Chapter Text
You have betrayed me, Eros.
You have sent me
my true love.
— Louise Glück, “The Reproach”
The Hawkins’ country seat is as good a place as any to make her entry into society, Michaela thinks as she enters the ballroom on John’s arm.
The theme of the ball is ‘Innovations’ and true to its promise, there are technical marvels and other such curious distractions in every corner. Automatons, lamps that burn gas instead of candlewax, and several scientific instruments that Michaela could not dream to know the purpose of—these all will do a very good job in distracting tonight’s attendees from the fact that another eligible young lady had joined their ranks.
If she can make it through tonight without a single turn on the dance floor, Michaela will consider it a capital evening, indeed.
John knows of her reservations, or reads them from her face, for as they pass by the apparatus of some astronomer he leans in and says: “You look as if you are to be shipped off to the penal colony on the morrow.”
“The morrow, or a fortnight hence—however long it shall take for the first suitor to announce himself,” she mutters.
Used to her theatrics, John only smiles and pats the gloved hand that sits tucked in the crook of his elbow. “I shan’t begrudge you for hiding from the eligible gentlemen of the Ton, if that is what you so desire,” he assures her. “In fact, I suppose you could delay marrying for at least a season or two—I daresay I will be able to sufficiently deflect the family’s attention from you, with my own foray onto the marriage mart.”
“And you do not know how much I appreciate that,” Michaela replies, grimacing at her cousin. “As much as I hope you find a wife suited to you—please, take all the time you need.”
John laughs and with that, lets her go, off to make good on his intentions. Michaela watches him approach a group of debutantes and huffs, smiling as she watches him bow and strike up conversation.
She does wish to see him succeed this season, disregarding the direct consequence of how their Mamas’ attentions will invariably shift back onto her, when he marries. John became the Earl at too young an age and Michaela has always thought he ought to have someone to support him and to accompany him, other than herself.
For now, she leaves him to it and finds an opportune place to hide for at least the next several dances: behind an ornate column, right next to the refreshments table. Out of the sight of most of the guests, but fortunately just within reach of the drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
Michaela does not intend to meet anyone there. In fact, she is quite contentedly sipping her punch and gazing at the assorted couples gliding through the room, when she spots someone in her peripheral vision.
A tall girl, wearing a shimmering, gilded gown and an increasingly rosy blush, has joined her at the table and is staring at her. Quite unabashedly, at that; so much so that she nearly tips over a glass of punch in her effort to acquire one.
“Good evening,” Michaela greets, at the exact moment the girl says: “I have not seen—”
“Oh—my apologies.”
“No, sorry,” the girl abandons her punch after one large gulp in favour of wringing her hands together.
They have not been introduced, Michaela is quite certain. Those almond-shaped eyes, so wide one should fear tipping over and falling into them, those high cheekbones and that sharp chin; it is not a face she could have soon forgotten.
“I meant to say—” the girl continues, “I have not seen you before. My brother abandoned me to a host of importunate gentlemen on our arrival; but then I saw you over here, and I thought I would rather make your acquaintance.”
“I do not usually frequent London,” Michaela supplies, by means of explanation. “I reside in Scotland for the better part of the year, you see.”
“Scotland?” the girl replies with wide eyes. “That is quite the journey. I am afraid I have never ventured further north than York.”
“Hence why I do not make the trip very often.” Michaela smirks as she extends a hand. “Michaela Stirling; pleased to make your acquaintance. You shall have a standing invitation to stay with my family in Kilmartin, if you ever do so desire to see the Highlands for yourself—it is a sight to behold in autumn, I assure you.”
The girl shakes her hand with sure fingers. According to the proper politesse, it must be quite unseemly for ladies to shake hands; as it is to strike up a conversation with a stranger when one lacks the necessary third party to provide the introductions.
Yet here they are, blissfully trampling over these drawn up lines. “Francesca Bridgerton,” the girl introduces herself. “It is my pleasure, entirely.”
“Well then, Miss Francesca, let us drink to an enjoyable evening, and to new friends well met.” Michaela picks up a fresh glass of punch and holds it up, for Francesca to clink hers against.
