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Francesca sat by the fireplace, both her body and her heart warmed.
Michaela had promised to stay. And she knew that it meant a lot, she was extremely familiar with Michaela’s habit of disappearing and reappearing at random. She could still feel Michaela’s hand in her own, soft and sturdy, although she was slightly confused at why Michaela had pulled away. Francesca noticed a member of the household walking by, and called them over.
“Have you seen Miss Stirling?”
Although they had only talked mere hours ago, Francesca wished to be in Michaela’s presence as much as possible. She would not have believed you if she had been told this only weeks ago, but the other woman’s company was both comforting and exciting.
“Did she not inform you?”
Francesca looked up, confused. Did Michaela inform her of what?”
“Miss Stirling has packed her bags and left.”
For a moment, Francesca felt frozen in place, shock washing over her. Michaela left? But she had only just promised to stay. What on earth had occurred in the short time between then and now to force her to leave?
Francesca suddenly bolted from her seat, walking briskly to the front door. She ignored the pleas of the staff to remain inside and their hurried warnings of the weather, and ran out into the darkened street.
She heard the sound of wheels rolling over the cobbled street, and turned to face it, finding a carriage accelerating down the road. Francesca felt her feet move before she could think, suddenly running after the carriage, completely undeterred by the thundering rain. There was a desperation in her pace, the fear of being left alone seeping into her bones.
She heard herself shout. “Michaela!”
When there was no sign of recognition she finally gave up, her steps slowing until she stood still, watching on helplessly as the carriage rode off into the distance.
But as it turned a corner, she caught sight of its passenger, who locked eyes with Francesca. Michaela opened her mouth as if to say something, as if her voice could be heard over the rain hitting the pavement. But before Francesca could begin to decode the words falling from her lips, the carriage sped on behind a building and was completely out of sight.
Francesca could not decipher whether the water running down her cheeks was rainwater, or her own tears.
She had been ushered back inside, wrapped in warm blankets and provided dry clothes. The household looked at her like she was a little insane, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She overheard one member of the staff whispering about the situation, wondering what would bring the Lady Kilmartin to do something so uncharacteristically reckless.
“She is a Bridgerton, after all.”
Francesca felt her heart lift a little at that. Yes, she still was.
Francesca was exhausted, and the thought of spending another night sleeping in a chair by the fire made her neck ache in disapproval. She could not bear to sleep in her own room, the ghost of John still haunting it.
She slowly meandered down the hallways, finding herself lingering outside of Michaela’s room. She peeked around the doorframe quietly, as if Michaela might still be inside. But she only found a room identical to any other, empty of any sign of the woman.
The drawers were empty, and the desk clear. The only sign of activity was the dishevelled bedsheets and a footstool knocked over, left over from her hurry to leave, it seemed.
Francesca collapsed into the bed, her legs finally giving in. She turned around to get more comfortable and found herself overtaken by Michaela’s scent, a woody oak smell with a hint of something sweet surrounding her entirely.
Francesca slept well that night, but the image of Michaela’s indecipherable look through the carriage window was burnt into her memory.
As the days turned to weeks, Francesca’s deep sadness turned into red hot anger.
It was enough for Michaela to leave Francesca alone in a house that had memories of John around every corner, but it was something else entirely to promise her commitment and then run away without a simple goodbye.
When her anger rose to the surface, Francesca found she could no longer seek solace in Michaela’s bedroom, as the feelings it brought out were too raw and real. Instead she slept - or, perhaps more accurately, attempted to sleep - in one of the house’s spare bedrooms. It made her feel like a guest in her own home, but in all honesty that was the truth. John and Michaela were the only real Kilmartins by blood, and one was dead and the other god knows where.
Michaela’s departure not only left Francesca alone to deal with her grief, but it also meant she did not have someone understanding on her side when the House of Lords came knocking once more to ensure an heir was found.
Her family were by her side, of course, but they did not truly understand how she felt, and the only person who did was, well, out of action. The men from the Parliament were following orders, and Francesca could understand that, at least to a degree. But there were many things she wished she could shout in their faces that would land her into a scandal.
But Francesca could never tell anyone about this boiling anger, and so she brought it out onto the keys of her pianoforte, the melodies of Bach and Beethoven being played with a fury she did not know she possessed.
