Chapter Text
John Stirling was dead.
He was dead and Francesca was still here.
How was she still here?
It seemed impossible that she could still be in his house, in their home, when he was buried in a plot of land, cold, dark, dead…alone.
For a while, Francesca considers the idea that maybe that is better; being dead and therefore alone. It is much harder to be alone and still have to live each day. Because that’s what it felt like. She was alone. Or at least, she felt it.
No one had expected it. Francesca least of all. It had all happened so suddenly. She was on a walk, for no reason besides to stretch her legs. John did not feel like coming, because he had a slight headache. He told her he’d have a nap and be alright in an hour.
When she arrived home, it was dark outside, and she could feel the prickles of the cold air against her skin. Francesca walked into the house, a smile bright on her face as she called out his name. He did not reply. She told the maid that it was okay. She would wake him, so he could sleep that night. When she saw him, although he looked sound asleep just like any other night, Francesca knew. She knew he was gone.
Her mother visited her everyday, often bringing one or more of her siblings along with her. When she was with them, she didn’t cry. When they asked questions, she nodded or shook her head. She offered half hearted smiles every once and a while. Her sentences were cut short. Daphne and her mother were desperate to get her to speak more, to talk about the pain, just as Violet had done many years ago when Edumund Bridgerton died in her arms. Most of her other siblings try to distract her, telling her stories about their days or about what they’ve read and who they’ve talked to. Colin is the sweetest. The two of them had always related closely, being the third born son and the third born daughter. He hugs her tightly when he comes and goes, and often goes to play a song on the piano for her, always saying remember, I have never been as good as you. Francesca doesn’t even have the energy to want to correct his notes. Besides him, the pianoforte hasn’t been touched in weeks. The last song she had played was for John. That is the last song she imagines she’ll ever play.
Anthony sits in silence beside her, holding her hand. That’s what makes her cry for the first time in front of any of them. All she can see at that moment is him .
***
It takes John’s closest family two weeks to arrive.
Not just his closest family, but the new Lord Kilmartin; John’s uncle, an elderly man who probably never expected for his time as Lord to come. No one did. Not when John was born. Not when he was so young, and married. And yet. Also coming was John’s cousin, Michael Stirling. John had often talked about Michael in passing, everytime getting a twinkle in his eye as he brought up his favourite cousin. The two of them had practically been raised like siblings. The thought of meeting someone who cared for John as much as Francesca did, sent a confused tingle down her back.
By the time they are arriving, Francesca is standing by the door, her mother and Anthony protectively on either side of her.
They hear the sound of the carriage pulling up, and Francesca feels ill. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to have to look people in the eyes and tell them she’s okay. She doesn’t want to have to see people who knew him just as well as her. She doesn’t want to see his features in their faces. Yet, she stands, posture perfect, eyes clear from tears.
The servant enters the lounge first.
“For Dowager Lady Kilmartin. The Earl of Kilmartin, and Miss Stirling,”
Francesca furrows her brow, Miss Stirling? She supposes that maybe Michael decided not to come, that it was too much for him, maybe his sister came instead or something of the sorts.
The servant moves to the side, and in comes a man, his hair grey and his face wrinkled. He is not as old as Francesca had imagined, but his face is weathered, and he grips his cane tightly with each step he takes. Francesca heaves a sigh of relief that although you could likely tell that he was related to John Stirling, there were no obvious identical features that she immediately noticed.
He pauses a few feet in front of the three Bridgertons, taking them in. Francesca feels herself hold her breath.
“You must be John’s wife,” the man states, staring directly into Francesca’s eyes. Francesca pauses, before nodding.
Beside her, Anthony clears his throat, taking a step forward.
“Lord…Kilmartin,” he starts, his voice catching on the title, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Viscount Bridgerton, Francesca’s brother, and this is our mother, Lady Violet Bridgerton,”
The new Lord smiles, chuckling to himself before giving a polite nod.
“Indeed, a pleasure. I am sorry that we are unable to meet in better circumstances,”
Anthony nods, taking a step back and glancing at his sister. The new Lord’s eyes return to Francesca.
“Miss Francesca, I have heard much about you from my daughter’s letters to and from John. He wrote you in such a beautiful light, I can see now that his speaking of your beauty was not simply by a love struck fool,”
Despite the compliment, all Francesca can hear is the use of past tense when referring to her husband. It feels like a shot to the chest everytime.
“Thank you, Lord,” she responds, her lips unable to form the full title. Her husband’s title.
“You may just call me Joseph. We have been family for multiple years now. And this here,” he turns to the woman next to him, and for the first time since they’re entrance, Francesca takes in the woman. She is younger than John, by a couple of years most likely, closer to Francesca’s own age. She has the same dark complexion as John and her father, and she wears a neat more comfortable dress, one that Francesca could imagine Eloise wearing when she first came out in society, except in black, similar to Francesca’s own colouring of her mourning clothes. Francesca’s first thought is that of wondering how this woman seems to be still unmarried, based on her title, for she is quite stunningly beautiful, in a soft sort of way.
