Work Text:
Michaela knew the Kilmartin estate to be a very quiet place.
As a child, the halls were full of youthful excitement and mischief, and as she grew older it lost some of its magic, yet maintained its warmth and grandeur. Despite this, the house was always quiet, with the only soundtrack being the footsteps of visitors or light chatter of a dinner party.
That was, until Francesca Bridgerton arrived.
The first time Michaela ever set eyes on Francesca, she knew that there was something different about the woman, and she immediately wanted to know why.
They became slightly more acquainted with each other on their long carriage ride to Scotland. Francesca did not converse much at first, content to let her husband speak for her, and only contributed an occasional nod of her head.
The journey proved to be an excellent vessel for observation, and Michaela spent most of the time dissecting Francesca’s minute expressions and responses. Once the previous conversation had died down, Eloise and John finally done discussing some new novel - she wasn’t really paying attention, too busy watching Francesca’s eyes flit back and forth between her sister and her husband - Michaela directly addressed the woman.
“So, Francesca, I have heard so much from your sister, and obviously I know John dearly, so what is it that you are passionate about?”
Francesca seemed a little startled at being mentioned so bluntly, and it took her a minute to pull her words together. “I, well, I play the pianoforte?”
“The pianoforte? Do say more. Is there a particular composer you are partial to?”
Michaela watched as Francesca's face turned from a polite smile into an excited grin, more words than she had ever heard her speak pouring from the woman’s mouth. The pure delight on her face was addicting.
They arrived at the Kilmartin estates late in the afternoon after several days of travel through the countryside. As they exited the carriage and headed towards the open front doors, Michaela guided their little group to a small room just off the main corridor.
“If you ever feel the urge to fill this house with music, do feel free to do so, Francesca.”
Michaela watched as Francesca’s face brightened the same way it had in the carriage days earlier, as she took in the pianoforte sat gracefully in the centre of the room, the last afternoon light bathing it in a warm orange glow. Francesca turned to smile at her from where she stood, holding onto John’s arm like a lifeline.
“Thank you, Mich- Um, thank you.”
Michaela nodded in response, and left to her quarters, but she carried the buzz in her chest from the way Francesca had tripped over her name all the way.
From then on, the house was filled with music.
Often, Michaela found herself standing just out of sight behind the door to listen, no matter whether it was Beethoven, Mozart, or some ingenious new composition of Francesca’s. Though she always remained hidden, conscious that the other woman would probably flee if she were to make herself known. There was strange tension between them that Michaela could not name, or perhaps that she would not name. For now she was simply content to listen in secret, Francesca’s music following her even when she was not present.
That winter the house fell silent again.
John’s death had tilted her world’s axis, her heart and home as cold and empty as the snow covered landscape outside. The loss of her cousin, who was truly more like a brother, felt more raw against the silence of his home. Her home, now that she had inherited the title. She had spotted Francesca once or twice looking off towards the pianoforte, a mix of longing and sadness in her eyes, but she did not play a note.
It wasn’t until the next winter, when reading in the library one evening, that Michaela heard the music once more. It sounded mournful and melancholy, Fransesca’s grief audible through the instrument, but it was music still.
As the snow melted and spring emerged, Francesca’s music brightened like the seasons. So too did the dynamic between the two women. Over shared dinners, conversations and cups of tea the tension held over them transformed from confused jealous and bitter into something warmer and more comfortable. There remained a heat and charge to their glances and interactions, but it felt more freeing rather than chained.
Michaela’s new favourite thing was Francesca’s humming. She had noticed once or twice that the woman often walked into a room with a melody falling from her lips, almost like the pianoforte was merely an instrument in expressing her music, an extension of herself. Michaela never brought attention to it, but she basked in the sound. She knew that she was privileged for Francesca to feel comfortable enough around her to express herself like that, which was why the next time she found her playing, she walked in.
