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five.
Michaela had spent a considerable amount of her life in a carriage making the two-week trek from Kilmartin to London and back again. It was a price the Scottish nobility paid without complaint. She had long learned how to tolerate the monotony.
As a child, Michaela would make sure to bring her doll with her each way and spent hours brushing its horse hair. As a teenager, she learned to enjoy the view out the window — the moors, the streams, the trees — her country had so much beauty to offer. As an adult, she’d taught herself to overcome any queasiness from reading while in motion, a skill that served her immeasurably. She now could not only read for pleasure but also catch up on her correspondence that she was perpetually, woefully behind on.
They’d made peace, the carriage and she. That is, until she had to make the trip seated across from Francesca Bridgerton.
Francesca Stirling.
She’d seen her across the room at the Featherington ball. The sight of her made Michaela nearly spill her drink. She had been conversing with a man she could not remember now, and she left him mid-sentence to move towards her for a better look. She was beautiful, in a way that made you too frightened to touch. Her features were sharp but her eyes soft. She stood tall, like a marionette doll with her strings pulled taut.
Michaela had never seen a creature like her.
Entranced, she moved closer. John had approached her, so Michaela followed suit to find him already mid-introduction.
She put on her oft-practiced nonchalance, ready to do whatever it took to charm her.
Until, she heard her name.
She was John’s new bride.
Impossibly, she found herself momentarily angry with John. But that was not fair. John had found her and won her heart — and Michaela knew already Francesca was not a woman who gave her heart away easily.
No matter. No harm done. Michaela could simply move along to the next lovely woman.
Or so she thought.
One hour into their carriage ride to Scotland — she, John, Francesca, and her sister Eloise — and Michaela became suddenly quite certain she was doomed.
The more she learned about Francesca, the further she fell. She was quiet but purposeful. She knew simultaneously how to navigate John’s anxiety and Eloise’s zeal. She gave them each the space they needed to be themselves. In moments of silence, her lithe fingers tapped along her knee, as if she were playing a pianoforte tune. She was endearing in her every move.
And worst of all, it was clear as day that she was John’s perfect match.
But for how attuned she was to John and Eloise, Francesca seemed to approach Michaela with an apathy that bordered on disdain.
Halfway through the trip, at a moment alone at night in an inn, Michaela asked John if she had done something to offend Francesca. John assured her that she had not, that Francesca was just cautious around new people. Michaela was not convinced.
By the end of the two weeks, Michaela could hardly keep still. The proximity to Francesca was slowly driving her to madness.
And after they’d arrived, the feeling persisted. Michaela felt herself pent up with an unfamiliar feeling and no where to put it.
She did not last even one night in Kilmartin. She made the decision on instinct — she would visit her dear friend Lady Campbell. A widow with too much time and too much affection for Michaela. She was the only one Michaela could think of who did not need notice before a visit.
She would not be able to distract herself from Kilmartin and its new lady forever, but she’d try her best.
four.
The time they’d spent in Scotland following John’s wedding had been as painful as Michaela had feared. She spent it treating Kilmartin like a revolving door, coming home to see her cousin only to flee again when she beheld his wife. It was an impossible situation — if only she loved her cousin any less, she might be able to stay away for good.
And then the season came and John and Francesca left for London. Except, Michaela could not stomach their absence. She desired and reviled in equal measure.
So she followed them south. John was infinitely pleased to see her. Francesca was gloriously distraught. Michaela could not help but drink up any reaction she elicited from Francesca, no matter how hostile.
She was so precious when she was irritated.
And then Francesca had overstepped her bounds, they’d argued, and then swore to be friends. The vow was sealed with a night of drinking games — it took only that promise for Francesca’s walls to descend spectacularly and for her to allow her fate to be held in Michaela’s hands.
They spent their time as a trio from then on. Francesca learned to navigate her chaos and Michaela learned to thrive in Francesca’s steadiness. She found she loved jigsaw puzzles nearly as much as Francesca did. She loved that Francesca often joined her and John now late at night by the fire. She loved being able to listen unabashedly and unashamedly while Francesca played the pianoforte, no longer needing to hide her awe. She just…loved.
One afternoon, when Michaela found Francesca in her place behind the pianoforte, she sat in her chaise next to the instrument to listen, and realized she’d never heard the song before.
