Archive of Our Own

drinking in the morning sun
blinking in the morning sun

Francesca was not sure how long she had been sitting in the morning room. Her pianoforte stood, untouched, in the corner of the dark room, its once-shining wood now looking somewhat lacklustre. John had had it freshly polished the week they had moved in, but the task had not been performed since. It needed it now, Francesca thought, but she could not bear to ask Michaela to arrange it. 

Somedays it felt like John was slowly being erased from their house. It was as though her and Michaela's very presence in Kilmartin House was like the tide, steadily washing against the shore, and eroding all the parts of John that remained. The office no longer smelled of his cologne. His side of her bed no longer dipped like it once had. She occasionally went through his old coats, and only last week had been upset to find that the once fine-pressed fabric had lost the build of his shoulders. It used to hold his shape. Now the fabric sagged, as though it were a coat that could belong to any old man.

Enough time had passed now that she no longer felt like she was drowning in grief. The sting had faded to a subtle ache, present only in the quiet moments when she stopped to dwell on it. That being said, Francesca knew that much of her life was spent in silence. When she was alone, which was often, it felt as though breaking the silence was a crime of the highest order.

She felt lost, often, a ghost in her own house, as though taking a step forward in any direction was a desecration of John’s memory. The idea of laughter echoing through the house felt something akin to sacrilegious, like a wineglass dropping at a wake. Francesca didn’t entertain many guests these days.

Still though, the laughter would come regardless. Cutting through the silence like the sun cutting through a window with the act of throwing open the curtains. And the light came, always and only, with Michaela. 

The two of them had settled into a comfortable routine this season. As the ton had returned, with shouts and life and colour, they had arrived with little fanfare, in the quiet of night. Slowly but surely, their mourning clothes had turned back to colour. They had built a simple kind of peace in their home, two lost souls, not clinging to each other, but merely, sitting side by side. 

Michaela was busy in her work often, throwing herself into it with the vigour with which she stormed through every other part of life. Her grief had been violent, and desperate, at first, but now it had settled into dependability. She oversaw the tenancies, balanced the accounts, and then spent her evenings releasing her tensions in revelry and glasses of whiskey.

Francesca couldn’t bemoan her for that. They both had their ways of coping, and while she may not have known where Michaela disappeared to on those evenings, she always came home to her, and that was enough.

In truth, Francesca did not know exactly where she stood in all of this. She floated through her days, either filled for her without her input, or spent wandering about the house like a lost child. She wasn't sure how the days passed, but she knew they passed regardless, and that was okay. She had a home, and though her safety was no longer guaranteed through marriage, it was guaranteed through the word of a trusted friend, and in some ways that was preferred.

Francesca watched a small patch of light dance over the rug. The curtains were still closed, as they usually were, but the heavier outer drapes had fallen open just enough to allow a dusting of sun through the netting. 

Opening the curtains just wasn’t something they did much anymore. She wasn't sure how the servants knew not to open them in the morning. She certainly hadn't ordered it, and she doubted Michaela had either. It was just sort of one of those unspoken rules that they seemed to have collected now. The head of the table was reserved for John, no one except Francesca was to tidy up her sheet music, Michaela never went out on a Tuesday, and the curtains stayed closed in the mornings. It wasn’t that different from the quirks that arose in any family’s little routine, really, except that in this house, these quirks had been borne from grief. As had this family of two.

Only the creak of a door and the clink of china announced Michaela’s presence as she entered. For a woman who could take up so much space in a room, she was surprisingly light-footed. With the way Michaela seemed to grip society with both hands and commandeer an estate better than any man, Francesca supposed she often forgot that Michaela, like her, was raised on etiquette lessons and feminine arts. It was a comforting reminder. 

“The maids said you did not take breakfast this morning.” 

Francesca didn’t look away from the light on the rug. She just shook her head. Like John had, Michaela understood her silences, and so she didn’t speak. She simply placed the tray of tea on the side table and carefully poured out two cups. Francesca watched the stream of tea in her periphery. 

It was only when Michaela pressed a teacup into her hands that she looked up, and even then it was only for a second. Michaela was dressed in a simple house dress, a deep burgundy that hugged her figure and shimmered when she walked. Despite Michaela often joking that it was her office finery, Francesca thought it was still far more beautiful than most of the dresses adorning ball goers and debutantes.

She wore her hair in braids these days, but this morning she had forgone her usual updo, a sight that would have been rare in the early days of their friendship, but one that Francesca was now accustomed to. It was only when her fingers itched to brush a stray braid behind Michaela's ear that Francesca realised she had been wringing her hands together.

“A morning for thinking, is it, Frannie?” 

Michaela’s tone was both bright and careful as she settled next to her. Unlike John, Michaela never allowed Francesca to keep her silence for long. Before, she may have been irked by that, but now it was welcome. 

“I fear I do not know how to do much else these days.”

“If it were anyone else, I might be worried.” Michaela nudged Francesca's knee with her own. “But I would rather you sat here thinking than chatting up a storm, for then I might think something was seriously wrong.”

