CHAPTER FORTY ONE.
always the bridesmaid, finally the bride.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WHEN WINIFRED HAD FIRST SET EYES ON HIGHBOURNE, she had known instantly that she could call it home. The afternoon sun had hit the water on the moat at just the right angle, making the surface glitter like jewels. Birdsong was a constant in the background, and all around them, they were surrounded by nature. It did not take long for her to fall in love with the gardens and the house.

     In some ways, none of that has changed. Highbourne itself has not been altered to lessen her opinion of living there.

     But it is Winifred who has changed.

     It was one thing, living here when Joseph was still alive, and when they had the prospect of having their own children in the future. Now, however, it echoes in his absence. And Winifred is no longer the newlywed nineteen year-old she was when she arrived here. For a while, there has been a sense that she was trying to fit herself into the old life she led, with her late husband around. The more time passes, the less desirable that feels for her. Since she is not one to entertain guests as often as some might, it feels even emptier with just Winifred living there.

All that said, it does not dispel her fondness of the place. On her way back from a walk around town, Winifred walks across the grass where daffodils usually stand tall in the spring, and where white snow cloaks it during the winter. She casts her gaze over the windowpanes, the path leading up to the gate that creaks as it opens, to the trail of ducks swimming in the moat. It is difficult not to love this place — it's just that she would rather love it from a distance now.

What comes next still remains a question mark. It has been nearly a month since Winifred returned from Mayfair, and the summer is almost over. She has been delicately trying to weigh her options. Last week, she had paid a day trip to the Erstwhiles to see the dower house that Lance had mentioned. It hadn't been so bad after all. The dower house was on the small side, clearly tailored for one person — the lone widow — to live in. Red brick walls with ivy creeping up them, a view of a field with a sheep paddock not far away, their distant bleats a relaxing background noise... there was a lot to like. Perhaps she could see herself curled up by its fireplace, reading a book or doing some drawing. Or if she wanted company, she could be in walking distance to her in-laws. She would also be in close proximity to Canterbury and all its sights.

It is one option. As for the Lymingtons, she has put in a great deal of thought, and come to the conclusion that it isn't the right path. She feels that dropping herself into a random family would hardly help her. Even with one option less, Winifred still feels adrift.

In the meantime, Winifred suspects there is one thing she can do — tell someone else about it. Coming in from her walk, she undoes her bonnet strings and brushes loose strands of hair from her face in the mirror. In the other hand, she carries a small basket, filled with flowers she picked up on her walk. They remain bundled in her arms as she finds an empty vase in the morning room. Winifred takes the vase with her and goes to the water faucet outside, letting some of the water trickle into the bottom. She is on her way back inside with the flowers freshly planted into the vase, when she comes face-to-face with her housekeeper.

     "Oh, Mrs. Erstwhile, I could have done that for you!" Mrs. Blyton says, plucking the vase from her hands.

     "There was no need," Winifred replies, "I am quite able of doing such things on my own."

     Mrs. Blyton places the vase in the window where the sunlight can reach it, touching the petals with her fingertips. Winifred studies the immaculate care her housekeeper takes with everything in Highbourne — moments like this only make it harder to breach the truth with her. But she knows she must not procrastinate any longer, since her staff should want to know if she intends to leave.

"Actually, Mrs. Blyton, could I have a word?" she asks.

The housekeeper hesitates, but gives back a slight smile. "Certainly, madam."

     Winifred pulls a chair out from the dining table, smoothing her dress down as she sits. Meanwhile, Mrs. Blyton remains hovering, her hands blotched with liver spots linked in front of her. She must be thinking that she is not permitted to sit here as a servant. "You may take a seat," Winifred assures her.

     "I could not possibly—"

     "Please, do sit. I insist."

     At her employer's request, Mrs. Blyton caves in and sighs. She seems to secretly relish a moment to sit down on a comfortable chair, no doubt tired after running around doing odd jobs all day. Winifred is sometimes amazed that the woman has not thought of retiring yet. With a deep breath, she decides to not beat about the bush and simply come out with it.