It was soft and lovely, like a lullaby in its heart but like a symphony in its complexity. When she finished, Michaela realized her eyes had grown wet.
“What song was that?” she asked softly.
Francesca turned shy — an uncommon sight when it came to Francesca and her pianoforte.
“I wrote it, actually,” she answered with a nervous smile.
“It was beautiful,” Michaela placed as much weight as she could on the adjective. It felt wholly inadequate but any words paled in comparison to how she felt.
“It’s for John. I have not shown it to him yet, but…I wrote it with him in mind. About how he makes me feel.”
Michaela’s elation soured to sickness.
“And how does he make you feel?” she dared to ask, fearful of the answer but compelled to know.
“Safe,” Francesca answered. “Known.”
The tears that had formed in Michaela’s eyes as she took in the song now threatened to spill over. It was wrong, so very wrong. She was in love with her cousin’s wife. Her cousin, who loved his wife and felt safe in her embrace, and she the same in his. There would never be a place for her between them — and how could she want there to be?
But she coveted what was John’s. She had from the moment she’d seen her.
She had to leave.
“Forgive me,” she said, standing suddenly. “I’ve forgotten — I have an appointment,” she lied and left, cowardice preventing her from looking back.
She pretended not to feel the way Francesca’s eyes followed after her.
three.
There was no warning. It happened suddenly, without asking first if it was alright. John passed in his sleep after citing a headache. She could not have imagined a fate so unfair.
Michaela would be tied to Francesca in grief for the rest of their lives. It equalized them.
Then Francesca asked her to stay. Had said she had been in suspense thinking Michaela would leave. But that she did not want her to.
It was a marvel how much could change in a year.
Impulsively, unthinkingly, Michaela had promised her yes. Of course she would stay. She’d let her heart speak in that moment. It wanted to be glued to Francesca’s side in perpetuity.
But her heart wanted what it had no place having. It was not right and it was not fair — for Michaela to take up the place where John had stood. To love John’s wife when he no longer could have the honor, the privilege, the pleasure of doing so.
John, who had given her the world. Who used his title to give her more freedom than she could have ever dreamed. Who used his status to protect her no matter where in the world she went. Who used his patience to accept her and love her exactly as she was. He had loved her without conditions or qualifications. This could not, would not, be how she treated his memory.
No. It was not right and it was not fair. So she did what she’d quickly become best at.
She left.
two.
John Stirling had died without an heir. He died without an heir because Francesca could not conceive. It was a stain that would blemish her for the rest of her life.
Francesca scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at the stain, willing it to go away. Or if it could not go away, perhaps she might simply care not about its presence?
But she did care. She cared because she loved John and wanted to do right by him. She cared because she wanted to do right by his family and her own. It was all she ever wanted for as long as she could remember.
And as the pain of mourning John became easier to bear every day, so came the realization that she must also mourn the woman she’d always thought she’d be.
One year went by, then two. Francesca began to think more often of her mother. Violet had never remarried, because she had not needed to.
Her mother lived in the home she’d shared with her husband for a decade and raised the eight children she’d given him. But Francesca had lived in John and Michaela’s home alone now for twice as long as they’d lived in it together. And she had no children to show for it.
She felt like an interloper in the Kilmartin estate. And yet, for two years, it had been Francesca the people called Lady Kilmartin.
She could not help but savor living at Kilmartin House, sharing the halls the Stirling cousins had once walked. But she had taken something she did not earn.
Francesca did not like that feeling. Did not like it at all. And that feeling was compounded by the hope and fear she lived in every single day that the next day would be the day Michaela came home.
For every feeling Francesca felt towards Michaela, she felt the opposite in equal force. She loved her friend, she hated her deserter. She loved how she felt beside Michaela, she hated how she felt without her. She wished Michaela would come home, she never wanted to see her again.
She thought about what it would be like to remarry. She’d have to travel down to London for the season and reenter the marriage mart. She was young, still, a former diamond, and a Bridgerton. Her value could not be that low.
Francesca had no misgivings about finding a husband half as perfect as John. But someone of appropriate rank who would allow her to keep her pianoforte could do.
But marrying again meant she’d lose the name she’d grown to love — John’s name. She’d leave behind his shadow, the place she had grown most comfortable. She would always have the memories, she tried to reassure herself. And John would want her to remarry. He would not want her isolated and alone for the rest of her life, as much as she may love the quiet.
