Chapter Text
The morning light slipped quietly into Kilmartin House in London, passing through the velvet curtains and casting streaks across Francesca's bedchamber. It was not as bright as the sunlight in Scotland, but it was pleasant enough to bring a little warmth to the start of one’s day. For the first time in a long while, mornings did not feel quite so heavy for Francesca. There had been a time when she really found sleeping to be difficult and she would wake up with her mind burdened by memories she could not escape and questions that had no answers. But recently, those thoughts have become easier to set aside.
As the sixth of eight children, Francesca had always been a bit different from her siblings. She liked to observe from the gazebo as her brothers and Eloise ran, climbed, and jumped about the gardens. When they filled every corner of the house with laughter and opinions no one had requested and inevitably turned into petty arguments, she discovered that peace was something to be valued. Her piano lessons were among her most cherished hours because, unlike most things in the Bridgerton household, music did not demand that she compete for attention. It allowed her to simply exist, to lose herself in something quiet and exclusively her own.
This appreciation for silence was one of the reasons she had married her late husband. From the moment they met, John understood silence as she did, and there had never been any need between them to speak solely for the sake of filling the air. They could spend an entire afternoon together, drinking tea and gazing out across the Scottish hills, and still feel perfectly understood by each other. It was not the grand, consuming sort of love her mother often spoke of, nor the kind her brothers and Daphne, described when they spoke of their own romances. Having grown up surrounded by such declarations of affection, she once believed, though she would never admit it out loud, that such love was what she would one day find. But what she had with John was something quieter, something steadier. It was a love she recognized, and she was more than content about it.
Her life changed greatly after her marriage; Kilmartin was huge, with endless stretches of quiet, and Francesca believed it was exactly what she had always wanted. Yet marriage, especially one to a man who carried a title, came with expectations. A wife was not only a companion but a continuation of her husband's name and legacy, but Francesca had never possessed the same affection for children that some of her siblings seemed to have. She did not dislike them, but she had never been the sort of person who dreamed of it. Still, she believed that when the time came, she would have to do what was expected of her; to give John the family Kilmartin deserved.
So when John died, his death left behind all the duties she was meant to fulfill as a wife but would no longer be able to do, and the thought that she had failed him greatly. She had not given him an heir; she had not given him the child who would carry his name, inherit his title, and keep some part of him alive after he was gone. Though others would have told her there was nothing to blame herself for, Francesca could not always silence the belief that, in some way, she had been inadequate.
And then there was John’s cousin, Michaela, someone entirely different from herself. If Francesca found comfort in silence, Michaela seemed to carry life with her wherever she went. She laughed easily, spoke with confidence, and filled rooms with a warmth that Francesca had always admired from a distance. She was everything Francesca was not, and yet, somehow, she was one of the few people who understood her pain. She had spent so much of her life believing that being understood meant finding someone who shared the same nature. But Michaela had shown her that understanding could come in a different form, in someone who reminded you that the world was still moving even when your own had stopped. For a while, Francesca had thought she would not have to carry her sorrow entirely alone.
But that hope vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Losing John had broken her heart, but losing Michaela’s promise to stay had broken something else entirely. John’s death had been cruel and unavoidable, but Michaela’s departure had been a choice. A choice that left Francesca wondering if she had been foolish to believe, even for a moment, that something in her life would remain. She had felt as though she were standing at the bottom of a deep pit and there was no path forward. She could not bring herself to sit at the pianoforte and play the gentle melodies that once filled the mornings with warmth. There was sorrow in the melodies, anger in the way her fingers struck the keys, and a loneliness she could not put into words.
The silence that had once been her refuge became a reminder of everything she had lost.
Yet, as life often does, it continued. Everyone around her treated her with the utmost care, as though she were made of delicate glass and might shatter at the slightest touch. Her mother, her brothers, her sisters, and her sisters-in-law carefully avoided certain subjects whenever she was near; marriage, children, the future, because none of them wished to cause her further pain. At first, Francesca understood their caution. She knew it came from a place of love, from their desire to protect her. But after some time, she realized she did not wish to be treated as though her grief was the only thing that remained of her. She did not want to spend the rest of her life being handled gently and quietly.
The grief was still there. The longing for the life she had meant to live, and for the two people who had left her in entirely different ways, would likely always remain. But lately, Francesca had found something close to peace. She had learned that grief did not have to disappear for life to continue; perhaps it was something she would simply have to carry alongside her.
After months of persuasion from her mother, Francesca began spending more time at Bridgerton House and slowly returned to some of the comforts she had once enjoyed before everything changed. She sat with Eloise and Hyacinth as they played and argued over jigsaw puzzles and card games, amused by how fiercely they debated something so insignificant, she drank tea with her in-laws, listened to the familiar chatter that once filled every corner of her childhood house, and allowed herself to join conversations rather than remaining a quiet observer. The songs she produced on the piano were still cold, but they carried something close to warmth they had lacked in the past year. She was not the same person she had been before everything, nor did she expect to be. Perhaps she was becoming someone different, someone a little bolder, a little braver, born from the part of her that had survived after she believed there was nothing left to lose.