Francesca didn’t notice, too engulfed in the music, and Michaela, too, was enraptured. Except not by the performance, but by the performer. Francesca looked at peace, her eyes shut gently as if the sheet music were printed on the inside of her eyelids. Michaela took in her posture, sharp yet graceful, and found herself transfixed by her deft fingers gliding over the keys, a pleasant warm spark igniting in her chest.
All at once Francesca snapped out of her musical trace, and turned around briskly, clearly not expecting an audience.
“Michaela!”
“Yes?”
Michaela found it charming whenever Francesca would stumble over her name, but there was a fire inside her that lit up when she finally said it without hesitation, and she found that feeling much more pleasurable.
“How long have you been there?”
“What was it that you were playing?”
Francesca tilted her head, her panic replaced first by a flash of confusion and then by a glimpse of the passion that always appeared when music became the topic of discussion.
“Beethoven’s Appassionata. It is quite glorious. I do not mean to sound boastful, but even the Queen agrees.”
Francesca’s excited smile turned into a proud smirk, which Michaela could read as the pride she felt but could not truly express.
“Well, the Queen is correct. But with one as graceful as you performing, it could be nothing but glorious.”
Francesca’s cheeks pinked, and she ducked her head.
Michaela moved closer to the pianoforte, and rested a hand on its edge.
“Would you teach me?”
At this, Francesca’s eyebrows shot up, surprise evident on her face.
“Of course! But, well, I’m not sure if I am a very good teacher.”
Michaela laughed lightly. “What, do you wish to keep the talent all to yourself? I do not blame you.”
“What? I would never-”
“I am only jesting, dear Francesca. Now, do shuffle along and let the lesson begin.”
Michaela settled on the bench, their thighs lightly touching through their skirts.
“Oh! Well, first you will have to remove your gloves. They restrict the movement too much.”
Francesca’s eyes were transfixed in the slow removal of Michaela’s gloves. It was so agonisingly drawn out, that if Francesca did not know better, she would say that she was doing it on purpose.
Michaela watched with delight as Francesca seemed to squirm as she watched her take off her gloves. She was most certainly doing it on purpose. Francesca suddenly seemed to come back to herself and she snapped back into her stiff posture.
“You need to rid the gloves because otherwise you cannot feel the instrument properly.”
Michaela raised an eyebrow. “Feel it?”
Francesca could feel her cheeks begin to heat, but she soldiered on. “Yes. I can play with my eyes closed because I can feel my way around the keys, I know them like a well-walked path.”
She demonstrated and dragged her hands softly along the keys. Michaela’s mouth suddenly ran dry, and she felt that perhaps she was about to be given a taste of her own medicine.
“Well, we all know you are talented. But what of a beginner such as myself?”
Francesca reached over and grabbed Michaela’s left hand and softly placed it on the keys. She pointed to one in particular.
“That’s a C. Play it.”
Michaela pressed the key with a little too much force, and was met with a sharp sound.
“Hmm. You need to be a little gentler. Try it like this.”
Francesca played the note, and although it was one solitary sound, you could feel the heart put into it. Michaela tried to copy, but was still being too harsh.
“Perhaps you are not a great teacher then.”
Francesca rolled her eyes lightly and squared her shoulders. “You are simply trying to get on my nerves. I may just have to try a different technique.”
Hesitantly Francesca hovered her left hand over Michaela’s before gently resting it on top. Both women felt a light spark at the contact.
“Let me guide you.”
She directed Michaela’s hand to cover more of the keys, a thumb on the C, her middle finger on an A and the pinky on an F, and with a gentle push of her hand a ringing chord sounded out.
Michaela cleared her throat as Francesca tore her hand away. “So that is how you do it then?”
“Yes, it is.”
Francesca considered her for a moment before asking, “What would you like to learn?”
“What about that gorgeous music from before? That one you said the Queen herself enjoyed.”
Francesca’s smile brightened. “Ah, yes, Beethoven. Now, I believe there is a simpler section I could teach you.”
