multi-sided tower begin to open, blossoming like a flower. Each panel extends like petals and creates a botanical wall, like the shape of a handheld fan. The room stands in awe of the display, including Queen Charlotte.

     Alice Mondrich, in particular, shoots the royal a hopeful look. In return, the queen nods slowly and smiles.

     "Not bad," she says. "Not bad at all..."

     With that, the music and dancing resumes. Now that Penelope has arrived, Colin is keen to bring her straight out for a dance. They are giddy and in love, throwing in un-choreographed twirls between besotted giggles. Between the crowds, Winifred spots Anthony making his way over to say hello; he shakes Silas's hand and banters familiarly with him about something she does not pay attention to.

     Out of the blue, Anthony then turns to her. "Mrs. Erstwhile, you wouldn't happen to have seen my brother, would you?" he asks. Her family all turn their heads to stare at her in unison.

     "Your– your brother?" Winifred echoes.

     "I thought he might have come over to say hello. I just wanted to discuss something with him tonight, before he... oh, never mind," Anthony brushes it off mysteriously.

     He continues chatting to Silas, and soon Winifred's family busy themselves with other conversation. But she finds her own mind drifting more distantly out of this room. Where is Benedict? She definitely saw him at the start of the evening, saying a quick hello to each other — that was a good twenty minutes ago at least. The sudden need to know where he is consumes her. Winifred's instincts pull her inch-by-inch towards the exit. She draws nearer, until she has slipped away through the open doors and out of the ballroom.

Winifred suspects he has slipped outside of the party. She walks out into the landscaped gardens, avoiding eye contact with the footmen who watch on. They are neatly-trimmed and lit, but the further she walks, the more flora and fauna surrounds her. The quiet of being surrounded by nature soon starts to replace the hum of chatter from inside... no wonder Benedict has escaped out here, if this is where she finds him.

She hesitates to call out his name, not wanting to attract too much attention. Winifred sees the glistening sheen of water in the nighttime, the smallest of decorative ponds. A stone fountain also trickles nearby. She follows it up with her gaze, and sees a silhouette she instantly recognises. Benedict stands on the small decorative bridge that arches over the water — he is leant forward, elbows propped tiredly on the railings as he stares down at his reflection.

Winifred waits before going over. She just... looks at him. When Benedict isn't performing for anyone, something quieter and more vulnerable comes to the surface.

     "There you are," she says softly.

     Benedict quickly whirls around, locking eyes on her and sighing. "Oh... it's you."

     "You disappeared," Winifred adds, joining him on the bridge. "It is usually you following me after an escape, is it not?"

     He just chuckles softly, but it lacks some of his usual mirth. Winifred stares down at their reflections in the water. The small ripples distort their faces, though still showing their moonlit likenesses back to them like a mirror. She watches Benedict glare despondently at himself.

"What is troubling you?" she whispers.

Benedict heaves a sigh, one that speaks of a thousand frustrations. "I've just had enough."

"Of what?"

"All of... that," he gestures vaguely towards the party inside.

Winifred grips the railing on the bridge, humming in agreement. "I know. They do become monotonous after a while—"

"I really mean it." Benedict stands up straight now and shows no lightness about him. "I do not know why I keep waiting in ballrooms, just in case a miracle walks through the door. I've always thought it to be impossible to seek genuine connection in the marriage mart. No one in there wants anything authentic or meaningful."

     "That is not entirely true," she interjects.

     They have had this conversation before. About a year ago, at Anthony and Edwina's almost-wedding.

     "And yet..." Benedict goes on, disheartened, "I look around me, and all I see is evidence to the contrary. Colin is getting married. Francesca is betrothed to Lord Kilmartin. Daphne and Anthony found their person. Meanwhile, I have no clue what my path is, or who it leads to. If anyone. But the difference now, is that I see no point in dancing around the truth anymore. Which is... I just don't think that I have that one person, like the others do."

He lifts his head and stares at her; searchingly, hopefully. Then he leans over the railing and frowns back into the water again.

"It eludes me," mumbles Benedict.

     Winifred does not know where all this is coming from. All she knows is that it pains her to see Benedict feeling so low. Especially when he knows how wrong he is, about all of it... but that is not as easy to say out loud, let alone accept for herself.