Michaela was smirking. Francesca could hear it in her voice, and when she turned to look at her it was confirmed. A little of the tension leaked from her body as she returned the smile with a roll of her eyes. 

“I shall remember that for next time I require your undivided attention.” Francesca sipped her tea. “Next time you leave me alone too long at a ball I shall start conversing with all of Mayfair until you call the carriage.”

“You always have my undivided attention.” 

Francesca hid her smile in her teacup. “Do not let the solicitor hear you say that. I believe you have a stack of accounts requiring both your attention and your signature.”

“Well they shall have to wait in line. I am otherwise occupied at present.”

There were many things that Francesca wanted to say to that. She wanted to argue and say that the finances took precedence over her. She wanted to demand that Michaela lock the office door and sit and have tea with her forever. She wanted to ask where she had stood in that line when Michaela had stumbled into the house in the early hours of the morning. She wanted to ask what she could do to keep Michaela occupied for as long as possible. 

She did not say any of that. 

“I do not know whether to be flattered or concerned to be the object of your much-sought after attention.” There was a teasing lilt to her tone, and she hoped Michaela did not see past it into something deeper. Michaela had a funny way of reading her just so.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether I should be concerned that you are sat in a dark room staring at the rug.”

Clearly her attempts at deflection had been unsuccessful. She should’ve known. Still, Francesca was never one to give up that easily.

“Well, you should be flattered.”

“Flattered? That you are sitting alone in silence?”

“I seem to remember you choosing this rug yourself.”

This time it was Michaela’s turn to roll her eyes. Francesca always relished the moments she could make Michaela laugh. They both sipped at their tea, and the smile they shared seemed to make the sun push a little further into the room. 

Despite her best efforts, however, Michaela was persistent.

”Frannie.”

She sighed. “I am okay. Truthfully.” 

Michaela didn’t press her, but neither did she respond. Francesca appreciated that. With John, their quiet had been a conversation of sorts, but he had known when he needed to push her out of that comfort. Michaela never pushed. It was more that she gave her space to breathe, to collect her own thoughts, until she found that the silence was no longer her comfort. Michaela was.

“I only find that, sometimes, I feel I don’t know who I am outside these walls anymore. And sometimes I don’t know who I am within them. It is both too loud and too quiet inside me. And so, I think about it all. The sun is too bright outside and yet in this room I cannot feel its warmth, and I’m not quite sure what that says about me.”

“Perhaps it means you need to open the curtains.” Michaela joked, but Francesca knew that she understood. Michaela had not opened their curtains either. They were, both literally and figuratively, sat in the dark together. Her voice softened. “There is nothing wrong with you, Frannie.”

“How could you know that?”

“I know you better than you think. There is nothing wrong with enjoying the quiet. There is nothing wrong with not knowing where you stand.”

“If I don’t know where I stand, how can I know where I am going?”

“You go where life takes you. You wake up each day and you fill them until you find they have filled themselves for you. You hope for the day where the morning sun brings not just light, but clarity. And each day you question yourself, but you carry on regardless.”

“You talk as though you don’t know where you stand either.” Francesca risked a sideways glance at the woman beside her. Michaela held a look in her deep brown eyes that Francesca could not quite place.

“I don’t. But I know who stands beside me. And I know what direction the sun will rise and set.”

Francesca nodded, and she looked back to the patch of sunlight on the rug. She still remembered the day Michaela had brought it home. John and Francesca had furnished most of the house together, but they had upended the old rug and had been in the process of buying a new one when it happened.

The floor had stayed bare for months, until Michaela had showed up one afternoon with two servants in tow, each struggling under the shared weight of the heavy carpet. It didn’t match any of the other furnishings in the morning room, a deep red tapestry that stood out from the pale blue furnishings and light wainscoting. Francesca had loved it. 

She sipped at her tea and nodded again. Thankfully, Michaela stayed beside her.

shaking off a heavy one
yeah, heavy like the loaded gun

Francesca was not in the morning room when Michaela entered. The drapes were shut, but in this house, that gave no indication of whether anyone had been in there at all. Michaela moved from the door and sank heavily into the seat. She held no inclination to stalk the halls to find her, tired and bottle-weary as she was. Francesca would materialise at some point. She always did.

When they had first met, Francesca had been the sort of young woman who thrived on routine. In the early days, back in Scotland, she had quickly learnt what time the newly-minted Lady Kilmartin would take breakfast, what time she would sit with John, and what time she would play the pianoforte. It had irked Michaela at times, to see a bright young woman so content with such a mundane routine. 

The more she had come to know Frannie though, her lack of spontaneity had become a comfort. She had come to learn that it was not that Francesca was plain, or dull, but that she was simply at peace with the lot she had been given. Michaela could see the similarities in her and John from the onset, and it had pleased her to know that they had each other. Moreover, their unwavering stability was a blessing to Michaela, who was able to capitalise fully on the freedom it awarded her.