After six months, a letter arrived. As the time passed, Francesca had felt her veil of sadness begin to slip away.
But, as she lifted the letter from its envelope, revealing much too familiar handwriting on the parchment, those feelings felt fresher than ever. There was a new feeling, though, a small ember igniting deep in her soul - hope. It burned bright and strong, as she let herself imagine the things Michaela could have written.
Without thinking, she lifted the letter to her face, and was met with that once familiar sweet, oaky scent. Even if she never read the letter, or had not seen its contents, she would have recognised it by scent alone. How could she not?
Dear, Francesca,
I truly apologise for my leaving.
I wish I could have remained at your side, but I could not stay one more day in that house with John’s shadow looming over me.
I have been travelling around the Continent, and as much as the sunlight is doing my complexion wonders, the grief has not yet softened.
I do hope you are doing well. I think of you often.
Yours,
Michaela
Francesca let the letter drop to the floor, the flame of hope in her chest extinguished. Her anger had calmed over their time apart, but never truly left, still simmering under the surface. It now all came flooding back. How dare Michaela run off on what sounds like a holiday? Francesca was stranded in London alone, dealing with wills and heirs and her own grief, while Michaela roamed in the sun, probably meeting a new lover each night.
The idea of Michaela making and breaking dalliances made her flare with anger, but it also triggered an ache in her heart that she did not have the time or appropriate head space to look into.
And she had the gall to sign it off with ‘yours’. If Michaela was truly ‘hers’ then she would have never left.
Francesca skimmed her eyes over the writing once more before throwing it into the fireplace. There was a small tug in her chest at the action, a small seed of potential regret planting itself in her heart. But the overwhelming satisfaction of watching the paper curl up and disintegrate in the flames made any other feelings merely background noise.
Francesca doesn’t write back.
Another six months passes, and suddenly it has been a year.
The time had not flown past, in fact it had dragged on, the days feeling much longer than they once had. But the months had allowed her to heal, at least partly. Her feelings of grief, anger and loneliness had all subsided, but instead of Francesca feeling joy, she walked around her home feeling numb.
Her mother had noticed her demeanour, and of course she had - Violet Bridgerton was nothing if not extremely perceptive. She had suggested that Francesca could perhaps begin the transition from her all black outfits into something more neutral, and that maybe that would help. Francesca was not so sure, but she would never turn down a suggestion from her mother, so her wardrobe soon changed from entirely black to light greys, whites and beiges.
It did not work for Francesca, but it did prevent most of the pitying looks from her extended family, so there was at least an upside.
Francesca slowly nursed her glass of wine while half-listening to her brothers talk of love. She had let herself be convinced by her sister to attend a Bridgerton family soiree, and she was beginning to feel the impact. She loved her brothers, truly, but she had heard these stories at least a hundred times. They loved to shout about their spouses from the rooftops, and although they had hesitated and stopped immediately after John’s passing, it did not take too long for their rejoicing to recommence.
Anthony was joyfully retelling his romance with Kate in extreme detail, as always. It seemed every time he told the tale there were some new minute details that he had not said before, and whether he was making it up or remembering new things, Francesca did not know.
Francesca also didn’t know why, but she found herself listening more carefully to Anthony’s voice, as he recounted his anger towards Kate, and their mutual hatred for each, which was of course, thinly disguised love.
There was something almost familiar in the story, and not that she had heard it a thousand times. It was almost as if it resonated with her, a small part of herself saying listen! this is what I’ve been trying to tell you! But what it was trying to tell her, she could not decipher.
Francesca found herself talking before she could think it through. “But how did you realise those feelings were love?”
Anthony blinked twice, as if he had forgotten she was there, and the rest of her family looked at her in mixed expressions of shock and confusion at her question. He looked deep in thought for a moment before answering carefully.
“There were lots of small moments. There are some I still look back on now and realise I was being truly idiotic. As much as Kate truly irritated me, I constantly sought out her presence, and yearned after her when she was gone. There was a pleasure I felt in our sharpest conversations, and not the kind you get from wielding a particularly witty remark to an enemy.
“But it was mostly the pull I felt towards her, like I was constantly reaching for her even if we were not remotely in the same place. I remember standing by her side and having to physically restrain myself from reaching out and grabbing her hand. In hindsight it was obvious, but I was so lost in myself I could not see what was right in front of me. Her.”
