CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.
running scared.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

HOW DOES ONE SLEEP AFTER ONE'S LIFE HAS BEEN TURNED UPSIDE DOWN?

Hardly, is the answer. After practically sleepwalking through the rest of the Mondrich Ball, with no Benedict to be seen, Winifred was wide awake as she lay in bed that night. She kept reminding herself what had happened — she had kissed Benedict Bridgerton right there in the gardens.

     On the one hand, it was terrifying. Winifred had surprised herself. It felt such a great risk, whether or not she took into account how many lines of hammered-in society etiquette she ignored. "Impulsive" is not usually a word found in her vocabulary.

But on the other hand... Winifred cannot shake off the euphoria. Such a feeling, when they kissed, was one that she thought had died with Joseph. Any guilt or grief aside, to feel that again was a gift.

The question that keeps her up all night is the tricky one: What happens next? It is one thing to dismiss passing stares or the brush of a hand, but an intimacy such as the kiss that they shared is undeniable. Wondering how to proceed from here keeps Winifred wide awake, turning the possibilities over in her head like stones, then quickly placing them back down when they frighten her. Such passion does not want to be misplaced... she recognises how strongly she feels for Benedict. That's the scary thing.

     These are all things Winifred never thought she would be considering, let alone so soon.

     By the time morning light leaks into her room, she gives up on solving the conundrum for now. Instead, she is dressed in a daze, not quite as sharp as usual when she arrives to eat breakfast in the parlour with the other ladies.

     "Good morning, sister!" Abigail greets her warmly. "Did you sleep well?"

     Winifred blinks at her. "Uh– fine, yes."

     She sits down, reaching for a bread bun and spreading strawberry jam onto it. A maid pours her a cup of tea before she can intervene to do it herself. Winifred finds herself honing in on the motion for far too long.

     Jemima sighs. "Well, are we all going to discuss what happened last night?"

     Winifred almost drops her toast onto her lap. Her elbow clatters loudly against her butter knife, barely sending it flying onto the floor. The whole table stares at her, perplexed by her unravelling.

     "Mrs. Erstwhile, are you quite well?" Lady Strachan implores, genuinely concerned.

      "Yes, yes! I apologise, I... what about last night?" she asks feebly. Her face starts to burn with embarrassment.

     "Why, Cressida Cowper storming in, of course!" Abigail laughs. "She invited herself into the Mondrich Ball, delivering new issues of Whistledown with her. It was quite the spectacle. The queen was furious... you were there, Winifred."

     "In the flesh, yes. In spirit, perhaps not..." Lettie murmurs curiously.

     Right on cue, a servant presents the new issue of Lady Whistledown to the room on a silver tray. There are multiple copies as of late, to accommodate for the other guests, so Winifred finds herself being distributed one. She has barely cast her eyes over it before she hears shocked scoffs and gasps from the other ladies. A horrible thought occurs to her — she remembers Cressida arriving just as she had kissed Benedict. Did she see anything?

     Dread seizing her, Winifred lifts the pamphlet and looks for herself... no mention of her, thank goodness, but what she finds is not much better:

LADY WHISTLEDOWN
Dearest, gentle reader,

If you thought that revealing my true identity would stifle me, guess again. I fear no reproach, as now you know I write to you from one of the most reputable houses in Mayfair. Certainly, no house is perfect. Though, there are some that purport to be. Take, for example, Bridgerton House, with its shining reputation. This author must question what really goes on behind closed doors.

     "What a pile of nonsense!" Winifred mutters indignantly; a flush of fury courses through her, on behalf of the Bridgertons.

     It only gets worse as they all read on:

It is known that Lady Violet Bridgerton praises love matches above all else. But does love excuse why several of her children have had rather rushed engagements? Perhaps the family confuses love with lust. And then there is the fact that there are so many Bridgerton children. Has one ever wondered why so many? This author certainly has. Perhaps because a few of them may be of dubious parentage...

"I do not believe a word of it," Jemima declares.

"I should hope not," Winifred huffs, and the baroness sets down the issue in agreement.

But Jemima shakes her head, quite confidently. "No, I do not think this... is Lady Whistledown. She writes gossip, but she does not make baseless accusations such as this."

"So, what are you saying?" Abigail asks, puzzled.

"I am saying that, I hardly think Cressida Cowper possesses the same eye and wit that the real Whistledown possesses... whoever she may be."

