Chapter Text
Francesca Stirling, formerly Bridgerton, was a woman of quiet means. She preferred to move with the grain rather than against it, preferred to tuck inwards to avoid sticking out, and abhorred attention of any kind. As a result, many of her wants and needs often went unnoticed, even to herself. She could never quite articulate them properly, so she avoided expressing them altogether. There were, thankfully, a few people in her life who seemed to see her and, much more than that, understand her.
There was Anthony, her eldest brother, who, when she was young, would often find her hiding away in the strangest of places, and instead of tattling to their mama, he would just smile and leave her to her devices. There was Benedict, her second-oldest brother, who, when she was sad, would play her jaunty melodies on the pianoforte until laughter bubbled up in her throat. There was Eloise, her older sister by one year, her accidental twin, who seemed to have a built-in sensor that indicated her younger sister’s stress level. The moment she noticed Francesca becoming overwhelmed with a particular social situation, she would cut in, taking the focus off Francesca, giving the younger Bridgerton a route for escape.
And then, there was John. He seemed to understand Francesca far better than anyone else. He never pushed or prodded her for anything she wasn’t able to give. He relished their quiet companionship as well as she did. He offered her support, comfort, and companionship, and asked for nothing in return. When she was upset, he gave her space. When she became dangerously close to finishing a jigsaw puzzle, he’d commission two more. When she needed something to ground her because the people were too loud and the music was off pace, his hand was in hers, already leading them someplace quieter. When she couldn’t sleep at night, his arms would wrap around her, and she would relax and drift to sleep. Things were easy with John.
Francesca shifted to her side, her arm reaching out towards the empty space in her bed. John was gone now.
Insomnia wasn’t foreign to the widowed Stirling. Before she had met her late husband, it came to her in waves. A problem that reared its ugly head every once in a while, just long enough to frustrate her to her wits' end. For the short time she had spent with John, it seemed that her problem had found its cure. She supposes the comfort of another person nearby was simply enough to quell her stubborn consciousness. Then, in the weeks following John’s death, sleep became a foreign concept to the poor woman. Night after night, tossing and turning, praying for sleep to release her from this grief, if only for a moment. She couldn’t bear to lie in the same bed that she had found John; she instead elected to sleep in a room clear across the Kilmartin Estate, but the strange room offered little comfort.
As the years went by, however, and the pain slowly dulled, sleep found her easier again. For the last few months, as a matter of fact, Francesca had been having the best sleep of her life. That was until Michaela Stirling returned from India.
The heiress had arrived no less than two weeks ago, completely unannounced at that. The shock of seeing the other woman after two years must have shaken Francesca to her core, as for two whole weeks, sleep had constantly evaded her. Francesca huffed as she turned onto her other side.
Things have been tense, to say the least, between the two of them. Michaela seems to be making a consistent effort to move past these two long years. She talked to Francesca as if nothing had even happened, as if she didn’t pack up and abandon her with all this grief without so much as a word's notice. Francesca does her best to avoid her. She didn’t want to talk to Michaela, to be near Michaela, or to even think about Michaela. The last one was proving quite difficult to achieve.
She turned in bed once more, her body growing more and more restless with each passing second. Maybe some tea or perhaps the pianoforte would steady her, calm her enough to lull her to sleep. It was late, sure, but the Kilmartin Castle was rather grand. There was a piano room far enough from the sleeping quarters, so no one would be the wiser. She wouldn’t have to worry about waking Michaela. Not that she does worry, of course.
Francesca took a deep breath, bracing herself for the vicious cold that lay waiting outside the comfort of her bed. With newly formed resolve, she lifted the covers and swung her legs off the bed. A shiver wracked her body as she stood swiftly. Growing up in London, Francesca always thought she knew cold, but she quickly learned that the cold of the Ton and the cold of Scotland were two different concepts entirely. She crossed her chambers, hastily slipped on her slippers, and threw on a robe to cover her thin night gown. She then found a match and lit a nearby candle. The room glowed softly with the small flame. Grabbing the cool metal handle of the candle holster, she crept out of her room into an expansive hallway. The dowager Countess tiptoed down this hallway, moving carefully as she passed Michaela’s chambers. She then found the stairs and descended to the ground floor. She was just about to pivot leftward toward the piano room at the end of the west wing when a flicker of light caught her eye. She then turned right and peered down an empty hallway, almost pitch-black save for a stream of light pouring out from beneath a shut door, John’s study.
For a split-second, a foolish second, she allowed herself to believe that it was John, returned home from a tiresome day in town, poring over documents instead of getting some rest. Francesca quickly shook the thought from her head, replacing it with a more likely theory: Michaela. The brunette was about to turn straight back, unwilling to chance an encounter with the countess, when she heard a muffled cry coming from the study. Her body stiffened for a moment, and the air went still. The cold wooden flooring seeped through her slippers, burning against the soles of her feet. It wasn’t until a second cry rang out from down the hall that Francesca moved, her mind hardly able to comprehend it. The former countess inched down the hall towards the illuminated room and slowly cracked open the door. The sight in front of her tore her heart to shreds.
There she was, Michaela Stirling. The ever-composed and ever-smiling Michaela Stirling, sitting on the floor with an empty bottle of rum at her feet and tears staining her cheeks. Her body wracked with sobs, and every shuttered breath felt heavy with grief. She held her legs up to her chest like a small child would do when frightened or lonely. She held herself so tightly, as if it were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Her hair was down from its usual updo, falling carelessly around her shoulders. Her curls, usually tight and defined, were now loose and slightly dull.