A buried, sunken, locked up part of her brain whispered, without bidding, that if she left Scotland, she may never see Michaela Stirling again.
The following day, as if she had been summoned by Francesca’s thoughts, Michaela returned home.
“Lady Kilmartin,” her ladies’s maid Louisa whispered as she awoken Francesca. “Miss Stirling arrived in the night. She’s here breaking her fast.”
Francesca shot up. Was she dreaming?
“I’m sorry, who did you say was here?”
“Miss Stirling, my lady.” Francesca looked at her with wide unmoving eyes. “Michaela,” she confirmed.
Francesca rushed to dress and stumbled down to the drawing room to see for herself.
And there she sat. As if she had the right. But it’s what she’d always done, hadn’t she? Come and gone as she pleased, carrying not of the effect.
“Michaela,” she said.
Michaela stood from her chair. “Francesca,” she said in return.
Neither of them spoke. They stared at each other, daring the other to be the one to speak first.
Michaela was the first to break. “Please, join me,” she gestured to the seat opposite her. As if she had the right.
Francesca obeyed, not knowing what else to do. She sat and watched the woman across the table with suspicion.
Michaela poured Francesca a cup of tea from the pot and went back to her plate.
“How long are you staying?” Francesca asked, unable to disguise her contempt.
“I did not plan on leaving,” Michaela said lightly. As if it did not matter. As if none of it mattered. As if her word meant anything. After she'd promised she’d stay and then left for two years not twelve hours later. As if Francesca could ever believe a word she said again.
Francesca became unglued. The question that had been in her mind every day for two years rushed out of her lips. “Why did you? Why did you leave when you’d said you’d stay?”
Michaela’s eyes turned tired. “It’s funny. I thought about how I would answer that question endlessly, and yet here I am, without answer.”
“That is not sufficient,” Francesca snapped before she could stop herself.
“I know,” Michaela nodded. “I am insufficient —”
“That’s not what I said,” Francesca cut her off. One minute into Michaela’s return and already her world had inverted.
Michaela paused, then shook her head with an endearing smile. “It is so very good to see you again.”
That was infinitely more than Francesca bear.
“I am to remarry,” she announced abruptly, the words leaving her mouth before her brain understood their veracity.
For once, finally, Francesca had gained the upper hand. Michaela sat shocked. “What?”
“I am,” she nodded. “Two years have passed. I am young still. John would want it, and so would my family.”
She paused.
“And what is it you want?” Michaela asked softly.
“To remarry. I just said so,” Francesca insisted to herself.
“Are you certain?”
“Of course I am,” she said emphatically. “What, you leave for two years and come back to tell me I am living my life wrong?”
“No, of course not. It is only —”
“You think it is too soon?”
“No, that is not what I —”
“Well, it is not. It is a perfectly appropriate time. Your arrival could not have been better scheduled. You’ll have Kilmartin House back without me haunting your halls. You needn’t run from me much longer.”
“Francesca —” Michaela stared, her tone now desperate.
“I apologize, I suddenly am feeling faint,” Francesca interrupted and stood to her feet. “I’ll take my breakfast in my room,” she addressed the maids, before turning and leaving.
The next morning, she was en route to London.
one.
For reasons entirely unknown to Francesca, Michaela, too, came to the London house not long after Francesca’s own arrival. Michaela must have only spent a day or two in Scotland before following after Francesca.
Now, once again sharing a home, Francesca was determined to give Michaela her space. Michaela was determined not to let her. Every moment she could, Michaela seemed to attempt to make amends. But Francesca could not imagine how she could — short of telling her precisely why it is she had left in the first place.
Michaela waited at the breakfast table for her each morning. She would invite Francesca out for a stroll or ask if she would like to visit the modiste. She would entice Francesca to complete a jigsaw puzzle together and commissioned custom sets for them to try.
One night, when Francesca could not sleep, she went to the music room for solace, even if the late hour prevented her from playing. Michaela was already there, seated in the chaise she used to lie on when Francesca would play for her two years ago.
“Oh,” Francesca stopped in her tracks. “I apologize, I did not think you would be in here. I’ll go.”
“No, please,” Michaela stopped her. “Stay. Sit.”
Francesca sat on her pianoforte bench.
Michaela looked at her, desperate then. “Play me something,” she begged.
“It is the middle of the night,” Francesca protested.