"You think Miss Cowper is lying?" Lettie hums.

Just then, another servant comes rushing in with a tray. "Another Whistledown, my lady!" he informs her. Lady Strachan immediately sits up in her seat and holds out her hand. She plucks the new issue to read for herself, staring down her nose through her reading spectacles. Then her lips quirk up with a sigh of relief.

"Miss Seymour, very keenly spotted," says the baroness. "I think you will all find the latest issue a much more pleasant read."

Winifred isn't usually so eager to read Lady Whistledown, but she grabs the new gossip column determinedly and scans her eyes over what she has written:

LADY WHISTLEDOWN
Dearest, gentle reader,

It seems someone has been impersonating me, and so I can no longer sit idly by. This author is not interested in judging what one does out of desperation. But gossip as I might, I always tell the truth, and I cannot tolerate a lie. Cressida Cowper, this author is not.

If she were me, surely she would have reported on the great debt Lord Blackburn refused to repay to Lord Samson this week. Or the fact that Mrs. Newham unceremoniously dismissed her maid yesterday for the simple act of asking for a day off. And I will not even mention the small cruelties Mr. Davidson's wife endures daily. Except, I suppose... I just did.

I say this all to remind you that this author, the true Lady Whistledown, is always paying attention. Something that I believe Miss Cowper should try to do a little more.

Yours Truly, Lady Whistledown.

     Winifred sets down the pamphlet, bemused by the whole thing. She looks across at Jemima, who is thoroughly enjoying her moment — she had her finger right on the pulse. Lifting her teacup to her lips, Jemima says: "The wild goose chase continues, I suppose..."

     After breakfast, the ladies disperse for what is to be a quiet morning spent at home. After the recent onslaught of ball after ball, they found it valuable to take time off and gather their thoughts once more. Abigail continues with her embroidery and Jemima disappears to her bedroom (doing God knows what...). Lady Strachan sits in the drawing room, her gluttonous pug sat snoring on her lap. She soon joins it, gently dozing in her seat, as they both bathe in the sunlight streaming through the window.

     Lettie takes this opportunity to sit next to Winifred on the chaise lounge. She is midway through a page of her book when she feels her friend looking at her. Slowly, she closes it, noticing the newspaper in Lettie's hands.

     "After the talk we had, I have been scouring the papers for advertisements," says Lettie dutifully. "After plenty of trial and error, ruling out names who definitely would not be suitable, I found this one... the Lymingtons put out an advertisement for a governess. Do you know Lord and Lady Lymington?"

     Winifred furrows her brows. "The name is familiar..."

     "They are a delightful family. Anyway, their youngest daughter is in need of a governess, after their current one has grown too old. The Lymingtons have the reputation of being fair employers. You never know, it could be rather pleasant."

     Curious, Winifred takes the paper from her hands and reads the advertisement. The small write-up looks for a "respectable young lady" to join them in the country, who will have good manners and sufficient knowledge of "Arithmetic, History and the English language... proficiency in Music and Art is also desired." Winifred certainly likes to think that she fits all the criteria. And more importantly, "No prior experience in educating is required."

     "Their country estate," Winifred asks, "where is that?"

     "Somerset, I hear."

     "That is... rather far," she says. Somerset is to the south west, a very long carriage ride from what Winifred calls home in the south east.

     "Distance can be a good thing," Lettie shrugs, "especially when one is in good company, such as the Lymingtons."

     "You found that to be a blessing with Lady Strachan?"

     "I would say so, yes." Then Lettie grows more serious, lowering her voice as she casts a grateful gaze over the dozing baroness. "I know that I have been very fortunate. With her, I feel more like a friend than an employee. She allows me to partake in society events with her, and asks my opinion on things. It is more than I could have asked for when I answered her advertisement."

     Lettie does have a point. Winifred is still hesitant over accepting a governess role; it would be entirely dependent on the family, for she has known them to be stuck in a limbo, between not interacting with the servants and still standing below their employers. It could be a lonely life with the wrong family... and even with the right one, is it worth it? Winifred can also see the benefit of having a secure place to stay.

"I shall think about it," Winifred sets the newspaper aside, just as the pug snores extra loudly.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     "WHY do you need to be a governess, or a companion?"

     "Mama, I do not need to be either, I just—"

     "Is it a lack of accommodation? If you are struggling, you know that you are very welcome to live with us, isn't she Charles?"