A knock was heard from her door, and Francesca turned her head toward it. Then came another; a low, dull thud rather than the sharp click she was accustomed to hearing each morning. She took a moment to gather her thoughts and steady her voice, preparing to tell her lady's maid that she would be down for breakfast shortly. Before she could speak, two quick taps followed. The rhythm made her frown. That was not the usual morning call from her maid. Surely she had not overslept and it could not yet be nine o'clock. Francesca rarely slept later than usual.
"I shall be down shortly," she called, her voice low and raspy, as was common for someone who had only just woken up.
"My apologies, my lady," came Miss Edwards's reply from the other side of the door. "I would not disturb you so early if it were not important."
Francesca propped herself up on one elbow. "What is it?"
"There is something I must tell you, my lady."
She rose from the bed and smoothed a hand through her dark auburn hair. She took a blue shawl draped across the bench at the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before crossing the room and opening the door. The sheer white nightdress she wore was hardly suitable for facing someone else.
Her lady’s maid stood outside looking unusually rattled, which made Francesca even more confused.
"What is it, Miss Edwards?"
"My lady, a guest arrived this morning."
"A guest?" Francesca repeated. "I am not expecting anyone."
"No, my lady."
"If this concerns Parliament, my brothers have already arranged those matters. I have no intention of involving myself in–" She stopped, realizing her words were getting ahead of herself. "Who is it?"
Miss Margaret Edwards was still new to the household. After Francesca's previous lady's maid had resigned due to personal reasons, her mother had sent her from the Bridgerton House to provide a trusted company. Francesca had suspected her mother also intended for the young woman to keep an eye on her, but she no longer cared enough to object. It was safe to say the maid had never before found herself in the position of announcing an unexpected guest who had arrived uninvited and somehow settled into the house without her employer's knowledge.
"The lady arrived shortly after five o'clock. She requested that you not be awakened and settled herself into one of the guest rooms. She appeared to be in confident spirits and quickly made herself at home with the staff. I do not know whether the butler had been informed of her arrival beforehand,” Margaret said, her hands clasped together. She continues, "Her luggage remains in the drawing room. She insisted that no one disturb you until your usual breakfast hour, which she somehow knew to be precisely nine o'clock. It is past seven now and I found her sitting at the library. I figured it would be a disrespect to not inform you any sooner."
A lady with luggage. For sure, it could not be Eloise or Hyacinth. They would have marched straight into her room themselves. Nor was it her mother, who would simply have waited in the parlour.
An odd feeling settled in Francesca's chest, and her expression must have given it away, because Margaret shifted uncomfortably. Confident spirits. That description rang a bell, no, loud horns at Francesca’s head.
Francesca thinks carefully, stops before she could say a word, and then thinks again. “Does this woman happen to be of a shorter frame, with dark and curly hair?” She struggled to find a description that would not sound absurdly specific. Surely she could not say full lips, or doe-like eyes that bleamed with both pride and warmth. Nor could she mention the confident, deep, alluring voice that had managed to stay in her memory after almost long years. The very thought made her catch her breath.
"Yes. She did introduce herself to me, my lady. Her name is–"
“No,” she said. “I think I would rather discover that for myself."
Francesca swept past the doorway, moving quickly but still with enough care because she had lived with seven siblings long enough to know that haste often ended with a bruised knee, a twisted ankle, or an undignified tumble down a flight of stairs.
The blue shawl had slipped from her shoulders and now hung loosely around her arms and back, exposing more of the neckline of her sheer white nightdress than propriety would normally allow. The fact barely crossed her mind. And if it had, she would not have cared. No one would see her in such a state besides Miss Edwards and this guest. She passed a succession of rooms without slowing. Behind her, Miss Edwards followed in silence, bewildered by her employer's sudden urgency and the troubled expression growing in her features. But she was relieved to learn that they had not admitted a complete stranger into the household, for this was obviously someone Lady Kilmartin knew well, or someone she had at least known once.
Down the stairs they went, through the grand hall on the first floor, and at last toward the arched entrance of the library.
Francesca stopped in her tracks right then. Because…
There was Michaela Stirling, in her glory, seated in a white embroidered chaise lounge.
For a moment Francesca could do nothing but stare. She stood motionless three paces away but the distance felt immeasurably greater than that.
She looked precisely as Francesca remembered and entirely unlike the woman she had spent the past two years thinking about. She wore a rich violet gown that draped elegantly over her body, the armscye exposing a graceful shoulder before disappearing beneath deep black gloves that reached her elbows. Gold barrettes amongst the dark curls pinned atop her head, while several tendrils fell freely on her face. Her expression was thoughtful and almost solemn as though she had been lost in contemplation.