Francesca felt breathless, the thundering of her heart and the irritating whirring of her brain distracting her from the conversation’s awkward pause.
All evening she could not shake herself from the feeling that something had shifted. She spent her carriage ride home lost in thought, trying to work out what had clicked.
As she arrived back at Kilmartin she wandered the halls aimlessly, as she often found herself this past year. She found herself in the parlour, eyes drawn to the shelves neatly stacked with jigsaw puzzles. And like she often did, she found her mind wandering to Michaela.
She was flooded with memories of arguments over the correct position of pieces, of Michaela’s triumphant smile when they completed a puzzle and how it had made the room glow a little brighter. And her mind lingered on one particular memory, when Francesca had delegated the task of finding edge pieces to Michaela, and how their hands had brushed in the pile of pieces. Michaela seemed unaffected, but Francesca remembers feeling like she had been struck by lightning, like someone had finally turned on a lamp in the dark.
She had dismissed it at the time as excitement over the activity, and of course she had John then. But now? Now she was left only with her thoughts, and they were beginning to put themselves together just like the puzzles.
The more she thought about it, the more moments she remembered. It was like coming up for fresh air, the truth becoming overwhelmingly clear.
Those feelings of hatred and of irritation and distaste, were not because she had disliked Michaela, but because she disliked the way she felt around her. Francesca thought back to their first meeting, and how she had stumbled over something as simple as her own name, so taken by the woman in front of her. There was something undeniably stranger about the encounter that she had found uncomfortable.
But she now realised that it was because Michaela, in her first introduction, had stirred up feelings in her. Feelings that she should have felt for John, for her husband. But she had felt instead for his cousin.
Francesca felt sick. The whole time, these past few years, she had been infatuated and she had been completely unaware.
Francesca gently took one of the boxes from the shelf, and set down with shaking hands onto the floor. She opened the lid to find a hair pin amongst the pieces, embellished with a small ‘M’. Even from afar, Michaela haunted her.
Francesca sobbed.
As hard as she tries, Michaela cannot escape Francesca. She sees her face in shadowed alleyways, in candlelit bedrooms, even in tourists and passersby.
She had fled from London to create some space, her feelings becoming too apparent and real. Feelings that she would never act on. Feelings that she had pushed down while John was alive in respect for her cousin, and that she had continued to suppress after his death.
As she grew closer and closer to Francesca, there was always some looming reminder of John - a portrait, a window shrouded in black silk, an unfinished letter on his desk. It was becoming unbearable.
And then Francesca had asked her to stay. And truly she wanted to - the only reason she wished to leave was because of how strongly she felt for her. And though Michaela knew those feelings were not wrong, at least in the sense that they were not unnatural or sinful, it still felt like a crime when her eyes lingered too long on exposed skin, or when their arms would brush in a crowded room.
And then Francesca had taken her hand, so gently, and looked at her with such reverence that Michaela’s mind had made the decision for her. Leaving without a goodbye was cruel, she knew, but if she had faced Francesca face to face, she would have asked for clarity, and then Michaela would have to lie. She did not know which option was the worst.
The London weather was certainly fitting for the mood, thundering rain battering the windows of Michaela’s carriage. As it turned the corner away from Kilmartin, she took one last look at the house but instead saw Francesca, thoroughly drenched and looking absolutely devastated. Michaela opened her mouth, as if to reply, like it was even remotely possible for Francesca to hear her through the carriage doors and over the heavy rain. But just as soon as she had seen her, she was out of sight again.
Michaela sighed and sunk into the bench.
She whispered, “I’m sorry,” and hoped that, somehow, Francesca had received the message.
Mainland Europe was certainly a nice change of pace. Here, she was mostly unknown, no reputation following her, or predetermined boxes for her to fit into.
There were also a lot of women there, women who were desperate to escape husbands, children, or overbearing families and fall into her arms. And Michaela would never turn down a good time such as that.
Michaela did not earn her title as a rake by being fussy, but some people simply had more of an effect on her than others. And if those women all had golden brown hair with gentle eyes and a soft demeanour, well, she was not going to think about it too much.
This intricate distraction technique - or, as an old friend once called it ‘getting over someone by getting under someone else’ - did work, at least for a time.