“For once, please, forget the staff. Forget what is right. Just stay here and play for me.”
Francesca noticed the bottle of whiskey beside Michaela’s feet.
“Alright,” she placated.
Before she could even think, her fingers began playing. She realized too late what the song was — one she had written a year ago when she was missing Michaela so, so painfully. It was melancholic, devoid of hope, but gentle and loving. She’d thought she would never see her friend again, the only person now who lived in the space around her heart. So she'd put her love and despair into this song where they could be kept safe, and she returned to it often throughout the months to feel them again.
She played the song through and stayed facing the piano when she was finished, her nerves preventing her from looking at Michaela.
“Another song you wrote?” Michaela asked, her tone unrecognizable.
Francesca nodded.
The next morning, it was as if the night before had never happened. Michaela returned to her typical routine, waiting for Francesca first thing in the morning with a brand new jigsaw puzzle waiting to be solved.
But Francesca decided then, that she would not be fooled. She would not deviate from her plan. And so, as promised, Francesca reentered the marriage mart.
It was just as dreadful the second time around. Having been the diamond only a few seasons earlier, she remained a coveted prize to men even now as a widow.
But the never-ending small talk was only half as intolerable as the feeling of the eyes that followed her at every ball, every soiree, every dinner, and every stroll.
Michaela had taken to trailing her like a dog. There was no event she could go where Michaela would not find her.
Michaela, of course, was always welcome. The ton was entirely charmed by her. And though Francesca was used to seeing Michaela be the center of attention in every room she walked in to, now, Michaela had taken to the walls. She stood aside, barely mingling, never dancing, simply watching.
It infuriated Francesca. She could think of no reason why Michaela watched her so. Other than she was angry with her for remarrying. That she thought Francesca was moving on too quickly. But she was not. She was not.
Soon, it was no longer just watching. Michaela had taken to interrupting. When an eligible lord approached Francesca with a glass of lemonade or a story to tell, Michaela would swoop in and join their conversation, wedging herself both physically and metaphorically between them. If someone asked her to dance, Michaela would insist her card was already full, even though it was practically empty. If a suitor called upon her at the Kilmartin house, Michaela would intercede and insist Francesca was simply not home.
But there was a man, a suitor, who was a widower himself, that Francesca found adequate — Lord Bute. He was quiet, if not a tad boring and plain-featured. But he played the violin proficiently. Francesca thought she could spend a lifetime in conversation about music. This could work.
It would work, even in spite of Michaela, who was determined to foil her at every turn.
Francesca tolerated the behavior in silence for weeks, until she could no longer hold it in.
It was at Hyacinth’s debut. Lord Bute had asked her to dance, and Francesca was able to accept before Michaela stepped in.
But she was not free from her. As Lord Bute spun her around the room, every move they made, she could feel Michaela’s eyes on her.
Lord Bute turned, and Francesca could see Michaela over his shoulder. She was staring at the pair with undisguised rage. Francesca almost lost her balance.
Well. Francesca could be angry, too. And she was.
She left Lord Bute right there on the dance floor, rushing out a flimsy excuse, and marched over to Michaela. She grabbed her wrist and dragged her out the door of the hall, down the corridor, and outside under the stars.
She turned back to Michaela and cornered her against the side of the house. “What, exactly, is the problem?” she asked.
“I could ask you the same!” Michaela replied. “You are the one who dragged me out here.”
“You’re staring. You’re meddling. You’re angry. I haven’t the faintest idea why,” Francesca explained. “So talk.”
“I’m not angry,” Michaela began.
“Do not lie to me,” Francesca said. “I know what it looks like on your face. Tell me plainly now what I have done to offend you so.”
“You have not offended me, you never could have.”
“I think, very clearly, you do not want me to remarry,” Francesca accused.
Michaela’s mouth opened, but no words followed.
Francesca let out a sharp laugh.
“Why?” she demanded to know, stalking closer and closer while Michaela moved backwards until she could go no further, her back pressed against the brick wall.
“Why must you haunt me so?” Francesca spit, her hands slamming against the wall on either side of Michaela’s head.
“Have I not done my duty? Have I not played my part?” she continued. “You leave me when I want you, then you torment me when I do not.”
Michaela stared back at her with wide eyes, her lips parted but unmoving.