Francesca had imagined this moment countless times and had rehearsed every possible conversation and every cutting remark. But eventually she had tried to abandon those thoughts for there seemed little purpose in preparing for an encounter that would never come.
Michaela had left, perhaps out of grief or pressure placed upon her shoulders, but she had promised to stay and still chose to leave Francesca. That had been her choice. And now, without warning, Michaela sat in her library as though she had never gone at all. Francesca blinked, but the image remained. She blinked again, and Michaela was still there. Not a memory, a dream, nor another cruel imagining born from loneliness. Michaela was there, as real as the anger blooming in Francesca’s chest, stealing the breath from her lungs that she could hardly bring herself to vomit a single word.
Michaela turned to the side, now facing Francesca. Her eyes widening the moment she found her on the doorway. She rose so quickly that the book she had been holding to keep herself busy while waiting to present herself slipped forgotten onto the chaise, she had not been able to read it anyway as the words jumbled and her thoughts only came into one thing, that she would see Francesca again after almost two long years.
"Francesca, you are awake now." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
So much for the woman described as confident and spirited. Francesca did not answer immediately. She felt Miss Edwards’ presence behind her and, without taking her eyes from Michaela, said, "Miss Edwards, if you please, I should like to receive our guest alone."
"Of course, my lady." The maid withdrew immediately, leaving the silence behind her.
Francesca spoke at last.
"I am awake, it seems. Though I should have preferred to discover this was merely a nightmare." Her words landed exactly as intended because Michaela flinched slightly.
"Francesca," Michaela said again.
"What brings you here?" she asked. "And when do you intend to leave again?" Francesca said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Michaela looked as though she had been struck.
"Francesca, I am sorry." She took a cautious step forward.
The familiar scent of Michaela’s perfume, the smell of citrus drifted through the air, and Francesca stepped back as though protecting herself from being pulled into a feeling she did not know how to make sense of.
"You came all this way to apologize?" Francesca asked. A brittle laugh escaped her. "Good God, Michaela. Have you entirely lost your senses? Have you forgotten what you did?"
"Fran."
The ease with which her nickname fell from Michaela’s lips only made Francesca angrier.
"No. You do not get to return after almost two years and speak to me as though nothing has happened."
"I know I have no right."
"You do not."
Michaela swallowed before answering.
"I left because I believed it was the best thing I could do."
"The best thing?" Francesca repeated, her voice nearly cracked, and she reached to grip upon her nightdress until the fabric stretched beneath her fingers. She needed something to hold on to before her composure slipped away entirely. "The person I trusted most abandoned me without a single word of explanation. If that is your definition of doing one's best, I should hate to see your worst."
Michaela looked as though she wanted to say a great many things. Francesca could see it in her eyes, and could almost watch the thoughts gathering there. But all that emerged was the same apology.
"I am sorry, Francesca."
Not the truth, not the other reason why she left. Michaela could not ever say it for it would either mend everything between them or destroy whatever remained.
"I do not wish to trouble you with my presence once again. The Scottish peerage has tasked me with Kilmartin's estate, and though I requested several times that they seek a more suitable candidate, there was none. I had no choice but to come here rather abruptly."
There had been discussions after Michaela left that she might inherit the estate if there was no suitable male relative to be found. Scotland's laws were different from England's in that regard, and women could inherit titles. Francesca had thought it fitting because John had trusted Michaela with his whole heart. There was no one else he would rather see responsible for Kilmartin. What Francesca had never considered was that one day Michaela's duties might bring her back in London.
Duty. Because everything always seemed to return to duty in the end. Francesca felt foolish for having entertained even the smallest possibility that Michaela had returned for any other reason, if she had come back willingly, or whether she had come back for her.
"Fran, I could leave and stay elsewhere if you would prefer not to see me," Michaela said quietly. "I would do anything to make amends. Again, I am sorry for my sudden return, and I do not ever wish to cause you any further distress." Her voice had grown softer, and the guilt upon her face seemed genuine enough.
As furious as Francesca felt, the thought of Michaela leaving again settled poorly in her chest. She would not have to endure Francesca's resentment and she would simply disappear once more and leave Francesca to pick up the pieces. And if Francesca were being honest with herself, which she was making every effort not to be, she was not entirely against Michaela remaining.
Francesca drew a slow breath and took two steps forward before she could think better of it, and now barely a foot separated them. For a moment, Michaela’s eyes lingered upon Francesca's white nightdress right in front of her, from her head down to her knees, the shift’s thin fabric doing little to conceal the skin beneath. A swallow moved visibly through Michaela's throat, and Francesca, surprisingly observant when it came to all things about the other woman, felt the weight of her gaze. It seemed to burn against her skin, especially in a particular area in her abdomen, yet she did not draw back. Upon realizing what she was doing, Michaela immediately lifted her gaze back to Francesca's face, hoping for her to break the silence that now felt suffocating. It was astonishing that, after many years, Francesca still possessed the power to undo every defense Michaela had so carefully built for herself. Whatever affections she had sought elsewhere, whatever women had shared her company, none had ever diminished the effect Francesca had upon her.