     Octavia nudges her husband, who is much quieter with more contemplation. "Yes, of course," he murmurs, still seeming unsure about his daughter's idea.

     Winifred is starting to regret sharing this with them. She had innocently mentioned that she found an advertisement searching for a governess. Then what was intended to be a calm stroll through Regent's Park, had soon turned into a futile battle to stop Octavia from jumping to conclusions.

     "Although we won't always be around, darling," Charles reminds Octavia solemnly.

     "Precisely," Winifred nods, "which is why I at least wished to look at my options. Nothing has been decided. Besides, you make it sound so derogatory to become a governess. Ours was very amiable, and she fit right in. It is entirely dependent on the employers, it is not?"

     Sighing, Octavia's shoes crunch against the path in the park. "What is wrong with Highbourne, really? It is a lovely estate."

     "And too much for one person."

     "So... live with us."

     "Mama," Winifred resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I wish to retain independence."

     "Ah, yes, because governesses are notoriously known for being independent—"

     "Both of you, calm yourselves," Charles interjects quickly; the bickering dissipates, mother and daughter backing down. He seems quite relieved to have quelled their disagreement for now.

     Tiredly, Winifred rubs her temples. Her head seems to be in a permanent spin recently. So many things to be considered, and so many other things de-railing her best-laid plans. "Mama..." she smooths her voice, "I do appreciate the offer. Really, thank you." She almost adds a but, then decides against it. Octavia nods, still tilting her head in worry, which Winifred simply shrugs off.

     The trio start to catch up to Abigail and Jemima, who have been walking far ahead of them. Perhaps the parental worry extends beyond just Winifred — she knows the marital prospects of their two youngest also weigh on their minds recently, wanting to ensure that they make good matches. The sisters turn around, noticing they have charged ahead, and walk back arm-in-arm.

     "Let us sit for a moment," Charles suggests. He gestures to a nearby bench, where Octavia joins him.

     After an open carriage trots by, Abigail squints into the distance and smiles. "Ah, there are the Bridgertons!"

     Winifred's heart lurches. She quickly looks up, only to find that Benedict is not there — Violet is out with Eloise and Francesca. She does not know whether to feel relieved or... disappointed. The longer she waits to see him again, the more anxious she feels about where they can go after that moment.

     But she tries not to let any of this on as Octavia waves to Violet, ushering her to say hello. The two matriarchs begin catching up, Charles politely listening in the midst; Francesca might as well have a kindred spirit in him as she stands at the sidelines. However, Eloise seems to have snuck off somewhere. Winifred turns around and finds Eloise straying — although still close enough to be chaperoned — towards the shade of a sycamore tree, wearing a pensive frown on her face. It is an expression she has sported often this year.

So, Winifred does what she has become increasingly good at, slipping away unnoticed to keep Eloise company.

"Good afternoon, Eloise," Winifred greets her.

Eloise turns, surprised, and manages a weak smile. "Mrs. Erstwhile..."

"I hope that I am not disturbing you."

"Oh, no, not at all."

Still, Eloise seems to wilt slightly. The latest issue of Whistledown is clutched in her hands, the folds already worn from re-reading. And then there is that look on her face — Winifred wonders what internal battles she is fighting. Benedict has expressed to her multiple times how he can't quite seem to reach her, and she knows that troubles him sometimes. Then again, Eloise always found the marriage mart suffocating, and it does enclose on her with each passing year...

"Your heads must be spinning from all the wedding-planning," Winifred remarks. "Colin and Francesca."

Eloise flinches at her brother's name, but chuckles. "I cannot wait for it all to be over."

     "Yes, I can imagine it is all rather a lot to be around..."

     "The house is all abuzz at the moment. If Benedict hadn't gone away, I would have someone else to pour my heart out to."

That trips Winifred up. "... Gone away?" she echoes. She doesn't quite understand.

"Well, yes. He went away to the countryside to settle his affairs, or something like that. God knows where. He left early this morning..." Eloise puts it in her classic blunt fashion; then she registers the subdued shock on Winifred's face. She starts rambling somewhere between guilt and pity. "Oh, did– did he not tell you? I just assumed that he would have. I am sorry if—"

"Don't worry," Winifred waves it off, although she feels herself numbing.

It sounds like something he was planning. But wouldn't he have told her if he was? Or... maybe he wouldn't have? Perhaps this was a spur-of-the-moment decision, an escape route he could see after the moment they shared.