     "Mrs. Blyton, I wanted to make you aware of something I am currently considering," she says, "which is that... I should like to leave Highbourne."

     Winifred holds her breath and searches for a reaction. Mrs. Blyton blinks at her, her thin lips parting slightly. "I see..." she nods.

     "Although not just yet. I still need to decide what I shall do with myself instead, whether that be an occupation somewhere or a dower house, or maybe even further options."

     "Of course. That sounds sensible."

     Now comes the real thing, what weighs her down. It feels more true than ever as she speaks it to someone in this household. "The truth is... I feel that my life no longer fits this place. I crave the change of scenery, not just because my late husband is no longer here, but also... I... there is something within me that is altered these days. I feel the need to move forwards."

     "I quite understand, madam," Mrs. Blyton nods sadly.

     Drawing back in her seat, Winifred raises her eyebrows in surprise. "Do you really? Or are you simply being polite?"

     The older woman studies her for a moment, years of experience evident in her expression. "Mrs. Erstwhile, may I be frank with you for a moment?"

     "Of course," she says, tucking her chair in closer.

     Mrs. Blyton tilts her head at her, in such a way that she does not feel like her housekeeper. She feels like an old relative watching out for her — after all, she has been running this house since Winifred moved in with Joseph. They know each other rather well.

     "Since Mr. Erstwhile's passing, God rest his soul, I have observed that... you have found every opportunity to leave the house. Whether that be to stay with your sisters in London, or to visit your in-laws. However fond you are of Highbourne, I wonder if it does not drag you down as well. Perhaps both can be true..." Mrs. Blyton must see the flicker of guilt on Winifred's face, for she quickly jumps in to clarify: "I do not blame you for wishing to escape. Memories can be a haunting thing."

     You have no idea, Winifred thinks, huffing sharply. Then she stops. Maybe she would know that feeling.

     "Doesn't it ever weigh you down? The memory of what once was here?" Winifred blurts out, a tinge of desperation in her voice.

     The question seems to bewilder Mrs. Blyton, and for a moment, she worries she has overstepped in asking it. But then a contemplative look crosses over her face, like shadow from a cloud passing in front of the sun.

     "I suppose so, yes... it is a strange thing," Mrs. Blyton reminisces, swallowing thickly. "I remember the day Joseph was born. The child didn't even cry. And then, I remember that awful day when the letter came from the continent... I have seen his life from the very beginning to the untimely end. So, yes, I do think about it sometimes. But not too much. Or else I wouldn't know how to carry on."

     Winifred nods emphatically, rendered speechless by the lump in her throat. It is quite something to see the housekeeper, usually so business-like, remembering Joseph like he was her own son. Until now, it had not occurred to her that Mrs. Blyton had followed his life all along. Mrs. Blyton had only been housekeeper for a few years when he was born, and worked in his childhood home until he was married; at which point she tagged along with them, the household at Highbourne slightly easy to manage as the years would catch up with her.

"What about all of you?" Winifred asks in concern. "I hope you know that I wouldn't leave without ensuring you were taken care of."

     "I am sure you will see to it. But do not worry yourself, I have moved households many times in my life."

     "Have you thought of perhaps... retiring?"

     "Retiring?" Mrs. Blyton chortles, as if the notion is absurd. "Where to? Besides, I shall have plenty of time to rest when I am in my grave."

Winifred lets a soft laugh release from her chest, some of her apprehension unwinding. It at least feels good to have told one more person how she is feeling. It provides brief respite from her thoughts, which soon return as she gazes out of the window, at the dappled sunlight painting spots onto the grass.

"It won't be anything immediate, though," Winifred adds. "I have plenty to consider before then, and plenty to do as well."

"Indeed. Your sister's wedding is in a mere few days."

Ah, yes. Abigail's big day is upon them faster than she could ever have expected. Winifred wonders who she will be met with when she travels up to Hertfordshire the day after tomorrow. How much more will her little sister have grown? Abigail seems leaps and bounds more independent and assured these past couple of months, and she could not be prouder. The way she and Matthew had fought to be with one another was admirable.