"This is your home after all. You shall stay here for as long as you are required to," she said. Then, after a pause, she added, "or for as long as you wish to." Francesca emphasized the distinction between staying out of necessity and staying because one wholeheartedly wished to.
"Do you wish to do that, Michaela?" Her voice was low, and there was firmness in her tone that left no room for escape. It sent a shiver down Michaela’s spine.
“Fran, if my presence causes you discomfort, I can take lodgings elsewhere in–”
“Do not concern yourself with me. It is your choice to make," Francesca interrupted.
Michaela answered quickly, “I should like to stay here, yes."
"That is what I expected to hear." Francesca nodded once. Her gaze fell briefly to the space between them before returning to Michaela’s face, lingering on the softness of her rounded eyes, a sight she had convinced herself she would not have to face again. The anger remained inside her chest stubbornly, but she found she had accepted Michaela's arrival far better than she would have expected.
"Very well, then. I shall get ready for breakfast now. I will see you there."
As she spoke, she pulled the shawl more securely around herself, only now becoming aware of how little attention she had paid to her appearance. Michaela's eyes followed the movement, the freckles scattered across Francesca's lower chest and the faint trail of them disappearing beneath the neckline of her nightdress. Her gaze only shifted the moment Francesca turned away.
"And, Fran, I..."
Francesca heard Michaela’s voice before she reached the doorway, causing her to pause and instinctively look towards her direction once more.
I missed you. I never ceased thinking of you. I can only hope that, in time, I may find some way to make amends.
But instead of saying that, "Never mind. Yes. I shall see you later. I should freshen up as well."
Francesca stared at her for a moment. Part of her brain wanted to force the words out of Michaela’s mouth. But if it was another unreasonable excuse, another explanation for why leaving had been necessary, or another reminder that she had returned only because duty demanded it, Francesca would rather not hear it. She gave a small nod and turned away and only did she feel tears gathering in her eyes.
Michaela remained in the library long after Francesca had left. When the sound of her footsteps finally faded, she let out a shaky breath and pressed her lips together, trying to keep her composure. She knew that if she let those tears fall, she might not be able to stop them, and she still had breakfast to attend at the proper hour.
X
TWO MONTHS AGO
Michaela opened her eyes to the cries of gulls above the harbour and the rumble of wagon wheels on the street below. Cape Town was unique for its wonderful Table Mountain, who stood like a silent guardian above the bay long before European ships ever reached its shores. India had greeted each morning with the songs of unfamiliar birds and air heavy with monsoon humidity, while Cape Town had a cool sea breeze and its mild Mediterranean climate. Michaela had filled the pages of her little journal with such observations, intending to continue writing about her stay in India a few years more. Fate, however, had written a different course as after a year wandering the subcontinent, she had crossed the Indian Ocean through the winter seas, and now, in the height of the Cape summer, their voyage had paused for five days before continuing onward to England.
Michaela had always been a creature of wonder. As a child she slipped away from her tutors to roam the Scottish countryside, scrambling over stone walls, climbing trees, and ascending the nearest hills until the wind caught at her curls. What purpose had such wide and beautiful lands if not to be walked upon, and such magnificent views if not to be witnessed with her own eyes? she often thought. Her father had died before she was old enough to remember him, and so the circle of her childhood had been a small one. Aunt Janet, her mother Helen, and John– John, who too had lost his father young; John, who was her cousin by blood but her brother in every way that truly mattered. John was quiet, measured, and obedient in ways Michaela never was. Perhaps it was because he had long been raised with the knowledge that one day he would become the Earl of Kilmartin. But John possessed one weakness: he could never quite refuse Michaela. If she urged him toward some reckless adventure, he would protest, hesitate, and then follow with anxiety for the both of them. If Michaela steals one of the ponies from the stable, John would scold her even as he mounted another to chase after her, fearing what trouble she might find alone. They were often reprimanded for their mischief, but those scoldings became the joy of their childhood. Upon those quiet, sprawling lands, she had never known loneliness because John walked beside her.
At fourteen, Michaela's life stood somewhat apart from that of girls her own age. Many were preparing for their introductions into society, where they would be presented before the ton in hopes of making an advantageous match. Such expectations could never be entirely escaped, but within Kilmartin the household's attention rested mostly upon John and the responsibilities awaiting him as the future earl. She understood well enough the station expected of women which is to marry, to bear children, and to manage a household because she had read as much in novels and conduct books, and heard it repeated by the women of Kilmartin, from the servants to her governesses and tutors, whom she admired deeply, not only for their learning but for the way their faces lit whenever they spoke with passion. There had been one governess, a woman well into her middle years, who led her dance lessons, and Michaela somehow felt particularly excited about those lessons, although at that time she could not explain the reason. Maybe it was because of the elegance and ease with which the woman glided over the floor or maybe because of the soft tones in her voice while giving her the steps with patience and encouragement. It was then, in those tender years, that she began to understand something quiet and undeniable within herself. It never struck her as unnatural; it simply was what she was. She accepted it with the same certainty that one could accept the changing of the seasons.