“Is Michaela,”
Francesca freezes, “Michaela? As in… you mean to say that you are… I suppose, also referred to as,” Francesca stutters.
Michaela smiles softly, “Michael?”
Francesca nods.
It is as if Michaela is unable to withhold her quiet chuckle, “I cannot believe he still referred to me as that around strangers,” she pauses, “not to say that you were a stranger,” she amends.
Francesca stares at her, utterly transfixed
“He, uh, he always referred to a Michael, who he was raised with. He never mentioned he was- she- you were actually Michaela ,”
Michaela laughs softly, and her father looks at her with such a gentle affectionate gaze.
“John was never one for close friendships, as you can imagine he has always been reserved. When he was ten and thirteen, he felt…embarrassed that he did not have any close male friends, so he would tell people that he was spending time with Michael ,” Michaela laughs, “he was never very good under pressure,”
Francesca cannot help it, but for the first time in two weeks, she finds herself smiling. It may not be a bright smile or a very happy one, but it’s there. In the corner of her eye, she sees Anthony and their mother exchange a glance.
“I am guessing you expected a Mr Stirling’s arrival then,” Joseph notes, and Francesca nods slowly.
“Why yes, but it will be nice to have another woman around. Maybe on occasion we can have tea,” she looks over at Joseph, “Both of you. You are more than welcome to join me in my… Dowager house at any time,”
Lord Kilmartin – Joseph – immediately shakes his head. Francesca feels herself deflate, because of course no stranger will have any desire to visit her, what a foolish idea.
Instead, Joseph surprises her.
“Nonsense,” he declares, “this was your home first, my dear. It will not be necessary for you to vacate it for our sakes, unless you wish for privacy. It would be our pleasure to have you remain in these halls. You can keep your current chambers, I will not need such a space. But please, my daughter and I would greatly appreciate your company,”
Francesca’s gaze goes to her brother and mother’s who look at her with raised eyebrows, but appear satisfied at the suggestion.
“Are you sure Lord Kilmartin, I am more than happy for my sister to return to the Bridgerton household until she feels ready. Our family does not wish to constrict your own.”
“Please, no more of this Lord talk. My brother was Lord Kilmartin and my nephew after him. I have always been Mr Joseph Stirling and I will remain so now. If Miss Francesca wishes to remain here in this estate, she is more than welcome. She is a Stirling, after all,”
Everyone’s eyes turn to Francesca. She fidgets with her hands as she ponders the idea. When she looks up, she meets Michaela’s soft gaze upon her, and suddenly she knows her answer.
“I would…I would quite like that,” she responds, offering a slight curtsy, “I am afraid I do not think I am quite ready to…part from John and I’s home. We have spent these past few years,” Francesca pauses, feeling the recently common feeling of tears welling up in her eyes. She clears her throat.
“We have spent the past few years making it that; a home.”
Michaela and Joseph look between each other, smiling in a bittersweet way.
“John meant everything, to the both of us,” Joseph continues, softly, “Michaela and I shall do our best to continue the legacy the two of you started,”
***
It takes a few days for Joseph and Michaela to settle. They did not bring many things with them, besides clothing and a few special items. Most of the items in the house already belonged to Joseph’s father, and John’s grandfather, and his father before that, so Francesca was able to see the familiarity the two Stirlings had with the surroundings.
Francesca did as she usually did. She sat in the lounge, often in silence, staring at the memories of her late husband. However, she quickly found that she was often unable to do as she desired, as more often than not, Michaela would appear by her side.
“Do you really do that?” Michaela asks, gesturing at nothing.
Francesca furrows her eyebrows, “do what?”
“Put your milk in before the tea?”
Francesca gets torn out of her mental universe of John, as she fully comprehends the question being asked of her. She looks down into her cup, which one of the servants had just poured milk into for her.
“Of course, it is how my mother has always done it,”
Michaela laughs, shaking her head.
“That is just so incredibly wrong, on so many levels,” she explains, “I can’t believe John did not ever reprimand you on this even though he does-,”
“John did not like tea,” Francesca states, just at the same time as Michaela concludes her sentence with, “not like tea,”
They look at each other for a moment, as if studying one another.
Michaela breaks first, smiling that easy smile that she somehow continuously got to appear on her face. It confused Francesca, how she seemed so…easily appeased.
“You and him are very similar, I think,” Michaela continues.
For some reason, despite the pain it brings every time, Francesca feels the need to correct her. Were. He is not here anymore. They had to deal with that. They could not pretend to be happy when John is not here.
“My mama always told me that,” Francesca answers, “though at first she did not believe that…was a good thing, for a healthy marriage,”
Michaela tilts her head.
“Was it?” she asks.
Immediately, Francesca’s constant fidgeting stops, as she turns her head to the woman.