"Have you not seen your sisters since leaving London?" Mrs. Blyton asks.

"No, I have not," Winifred shakes her head. Not Abigail or Jemima, nor Madeline and the Osbornes. She certainly hasn't seen Lettie, or the Bridgertons...

Or Benedict.

Their last night together feels like a page ripped right out of the book. Something feels off-kilter, displaced. The more time passes, the more Winifred wonders how she could ever replace it.

     It still hums in the back of her mind all the time, as she goes to the study to write some letters. Winifred first pens her response to the Lymingtons, thanking them for their offer, but politely declining the position as lady's companion to their daughter. Seeing it written in ink on the parchment feels like a weight lifted from her shoulders. She folds it up once it is dry and stamps the wax seal onto the back.

With that taken care of, she begins sorting through her other letters, dividing them into piles for which ones to keep or dispose of — quite a pile had formed during her time in Mayfair. Some of them are more official, others are from family and friends. She opens a drawer in the desk to place the personal letters inside, when a familiar penmanship makes her catch her breath. It sits there open and facing her.

Benedict's. His handwriting is not always neat, but always expressive. Winifred delicately scoops up the letters, dated back to December 1814. It was one of those in their correspondence they formed last year. Her eyes drink in every detail again. Reading these again, it's like talking to Benedict. She finds herself smiling and chuckling softly at his writing, from the humour with which he describes his family's antics, to the sensitivity he uses to express himself.

     An ache comes into full-force, of missing him. Winifred finds that feeling ebbing and flowing since she left Mayfair.

The terms they parted on felt so uncertain. If she met him again now, she isn't sure what she would say or do. Although she doubts that would happen spontaneously at the moment — all she knows is Benedict said he would go back to My Cottage, but she only has the county of its location. That is hardly narrowing down the address for her.

     Winifred looks up and is unnerved to be met with Joseph's blue eyes gazing from his portrait. She is caught again between the past and... what? The present? The future?

Releasing a sharp sigh, she fetches another piece of parchment, writing a new letter. It is addressed to Kate Bridgerton. She had been meaning to write to her friend anyway, who is now surely in her confinement at Aubrey Hall as the pregnancy progresses. As well as asking of her good health, she also tries to subtly ask of the other Bridgertons. And yes... of Benedict, too. Once the letter is sealed, Winifred quickly takes it with the one for the Lymingtons and catches Ellen walking downstairs.

     "Oh, Ellen, are you free?" Winifred asks breathlessly; she holds out the two letters. "Could you run these down to the post office?"

     "Of course," her maid nods, taking them from her, "I'll leave in the next few minutes."

     "Thank you..."

     Winifred watches Ellen walk off briskly with the two sealed letters, feeling a distinct lack of control now, both relieving and terrifying. Now, she just has to wait.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     THE Seymour girls know better than anyone how to tiptoe around Heyworth House undisturbed. Winifred, along with her sisters, knows every creak and dip in the floorboards, every squeaky door. These were the stomping grounds of her childhood — and tonight is not the first night she has snuck out of bed (and certainly not the first time it has been Madeline who encouraged her). Her nightgown hanging around her frame, Winifred hovers quietly outside one of the guest rooms, giving the door a feather-light knock. Surely the light from the candelabra in her hand will give her away too.

Fortunately for her, Madeline knows her signal. Moments later, her elder sister emerges, a bottle-shaped silhouette stashed under her nightgown and covered with a shawl. She can hear the liquid sloshing against the glass like a storm at sea.

     "Are you sure this is wise?" Winifred whispers.

     "No, but it is fun," Madeline grins. "Our little duckie is about to be wed, and we can't let her do so without a small treat beforehand."

     "As long as it doesn't get out of hand..."

     "It won't, not with you there."

     Winifred furrows her brows at her as they creep across the corridor. "Are you calling me a spoilsport?"

     "Not yet," Madeline giggles under her breath, while her sister's jaw drops incredulously.

     "The cheek of it—"

     "Hush! We'll wake Mama and Papa..."