Whatever the reason, the flame that Winifred had been nursing ever since is extinguished, as though by a harsh gust of wind. There is not bitterness or hatred towards Benedict. Of course not. No, this is her walls going back up. She wakes up from the dream she has been drifting through. There is fear, too, that takes the reins. She cannot risk her heart on something this fleeting... can she?

Maybe she shall look into that governess position, after all.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WINIFRED is about to tie her bonnet strings beneath her chin when she hears Abigail's footsteps, bounding down the hallway towards the door. She has just come wandering back from the staircase in the apartment. They are preparing to have lunch at Osborne House in Grosvenor Square; their parents and in-laws included, it shall be a proper family affair. If nothing else, it shall be a welcome distraction for Winifred, after the information Eloise had told her yesterday.

     But there is one person missing...

     "Where's your sister?" Winifred asks Abigail.

     "That is what I was just thinking," she frowns. "I have not seen Jemima all morning."

     That is odd. For breakfast, Jemima had a tray taken up to her room, which was unusual in itself. She had sent a message down promising that she would be feeling better to go soon. Alas, hours have since passed, and she is nowhere to be seen. Winifred feels a tug of concern in her gut.

     "I will go and check on her," Winifred says. "I shan't be too long..."

     She starts walking upstairs, leaving Abigail to chat to a maid about the weather. As she climbs the steps, a distant tolling of church bells can be faintly heard. Wedding bells. Only then does it occur to her — Emilia Caldwell is the bride. Or now, as it seems, Lady Emilia Corning. It adds a new layer of worry to Jemima's reclusiveness. What has she been doing all morning? Nothing too self-destructive, she hopes.

     Winifred walks to her door, realising it is now or never. She lightly knocks. "Come in," says Jemima's muted voice. She opens the door slowly, first seeing sheets of paper with scribbled writing and melted candle wax, piling up on her desk or scattered on the floor around it. Jemima is in her chemise, perched in the window seat, her chin rested on her fist as she listens to the chimes of happy wedding bells in Mayfair. Her expression is difficult to read.

     Jemima glances over at Winifred, straightening up. "Yes?"

     "We were just about to leave. Madeline will be expecting us."

     "What time is it?" Jemima shoots a look at the clock in her room, then puffs out a dazed breath. "Oh, I'm sorry. I lost track of time." Still, she lacks urgency, staying seated right where she is.

     "So... how are you?" Winifred asks.

     "Fine."

     "Tell me the truth."

     Her bluntness startles Jemima; it isn't harsh, but it is nothing less than insistent. She swallows thickly, like her mouth has become sandpaper. Winifred eases herself down to be seated snugly in the window with her... to Jemima, it seems more claustrophobic than comforting.

     "There seem to be so many weddings," Jemima murmurs. "Emilia's is today, you know."

     "I did know that, yes," Winifred says softly.

     "I am happy for her."

     To this, Winifred shoots her an unconvinced look. But Jemima doesn't crack.

     "No, really, I am. I have made my peace with it. If she is going to be happy, then she has my congratulations. I've... accepted that part, I suppose."

     "... And the other parts?" Winifred asks carefully.

     Jemima's face falls into her hands, muffling the deep breath she takes. Winifred treads carefully, waiting to see how much Jemima says or doesn't say. She does not want to step on her toes.

     "I don't think... I am meant for marriage, in the traditional sense. I am not meant to seek a– a husband. I suppose, in some manner, my heart is drawn a different way. This is who I am, and it cannot be altered. And I have no wish of doing any such thing. But... I am scared."

"Of what?"

"Of... ending up alone." The way Jemima says it makes Winifred's heart twist. "I still want love. But– but if I cannot find it, then one day, you'll all be gone, buried with your spouses, and I will be all alone. I shall be the loveless spinster who could never—" She doesn't finish her sentence, her voice catching. Jemima's eyes have suddenly filled with tears. Fiercely, she turns away from her sister, determined not to reveal herself.

     No, no, no. This simply won't do. Winifred shuffles closer to her, their hips bumping together in solidarity. "Let us clear something up right away — you will never be alone. You are my family and my blood. And for all your idiosyncrasies, the ones that drive me mad, I am always here if you call for me. Madeline and Abigail would say the very same thing. Not even a husband could change that."