Now though, Francesca no longer kept such a routine. She remained a creature of habit, to be sure, but she no longer seemed to move with a purpose. She floated through the halls, like something akin to a lost soul, or a will-o'-the-wisp. It unnerved Michaela to no end sometimes, the way she could look into Francesca’s eyes some mornings and see a tumultuous storm, and others, an empty husk.

Michaela smoothed her skirts and sank further into her seat with a groan. It would not do to dwell on Francesca, she knew that. It was hard not to though. There was something so captivating about her, and not for the first time Michaela cursed the standings of their birth. She shook her head, and winced as it exacerbated its pounding. She could not think about the things she could do had she been born a man, or a commoner, or even a wickeder woman.

Where Francesca had fallen out of routine, Michala had sank into one of her own. She had always dreaded that, and had thought being the cousin of an Earl would have protected her from it forever. Inheriting the title, however, had done away with that hope however. 

All that being said, she did not resent it. Though it came with responsibility, it also came with security and stability, and more importantly, a rare ability to shield Francesca too. If the price to pay for keeping the Dowager Kilmartin near her was an uncomfortable office chair and endless monthly accounts, Michaela would take that deal a thousand times over.

In truth, she wished for more. She wished she could do more with Francesca than just keep her nearby and shield her from the ton. For while Francesca may have been a proper lady in all sense of the word, Michaela possessed certain proclivities that prevented her from ever truly being so. For a long time, those proclivities had been easily satisfied through nights of revelry in the underbelly of society. In knowing the right people and visiting the right places, a woman of Michaela’s persuasion could very easily carve out a niche for herself, and receive great pleasure in doing so.

Since Francesca though, it was not quite the same. She had tried, at first, to visit the same places and drown her sorrows in the taste of another woman, but nothing felt correct. She still went out often, of course, but these days she could only bear to drown her sorrows in drink instead. The bottom of the bottle was perhaps the only place she could find reprieve from thoughts of the woman she lived with. She could mask the sweet scent of Francesca with the sweet sting of brandy, could drink enough whiskey to stop the guesses of what her skin might taste like. That was enough. That had to be enough.

Francesca never said anything of her late night activities, though Michaela was sure she did not like them. It was only Michaela's body that bemoaned her spectacularly the morning after. On mornings such as this.

There was a knock on the morning room door. Its softness indicated exactly who was behind it.

“You need not knock in your own home, Frannie.”

The door opened. “I did not wish to disturb your privacy,” Francesca smiled as she entered. “Who knows what secrets you might keep behind closed doors.” She raised an eyebrow in a teasing manner, her eyes shining with a shy sort of mirth. Michaela longed to see that expression more and more. She could not resist returning the smile.

“Where have you been this morning?”

“My mother and Kate called me to Bridgerton house to join them for breakfast. I told you that yesterday.”

“Ah, yes. Forgive me. It must have slipped my mind.”

“Slipped into a bottle of whiskey more like,” Francesca murmured, setting a tea tray down next to Michaela.

“What was that?” Michaela said, despite having heard it loud and clear. She wondered if she had imagined the slight edge to her voice. Francesca was not normally one to make her protestations clear. Michaela wanted her to.

Immediately, the edge was gone. Francesca smiled pleasantly, slipping back easily into her measured and mild manner. “Did you have a good night?”

Michaela sank back into the cushions, deflated. She wanted Francesca to crack. She longed for the mask to slip, to see fire rage inside her once more. Francesca was the embers of a dying hearth, and Michaela desired nothing more than to stoke it, to provoke some sort of reaction from Francesca, be that anger, or desire, or hate. She had only seen such a thing once, and under such awful circumstances, but once she had seen the storm that roiled under Francesca’s skin, she wanted to see it always. She knew it was there, and it ached at her bones to know that Francesca hid it from her.

Her thoughts went back to that night, though she longed to forget it. Francesca, no longer composed but entirely undone, her hair flowing down her back in unruly waves as she beat against Michaela’s chest, begging and screaming for her to wake him up. Michaela, standing stock still, unable to speak, or move, or think. She had felt Francesca’s seams ripping between her fingers, and felt her own heart tearing in two, and had been completely powerless to do anything but grip Francesca’s arms and hold the two of them upright. She felt as though she had not stopped doing so since.

“Michaela?” Francesca’s voice jolted her from her thoughts. She looked unnerved, understandably so. It was rare for Michaela to be quiet.

“Sorry, Frannie. My night was… adequate.”

Francesca nodded, and Michaela knew that her meagre response had upset her. 

“I am sorry, Frannie. I am not myself this morning. I perhaps exerted my own limits a little last night.”

“I know,” Francesca said, but her voice was soft. She gestured to the tea she had brought. “Drink. It is willow-bark. For your head.”

Michaela sighed, and obeyed. Her dear sweet Frannie, ever thoughtful. “You are too good to me.”

“I am adjusted to you, more like.” 