By the time she was nearly eighteen, Michaela confessed to John that she did not wish to concern herself with marriage and her heart had long strayed from the path expected of her. She only wished to travel, to live on her own terms, and to love whomever her heart chose, and John listened without judgment, promising only to shield her from anything that might hurt her. John had always been the anchor that steadied the tides of her life, and because of that, she was more than rejoiced when he had found happiness for himself. Even though she felt her breath catch the moment she saw such a striking woman at a ball in London, and something sharper stirred in her chest when she learned she was John’s wife, Michaela was more than happy for John.
However, not even in Michaela's wildest nightmares had she believed John could be so easily snatched away from her, slipping from this world in his sleep as though the universe had quietly decided his fate before anyone had been given the chance to plead otherwise. Everything Michaela had ever known about herself seemed to splinter beneath her feet, and for the first few days of his demise she refused to believe any of it could be true, until disbelief gave way to a grief so profound it hollowed her from within, on top of the guilt for the feelings she had for Francesca, and by the fear of a future without John, who had been the one constant throughout her life. And so she did the only thing she believed herself capable of doing: she ran. She ran away from London, she ran away from John’s widow, and she simply tried to run away from all the feelings that consumed her– the cruel thought that perhaps her own heart, in loving where it should have not, somehow played a part in John's death.
Half a year into her stay in India, letters already reached her bearing the news that she was now the one expected to inherit the estate. She could not bring herself to truly accept it as it felt too much like stepping into John’s place that should always belong to him. But she could also not abandon what John had devoted his life protecting, and give it the hands of some stranger. So even though it was not like any of her plans, she promised herself she would oversee what duties she must do, quietly and without any spectacle, not for herself, but for Kilmartin– for John Stirling, and for no one else.
Having to return to London will no doubt awake all the feelings she had felt, even though she knows from within that she never even managed to bury them no matter how desperately she had tried. She did not fear the obligations awaiting her, nor the whispers the ton would definitely exchange over a woman inheriting an earldom, as none of that mattered beside honouring John's legacy. What she dreaded was facing the person she had left behind without explanation nearly two years before, knowing full well that she had every reason to resent her.
Michaela pressed herself upright upon her elbows, the white sheets slipping gracefully from her shoulders to her waist, revealing her in pale lavender stays. A cool breeze of air brushed against her bare legs, causing her gaze to wander across the room until it settled upon her gown cluttered upon the wide wooden floorboards. Before she could rise to retrieve it, the mattress shifted beside her, and a warm hand came to rest lightly across her stomach.
The woman beside her, with olive-toned skin and dark wavy hair, looked up sleepily at Michaela, the freckles scattered across her face now fully visible in the morning light. They had met at a tavern in the centre of the city the night before; she had been watching her for much of the evening while Michaela sat at the bar long before they had fallen into a conversation where Michaela learned that she was a dressmaker. Whether she was married or not, Michaela did not know and found it irrelevant to ask.
She lingered at the sight for a moment before letting out a quiet breath and speaking, “I shall leave now. My ship is due to sail within a few hours." It was their fifth day in Cape Town, and they were to depart for England the very day.
“Must you leave so early?" the woman murmured, her sleepy voice sounded with disappointment.
"I'm afraid I must. I still have to make myself respectable and attend to my belongings in a lodging nearer the harbour."
The woman sighed, letting her fingers trail lazily across Michaela’s stomach. "What a dreadful habit sailors have. Always stealing away before sunrise."
"I am no sailor."
"No," The woman smiled, looking her over with undisguised admiration. "Far too well-spoken. Far too charming."
A laugh escaped Michaela despite herself. "You flatter me."
"I do no such thing." Felicia tilted her head. "If I wished to flatter you, I would tell you your smile has made me forget my own name."
"And has it?"
"No. But it has made me forget I should be offended you're leaving."
Michaela covered the woman's hand with her own before gently moving it from her waist and resting it upon the mattress with a soft pat. She rose from the bed and crossed the room to retrieve her gown, slipping it over her chemise. She caught sight of herself in the nearby mirror and reached instinctively to fix her hair that loosened from its pins due to the hurried pleasures of the previous night.
“You’ll recover.”
“I doubt it.” The woman propped herself up on the bed, not giving effort on covering her bare self with the sheets, and observed Michaela from behind, "You know, I believe I liked your hair better before you tamed it." Michaela glanced at her reflection.
"Do you?"
"It looked as though it had no intention of obeying anyone."
"It rarely does."
"So neither of you are easily managed. A dangerous pair."
Michaela laughed quietly. "You've known me scarcely half a day."
"And yet I know enough."
"Oh?"