"Benedict... I do not think there is such thing as the one for us all," Winifred says carefully.

     Beside her, he lets out a self-deprecating scoff. "I know. You told me once, ever so eloquently. I remember it."

"But it just can't be true. Because if we only had one soulmate, then how—"

She cuts herself off sharply, the intake of air silencing herself. Winifred catches herself and looks back down again. But Benedict has already clung onto what she almost said; he stands up and faces her curiously.

"How what?" Benedict asks. "Winifred... how what?"

Winifred shakes her head, staring at the water again. She observes their reflections trembling on the surface, Benedict stood so close and her bent elbow just grazing his wrist. It is like being presented with a watercolour of themselves — she finds the sight of them together surprisingly natural. Winifred knows what she might have said, were she brave enough:

If they only had one soulmate, then how could she possibly feel even half of what she feels for Benedict?

None of this materialises in speech. Instead, Winifred feels something entirely instinctive take over — or rather, she lets all reason take a step back for one moment. She looks up at Benedict and drinks in all his features, eyes fluttering down from his eyes to his lips. Her heart starts galloping freely in her ribcage at the idea of it. The unthinkable.

Winifred takes a step towards Benedict. Her breath hitches in her throat as she watches him realise what she is doing. She hesitates by his lips, face already tilted up and eyes studying him, her invitation.

Closing the gap, Benedict accepts it.

She shuts her eyes and lets herself feel. For a moment, everything hangs in the balance at the first graze of their lips. Here she is, kissing another man. It is a thrill and terror like standing on a cliff's edge. Then it is like a chord snaps — Winifred thinks less about the past and is overwhelmed with longing for Benedict. What they have held back for months, or longer, comes tumbling out. They kiss deeper this time, and his hands cradling her back are the only thing steadying her. Her hands rest against his collarbone as she leans in further. It is intense and gentle all at the same time...

     They break apart breathlessly. Winifred opens her eyes with great effort, lashes stuck together. Drawn back and staring widely at each other, the true weight of what they just did sinks in. She kissed Benedict, and she has been kissed. Winifred doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. She feels... well, completely alive, but everything also feels incredibly raw and exposed.

"I..." she whispers, but no other words come out.

Benedict, for once, is similarly speechless.

"Are you... are you alright?" he asks.

She blinks rapidly, then nods. "Yes, I—"

A horse whinnies in the distance, accompanied by the trotting of hooves and rolling wheels. Urgency seizes them both; they cannot be seen here. "Quick, in here!" Benedict tugs Winifred behind the nearest tree. They both hold their breaths and spy behind the trunk as a carriage halts in front of the entrance to the Mondrich house. Out of it steps Cressida and Lady Cowper, scheming looks on their faces as they let themselves in...

But Winifred couldn't care less about them right now. With each passing second, reality is starting to wedge itself in with her feelings. She starts to contemplate where on Earth they go from here... because where do they go from here? Benedict must be thinking the same thing too, for he stares at her still holding her hands, looking even more directionless than he did before. Winifred tries searching his face for any signs of regret or repulsion. Oh God, what has she done—

"Winifred..."

She looks at him bewildered, hoping he has any sort of answer.

"I– I think we should go back inside," Benedict murmurs.

     Winifred's mouth opens into an 'O', before she nods weakly. Benedict faintly releases her hands, almost staggering his way off the bridge and back towards the house. She, on the other hand, is not ready to face anyone else yet. Winifred clings white-knuckled onto the railings, staring her reflection in the face until her heart stops feeling like it might explode. Alone, she is left to bask in what just happened.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

WAAAAAHHHAJANWJSHWJSNN 💗💗💗💗

THAT'S IT, THAT'S LITERALLY ALL I HAVE TO SAY RIGHT NOW (chapter title could not be more accurate LMAO)

P.S. okay I lied... just wanted to add that I was feeling a little insecure about the flow & pace of this chapter, especially because of the long-awaited kiss at the end, so I hope you enjoyed!! AAAAAHHHH what will happen next?!! Until next time, enjoy the euphoria of this one 💞 Benedict really did just panic and run away there...

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 12/03/2025