Francesca’s hand brushed her shoulder lightly, and in that moment she could almost pretend there were like any other couple in the ton. A wife caring for her overworked husband, delivering him tea for his aches and teasing him all the while. It was almost plausible. It was almost enough to satisfy the hollow in her chest.

And then, the touch was gone. Francesca pulled her hand back to her lap, twisting her fingers together in that nervous way that made Michaela want to reach out and hold them. Her own hands itched to calm those nervous fingers, to placate the way Francesca worried at her hems, but she could not. For they were not like any couple in the ton. They were not even a couple, and they never could be. 

Michaela shifted a little, and they descended into a new silence. It seemed to hang in the air, perfused with something Michaela could not name, heavy like the weight of a loaded gun in one’s pocket.

what made me behave that way?
using words i never say
i can only think it must be love
oh anyway, it’s looking like a beautiful day.

For once, Francesca was glad to be alone in her bed. Her head ached with the weight of a bottle. She did not know how Michaela did this so frequently. She should call for a maid, ask for some of the willow-bark tea that Michaela so coveted, but she could not bear to face the day. Or rather, she could not bear to face the people it would bring. One such woman, in particular.

She rolled onto her back with a suppressed groan. She had risen only to pull the curtains tighter shut, the morning sun offensive to her head, and had then returned to her bed to wallow. 

It had been foolish to take Michaela up on her offer to drink. The harsh rain had altered their plans to promenade, and they had instead spent the afternoon secluded in the morning room, discussing all manner of menial things. Michaela had been in raucous form, and with no one else to share her good mood with, she had retrieved a bottle of whiskey from her office and begun to pour two drinks.

Francesca was not normally one to imbibe, but she could not turn down Michaela. Part of her felt it was guilt that had pushed her to agree, a fear that Michaela resented being stuck inside with her when she could be with much more engaging company. Perhaps it was insecurity, a hidden desire to prove to Michaela that she was not just a drab and plain widow, and the mere age of two-and-twenty. Perhaps, it was just Michaela. She rarely could say no to her.

Regardless of the reason, they had drank together. At some point, they had moved from the seats to the floor; Michaela lounging comfortably on their gaudy rug, and Francesca perched awkwardly beside her, folding and smoothing her skirts repeatedly to calm her hands. They had laughed, a lot, and at some point the tone of conversation had shifted. 

Francesca groaned as she recalled her own words. Whatever she had been thinking, she was not quite sure, she only knew that she was mortified with the way she had behaved. Michaela was her friend, her closest companion these days perhaps, but there were still some things they kept separate from one another.

Francesca knew of Michaela’s romantic tendencies - she had even witnessed them in play once by accident in the darkened halls of Kilmartin Castle - but she pretended to be none the wiser. It was an unspoken boundary, a line in the sand that they both skirted around but did not acknowledge. And now Francesca had not only crossed it, but erased it entirely.

”What is it like?” she had asked, the whiskey blurring her thoughts and giving confidence to her words.

“What is what like?” 

“Being with a woman.”

Francesca knew she should not have said it as soon the words tumbled from her lips, but something spurred her on. She had to know. The look in Michaela’s eyes told her she had thoroughly wrong-footed her, but Francesca held her gaze.

“I do not know what you mean. The drink has made you silly.”

“Do not patronise me. I know. You know that I know.” The way Michaela's eyes widened told Francesca that perhaps she hadn’t known, but she pressed on regardless. “I simply wish to hear something entertaining. All I hear from the other ladies is so predictable. Tell me something new.”

Michaela swallowed. “You are a lady. It would not do for you to hear about such wicked things.” There was an almost bitter edge to her voice, but beyond that, something akin to sadness.

Francesca nudged her. “Come on, Mick.” The nickname tumbled out of her - where had that come from? “When we first met you promised me sordid details, if you remember. Go on, I will not judge.” The drink made her sway a little, and if she swayed closer to Michaela that was neither here nor there. “Tell me something wicked.”

And so Michaela had. Francesca rubbed her head and tried to think about anything other than the things Michaela had told her last night. She had listened, captivated, as Michaela had finally shed her final layers and had told Francesca her tales. Sure enough, some of her words had been wicked indeed - though Francesca was certain Michaela had left out the most sordid of details - but that was not what Francesca was fixated on. 

Michaela spoke of desire, and of rakishness, but mainly she spoke of belonging. She spoke of shared understanding, of the companionship that can only come from a mutual secret. Then, when she spoke of romance, Francesca could not help but hear her siblings' love stories echoed back to her. She thought of her mother, and the way she had opposed her match to John at the start. The way Michaela spoke, it was as though it was the same thing.

If that was the case - if romance between women was not all dissimilar from that between a man and his wife - could it really be so wrong? Francesca had felt something unknown stir in her. Could it really be wicked?

With the whiskey pushing her forward, Francesca had asked as much to Michaela. And curse that blasted drink, Michaela had smiled at her with the softest eyes Francesca had ever seen, and shaken her head.

“I do not believe it to be so. You must understand Frannie, in its very foundations, it is not so different at all, and that is why it can never be wrong.”