     Finally having reached Abigail's door — in fact, the childhood bedroom she has always shared with Jemima — they notice that the pair must already be awake. A slither of warm light bursts through from beneath the door, hushed whispers and giggles muffled behind the painted wood. Winifred and Madeline exchange a knowing glance, then the former taps her knuckles with a feather-light touch on the door. Suddenly, it falls quiet in the room behind it. The image of the two girls holding their breaths makes for great amusement.

"We come bearing gifts," Madeline whispers.

"Oh, it's you," they hear Abigail sigh, while Jemima chuckles, "come in!"

They open the door, finding their two younger sisters sat cross-legged on one of the single beds. Their bright and cheerful faces are illuminated by the warm candlelight. Just like when she arrived to Hertfordshire and reunited with her, Winifred sees how blissfully happy Abigail is. Her face seems to rest permanently in some state of contentment — that is, until Madeline unveils the bottle of port from beneath her nightgown, and her face twists into shock.

     "Madeline, you didn't!" Abigail gasps, but half-laughs too.

     "And here I thought you were our responsible older sister," Jemima teases.

     "Older, yes. Responsible is what we have Winifred for," Madeline giggles.

     "I know my place..." Winifred deadpans sarcastically, before switching to sincerity. "But it'll just be the one glass. The last thing we want is you staggering down the aisle to Matthew."

Jemima purses her lips mischievously. "Now, that would be entertaining," she murmurs. It earns her a soft shove from Abigail, toppling her balance over as she sinks into the pillow.

After removing the cork, Madeline carefully pours a bit of port into four glasses, the smallest layer so that it will not inebriate them too much. As they gather around, Winifred thinks how nice it is that they are all grown-up now — to all be the age where they can share a drink together, as women and not little girls, makes them feel not so scattered with age differences in the end.

"A toast..." Madeline raises her glass to Abigail, her eyes glimmering with pride. "To your happy ending, which is just beginning."

"To happy endings," they all toast, quietly clinking their glasses together. Winifred takes a sip simultaneously with her sisters, feeling the syrupy sweetness of the port awaken her taste buds.

"Oh goodness, I think I shall hardly sleep tonight," says Abigail breathlessly. "I'm so nervous... because I can't wait a moment longer for tomorrow to come. And yet, I don't know where the time has gone. It feels like it was only yesterday that Matthew proposed."

     Winifred smiles, remembering the way Matthew had marched up to Berkeley Square and demonstrated his love for her, evident in every carefully-drawn line of their future home together. "It is perfectly normal, what you are feeling," she reassures her. "Your whole life is about to change."

     "It shall be strange without you around, duckie," Jemima confesses. "Although I shall now have all the peace and quiet I need to work on my writing."

     "Oh, I see. You just want me kicked out."

     "You are putting words into my mouth!"

     As their giggles die down, Abigail then seems to be struck with a thought. "Well, you've both been through this before," she says, pointedly to Winifred and Madeline. "How did you feel the night before your wedding?"

     They glance at each other, telepathically asking who will go first. Winifred gives a curt nod, freeing up the stage. With that, Madeline sighs, sinking into the memory of it.

     "I was terrified," she says, "not of Silas, but whether I would fit in with his family, and whether I would live up to their expectations of me. And of course there was also the example I felt I had to set all of you, being the first of us to marry."

     "Not to mention the snow," Jemima adds.

     The word alone brings back memories of that cold January day, where fresh snowfall had taken over London on Silas and Madeline's wedding day. Winifred remembers how her sister's bridal gown had almost camouflaged her into the landscape. Equally, it brings back a phantom sensation of the cold seeping through her toes, and the numbness in her fingertips from the icy breeze.

     Madeline's eyes light up at the mention of it. "Yes, the snow... but I think that turned out rather fine in the end, don't you? Everything was blanketed in white. I remember when we all walked back from the church, because the carriages were stuck, we were trudging in single file along the streets to Grosvenor Square. I thought there was something rather beautiful about that."

     "And then we all warmed up by the fire in Osborne House!" Abigail recalls fondly.

     "Yes, it was a wonderful day," Madeline smiles. Perhaps she is thinking of Silas right now, who regretted that he couldn't make it to the wedding thanks to duties he needed to attend to; their two eldest children, Adrian and Camille, have tagged along though.