But running away was not the solution for grief, nor was it for love.
There were moments when she would be walking through an early morning market, and stumbling upon souvenirs, which she swiftly bought for John before remembering he would not be waiting back in London to receive them.
And when it was late at night, and a lucky woman was seeking their pleasure, Michaela once or twice found herself hallucinating a different face between her legs, one with softer eyes and darker hair.
But when she found the past catching up to her, she simply moved on to another place, the constant travelling keeping her occupied.
Eighteen months passed fairly quickly, in a blur of sun, sweat, and sweet distractions.
There was a part of Michaela that was yearning for Francesca to reach out, to extend an olive branch. But perhaps all the sun had gone to her head - how on earth was Francesca expected to write to her when she had not even a remote idea of Francesca’s location. It was becoming increasingly clearer that it was her responsibility to write first.
Michaela wrote several letters. The first was too direct, much too cold and lifeless, and another went into too much detail of her time away, a topic she was sure that Francesca would not be hoping to hear about. Those pieces of parchment were torn up into shreds, but she had written a third one, completely unsuitable for a first contact after so long apart, that she did not have the heart to destroy.
It was much too honest, her feelings laid on the page raw and real, desire and love evident in every word. Michaela knew that this letter could never see the light of day, but there was a small part of her that wished to hold onto it, and she neatly tucked it into the pages of a tattered book.
The letter she did send was short and to the point, but it expressed her feelings of regret and, to some degree, explained her reasoning for leaving. She knew that Francesca would be unhappy with it, with her, but there was only so much she could do from afar.
As she gave the letter to the postmaster and watched him ride away, she let herself indulge a moment into what the possibilities of Franesca’s reply could entail. But she would never know, for Francesca never wrote back.
It angered her, of course, but Francesca also had every right to be angry at her.
As the two year anniversary of her departure for London grew near, Michaela knew her return was inevitable, that the simplest method of obtaining a reply would be in person. And although she was honestly quite terrified of what that could entail, she boarded a boat bound to England anyway.
And the unsent letter burned a hole in the bottom of her valise.
The halls of Kilmartin house felt so familiar, yet changed.
Gone were the signs of grief and mourning, lights streaming in through the windows. Yet Michaela felt the same cold in the halls that had pushed her to leave in the first place. But as she turned and made her way into the music room, it was as if warmth flooded back into her very being.
Fancesca was sat at the pianoforte, as Michaela had often found her, years ago, and although she did not play a note, her hands rested lightly on the keys, as if in anticipation. Of what, Michaela did not know - perhaps Francesca had felt her presence. She looked the same as she always had, and the gentle blue of her dress suited her far more than the black Michaela had last seen her in. Francesca was so lost in thought that she had not noticed Michaela, who cleared her throat gently.
Francesca turned to the visitor in the doorway, and the cold look on her face made it clear she had not anticipated this.
Michaela took a step forward, but Francesca quickly broke eye contact, frowning down at the piano keys.
“I see you decided it was time to return.”
Her voice was void of any warmth, but also lacked any anger - it was simply neutral. And Michaela, for the life of her, could not read the situation.
“Well, yes. I could not stay away from London forever. I had begun to miss the everlasting rain.”
Francesca lifted her head then, and angled her body towards Michaela, though kept her eyes pointedly focused at the wall next to her.
“I had perhaps thought you were on permanent leave. As you were so eager to leave that you did not bid farewell.”
“I sent a letter. Did you not receive it? I had apologised for my rudeness, I simply needed space.”
“Space?”
Francesca stood up from the piano stool and stalked toward Michaela until they were only a step apart. She thrust a finger in her face, and laughed.
“Space did not require you to leave the country! And the apology - I would hardly call it that. Apologies require more than just ‘sorry’.”
Michaela was glad Francesca was still capable of strong emotions, but she did not enjoy having them directed towards her.
“Francesca, I-”
“No. You do not get to speak now. Not when you should have two years ago. Two years! That is a lot of time, Michaela, to be alone.”
Francesca deflated slightly, her voice tinged with more sadness than anger. Michaela could see tears threatening to fall.