“But it must be different, in some ways? It must be better, even, for why else would you choose this path, when it is altogether harder in the face of things?” The drink was messing with her sensibilities, Francesca was certain. There could be no other explanation for why the thought was affecting her so. “Better for you, I mean, of course.”

Nodding, Michaela took her hand. “You are correct. For me, no man can provoke such emotion. It is the same, but altogether different. To share something so primal not with a man, but with a woman of your own kind, someone who understands both your body and your mind, it changes the way things are done. The very act of making love becomes not a goal, but a conversation.”

There, on the morning room rug, they both sat with the weight of those words. Francesca wished she knew whatever it was that Michaela was thinking. She wished she knew what she herself was thinking, in truth. It was only when Francesca reached for the bottle again that Michaela moved. Catching her wrist, she turned to look at her eyes.

“You must know, Frannie, it is not a choice, so much as a facet of my birth. And you are correct, also, in that it is harder, but to live one’s life in full truth, the hardship is merely another thing to carry. It is the price to pay, and I pay it willingly.”

“I-” The words felt clumsy against her tongue. She had definitely had too much whiskey. “I understand, I think.”

“I appreciate that, Frannie,” Michaela murmured. “More than you could know.”

“You do not have to hide from me,” Her tone was soft, and she breathed in, forcing a lighter ease into her voice. “Now that I know you are just as much a romantic as the rest of the ton, I expect to hear many more of these tales.”

In the wavering light of the fire, Michaela’s smile was a light source of its own. She leant back, pulling Francesca’s hand with her, and began to regale more tales - not of wickedness, but of romance.

Now, lying in her bed, those were the stories she dwelled on. Francesca didn’t know quite what she had expected, but it wasn’t that. She had expected, perhaps, debauched tales of revelry, not stories of love. Michaela had surprised her - first with whispered tales of all the ways a woman could bring another to her pinnacle, but then, and more importantly, of the way in which a heart could flutter with a shared glance. The way attraction could be hard-fought, or easy. The way that a hand brushing another in a crowded ballroom could be sometimes more exhilarating than a night in bed, if it were with the right person.

For the first time, Francesca wondered if she had truly loved John in the way she thought she had. She loved him dearly, that she knew, but Michaela’s words would not stop running through her mind. She had always thought her mother had been wrong, that Francesca was just not built for that kind of love. She had never desired it in such a way, had never yearned for the affections of a man the way the other girls seemed to. It was only now that she paused to wonder why. 

The way Michaela had spoken of love with such reverence, though, had unnerved her. She felt out of sorts, and off-kilter, and her mind drifted once again to what it might be like to experience such passion. Perhaps her mother had been right.

A knock on her door followed by the calling of her name shook her. She allowed the maid to enter, adjusting her position to sit up a little more. The maid bowed her head, and set down a plate of tea and toast.

“From the Lady Stirling, ma’am.” 

Francesca nodded, and inhaled the sweet scent of willow with a smile.

“Thank you.”

someone tell me how I feel
it’s silly wrong but vivid right

In the weeks that followed, Francesca found herself wanting to seek Michaela out more and more. She was conscious of Michaela’s responsibilities, and so she held back from disturbing her too frequently, but she could not help but notice that Michaela seemed to just appear at her side if they had not crossed paths in a while. Something unknown stirred in her chest at the notion that Michaela might too be seeking her out, and that feeling unnerved her.  

After that night of drinking, she had secluded herself for as much of the day as she could without pushing the boundaries of impoliteness, and then had cautiously entered the morning room. Sure enough, Michaela was there, but her wide smile and easy disposition told Francesca that she need not have fretted so much. Things between them were decidedly normal. They didn’t revisit the words they had spoken that night, but there was no stilted conversation or awkwardness, merely a new sensation of trust. It was as though a weight had been lifted, and the whole house seemed lighter for it.

When Francesca practiced pianoforte, Michaela sipped her tea and listened. When Michaela was burdened by the weight of ever more financial accounts, Francesca brought her tea and genial conversation to lighten her load. They ate together, socialised together, and laughed together with a new ease. They had settled even further into their peaceful kind of calm, and Francesca was glad for it.

And yet, despite it all, there was something Francesca could not place. A part of her felt lost, as though she jumped through a looking-glass into a brand new world, and Michaela was the only one who could guide her. Guide her where exactly, she wasn’t certain. This newness was unsettling, that was true, but Francesca couldn’t help but feel that she ought to be headed forward, not back.

She could not let these thoughts cloud her newfound peace however. Despite her wandering mind, Francesca felt lighter than she had in a long time, and she saw that ease reflected in Michaela too. Even her family had commented on it. Her mother had sat next to her at tea and smiled, her hand coming up to brush Francesca’s hair behind her ear.

“You seem happy, my dear.” 

Francesca had smiled, and conceded that she was. Her eyes drifted over to where Michaela stood, in hearty conversation with Colin and Benedict. She was bathed in the soft morning light, her skin burnished with gold and her dark eyes sparkling as she laughed. 