     Fresh off the heels of that story, Abigail's attention now turns to her other sister. "And you, Winifred? How was it before your wedding?" she asks tentatively.

     All three of them turn their heads and look intently at her. Winifred finds herself pausing to reminisce. It is more bittersweet for her than it is for Madeline, because her Joseph is no longer here. The others know this too, for their giggles have died down, instead filled with their own memories of him.

She casts her gaze downwards, taking herself back to that time. "I certainly found it difficult to sleep, too. I was rather reluctant to leave everything I knew, even though I loved Joseph very much." Winifred softens as she thinks about the next morning. "It was only really when I was walking down the aisle that I had a sense of assurance in what I was doing. Seeing Joseph stood there, he was as nervous as I was... but we were both so happy."

Abigail reaches over and squeezes her hand. "He looked ever so handsome in his uniform. Don't you agree, Jemima?"

"Um– yes, handsome indeed..." Jemima mumbles, non-descriptively.

"And I remember how jovial he was at the wedding breakfast. I... I wish he could have he been here."

"So do I," Winifred says, with a deep — albeit shaky — breath. She clasps the bride-to-be's hand again. "But he is here, in a way. He regarded you all as the sisters he never had. Joseph would have been beside himself for you, Abigail."

Abigail, with her sweet and tender heart, suddenly finds tears prickling her eyes. But she is smiling through them with affection for her late brother-in-law. In good spirits, she pours another thin layer of port into all their glasses. "One more toast, if I may," she says. "A toast... to those who cannot be here tomorrow."

They clink their glasses again, although much more subdued this time. To those who cannot be here.

"Now," Jemima clears her throat, "as you are soon to be wed and out of this house, does this mean I can spread my possessions to your side of the room as well?"

     "Not a chance in Heaven!" Abigail scoffs.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     THE last time Winifred was in this church, it was she herself who was the bride. It brings back a flood of memories, equal parts comforting and haunting. Most of that is overtaken by the cheerful mood over the guests gathered in here. Unlike the number of weddings she has attended in Mayfair, this is a much smaller and typical affair. People do not travel far and wide, the pews reserved for immediate family and perhaps some close friends.

At least the weather has co-operated. It is a glorious August day, at the tail-end of summer, with not a cloud in the sky. Brightly-coloured flowers lined the path up to the chapel as emerald green trees were filled with chirping birds.

Winifred gets her first glimpse of the Ribeiros upon walking into church. On their side of the aisle, there is a bustling energy between them as they twist around in the pews to chatter. They have turned out in their very best dresses and suits, all of the young faces which Winifred counts to be about five... siblings? Of that crop, the eldest seems to be a tall and confident woman in seemingly her mid-twenties, her face framed by bouncy coils of warm brown hair. She and the other younger girl, closer to the age of sixteen, wear pink cosmos nestled into their hairstyles.

She also spots Matthew's parents, who seem giddy with nerves over the day. They keep glancing over at the other side, where the Seymours are seated, and whispering amongst themselves. Winifred sits down at the front next to her mother; Jemima is a bridesmaid, and their father will be outside with Abigail, no doubt, preparing to walk the bride down the aisle...

"Excuse me, are you... Winifred?"

Winifred looks behind her, to where the eldest Ribeiro girl is leaning over the wooden pew to speak to her. She has a certain curiosity about her, and nothing is going to limit her from asking the inquisitive questions.

"Yes, I am," she answers. "I don't believe we have met before."

"No, we haven't had the chance yet," the young lady grins back. "I'm Beatrice. Matthew's my brother, the eldest of us all."

"So are you all siblings?" Winifred asks, nodding to the plethora of young Ribeiros occupying the seats.

Beatrice swivels in her seat and replies, "Ah, yes. You have Matthew, then myself of course, followed by Vincent and Gustav —" she pauses, allowing for two young men in their early twenties to wave and smile, "— then there is Selena, my only other sister, and finally Pascal is the baby of the family."