Francesca reached for the metronome perched on the lid of the instrument, and set it at a leisurely pace. Michaela watched, transfixed, as Francesca rehearsed the piece before settling on a suitable section.
“Forgive me for interrupting your beautiful playing, but do you not have any written music? I assumed that is how one played?"
Francesca giggled. “Yes, well, I do learn through that but I find it is much more freeing to play without it. It is easier to play from the heart that way, rather than be confined behind bars and staves.”
Most of what Francesca said went completely over Michaela’s head, but in the way that Francesca said it, it was as if it made absolute sense.
“I see. Shall we continue?”
As the metronome ticked routinely, Francesca slowly guided Michaela through a small section of the piece, methodically adjusting her hand posture and shape.
“Hm. I do not believe that is the correct fingering.”
Michaela nearly choked. “Pardon?”
Francesca only smiled, oblivious. “Your fingers are not on the exact keys, but we can simply call it your artistic decisions.”
Francesca winked, and for one Michaela was the one lost for words.
Once, finally, Michaela was hitting enough correct notes, Francesca decided she should add in her part. To save extra work, she had only taught her the left hand part, and so Francesca could accompany her.
Michaela had to focus completely on the metronome so as to not completely mess up, but she found herself experiencing perhaps a fraction of the joy that Francesca always felt when performing.
Francesca felt exhilarated. She always enjoyed performing, and always had. But there was something to playing with another, to sharing the bench, the instrument, the melody, with someone else that was entirely new and enticing. When their minute performance ended, she turned eagerly to compliment her playing.
“Michaela, that was wonderful-”
Francesca discovered that somehow during their performance that they had slid a little closer, and upon turning her head she found Michaela’s face only inches from her own. She looked into Michaela’s eyes, finding that they were not looking at her own, but somewhere lower, her lips. And the only thought running around Francesca’s head was that she wished to lean in. And kiss her.
Oh.
Oh.
Perhaps that is what the tension she had been feeling was.
“Michaela, I-”
Michaela spoke in a whisper, hunger evident in her voice. “Francesca, as much as I adore your voice and hearing you speak, I wish that you would be quiet and kiss me.”
Francesca’s throat let out a funny noise, at the way in which Michaela spoke so directly. But who was she not to obey? She leaned forward slowly, hesitantly, and their lips gently grazed.
It was as if Francesca was suddenly a woman starved, and perhaps she was, opening her mouth and greedily capturing Michaela’s lips in between her own. There were symphonies playing in her heart, and her heart pounded so strongly in every small place in which she was attached to Michaela. As Michaela’s tongue experimentally brushed over her bottom lip, she suddenly jumped back, fully aware of what just occurred. She watched Michaela’s face as her expression moved from one clouded with lust to one of worry. Francesca noticed Michaela’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and reached one hand up to touch her own, finding them equally bruised.
“Forgive me, Michaela, I-”
Michaela stood from the bench and walked towards Francesca. She was close, but there was room enough between them to breathe.
“Forgive you for what? Kissing me? You should not apologise for such a sensational occurrence.”
Francesca frowned slightly. “But we cannot- We are both women, and we-”
Michaela laughed, and reached gently for Francesca’s hand. Her hand shook, but she let her take it and carefully intertwine their fingers.
“I am well aware, Francesca. You can run away now, if you want to. I shall not hold you hostage, but if you wish to stay, I would be more than happy."
Francesca spoke eagerly. "I- I want to stay, and that was, well, it was wonderful. But how can we ever do this? What about our families, what bout the Ton?"
Michaela smirked, leaning in a little closer, tucking a stray hair gently behind Francesca's ear. "There are ways to bend the rules, dear. And isn’t hiding in the shadows more fun?”
Francesca’s worries died on her tongue as Michaela bridged the gap between them. As their lips met she could not find it in herself to be worried about such things when a beautiful woman was pinning her against the pianoforte.
Francesca leaned too far back, accidentally playing the keys, and both women laughed before their lips found each other’s again.
The Kilmartin estate was never silent again.