“I am glad for it. You deserve to be happy again, Francesca.”

“I could say the same for you,” Francesca smiled coyly, looking over to where Lord Anderson was standing. Her mother rolled her eyes and left her with a pat on the arm and a smile. Francesca smiled as she watched the way her mother’s eyes lit up as she moved towards him.

Around the room, she catalogued the glances that each of her siblings gave to their respective spouses. Kate and Anthony gazing at each other as they conversed, Benedict and Sophie flashing fleeting smiles at one another across the room. The way Lord Anderson turned to her mother like she hung the moon. Francesca looked back to Michaela, who caught her eye with a smile, and Francesca couldn’t help but return it.

The thought hit her like a sudden jolt.

It took all her power to retain her grasp on her teacup. For it was in that small, simple glance that she realised how foolish she had been, how utterly and totally blind to her own feelings. It was silly, how wrong it should've been for her to feel this way, and yet it was with a vivid clarity that Francesca realised how truly right it was.

Only Michaela could ever make her feel this way. Only Michaela could drive her from the shadows with laughter and cups of tea and shared companionship. Francesca realised that now.

The intelligent thing to do would have been to ignore it. If Francesca was wiser she would’ve shied away from the truth, buried it back down to where it had been hidden for so long. But Francesca had spent her whole life being measured, and proper, and wise. She had tired of it long ago, she realised. Now was the time for action.

The rest of their afternoon visit to Bridgerton house was spent in familiar conversation and shared glances. She could barely make it through the afternoon. For, now that Francesca could recognise the love - for that is what this was, she was certain - in her own gaze, she could not help but see it reflected back at her in Michaela’s eyes. 

All the things Michaela had told her, of love, and of desire, Francesca was sure she understood now. It was a shared language, and Francesca realised all too suddenly that she had been speaking it fluently all along. Each time Michaela looked at her she felt her heart leap with the knowledge that she had finally, finally, figured it out. When they readied to leave, and Michaela’s finger brushed hers, Francesca swore that the heat it sent through her could rival even the most blazing of pyres.

oh kiss me like the final meal
yeah kiss me like we die tonight

On returning home, Michaela smiled and retreated to her study, citing a stack of papers that required her attention. Francesca wished she had the patience to allow it, but she was quickly figuring out that such passion waits for no man. Or rather, no woman. She lasted all of thirty minutes before she found herself striding down the hallway, her feet carrying her almost of their own accord. It seemed her body had been waiting a while for her mind to catch up.

She did not knock. This was her house, and she intended, for once, to act like it. It was only when Michaela smiled up at her, surprised no doubt, but still pleased, that she realised she had not exactly planned out her words.

“I need to speak with you.”

Michaela stayed silent, her smile expectant. Francesca continued.

“I understand now.”

Michaela’s smile remained, though Francesca could see it turn questioning. She relaxed back into her chair with a cautious smirk. “Do you wish to enlighten me? For while you may understand, I fear I do not.”

“I understand what you meant about love.”

“Ah, I see.” Francesca hated the way she could now recognise the reason that Michaela’s shoulders sagged, no matter how slight her change in posture. She longed to take her in her arms and show her what she meant, but words had escaped her for so long, and she did not intend to let them remain unsaid for a second longer. With a deep breath, she stepped forward, and when she spoke it was with a confidence she had never previously possessed.

“I love you, Michaela. Not in the way one loves a friend, or a cousin-in-law, or whatever else we might pretend that we are to one another. I love you like I should’ve loved my husband, and I understand now why I could not.” 

Michaela was looking at her in shock. Francesca faltered slightly at her own mention of John, but she could not cease now. Not when she was so close. 

“I could not because my heart was waiting for you. You told me your stance was merely a facet of your birth, but now I am telling you that the way I feel for you is a facet of mine. I was born with your name on my tongue, and the imprint of your hand around my heart. I look at you and I understand what they all meant when they talked about love.”

Her voice was deep in a way she could not recognise, urgent in a way she could not control. They had joked that if she ever began to talk up a storm it would warrant Michaela's full attention, but now Francesca needed that desperately to be true. She needed Michaela to understand, needed her to see inside Francesca in a way that no one ever had before. She needed her to know.

Francesca had only seen Michaela truly speechless once before, and it was a day that she did not wish to remember, but she was speechless now. She realised only then that she had moved closer during her speech, so much so that she now stood in front of Michaela’s chair. She towered over her, close enough reach out and touch her.

Michaela stood slowly. “Frannie, I-”

Francesca cut her off. She knew what Michaela was going to say. She would try to sway her, to shield her. She did not wish for platitudes, did not wish to be protected any longer. The urgency in her voice rose so that she was almost shouting, her voice rushing out of her in a breathless torrent. It was as though she were begging now.

“No, Mick! If this is wicked then I ask that I be damned to hell, for the fires of hell could hold no flame to the heat that has surged inside of me! There is a fire in my soul, Michaela, and it will not be quenched until I have tasted every inch of you, until you have moulded and reshaped me into the person I am meant to be. I have walked through this world blind, unaware of the passion that I could hold in my heart, but now it has been unleashed and I fear I shall never know another day of peace until you are mine.”