“Apologies, I forget myself,” she amends.
They return to their teas, falling into silence for a few minutes.
“What was he like?” Francesca finally asks, her voice quiet.
“When he was a child?”
She nods. Everyone had been skirting around the topic. No one had ever wanted to talk about John, or if they did it was when they did not truly know him. Francesca just needed to talk about him. He was a constant thought in her mind, and she did not want him to leave, but at the same time, it felt very lonely in her mind palace.
Michaela sighs, thinking hard.
“He was always quiet around others. I often had to speak for the two of us, when there were crowds of more than three. I suppose that is what made me more confident. He was always patient, and very much a gentleman even as a child. He would always hand me the last sugary treat, except when they were lemon tarts, those were his favourite,”
Francesca feels a soft smile appear on her features once more, her mind imagining the smell that often filled this very room with lemony scents.
“I was always trying to convince him to do something scandalous, like sneak out at night, or into somewhere we were not allowed to and use his future earlship as a defence, but he refused most of the time. Though, once he did sneak into a shop after hours for me, because I had left my favourite pair of gloves on the countertop. He promised he would not speak to me for a week after that, for being so foolish. I think he gave in after a night's rest. Did he tell you about his muddy boots story?”
Francesca nods, “it was one of the first he ever told me,”
“Of course it was,” Michaela responded with a fond roll of her eyes.
“You really loved him,” Francesca says, and it is half a question, half a statement.
“Of course I did. I will never not love him. He is my brother,” Michaela responds, face falling, “I cannot imagine what it must have been like to find him… I am deeply apologetic, Miss Kilmartin,”
“Please do not call me that,”
Michaela nods, “what do you wish for me to call you?”
“Whatever you find fit,”
Michaela stares off into the distance, deep in thought.
“How about Frannie?”
Francesca gives a half shrug, “do you see it fit?”
“I do. Francesca is a beautiful name, but it is so long,”
Francesca laughs under her breath.
“Okay then, Frannie it is,”
***
It continues like that. Francesca and Michaela spending most days sitting in the lounge, drinking tea and exchanging stories about John. On occasion, Joseph joins them, when he is not busy with the new duties of the household. Francesca’s family still come by each day, and more often than not, Michaela remains, engaging in conversation with all of the Bridgerton siblings.
Francesca finds herself greatly enjoying the speed in which Eloise and Michaela share thoughts, seeing the way her older sister lights up at the chance for intellectual conversation. Michaela also somehow finds herself able to not feel completely overwhelmed by Hyacinth’s dramatics. Although John had always had some sort of friendship between her older brother’s, Francesca can see the way in which Michaela differs to her cousin, in the confidence of each of her conversations.
After a month, the two of them begin to have their conversations outside. At first in the garden, and then on walks. It is difficult, at first, for Francesca to continue conversations. She had never been the talkative type, but it seemed as if Michaela was used to that, and was more than willing to lead. Their conversations go from John to themselves, to their families and everything in between.
And in just a few months, the two become almost inseparable.
One afternoon, on their stroll through the gardens, Francesca listens intently to Michaela’s story about a rat she once found in the pocket of one of her attempted suitors, when he began to dance with her. Francecsa always finds that Michaela is an excellent storyteller, and she cannot help but feel a desire to listen to every detail. Francesca laughs, a genuine laugh as Michaela drops their walk and immediately breaks into her half of the dance she had with the man, just to show Francesca the exact depiction of events. When her laughter dies down, she looks down at Michaela, whose face has that smile that Francesca has somehow gotten to know so well. It was nothing like John’s, but it was still completely Stirling of her, that natural beauty Francesca could see in all of the Stirling’s she had met. Looking at her, Francesca cannot help but feel a sense of warmth. The realisation that somehow, throughout all of this mess, she has found a true friend.
“Thank you,” Francesca says suddenly, without really meaning to say anything at all.
Michaela turns to her, clearly confused.
“For what?” she asks, head tilting.
Francesca clears her throat, wringing her hands out. Michaela is quick to notice the action, and immediately reaches out to gently grab ahold of Francesca’s hand, stilling it.
“For simply, being here. For being my friend. I was concerned, at first, that John’s family would blame me, for his death, for leaving him like that,” Francesca starts, but Michaela is quick to cut her off.
“It was not your fault, Frannie,”
Francesca brushes it off.
“I just mean to say, I am grateful. That you could make me laugh like that again,”
Still gripping Francesca’s hand, Michaela gives it a gentle squeeze.
“You never need to thank me, Francesca. We are friends, although the circumstances of our friendship are not ideal, I believe us Stirlings are just destined to care for you. These walks. These conversations. They help me too. That’s what friends are for, is it not?”
Francesca nods, feeling a lump in her throat. She squeezes Michaela's hand back, trying to express all of her emotions and gratitude into one gesture. Michaela’s hand lingers a moment longer, before falling back to her side. Francesca realises just how much she appreciated the warmth.