"You tip the serving girls more than they expect. You pretend not to notice when people stare at you, though you notice everything. And every so often..." she paused, "...you look as though you've wandered somewhere terribly far away."
"I fear you give yourself too much credit."
"I fear you do not give me enough."
Michaela shook her head amusingly. "You may keep the room for the day if you wish."
"You are rather chivalrous, Miss Stirling."
"I suppose I am."
Michaela looked over her shoulder.
"It is an admirable quality." The woman's eyes met hers. "Though not nearly as entertaining as staying."
"I truly must go now, unless you intend to delay me enough to miss my ship."
"That was precisely my intention."
"Goodbye, Miss..."
"Felicia."
"Felicia," Michaela repeated with a nod. "Yes. I remember."
"I should hope so."
Michaela offered her a playful wink.
"I hope our paths cross again, Michaela."
"I'm certain the world is smaller than it pretends to be."
"And if it isn't," Felicia replied, her smile turning almost wistful, "I'll simply have to make another beautiful stranger forget her ship."
Michaela laughed as she reached for the door.
"I wish you luck with that."
"I don't," Felicia answered. "I'd rather it were you again."
Michaela answered only with a crooked smile before letting herself out. She doubted she would ever see Felicia again, and she had long since accepted that her life would always be jumping from harbours to harbours and sleeping in borrowed rooms. There was both freedom and ache in belonging nowhere for long. The company of beautiful women, each carrying a different story, could distract her for an evening and bury the longing for something, or rather someone constant.
X
“My friend's aunt travelled abroad in search of a husband,” Hyacinth said, popping a piece of macaron into her mouth. “No one seems quite certain where she went. They have not heard from her in months.”
Eloise let out a scoff from behind her book. “The pressures society places upon women are so absurd that an entire journey across oceans can be justified by the prospect of securing a husband. I find that remarkably bleak.”
Hyacinth simply shrugged.
“Surely you do not believe that is why Michaela is so well-travelled?”
“No,” Hyacinth replied. “I simply thought of it because my friend mentioned it this morning. Apparently she intends to do the same should her debut prove unsuccessful.”
“That sounds dreadful,” Eloise muttered.
Francesca, seated beside Hyacinth, simply watched her sister over the rim of her teacup.
Eloise lowered her book. “I find it highly unlikely that Michaela travelled for any such reason. I cannot imagine her settling anywhere because society expected it of her. She travels because she wishes to see the world. She has been to Portugal, the Italian states, Austria, and goodness knows where else. India is merely the latest place she has chosen to explore.”
Francesca raised an eyebrow.
“And how do you know all of this?”
“What, that?” Eloise waved a hand dismissively. “I spent nearly a year in Scotland with you, did I not? I could hardly spend all my time conversing with sheep and horses. Michaela and I occasionally sat in one of the ten libraries and spoke. Her stories were far more entertaining than most people's.” A smile tugged at Eloise’s lips. “Truthfully, I am rather jealous. Imagine seeing all those places for oneself.”
“I am surprised you managed to catch her long enough for conversation,” Francesca remarked. “She was rarely inside the castle.”
“I still cannot believe Eloise was permitted to live in a proper castle whilst I remained here,” Hyacinth said with a sigh.
Eloise's expression became suspiciously innocent. “And, we may or may not have exchanged letters whilst she was in India.”
Hyacinth immediately turned toward Francesca. Francesca paused with her cup halfway to her lips.
“You never told me that.”
“Well...” Eloise shifted in her seat. “I did not think it necessary. She wrote first. And naturally I had questions.”
“Naturally.”
“About the legal rights afforded to women in different regions. And the landscapes. The weather. The flowers–”
“Eloise.” Francesca interrupted.
“There were many fascinating subjects to discuss.”
“I do not believe I wish to hear the contents of your correspondence.”
“Sister, you said Michaela inherited the title. That makes you both countesses now, does it not?” Hyacinth asked. “Is that not astonishing?”
“It certainly surprised me,” Eloise chimed in, her eyes bright with excitement. “Scotland appears to exist according to entirely different rules. Imagine a woman inheriting property and having actual authority. Do you suppose she might sit in Parliament?”
Hyacinth looked curiously towards Francesca who stayed silent.
“Think of it, men have spent centuries insisting women are incapable of managing estates, finances, or political matters, and now Michaela may very well prove otherwise,” Eloise added.
“I do not believe female peers sit in the House of Lords,” Francesca said.
“Yet.”
“Yet?” Hyacinth repeated.
Eloise argued, “Someone must be first.”
Francesca laughed despite herself. “Good heavens.”
Eloise leaned forward eagerly. “No, I am serious. Women own very little. The law grants husbands authority over their wives' property the moment they marry. And now there is Michaela, inheriting an earldom in her own right. If she does find a way to contribute to Parliament, or influence those who do, she might very well alter the course of society as we know it.”