When she finished, she was breathing hard. Michaela’s hand found her chest, and the two of them stared at each other for one long, crazed moment.

“Kiss me then.” Michaela whispered. “If it is true - that you will die if you do not touch me - then kiss me like it is your last night on Earth. Kiss me like I am the last thing you will ever taste.”

Michaela's hand was burning against her skin. When Francesca spoke, it was in a desperate whisper. “Will you kiss me back?” 

Michaela did not answer in words. She surged forward, and when Francesca's lips met hers, she knew their understanding was mutual.

when my face is chamois-creased
if you think i wink i did
laugh politely at repeats
yeah kiss me when my lips are thin

If Francesca had thought the life they shared before was happy, whatever they now shared was bordering on true domestic bliss. The transition from friends to something more had been nothing short of easy, the two of them falling in step besides one another. Much of their daily life remained unchanged, and it was from that that Francesca knew she had done the right thing in igniting this passion between them. They had been playing house for a long while, it was only natural that they might go the extra step and do it properly.

Natural, in fact, was the perfect word for it. Francesca could not fathom how the love they shared would be shamed if they were to present it before the eyes of the ton, because nothing had ever felt so correct. 

They still sat together in the morning room. They still brought each other tea. Only now, when Michaela listened to Francesca play, she was free to drape her arms over Francesca’s shoulders and press soft kisses to her neck until Francesca’s sheet music was all but forgotten. Francesca would protest her distraction, but for her part was liable to do much the same. Francesca had caught onto the power of feminine wiles quite quickly, and she demonstrated her skill often. On nights when Michaela worked late, Francesca would appear, tea in hand, kneading Michaela’s shoulders until she looked up from her books and followed her to bed. 

On certain occasions, in fact, they would not even make it as far as the office door, and the books would be swept aside and the tea left to go cold. Michaela would tease, saying that Francesca was responsible for clearing up the mess of her files, and Francesca would simply pull her back to the desk, citing that she merely wished to demonstrate to Michaela all that she had learnt under her excellent tutelage. They both would laugh, and it was perfect.

This dance they engaged in was known only to them, borne from dark corners and sneaking around the shadows. They followed the steady push and pull of one another, sometimes giving, sometimes receiving, but always away from the prying eyes of others. Their love was for them and them alone, told only in morning confessions whispered into linen-creased skin, or in knowing winks across a ballroom.

The ball they had attended last night had been one such occasion. Their positions as a titled spinster and a dowager afforded them a certain amount of freedom from society events, but they still attended the odd few to keep up appearances. Thankfully, Francesca’s large family meant there was no shortage of events hosted by friendly faces, and so they were able to sustain an image by limiting their attendance to those alone. Last night it had been the turn of Colin and Penelope.

Just the thought of Michaela’s outfit last night was enough to still the movement of Francesca's fingers across the keys. Michaela looked up from where she lounged to raise an eyebrow at the faltering of the music. Francesca simply rolled her eyes and continued. Michaela knew her too well.

The ball had been agony, in truth. Penelope had hosted an excellent event, but Francesca could barely find it in her care about decorations or table settings when Michaela was stood next to her in that dress, and Francesca was unable to touch her. She endured the dances with various Lords for politeness’s sake, as did Michaela, but when their fingers brushed as they passed one another on the dance floor it was hard to ignore her true desires. 

Thankfully, Michaela, ever attuned to her, had offered a wink and a nod across the room, and they had been able to sneak a moment amidst hedgerows without raising suspicion. The main event, naturally, had to wait until they arrived back home, and so it was only in the darkness of their bedroom, with the drapes pulled tight, that Michaela finally undid her corset, and showed her the extent of her desire.

“Why have you stopped playing, Frannie? Something on your mind?” Michaela’s voice was followed swiftly by the touch of her hand trailing down Francesca’s shoulder. She shifted on her stool. Michaela, naturally, noticed. “Uncomfortable?”

Francesca smiled at her sheet music. “My corset is a little too tight. I think you may have been overzealous in your lacing this morning.”

“Oh really? Perhaps it needs… loosening?” Michaela reached for the back of her dress, and Francesca nudged her hand away with a laugh. That line was a favourite of Michaela’s, and yet it made Francesca smile every time.

“Not in here! The curtains are open.”

“The drapes are open. The voile curtains are actually firmly shut, as always.”

“You know what I mean.”

Michaela nodded, and her eyes softened. “Does it bother you so? That we cannot be like other couples in the ton?”

“I hardly think other couples in the ton are making love in front of their windows either.”

“You know what I mean.”

Francesca nodded, because she did. This was the hardship Michaela had talked about, the burden of knowing one held a love equal to others in all but name, and yet unable to declare it. “I suppose - a little. It is not to say that I do not like what we have, or that I wish to show you off, or anything. It is just… I wish I could dance with you at a ball. I wish I did not have to endure you dancing in the arms of others, or entertaining suitors as though you are anything but mine. I wish we didn’t have to pretend.”