“Hear, hear,” Francesca affirms and they take a drink in tandem.
Together, they watch as the musicians strike up the next tune and the room buzzes with the migratory movements of couples from and to the floor, in preparation for the next set.
An unassuming man wearing a lime green cravat approaches them then. “Ah—Miss Bridgerton,” he begins, a clear tremor audible in his voice. “Might I have the honour of your next dance?”
He is quite clearly staring at Francesca and Michaela watches the interaction with something akin to fascination.
Francesca, on her part, looks startled as a mouse in a cook’s pantry. “Oh, I, erm…” Her eyes shoot from the suitor to the floor, to Michaela—searching, imploring—and falters.
“Please excuse Miss Francesca, my lord,” Michaela remarks, answering in her stead. “I have sprained my ankle and she was ever so kind, offering to keep me company on the side-lines.”
The man smiles and nods. “Graceful and kind, as befits a Diamond—perhaps another time, Miss.”
A hint of alarm remains on Francesca’s face when he leaves; she turns her back to the room and commits to sipping her punch.
“Did I hear correctly?” Michaela engages her, hoping to set her at ease with a gentle smile. “Has the Queen named you her Incomparable? That is quite the commendation.”
Francesca hums as she hides behind another sip. “I thought it would ease the effort of finding a husband, but I am afraid such a title comes with a number of bothersome expectations; not to mention the torrent of suitors pressing their attentions upon me.”
“Ah, the dilemma of abundance. The more options one has, the harder it becomes to pick one.”
“Yes—and I would have a considerably easier time of it if the gentlemen of the ton were not so lacking,” Francesca laments.
A decidedly curious thing to be dismayed by, Michaela thinks. Her eyes lazily track across the room. Most of these debutantes would do anything to be in Francesca’s position; coveted to the point of exhaustion, but with the whole lot to choose from.
“What issue have you found with them?” Michaela asks, eager to hear more. They are opposites after a fashion, Francesca with her score of suitors and Michaela with her bare absence of them; it should prove entertaining at the very least, to hear about the experience, even if Michaela is the furthest thing from envious of it.
“Well, the majority have been… Decent, I suppose.” Francesca’s glass has run dry and she plays with it now, spinning it on its foot and making it dance in circles on the tablecloth, keeping in time with the music. “It has been a constant stream of them, rather. An overabundance of decent, eager young men, all of whom have found me inexplicably interesting, where all I have found them to be is sorely unremarkable. That is to say—” Her dark eyes shoot up and meet Michaela’s. There’s a pleading quality to them, as she continues: “For all everyone has told me about what love ought to feel like, love itself has remained agonisingly elusive.”
Ah.
Matters of the heart, of course, come into play quite easily for the most eligible Miss of the season; but to marry for love is a feat much easier said than done. Michaela cannot help but empathise.
“Perhaps it is not the suitors that are the issue, but the manner in which you encounter them,” she suggests. “I daresay no person has ever been swept off their feet with a chaperone present.”
Francesca looks positively horrified at that; a fact Michaela takes some pleasure in and she is content to let Francesca sit with the insight for a moment, as she finishes her punch.
“…Are you speaking from experience?” she manages, eventually.
Michaela chuckles. “A lady never tells,” she replies, delighting in the way Francesca’s face flushes. “But, to be completely earnest with you—” She leans in somewhat, as if she is sharing a big secret. “—None of these gentlemen particularly strike my fancy, either.”
Nor had she made an attempt to get to know anyone well enough to make such an assessment; a man, at the end of the day, is still a man. What more is there to know?
“What will you do if you do not find anyone suitable?” Francesca asks, her eyes wide with a sincerity that borders on pleading. Michaela suspects it is a question she has asked herself and to date, has found no satisfying answer to.
It is true, such answers are scarce. This world does not look too kindly upon those women who fail to marry, regardless of whether they have had any say in the matter.
Michaela supposes she ought to consider herself lucky for having prepared in advance for such a scenario. “I’d be quite at ease, on the shelf,” she confesses.
Francesca’s jaw drops ever so slightly. “Surely, you jest.”