Francesca considered it quietly. The thought of Michaela, a woman, possessing real authority in a world that so rarely granted women even the smallest measure of power felt rather fitting. Michaela had never been one to bend easily to expectations.
Countess Michaela Stirling.
A strange warmth stirred in her chest before she could suppress it, and she found herself smiling faintly into her teacup. She lowered her gaze before anyone could notice it and set down her teacup on the table beside her.
“I truly have no idea what her duties involve. Nor have I spoken with her since her arrival yesterday. She appears rather occupied, which was, after all, the reason she returned.”
Francesca was not lying. Aside from their brief exchange in the library on the morning of Michaela's arrival, they had rarely spoken at all. They shared breakfast that day, though the word "shared" is rather generous for two people sitting on opposite ends of a table long enough to seat a dozen guests. Francesca had not even expected Michaela to appear at breakfast, despite her saying she would. She arrived only hours earlier after a lengthy journey and must surely have been exhausted. Francesca could hardly fault herself for making assumptions because when it came to Michaela, she no longer knew what to trust. Michaela attempted conversation with surprising determination, commenting on the fine weather and how pleasant it was to see the sun after days of travel. At one point, she even recommended a spiced tea she had acquired in India, insisting that Francesca ought to try it at least once before dismissing it. Francesca responded with little more than polite nods. After only a few bites of breakfast, she excused herself, claiming she wished to return as quickly as possible to a piano arrangement she had been practicing on.
The piano piece was Beethoven’s Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor, the first movement with a slow, almost romantic fantasy, until it gets to the third movement of pure, unadulterated fury. Her music may or may not convey what she feels. Much the same arrangement had occurred again this morning before Francesca had gone to visit the Bridgerton house.
“May I visit Kilmartin house?” Hyacinth asked suddenly. Eloise turned toward her in outrage. “Did you truly ask before I did?”
Francesca's forehead creased with amusement. “As I have already said, I know nothing of her plans. If you arrive unexpectedly, you shall likely know as much as I do.”
Eloise pressed her lips together, then her expression softened.
“In all seriousness, Fran, I hope you are managing well.”
Francesca looked up. “What do you mean?” she said innocently.
“I mean that her departure was unexpected, and now her return is equally unexpected. It was unfair then, and I suspect she knows it. I still do not like that she left without explanation.”
Hyacinth simply folded her arms and leaned back against the sofa to listen. Francesca stared down on the floor for a moment.
“Although I still find her reasons difficult to understand, nearly two years have passed. I cannot deny her entry into her own home. I shall simply have to grow accustomed to her presence again.” Her voice carried an assurance that had been absent in the past two years.
Eloise nodded thoughtfully. “Very well. Though I must admit, I continue to think she is rather impressive.” she paused, smiling innocently, “I shall visit your household, claim the chocolates she promised me, and demand the finest tea she acquired abroad.”
“Eloise!” Both Francesca and Hyacinth spoke at the same time, and Eloise looked entirely unapologetic.
X
Four days had passed since Michaela’s arrival in London, and she had been buried in her work regarding the estate matters. Sir William Hargrave, a secretary, often visited to lay the groundwork for her duties, which included managing the Kilmartin lands, meeting with their respective land stewards from various regions, strategically planning for agricultural demands, and checking their investments to ensure they were still profitable. Two years had passed without someone truly in charge, so there were many areas to patch up. Fortunately, Michaela was not entirely clueless about these duties, as John was not afraid to ask Michaela for input in certain matters, and she would especially help him negotiate with tenants and investors, as she had stronger strategies and social skills. Now, sitting behind John’s desk instead of the one in front of it, where she once sat solely to offer advice, felt wrong in every possible way. She still wore the ring engraved with his name initials, the one her family had worn since his demise, and it made her heart crack, because even now she felt that John could never truly be gone; that she would never deserve to take his place. She did not want to assume Kilmartin’s identity; she was still Michaela, still the one on the sidelines. She was not an Earl, as that title was granted only to men with full authority and power, nor was she a Countess, for that was meant for Francesca. Even though she had inherited Kilmartin’s earldom, women were not permitted to be granted a Writ of Summons to sit in a legislative body, like the Parliament, except when summoned directly by the monarch. In her case, she had not yet been called upon by the Queen, which was perhaps for the best, as she wanted to keep a low profile for now.
Michaela was in the middle of scanning the accounts of a tenant in the London countryside when a knock sounded at the study’s door. She lifted her head, calling for the person to enter, assuming it was one of the servants bringing in a teapoy with fresh cups and a pot of afternoon tea. When the door creaked open, Francesca appeared, her face set in a blank stare. She carefully closed the door behind her and stood silently facing Michaela. Michaela let out a small smile at the woman she had only spoken to during breakfasts and dinners, as Francesca, if not on her piano in the drawing room, was often at the Bridgerton house.