“I know. I am sorry, Frannie. I wish I could give you that.”

“Don’t be,” Francesca cupped Michaela’s cheek, her thumb brushing it lightly. “It is not your fault. Besides, I am happy to have you all to myself.”

Michaela’s lips thinned into a soft smile, and Francesca returned it. She leant in to gently press her lips to Michaela’s, and they both smiled wider into the kiss. It was true, thought Francesca, that this would be enough. No matter how it might feel to walk arm in arm with Michaela, holding her like this would always be preferable.

cause holy cow I love your eyes
and only now I see the light
yeah lying with you half awake, stumbling over what to say
oh anyway, it’s looking like a beautiful day.

so throw those curtains wide
one day like this a year would see me right

Michaela was still asleep when Francesca awoke. She watched the steady rise and fall of her love’s chest, and took comfort in the fact that her skin was warm to the touch. Once again, they had gravitated towards each other in sleep. Francesca did not think she would ever grow accustomed to the feeling of Michaela in her bed. She did not want to. She wanted to wake each morning to the shock and delight of seeing such a beautiful woman in her bed. She wanted to take pleasure in the fact that Michaela had chosen her, over and over again.

Bathed in the early morning light, Francesca knew with certainty that she could stay trapped in this moment forever. That would be enough.

In the drawing room at Bridgerton House, there hung a portrait of her parents. Francesca could remember looking up at it as a child with Eloise, the two of them searching for glimpses of their own faces in their father’s. She had thought she knew grief then, she had seen it on the face of her mother and thought she’d understood it. She knew now that she had not.

She remembered looking at it again, freshly debuted at eighteen, searching this time not for similarities with her father, but for the permission to be different. She had looked at her parent’s embrace in the portrait and wondered if it was okay that she did not feel a love that burned like theirs. She told herself that what she had with John was just different, and she supposed she had been right. Just not in the way she had foreseen.

After John passed, her search had changed again. Sitting in the Bridgerton drawing room, watching love bloom all around her, shining in the eyes of her siblings, taunting her in their soft touches. Their simple domesticity had felt like a knife to the heart, but she could not turn away. She had had to pull her eyes away from the laughter of the children on the rug, and her eyes had found that portrait. She hadn’t cried, not there, not then. Her tears had long since dried up. But she had looked at that portrait, and could not search it for anything.

It had hurt her, to look at it. She couldn’t understand why her mother would want to keep that static moment, the two of them frozen in time as a constant reminder. It made her sick to her stomach to think of enduring the rest of her life under John’s watchful gaze. To see him every day and be reminded of all the good in him, and the unbearable knowledge that he was gone forever. She had turned away from the portrait, and instead she had searched desperately in her mother for the way to carry on.

Next to her, Michaela stirred a little. Seeing her here, she understood now why her mother would keep that portrait there. The feeling that swelled in her chest told her. She wanted to remember this moment forever. This feeling alone, she knew, could tide her over for a whole year. One kiss with Michaela could be rationed and stored, tucked away in her heart like a sailor rationing tack for a stormy day, and she knew in her heart that one moment like this could sustain her hunger.

Michaela awoke properly then, and even as she blinked the sleep from her eyes she found Francesca’s eyes first. Francesca smiled, and Michaela smiled back. The curtains had fallen away slightly in the night, and though the sheer inners remained shut, Michaela's skin was dappled in light, her braids almost glittering as they fell across the pillow. Her eyes, dark brown usually, shone like amber in the morning sun, and looking into them Francesca thought that perhaps her very soul was laid bare.

“I love your eyes.” Francesca murmured into the pillow. 

“Sweet talker.” Michaela whispered back, as she shifted closer. Her hand came up to brush Francesca's hair out of her face.

“I just-” Francesca hadn’t stumbled over her words in such a way in a long while. “I think that-” She chewed her lip, “I want-”

Michaela kissed her lips to silence her with a smile. “I know. I know what you want to say.” Francesca nodded. She didn’t even quite know what it was she wanted to say, but she knew Michaela understood. She always understood.

“We should get up.” Francesca knew she sounded rather reluctant. Michaela echoed that by pressing a kiss to Francesca’s collar bone.

“Should we?”

“My mother is coming over. You have things to do.” Her tone was about as firm as she could make it, which, given the fact a pretty woman was kissing her neck, was not very firm. Still though, Michaela acquiesced, and together they rose from the bed.

Francesca continued to muse as Michaela’s deft fingers laced her up, as they shared slow kisses and soft laughs in between their usual morning routine. She pressed her lips to Michaela’s nape as she gathered her braids into an updo, and they spoke of trivial things as they both dressed. Michaela kissed her sweetly in the doorway of her office, and then Francesca bade her a good day, with the promise of sending tea and biscuits when her family arrived. 

Francesca entered the morning room, and resolutely, she threw open the curtains.