“Answer me!” Francesca cried. Michaela shook her head. Francesca pushed one hand off the wall to wrap it around Michaela’s neck.
Michaela’s body surged forward in response, pressing against Francesca’s. She reached up and grasped the collar of Francesca’s dress.
But Francesca would not be satiated by silence.
“Speak,” Francesca seethed, one hand tightening around her throat and the other coming to press Michaela’s bottom lip downwards. “With words.”
“Because I am selfish,” Michaela rushed out in a whisper, her eyes squeezing shut.
And then, Francesca’s lips were on hers. Michaela threw her arms around Francesca's neck and pulled her down. Francesca pushed impossibly closer.
Francesca felt drunk on her kiss, her brain roaring and heart swimming. Michaela kissed her back in perfect equity: when she pushed, Michaela pulled. Michaela opened her mouth in a gasp, and Francesca slide her lips down to her jaw, her hand on Michaela’s neck moving into a caress.
She became lost in her. The way she smelled of bergamot and vanilla, the way her skin felt soft beneath her lips — until she realized Michaela’s hands had moved to her shoulders to push her back.
“Fran—” Michaela gasped. “Anyone could see us.”
Reality flooded in. Francesca stumbled back, a hand coming up to her mouth. What just happened? What did she just do?
“Francesca,” Michaela said steadily now, moving towards her.
Francesca turned on her heel and ran.
plus one.
Francesca ran and did not stop until she’d reached Scotland.
But it was not far enough. There was no where she could turn now where Michaela could not find her.
When Francesca reached the Kilmartin estate, she went write to her wardrobe and gathered her dresses. She knew as soon as she'd arrived that she could not stay here. In her husband’s home. In Michaela’s. Fuck.
She could go to Aubrey Hall. It was her only choice, really. She’d leave as soon as the horses were rested and ready to travel south once again.
But Michaela found her. She arrived in Kilmartin the very next day, late at night. She must have left not long after Francesca.
Francesca was in her bed chambers when she heard the staff murmuring in the hallway outside her door. She heard scurried footsteps and could see the flicker of candles rush by through the cracks of her door.
And then, the door burst open, and there stood Michaela.
“You’re here,” Michaela breathed out, as if she were not sure she’d find Francesca there.
“I’m leaving in the morn.”
“Leaving where?” Michaela asked incredulously. “This is your home.”
“It was,” Francesca replied. “Really, I must rest now before I travel. If you’ll excuse me,” she gestured towards the door.
“No,” Michaela said. “Francesca, stop for a moment. I wish to speak with you.”
“Yes, but I do not wish to speak with you,” Francesca shot back.
“Five minutes of your time. That is all I ask.”
Francesca stopped in indecision. She did not want to give in.
“Sit, please,” Michaela insisted.
Francesca obeyed, sitting on the edge of her bed. Michaela walked towards her slowly, stopping just short of her, her thighs nearly brushing Francesca’s knees.
“Do you know why I left after John died?” Michaela asked. Francesca schooled her features in an effort to appear uncaring.
“Because I love you,” she declared. “Since the moment I laid eyes on you at that Featherington ball.”
Francesca’s throat closed.
Michaela let out a sad laugh and turned her eyes upward before setting them back on Francesca. “I am in love with you. Not just as a friend. As a wife loves her spouse. That is the way I love you.”
Francesca’s blood seemed to cease pumping. The seconds ticked by.
“It is not that I do not want you to remarry,” she explained. “It is that I do not want you to marry anyone else who is not me.”
Francesca’s vision blurred. She wished then that her hearing might go too, so that she could not hear every word Michaela said with such startling clarity.
“I’m wondering, now,” Michaela continued carefully. “If it is possible, that you might feel a fraction of that same feeling towards me?” She looked so shy now, like a child clinging to the faintest of hopes in a sea of doubt and disappointment.
Francesca looked up to study Michaela, her eyes darting to take in every millimeter of the woman before her. She was frozen in this moment, on the precipice of something great but without the courage to take a step forward.
“It’s your turn to say something now,” Michaela said in faux jest, her nerves apparent. Francesca thought how their roles were now reversed, the last time they’d seen each other it had been Francesca demanding to hear her words.
Michaela’s hand reached out to brush her cheek, but stopped short of making contact. “Shall I kiss it out of you?” Michaela tried again with a tease.
That broke her. “Yes,” Francesca breathed out. “I should like that very much.”