“You signed the letter off with ‘yours’, and that was an insult of the highest degree.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you were mine, truly, then you would not have broken your promise. You would have stayed by my side and we would have faced our grief together. But you left, and that is how I know you are not mine. It does not do well to lie, Michaela.”
Michaela would have preferred if Francesca had punched her in the stomach. It certainly felt the same.
“I am yours, Francesca, and that is why I had to leave. You do not understand.”
“And yet you lie, still. Every night I dream of the last time I saw your face, as you fled without saying goodbye. It has haunted me for these two years, and all I am given in return is a weak attempt at an apology and lies?”
Something seemed to snap inside Michaela, and as she spoke she leaned further into Francesca’s face.
“You want the truth? I shall give you it. I left because I could not bear the feelings you brought out in me. Feelings that I could not dare indulge in. And yet even on the Continent, in cities and towns far from here, I could not escape your face. Every person I met reminded me of you, every market vendor had your smile, every lover I took had your eyes.
“And yes, perhaps my letter was too short, and not appropriate. But I should not feel this way for you, and I could not explain that on parchment. Not when these feelings run so deep that it is a very part of my being.”
Francesca seemed as if she was holding her breath. Her bottom lip quivered as she tried to speak.
“These- these feelings you speak of. What are they?”
The air seemed to crackle around them , electric with possibility. Michaela let her hand brush against Francesca’s and let out a shaky exhale at the sparks it produced.
“It is electric. It is all-encompassing, thoroughly overwhelming and exhilarating. I cannot escape them, and deep down I know I do not desire to. It is love. Francesca I love you, and I have loved you since the very first time I ever set eyes on you. And I fled because my love for you was becoming too real and too much, and I had to leave before I acted on it.”
Francesca’s mouth quirked up at the corner, her eyes bright. She had truly never felt more alive, and took a step closer leaving them only inches apart. She could feel Michaela's breath on her cheek.
“What would be so wrong with acting on your feelings?”
If Michaela did not know better, she would say that Francesca was flirting with her, and it caught her completely off-guard.
“It would change everything. It could be completely ruinous.”
“What is life without a little ruin?”
Michaela exhaled shakily, her entire world narrowing down to Francesca Bridgerton. She lightly pressed one hand to Francesca’s chest - if she had to physically keep herself apart from her then so be it.
“Francesca, you do not know what you are talking about-”
That small touch of Michaela’s hand unlocked something in Francesca, something primal, something that wanted and desired. She could not bear to let Michaela finish, and without thinking leaned forward to close the gap between them. Their lips finally met, gently at first, but soon the kiss became more heated.
As Michaela reached up a hand to caress the nape of Francesca’s neck, Francesca let out a sigh. She felt herself think so this is what it is supposed to feel like, before she fully realised what was occurring and pulled back sharply.
She found herself momentarily distracted by the gorgeous dazed look on Michaela's face, and the devastatingly attractive rapid rise and fall of her chest. But then her eyes wandered and fixated on the wall. Just above Michaela’s left shoulder was a portrait of John. Her late husband John, whom she had loved and who had loved her, and that she was now betraying by-
“I have to go.”
“Francesca?”
Francesca did not turn around at Michaela's voice, too distracted by her panic, and bolted down the hallway and out the front door. She was so preoccupied by her spiraling thoughts that she did not notice the rainfall until her dress was thoroughly soaked. Francesca found herself experiencing an extreme sense of deja vu, once again sobbing in the pouring rain over a woman that she should not want, but that she could not desire more.
“Francesca Bridgerton you absolute hypocrite!”
She turned to find a damp, angry-looking Michaela Stirling stalking towards her. She was moving at such a speed that Francesca was a little nervous Michaela would walk right into her, but instead she stopped just short of her. And roughly shoved her in the chest.
Francesca was taken aback, and could barely catch her breath to speak, but Michaela got there first.
“You do not get to run away at the smallest seed of doubt, when you berated me for doing the same thing, only minutes ago! What is wrong with you?”
Francesca laughed, a maniacal grin taking over her face. Michaela only watched on, extremely confused, as Francesca’s giggled turned into full body sobs.
“I do not know what is wrong with me. I have all these feelings - of which you are well aware of now, I assume. But I cannot stop myself from feeling such intense guilt because of, well, John. It is a betrayal towards him for us to … indulge.”