Francesca felt like she was glued to her spot. Her heart bled for the woman in front of her. Despite everything. Despite all these years apart, she still cared, she still understood. She wanted to run in there and hold Michaela in her arms. She wanted to scream at her for leaving, for forcing them to shoulder their pain apart instead of together. She wanted to run. She wanted to cry. Her hand shook as it hovered over the door handle. She couldn’t do this. Slowly, she pried her right foot from the polished wood beneath her and took a measured step back. Unfortunately for Francesca, Kilmartin seemed to disagree with her decision to retreat. As she pulled away from the door, the floor creaked beneath her feet, alerting the countess to Francesca’s presence.
Michaela jumped in shock, her eyes snapping to Francesca, who stood frozen as the door seemingly took a life of its own, creaking open wider to reveal the dowager countess in her entirety. For a moment, they just stared at each other, frozen and unsure. The only sound between them was the crackling of the fire pit in front of Michaela and the sound of the heiress evening out her wild breath.
“Francesca,” the countess breathed out, finally breaking through the silence.
“I-I’m sorry,” Francesca jumped at the sound, her brain seemingly catching up with the situation. “I can g-”
“No, no, you’re fine,” Michaela supplied her with a watery smile. Francesca felt her heart break some more. “Please, join me.” Her words seemed more like a plea than a request. If it had been under normal circumstances, Francesca would have scoffed and walked away without as much as a single word, but this was Michaela. This woman, here. Not the woman she had been living with these past two weeks, who had given Francesca nothing real to hold onto, only fake smiles and forced enthusiasm. There was something so deeply pained in those big brown eyes that no amount of confidence or charm could ever truly hide. And now, for the first time in what was likely a long time, Michaela did not bother to. So instead of leaving and declining Michaela’s request for company as she so usually did, Francesca stepped closer.
She slowly entered the study, placing her small candle on a nearby table, and approaching the older Stirling with the care and the patience one would approach a wounded animal. She was about to lower herself down on the couch opposite Michaela, before changing her mind at the last moment. She slipped past the couch and settled onto the floor. It shocked even herself. She can’t remember the last time she even sat on the ground, especially with furniture not even a centimeter away from her. Michaela must have shared the same sentiment as her eyes lit up if only for a millisecond, and the corners of her lips tugged into a small smile.
Michaela wiped at the tears in her eyes and turned her head to gaze into the fire for a moment, almost as if she was trying to compose herself. Francesca hears her take a deep breath before turning her attention back to the brunette. “Couldn’t sleep?” The countess spoke lowly, her voice raw and almost broken. Francesca simply shook her head. “Me neither,” Michaela sighed as she looked back into the fire. It was almost as if she were searching for something in the flames. As if she were to look hard enough, a vision would reveal itself. Francesca did not need to interrogate the woman to figure out what it was.
“I miss him too,” Francesca offered, her voice soft and quiet, unwilling to break this fragile moment. The younger Stirling watched as Michaela’s jaw tightened slightly, a lump traveling down her throat, her hands gripping herself slightly tighter. “Whenever bouts of insomnia came upon me, he had always seemed to be able to cure my ailment. Now-”
“Really,” Michaela cut in. She turned to face Francesca; amusement began coloring her features.
“Yes,” Francesca smiled, her eyes flitting down to her hands fidgeting in her lap. “I don’t see what’s so amusing about my ever-fading relationship with sleep.”
“No, it’s not that,” Michaela chuckled softly. Francesca’s eyes followed the sound. “It’s just when we were kids, John would sneak into my room at night to go to sleep. He said he could not sleep on his own, and being next to me brought him comfort.” A warm smile slipped across the older woman’s face as she recalled the memory. Francesca softened at her words. John and Francesca really were quite similar. “It was okay with me,” Michaela continued, “I myself was terribly afraid of the dark, so it was nice to have someone there with me.”
Francesca immediately brightened at the information, a teasing smile growing on her lips. “You were afraid of the dark? The great Michaela Stirling,” the dowager countess, couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.
Michaela scoffed playfully with a roll of her eyes, “And you weren’t?”
Francesca leaned forward, a challenging glint in her eyes, “I wasn’t!”
“Liar,” Michaela laughed and waved the brunette off, “every kid was afraid of the dark at some point.”
“I’m being honest! You could ask my mother. I never once screamed, cried, nor begged for the candle to stay on. I was perfectly content with the dark,” Francesca nodded with finality.
Michaela scoffed once more and crossed her arms, turning her head away from Francesca as if she were properly affronted. “Perhaps I will send a letter out to the Lady Bridgerton,” Michaela attempted a serious tone, but she was unable to hide the amusement in her voice.
“Please, do,” Francesca giggled at the woman’s antics. Michaela turned to look at Francesca, a wide smile stretching across her full lips. Francesca softly bit her lip, a nervous tic that always seemed to flare up around the Stirling. For a moment, it looked as if Michaela noticed it, her eyes lingering on Francesca’s lips for one reason or another. The attention caused the former Bridgerton’s face to heat up. She ducked her head down and averted her gaze to the fireplace. A soft, quiet settled over them. It was comfortable and familiar, nothing like the quiet tension that had bound them when they were apart and suffocated them when together. This was nice. It was gentle and sweet. Francesca savored it. Talking about John, his and Michaela’s childhood, spending time with Michaela; that was what she had longed for in the midst of losing him. Now that she had it, it made her long for what could have been even more. The question burned on her tongue; why did you leave?
She kept it to herself, though, at least for tonight. Tonight, she wanted to keep that smile on Michaela’s face for as long as she could. She wanted to make her laugh as many times as possible. She wanted to bask in Michaela’s glow for just a bit longer.
Much later on in the night, Michaela would excuse herself to bed, and a few minutes later, Francesca would make her way to her chambers. Sleep found her much easier that night, and the next day, when Michaela requested that the two take an afternoon stroll, Francesca finally accepted.