"I am not a baby!" Pascal pipes up, his voice cracking, "I have just turned thirteen!"

"Fine, you aren't a baby, but you certainly act like one," Selena, the teenage girl prods him teasingly.

Mr. and Mrs. Ribeiro turn in their seats too, intending to scold their children when they notice Winifred facing their way. While they wait for the ceremony, she starts speaking to Matthew's parents — Alfonso and Rose — about their journey to this special day. She is struck by how humble and genuine the family is, not concerned with appearances beyond wanting to show pride for their family today. Soon, Winifred realises it is that distinction between the ton and a family such as the Ribeiros. There is no pretence here, just pure joy for Matthew. Oh, what a relief it is to see, after lavish occasions by Mayfair's elite all season...

Soon, Matthew stands at the altar to wait, and he too has cosmos tucked into his jacket. It is a subtle nod to the piece of his family he carries with him. Although rather subdued with apprehension, he manages a welcoming smile towards his future family-in-law, who return it. Winifred glances at her mother and is pleased to see her unfeigned admiration towards him — it makes a change from her scepticism about a month ago.

     "Oh, this brings back some memories..." Octavia sighs happily.

     "I know," Winifred says, looking up at the decorations on the ceiling. She can picture Joseph stood where Matthew was, feel her heart drumming in her chest just like it did that day.

     Her mother rests a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, guessing who she must be thinking about. If only she knew how torn her heart felt right now, how her mind wandered too...

     A small string quartet nestled by the altar receive the signal to start playing, a bright and romantic tune sweeping through the chapel. There is a loud shuffle as the two families rise in their seats, turning to the door to await the bride. First down the aisle is Jemima, in a pastel purple gown, feeling the gazes of everyone on her. She has a bittersweet expression on her face — the realisation that in the traditional sense, she will never walk down the aisle like this to a husband she loves. But Jemima is still all smiles, standing across from Vincent as the best man.

Then in from the sunlight outside, Abigail walks in on their father's arm, a picture of beauty — there is a light pink sheen over her otherwise white dress, rosebuds sewn into the fabric, and a light veil draped over her head. Most of all, she is beaming.

     Winifred looks back down to the altar and sees Matthew's chest inflate with an awed breath. Pretty soon, he is grinning back too, sharing Abigail's expression that seems to say the same thing: We made it. We actually made it.

     As father and daughter process down the aisle, Abigail whispers hellos to Beatrice and Matthew's other siblings, with whom she already seems close. Then she turns to the other side, already overflowing with glee at this point. Madeline gives her a proud wave, and Jemima looks on proudly. When Abigail reaches Winifred, she mouths something to her.

      She thinks it was "Thank you."

     For what? Winifred wants to ask, because it is Abigail who took charge of her destiny. But there is so much gratitude in those whispered words for her guidance the last couple of years. They have come a long way from the conversation they had at Aubrey Hall, back when she was dismaying about never being lucky enough to find the one.

     Just before the altar, Charles releases his daughter, pressing a kiss to her hand before he joins Octavia in the front pew. Abigail's hand is then taken by Matthew — her new partner in life — as the ceremony begins. They exchange rings and say their wedding vows with lightness of heart, meaning every word. All the witnesses are in good spirits the whole time. It is undeniable to miss the spark in Abigail, as she finally sets foot on the path she always wanted. But with Matthew, married life will be so much more than she could have imagined.

After the newlyweds sign the registry, the church bells ring and rejoice. Abigail and Matthew walk out of the doors to be pelted with confetti tossed by their families (Jemima and Vincent make the special effort to dump it directly on their siblings' heads). Hand-in-hand and laughing, the couple start making the walk with the Seymours and Ribeiros to Heyworth House. The wedding breakfast is being hosted in the garden with merry dancing and music, which even the workers and tenants join in with.

Knowing her sister will want her to dance, Winifred finds her soon whisked there by one of her father's tenants. It is impossible not to be joyful as everyone holds hands and weaves around each other in a circle, switching partners now and then. The fiddlers are all smiles as they play the most jolly tunes. In the centre of the circle, Abigail and Matthew Ribeiro dance to their heart's content.

