Chapter Text
There were advantages to being a widow.
Ginny let her hand trail over the back of the chaise, not sitting yet, as she looked out the window.
It seemed like a nice day. Of course, she couldn’t do much out in it—being that she was still in half-mourning, one of the distinct disadvantages—but that oughtn’t to be her focus.
The peace and quiet was one. Not in the house—she missed her husband’s constant presence—but not having to care about the opinions of society, her ability to be herself now—that was very much an advantage. The advantage, really.
Mama would likely come to visit—she did so almost every day, ever since Dean had passed.
She rang the bell for her maid. Katie appeared near instantaneously. “I’m going out for a walk,” she announced, suddenly restless. “Have my meal kept for me, will you, and let anyone who comes in?”
She didn’t wait for a reply, taking off without even putting a coat on.
Her petticoat was likely to be soaked in mud, but oh well. It was purple for half-mourning, a colour she had very much begun to dislike and one she would not have to bear wearing for much longer.
That was another advantage—not having to consult anyone about her daily routine, being entirely independent.
It was a nice day. The sun shone warm on her face and she tilted it up, closing her eyes to soak it in. The cottage sat near the ocean, and she could feel the sea breeze even from here.
After Dean’s death, everything felt … muted, somehow. Like she was watching the world pass around her through a pane of transparent material—able to feel everything but as though far away from it all. Distant.
She supposed that was why Mama was so worried about her.
The inheritance was another advantage.
Dean had been a bastard son of a baronet—one with a large estate and with more than enough money to purchase them a cottage if they kept their mouths shut about her husband’s relationship to him.
They’d acquiesced, much to Mr. Finnigan’s frustration.
He’d been of the opinion that they ought to raise a fit, get something more appropriate to their station as gentleman and woman.
But Ginny was content in this house—used to it, really. She liked how it was tucked into the countryside and yet had a bustling town nearby. She liked being woken by birds every morning.
She didn’t much like the loneliness of her bed, but that couldn’t be helped anymore.
She had heard her mother sobbing about her situation—“Nine and twenty and a widow! Childless! Oh, my poor, dear Ginevra. . .”
But Ginny did not believe her situation to be all that awful—Dean’s will, had, after all, read that she owned Snowdrop Cottage, and had left her an allowance which meant she could be independent for the rest of her life, without any need to make a second match.
Mama, however, prioritized connection over comfort. She would rather have her daughter wed to a pauper than self-sufficiently alone.
In that, they disagreed.
Ginny was rather more pragmatic.
She couldn’t be more content, verily. As much as she had loved Dean, as much as she missed him, she enjoyed her solitude.
It wasn’t that she was entirely a hermit, either—she had servants to talk to. Of course, being a gentlewoman, she couldn’t count on even Katie to be an entirely faithful companion, but once she was out of mourning she hoped to find some in the town.
She and her neighbor Mrs. Warrington had struck up something of a friendship in the three years she and Dean had been wed. She hoped to renew it.
She walked past the tree she and Dean used to picnic under, that she used to amuse and horrify him in equal measure by deftly climbing up.
“A missive from you from Burrow House, ma’am,” Mrs. Sprout, the housekeeper, bowed to her.
“Thank you, Sprout,” she dismissed, taking the letter. It was surprising that Mama hadn’t come to visit herself to deliver it, she tended to be overbearing.
She broke the seal as she supped.
She missed her early morning conversations with Dean—he had disliked her riding then, certainly, but he’d provided an alternative that was almost as fulfilling.
Sometimes she agreed with her mother. Three years, and no children. Why, Fleur had become pregnant with Victoire within the year!
But then a child would likely take up all her attention, leaving her unable to enjoy her newfound independence.
Childless widows had all the time in the world; she was not quite sure what widows with children would do—she had never been close to one.
She could not imagine raising Dean’s child without him nevertheless, so perhaps she was lucky.
She perused the letter. It was an invitation to a house party.
Ginny paused. She was not often called upon or invited to events nowadays, as was courtesy for those in mourning.
Ought she to accept this invitation?
“Katie,” she addressed her maid. “Do you believe it would cause a scandal were I to attend a house party?”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Thomas,” came the reply. “Your fondness for solitude would be much more cause for tongues to wag. You are out of full mourning and have yet not been seen out of the house.”
Ginny sighed. It was true. “Thank you for your honesty.”
The idea of transition from being wife to widow at events caused her trepidation. She was allowed to dance again—she was even likely to be considered a prospect, since she had no children and a considerable sum to her name. She was even of age of most respectable gentlemen looking to marry.
She drummed her fingers on the table, wondering who all were invited to this house party. It was to be an intimate occasion, she gathered from the letter, but Mama’s definition of intimate differed very much from hers.