“Anthony was to oversee these matters, but now that you have returned to attend to the estate, I thought you would be inclined to undertake it yourself.” Francesca said softly, drawing nearer to the broad mahogany desk within Kilmartin’s study where Michaela stilled. She continued, “The marriage season begins in a few weeks. John will always have a place in my heart, and I shall never forget him. However, Mama has convinced me that it is time I try to seek a suitable match?” Francesca clasped her hands together as a sudden feeling of unease settled over her chest, “...As I cannot remain in mourning forever, and it is simply a practical thing to do.” She drew in a steadying breath and lifted her chin high. “I do not suppose I need to explain that to you, nor do I think you wished to hear any of it. I simply intend to have my dowry settled.”
Michaela felt her whole body turn cold. Of course, the London marriage season was fast approaching. Of course, Francesca, in her young beautiful years, had the very right to participate. Why would she not?
She looked at Francesca for one moment too long, her body suddenly frozen in her chair, and Francesca’s brows furrowed in question. “Oh.” Michaela blinked, "Forgive me. Yes, of course. It shall be done now.”
She turned quickly toward the drawers, grappling through stacks of documents with urgency while silence enveloped between them.
“You have this year’s jointure. Would you wish to draw from it?”
Francesca looked at her blankly. Michaela managed to scoff in amusement even though she was still processing the new information, "The guaranteed annual income from the estate,” she clarified. “Half of it is settled in your name. Do not tell me you were unaware."
A flush rose upon Francesca’s cheeks, “I have never troubled myself with such matters.”
“No, I do not suppose you have," Michaela continued to skim through the papers. “There are inherited properties as well. I shall require a solicitor to separate your fortune into an independent trust. To ensure any future husband cannot squander it. It is for the protection of Kilmartin too." Francesca simply nodded, the hands clasped between her legs had begun twisting against one another.
Michaela looks up from the papers to meet Francesca's eyes once, and she gives her a tight-lipped smile. That dreadful, restrained smile which always seemed to unfurl something warm and dangerous low within Francesca's stomach.
“Are you certain of this?” Michaela thought to herself for this moment that it would not be harmful to ask.
"Of what?"
"Of remarrying. You are not in danger of losing Kilmartin,” Michaela continued, choosing her words carefully. “And beyond that, the Viscount’s estate shall always provide for you. You need not force yourself... if it is not truly what you desire.” Her last words faded into almost a whisper, hating herself for all of the sudden showing such vulnerability.
"Is that what you think?" Francesca answers too quickly, but as soon as she realizes it, she takes her words back in unnecessary defense, "It is decided. It hardly matters what anyone– especially you, thinks now.”
“I only mean that you are under my protection…” Hearing her own words sent a shiver down her spine. To speak of Francesca as being under her protection felt dangerously close to claiming her, and Francesca was not, and could never be, hers. “John’s and Kilmartin’s protection, rather. It is my duty to ensure you are cared for.”
“You would never have returned here had duty not summoned you.” Francesca’s tone was now strained with sarcasm.
Michaela's eyes rounded up. “That is not entirely true," she retaliates.
“Indeed?” A soft laugh escaped Francesca. “Then pray tell me, Michaela, what constitutes the other half of it? What reason could possibly compel your return beyond tending to the estate and overseeing your cousin’s unfortunate widow?”
"What is it with the interrogation? I state a fact, Francesca. You will always be under Kilmartin’s care. If practicality is the only thing driving you toward the marriage market, then it ought not be considered at all.” Michaela’s voice was now hurried, though still controlled enough to keep it from rising.
Francesca shook her head. “You say I should not remarry for practical reasons, yet you insist I remain here under your protection.” Her voice softened at the last words and she didn't like the feeling of it. “Is that not practicality as well? That I am intended to remain here because it is the most sensible arrangement?”
"How is that merely practicality?” Michaela replied. “I wish for your safety, because you are important to me–" Michaela paused abruptly. “Because you are family.”
Francesca remained silent as Michaela's choice of words echoed in her mind. Important. Yes, family was what they were.
"Perhaps it is not. But I shall not remain here forever." Only after the words had left her mouth did their meaning truly settle upon Francesca. Another house. Another title. Another family to which she would be expected to belong. She could not remain there forever, especially not with Michaela, and that set a bitter taste in her mouth.
Michaela stared at her, her expression shifting into a frown.
“Not when I know that every moment you spend in this place, you wish to be elsewhere." Francesca swallowed, drew in a deep breath, and straightened her dress as though preparing herself to leave. “I would do you the kindness of removing myself from beneath your wings. I can only imagine how greatly you wish to flee again.” She turned her back on Michaela and walked towards the door.
Michaela closed her eyes to gather herself. Francesca will always circle back to the fact that Michaela had left her alone for all those years. It was complicated, and hearing Francesca speak anything in the heat of the moment had hurt Michaela more than she could admit, but she would rather bear all of Francesca’s fury than tell her the truth and make things even more complicated.
Maybe it wasn’t tea that the servants needed to serve this afternoon; Michaela could use a few glasses of whiskey.