     Dizzy by the end, the elderly tenant Winifred has ended the dance with steadies her hands. "You are quite the dancer, Mrs. Erstwhile!" he chuckles.

     "I seldom hear that, so thank you," she laughs breathlessly.

     A clinking against a champagne glass soon grabs their attention. Abigail is stood there, intending to make a toast. "Hello, everyone. I do not intend to keep you at bay from dancing for long, I promise. I only wanted to say a quick few words..." Growing earnest, she looks towards Winifred. "A little over a year ago, my sister Winifred was chaperoning me in Mayfair as I searched for a husband. Ever the pragmatic one, she reminded me that true love is not something you can squeeze onto a dance card, or actively go searching for. It finds you on its own. I was awfully impatient and wanted to rush things..."

     Then, she looks at her husband. "... And then I met Matthew. We were quite at odds in the beginning, but he is unlike anyone I have ever met. He has given me confidence to be my truest self, made me see what was really important in my life. Matthew, my dear, it was not an easy journey to get here. Many questioned it, including myself. I thought of so many reasons why it wouldn't work... until I realised that it was time to stop making excuses, because the only thing that actually held me back was that it was frightening to be met with a love so strong. Peculiar, isn't it? How we crave love, and then tremble when we find it."

Winifred casts her gaze down to the ground for a moment, wringing her hands together. Abigail's words linger over the rest of her speech.

"Well, I'm not afraid anymore," Abigail grins and raises her glass. "Now, everyone, keep dancing! The day is not over yet!"

Everyone applauds her speech, the bride going over to meet her husband and kissing him. The music begins again, the guests all dancing around and smiling from ear-to-ear. Winifred remains at the sidelines this time, unable to help herself from comparing Abigail's words to her own struggles. She makes love sound so simple — perhaps it really is, and no one is telling her.

"Goodness me! Dances like this remind me I'm not as young as I was," Octavia sighs, walking up to stand beside Winifred, although there is nothing dejected about her. She brushes a brown strand of hair from her face and gulps some champagne. Then she inspects her daughter again. "Are you alright, my dear?"

It is only a quick question, checking up on her. But Winifred finds herself slowly shaking her head.

"Winifred?" Octavia frowns, more concerned now.

"Mama, I think... I've made a mistake."

"What mistake would that be?"

"It more concerns what I didn't do."

Octavia hums in thought. "Well, it is most common to regret the things we did not do."

Winifred feels her mother's arm link with hers, and swallows thickly. She gives one look to her mother. Her feelings are bubbling to the surface — today is more than just reflecting on Joseph, as she re-plays all the beats of their wedding day in the same chapel, and their wedding breakfast in the same house. No, it is Benedict who keeps haunting her today.

Suddenly, it all pours out. Under the shade of a tree, away from the party, Winifred details everything she has been feeling this past year. The widow's fire that ignited passion and desire in her again. And the way that very soon, that became channeled into one person, the startling realisation that it was recognisably love. The internal conflict that followed, being stuck between the past and the future, not knowing which one to cling onto more. She even tells her mother that they kissed — any other day, this would be a mortifying ordeal, but miraculously Octavia does not chastise her for it.

"Oh, my darling... that is quite a lot," Octavia says, brushing a hair from Winifred's face.

No judgement, no attempt to try and fix her problems, thank goodness. Just an ear to listen.

"I don't know where to turn next," Winifred confesses. "I feel like every path I could choose, I could be sacrificing something very dear with it."

"Have you really told Benedict you feel this way? I mean, truly?"

She considers this. "... No," she says, "I suppose I have withheld the depth of it from him."

"Well, I perceive him to be a considerate and sensitive man," her mother replies, "so I am sure he would respond with empathy if you told him what you have been feeling."

"But I– I don't know if I am ready to... to..."

"To marry again?" Octavia asks, and Winifred nods. "Only you can answer that, my dear. And no one is saying you have to choose right now. Although I think you have grown over these last two years in ways you do not realise. I think, personally, it could not hurt to meet Mr. Bridgerton again. To see what comes of it."