But then, did it matter in the end? The question was whether she wished to go or not.
Mama would accept that her dear daughter was still in too poor health, still too woebegone to bear the company of others for any significant periods of time, but cluck disapprovingly.
Her brothers, however—who were spread across the country—would all be in attendance, and them, she wished to see. Why, she had never even met little Molly, who had been born but a year prior right when Dean had passed. Even Fred—and her heart wrenched at the thought of her long gone brother—the second she had only met a few times.
Thus decided, she called for stationery and began to ink her acceptance onto paper. Watching the words appear in her best attempt at calligraphy made the situation more real than anything could.
As soon as the letter was sent off to Burrow House, she began to pace anxiously, rethinking the entire proposition.
Was it right, would Dean have liked that she was going to be out so soon after his death?
It wasn’t entirely too soon, she consoled herself. She had been in deep mourning for a year and a day, and had only then transitioned to half. She only had a few months remaining in that, and then she would be expected to entertain full-fledged society.
Perhaps this was a good idea—to ease her back into it all.
Dean would have understood.
But perhaps she could have a companion along with her: someone who would understand better than her family, who had never known her prior to her marriage.
Thus she made her way to the Warringtons’ and her dear friend Demelza opened the door herself, apparently too eager to wait for her to be escorted inside.
“Mrs. Thomas!” she cried out. “What a surprise! You haven’t called on us in a pretty long while.”
Ginny had to smile at the enthusiasm of the younger woman. “Mrs. Warrington! I will remind you of the etiquette of mourning that forbade me from doing so.”
Mrs. Warrington waved a hand dismissively. “It has been a fair few months since that restriction has passed; I will admit, I believed you to have left my acquaintance entirely.”
“It could never be so! Why, I have come here merely to issue an invite to you and your husband—who, speaking of, where is he?”
Mrs. Warrington seemed to shrink into herself. “He is out looking for game,” she murmured softly. “But never mind that! Could this invitation perchance be to Burrow House’s party?”
Naturally, everyone knew about it. Ginny was unable to keep the shock off her face.
Mrs. Warrington linked their arms and pulled her inside. “Certainly, everyone is curious about the meteoric rise of the Weasleys in social status.”
When Ginny had been young, their family—despite her father and mother being gentleman and gentlewoman respectively—had been afflicted with poverty. It had been her brothers—and her making a not inconsiderable match—who had lifted the family name out of the mud.
“Curious enough to come along to the party?” she asked hopefully.
Mrs. Warrington chuckled nervously. “I shall have to speak to Mr. Warrington—but I do not see any reason to object, as such.”
“Wonderful! I shall write to Mama at once to inform her,” Ginny replied, massively cheered by this news.
She and Mrs. Warrington chattered on about all the usual subjects—neighbours, dresses, the town, courtings—and some unusual ones—horses, for instance.
“Perhaps Mr. Warrington will allow me to view them,” Ginny said hopefully. While she had her own Arnold, brought from home, the Warringtons had a stable of racing horses she was desperate to see.
Mrs. Warrington hesitated. “I do not believe so—he is quite certain that the female is entirely irrelevant to the subject of horses, that we cannot understand anything about them.”
“That is the kind of nonsense I would have expected you to rail against, forsooth!” she exclaimed indignantly.
“Oh, I tried,” was the reply with a vacant, almost sad smile.
Before Ginny could parse that, she was hurried along: “Do tell me when the party is, so that I can inform Mr. Warrington!”
“Of course,” she replied, nonplussed.
Ginny made her way home on foot, despite Mrs. Warrington’s protestations to take a coach, still thinking about that interaction.
It would be best, she decided, to keep an eye on Mrs. Warrington—make sure she was okay.
She wished Dean were there to give his own opinion on the matter—but Dean had always been the kind of person who was generous to a fault. Conscientious, too much so at times—something that had been a point of contention between the two of them several times, though it had always been resolved.
He would have insisted nothing was wrong.
And yet, Ginny missed him with an ache.
She took up work at the pianoforte—an engagement she had begun only after being widowed, now too tired and sad to be able to perform her usual hobbies.
She regretted very much not having paid attention to her childhood instructors in the matter, struggling to play anything more than the simplest pieces.
Dean had always laughed at her inability to play or do needlepoint, or indeed, any of the works the female gender was known for - except for the harp, of course.
It was ironic that in the wake of his death she had been prompted to take one of those up.
But then, nowadays, her life seemed to be one irony after another: her brother’s death that had made her accept Dean’s proposal in the first place, only for her husband to pass himself a couple years later.
And now she would soon see her first love again.
Not that she knew it then.