Michaela reached out to take one of Francesca’s hands in her own, lightly caressing her palm with her thumb. She spent two years ruminating on such thoughts, but it wasn’t until mere minutes ago, when Francesca had been so very brave, that everything had clicked into place.
“Francesca, listen to me. I have had these very same doubts, and I understand your guilt. But John would want us to be happy.”
Francesca sniffled, but did not look up from the muddy patch of grass she was fixated on, scared to meet Michaela's eyes.
“How can you ever be sure?”
Michaela lifted Francesca’s hand to her lips, and gently kissed it. Francesca finally lifted her eyes to look at Michaela and the pure reverence in her gaze matched the feelings in her heart.
“I spoke with John the morning after we put aside our minor disagreements. And he told me that the one thing he wished for was for us to get along. Francesca, he would not want you to mourn him forever. He wanted you to be happy - he wanted both of us to be happy. And the fact that we have found happiness with each other? He only wanted us to be civil, and here we are much closer than that. Let yourself be free of that guilt, I know John would feel the same.”
Francesca could not think of a single word to respond with. She only took in the sight of Michaela, hair flattened by the torrential rain yet looking as beautiful as the first day they met. As always, Francesca preferred silence over noise, so she decided to let her actions speak for themselves, and leaned in and kissed her.
This kiss was not urgent, but it was just as passionate. This time, they were aware it would not be a last kiss, and they savoured every moment.
Michaela ran her tongue slowly over Francesca’s lower lip and committed the groan she received in response to memory. Francesca felt as though she had ascended and gone to heaven, finally understanding all that her family had ever told her about love and affection.
Francesca reached up a hand to caress Michaela’s hair, but when she found it soaking wet, she suddenly realised where they were, and broke off the kiss.
“Good lord, you’re soaked!”
Michaela blushed, and it took her a second to catch up and realise Francesca was talking about the rain.
“Oh, yes. Well, perhaps we should find some shelter. We do not want you becoming ill.”
Francesca grinned, grabbing Michaela’s hand and tugging her back towards the house. She turned around and shot a cheeky grin over her shoulder.
“We should get you out of those clothes. They are much too damp for you to keep on.”
Michaela gasped.
“Francesca Bridgerton, I do not know what it is you are insinuating!”
Francesca stopped and pressed a delicate kiss to Michaela’s forehead before finally pulling them inside. Michaela sighed, and let herself be pulled along to Francesca’s bedroom.
This woman would be the death of her, but who was she to complain?
Francesca woke to sun streaming in through the curtains, illuminating her bedroom with a soft golden glow.
She took her surroundings - two sets of dresses, corsets and undergarments strewn messily over the floor, her bedsheets tangled and creased, and an empty spot next to her where- Wait.
The last she had seen Michaela, she was falling asleep in her arms, and now, she was nowhere to be seen. Francesca sat bolt upright, feeling a familiar sense of panic flood through her. She stood up and found a handwritten note folded on her desk, and picked it up with shaking hands.
My dear Francesca,
Do not fret, I have only disappeared to fetch some breakfast - and some appropriate clothing.
I will never leave your side again, I swear it.
Yours always,
Michaela
Francesca breathed out a sigh of relief, and cradled the letter to her chest. Michaela hadn’t left, and she wasn’t going to. Not that Francesca would ever let her.
“I see you have received my note.”
Francesca whipped around to see Michaela leaning against the closed bedroom door, fully dressed and carrying a tray of breakfast food fit for twenty people. She looked her up and down, and Francesca felt deliciously warm.
“And I see you have not got dressed.”
“Enjoying the view?”
Michaela nodded, and Francesca yanked the sheets from the bed, wrapping them around herself in a makeshift coat.
“Well, savour the memory. Breakfast first.”
Michaela barked out a laugh, and hastily set down the tray before crossing the room in two strides and kissing Francesca. She pulled back and smiled so sweetly that Francesca could melt.
“Whatever my lady asks for, she gets.”
“Do not think your sweet talk will work.”
Michaela shrugged her shoulders, but sat down and began devouring one of the many breakfast pastries.
“It was worth a try.”
The sight of Michaela talking with her mouth half-full, openly flirting with her in her bedroom made Francesca swoon. She took in the scene for a moment more before indulging in breakfast herself.
There would be time for staring later.