"Perhaps..."

"Whatever you choose, Winifred, I know you will make the best of it."

She feels her mother's arm slide around her shoulders, warmth seeping through her embrace. Octavia seems to be enjoying the fact that Winifred chose to confide in her — although it was less about choosing, and more about needing to say it or else she'd burst. It is rare for them to touch base like this. Of all her daughters, she is least closest with Winifred. Not with coldness by any means, simply that the other three have always needed Octavia more. But it was always Winifred's way to be independent and deal with her problems quietly, and on her own.

Leaning into the hug more, she allows her mother to relish this moment of being there for her. They stand holding each other and watching the dancing from afar. And when she is ready, Winifred re-joins with Octavia's enthusiastic encouragement.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     "THERE is a letter for you, Mrs. Erstwhile," Jarvis the butler says.

Winifred glances up from her handiwork — she is currently knelt down in the garden, admiring the handiwork of the gardener she had employed last year. It is largely down to him that Highbourne is looking so immaculate now. She tries her best to rise to her feet again, the apron tied around her waist slightly stained.

"Thank you, Jarvis," Winifred pants, taking the letter from him.

As he leaves, she examines the handwriting on the front. She is quite sure that is Kate's handwriting. Surely enough, she flips it over, and finds the wax seal with the Bridgerton family's crest. Her fingers fiddle rapidly to rip it open, holding it upright and examining the neat lettering. Winifred whispers the words under her breath as she reads them; mostly pleasantries about the Bridgertons, who are all quite happy after the season is over, but the house is considerably quieter with half of the siblings married or moved out. Much of their energy is now focused on Kate's pregnancy and preparing Gregory for Eton.

But one mention stands out in particular, and it reads:

"... We have not seen Benedict since we left Grosvenor Square. I believe he is still at My Cottage. The only word we have from him is a letter he wrote to Anthony, in which he seemed quite content. Surely being away from the ton is doing him some good, you know how it stifles him. I must confess, Winifred, I am surprised to hear he did not give you his address! Please find it written below. I found it in Anthony's study from the letter we received..."

     Below it, she lists the address of Benedict's country residence. Winifred finds herself holding her breath and doing some calculations in her head. Something falls into place instantaneously. Even though she has just returned to Highbourne, she feels compelled to pack her bags again. Perhaps it is foolish to do so. Mad, even. Yet she feels it would be torturous to keep wondering where they stand now. If all that comes of it is just seeing Benedict in person once more, that will be enough.

     It is settled, then. Winifred walks back into the house to pack her bags.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

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

—

Dearest readers...

We're back, baby!! Act Three is finally underway!

I struggled with getting this chapter the way I wanted it, but soon realised I was being too hard on myself. I think it's because I no longer have the framework of the show and I'm basically freestyling now, so it's pretty nerve wracking. (This is your reminder that from now on, this story is more or less canon divergent! It's not based on season 4 or anything — right now, it hasn't even aired yet — but is based more on my own ideas/interpretations).

I'll try not to yap about everything in this chapter, so instead I will focus on one of the biggest things... Abigail and Matthew are now married! Can't believe she is Abigail Ribeiro now. I loved writing their wedding and adding the Ribeiro family members, it felt quite wholesome and lighthearted to me. Also, the song playing as Abigail walks down the aisle is 'At Last' by Vitamin String Quartet (originally by Etta James). It's such a classic love song which I think fits them perfectly, especially Abigail because she finally got what she wanted.

Speaking of Rose Williams, I recently started watching 'Sanditon' and love it! Although every time I see Charlotte and Georgiana, I can't un-see Abigail and Lettie. Very good show though, I'd recommend it if you like Jane Austen or need something to feed your Bridgerton fix.

Next chapter, we're off to My Cottage. I don't want to say much yet, but I'm SUPER excited to write this new setting, and of course Benifred reunited.

Thank you so much for still reading! This book is on the cusp of 100K reads, and numbers like that just blow my mind. I don't really have the words to express how thankful I am for the lovely feedback you guys have given throughout. All I can say is, again, THANK YOU! 🫶

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 14/07/2025