Jemima sniffs, trying to feel consoled by this. Her hand rests limply on her knee. Winifred slides her own into it, squeezing it tightly. She needs her to know — somehow — that she is there for her.

"And... I think whatever you choose to do with your life, you will do it on your own terms. Society has its rules, but I– I think you should make your own rules. And know that nothing you can do will make me turn my back on you. I see no fault in you."

     It is Winifred's way of saying: "I know, and it is alright." She isn't quite sure how much it resonates with Jemima, but it certainly seems to comfort her. Her youngest sister stares at her for a few moments, taken aback. Then she gulps loudly as a tear dribbles down her cheek. Winifred squeezes her hand again. All she wants is for Jemima to feel free again. Her ambition, her energy, her vivid imagination lend her so much more in life than just looking for a husband — especially when her heart could never love any man the way she is expected to.

     "I know you are upset about Emilia's wedding today," Winifred adds. "And I also know you would probably rather confide in someone else... you always went to Madeline for this sort of thing."

     Jemima furrows her brows, wiping her nose; she is offered a handkerchief to remedy this. "Yes, but... Madeline has not been the one at our side for the past year. You have."

     A swell of pride warms Winifred through her skin. She had not thought of it that way; as long as she means it, hearing that one of her sisters appreciates her time in London with them, however aimless it has made her feel... well, it makes it all worth it. It has given her purpose after Joseph's death left her fumbling in the dark. So, she accepts the hug when Jemima cautiously goes in for one. It is over almost as soon as it began, having exchanged enough affection for one morning. The unspoken understanding is already there.

     Nonchalantly, Winifred then sets her eyes on the papers at the desk. "But Jem, for goodness sake, what is all this mess?"

     "I have been writing."

     "Letters?"

     "No, pieces of prose. Short stories, bursts of inspiration... they have been coming thicker and faster than usual." Jemima pauses, almost shyly, fiddling with a lock of her dark hair. "Someday, I think I might like to write a proper novel. Or a play."

This news delights Winifred. She always thought Jemima possessed an interest in the arts, whether it be theatre or literature. And if any of her sisters had the ambition to make something worthwhile of their passions, it was her. Winifred gives her an encouraging nod and says, "You should. And if you allowed me, I would be honoured to read them—"

     "No!" Jemima cries, "They aren't done yet."

     "Fine, when they are done, then."

     "I doubt they are to your taste. Gothic tales and ghost stories..."

     Winifred tries to hide the flicker of distaste she feels for the genre. "Perhaps they aren't my favourite, but I could do with the change of pace." She gets to her feet, sighing decisively. "Well. If you are feeling up to it, we have a luncheon to attend. Although I could not fault you for wanting to hide from Persephone's claws in here..."

Shaking her head, Jemima grins. "No, Mama could use an extra combatant against her. Give me ten minutes."

"Of course, take your time," Winifred gazes at her warmly. The room seems lighter somehow, both in colour and weight.

"Winifred?"

Jemima's voice stops her before she can walk out of the door. "Yes?"

"... Thank you."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

I felt like this chapter was a bit "meh" but maybe that's just because it's following the kiss scene 🙈 When sweeping romantic moments arrive, the angst must soon follow... so, yeah. Benedict quite literally ran away from that situation, didn't he? After that kiss we're hurtling towards "critical point" with these two. There are lots of little obstacles (mainly emotional ones) in their way, and one of them I've been wanting to explore a bit is Benedict's fear of commitment.

But there was another big thing this chapter, and that was the scene with Jemima! I've been meaning to touch base with her for a while. I still wanted them to have this moment, while also being mindful of the historical era, so the conversation was more "subtle" I guess? I feel like Jemima and Winifred reached some sort of unspoken understanding — it is Winifred's way of letting her know that she accepts her for who she is, and Jemima decides to connect the dots and feel comforted by that.

(On that note, Jemima and Emilia's relationship was loosely inspired by the real-life Anne Lister and Mariana Belcombe. They were apparently attracted immediately, vowing to spend their lives together. Then Mariana got married, and although they tried to continue their affair at first, Anne ended up moving on)

And finally, the Lymingtons are a family I completely made up for the purposes of this little arc with Winifred. I didn't want to pick an existing family in the ton, so I could control what happens to them a bit more. We'll see how far this governess thing goes 👀

We are sooo close to the end of Act Two now — only 3 chapters left to go! And that includes plenty more author's notes of me yapping, but what's new there?

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 22/03/2025