“I can admit dancing and making conversation are fine pastimes,” Michaela explains, “but I am not keen to court anyone lesser than what I would consider the perfect candidate. If one fails to materialise, I should be quite at ease living out my days by myself, with only my friends and my family for company.”
“Do not let my Mama hear you say that,” Francesca says, laughing breathlessly. “Truthfully, I am eager to marry, if only to rid myself of all the scrutiny and attention that accompanies the endeavour.”
“These matters are often arduous and confusing without any good reason; one’s happiness ought to be paramount, I rather think,” Michaela concludes. “Whichever way one manages to achieve it—through marriage, or otherwise.”
Francesca hums, looking thoughtful, yet content. “You would like my sister Eloise,” she tells Michaela with a tentative smile. “She is of a similar mind.”
“On that recommendation alone, I am already predisposed to like her,” Michaela tells her in return, hoping to see her blush again—sure enough, the compliment does cause that rosy tint to return to her cheeks.
As the musicians play the closing measures of the quadrille, they remain like that; tethered to the refreshment table, having fallen silent, but smiling at one another in that suspended moment.
And it is over too soon.
The next song, a jaunty tune, is struck up and it appears to jostle Francesca from her thoughts. She looks slightly dazed, as if she is only just now remembering there is a world beyond its very edge, where they have been loitering.
“I ought to go,” she starts, smiling, yet sounding a little disappointed over the fact. “I was introduced to Lord Samadani the other day, it would be rude of me not to seek him out tonight.”
“Such is the fate of the Queen’s Incomparable,” Michaela says, granting her a sympathetic smile.
“Will I see you again?” Francesca asks.
“I will remain in London until my cousin marries, at the very least,” Michaela answers, “so yes, I do believe we will see much more of one another, this season.”
The smile that spreads on Francesca’s face is wide and unguarded. “I am glad to hear it. Until next time then, Miss Stirling.”
Michaela nods at her in parting. “And to you, Miss Bridgerton.”
She watches her slink back into the fray of the bucks and pinks, all of whom ogle her like huntsmen would a fawn in the woods, with varying degrees of salaciousness—Michaela cringes and turns her back to the room once more.
The night drags on and eventually John finds her again, this time stood before a scale model of a steam engine, listening with rapidly waning interest to the expert rattle on about its practical applications in industry and transportation.
“John!” Michaela exclaims the moment she sees him, eager to hear some gossip, at long last. She links arms with him and turns away from the engine, strongarming him into a turn about the room. “Tell me,” she asks, leaning in to whisper, “have you found your perfect candidate yet?”
John chuckles. “It is too early yet to tell, I am afraid,” he starts, ever the rational one, “but I have to say, one or two did catch my eye.”
Michaela grins. “Oh? Do tell.”
“Well, just now, I met someone…” John’s gaze strays towards the dance floor and the people, gathered in clusters around it, as if trying to seek her out again, now. “A most charming young lady, of a like mind to mine—I was just outside, you see, relishing a moment of peace and quiet, when she came out in search of just that.” A content smile spreads on his face. “And so we stood there for a moment, together.”
“She sounds like she could be well-suited to you,” Michaela remarks. “Most young ladies I know would have anxiously tried to fill such silence, or have quickly abandoned you there.”
“Quite,” John says, smiling.
“I do hope you got her name.”
“I did. Francesca Bridgerton,” he reveals, and Michaela quite abruptly feels as if the ground has shifted under her feet—she wavers, ever so slightly, and her grip on John’s arm tightens in the effort to steady herself.
Of course, Francesca Bridgerton would have captured his fancy—she feels foolish for not considering the possibility. Miss Francesca is earnest, charming and the Queen’s favourite with good reason; she is well-bred, well-educated and, above all, the most beautiful creature to grace this ball—she would be considered the prime candidate by anyone possessing working eyes and the sense to use them.
“I made her acquaintance tonight, as well,” Michaela reveals. “She is quite lovely, certainly. Although I do imagine there will be scores of men vying for her hand.”
“It is no matter,” John responds. “What will be, will be, as they say.”
And it will, of course. Michaela still rolls her eyes at the sentiment.