Chapter Text
Francesca walked into Kilmartin House for the first time in almost six months, although she hadn’t officially lived there for the past two years. A line of servants and maids walked in behind her, a few carrying some of her many bags. After a long autumn and winter spent at Aubrey Hall with her family, Francesca could not bear to move into Bridgerton House with them all at the beginning of the season. In fact, she had become so tired of the chaos and bustle of a house full of Bridgertons– despite the immense size of their country house– that she had moved into Kilmartin House a full month and a half before the season began, just to get some peace and quiet.
Francesca truly loved her family, and she had stayed with them since John died because she relied on their comfort, but there were just so many of them. After the birth of their second child the previous season, Anthony and Kate had taken up permanent residence in England and had spent the off-season at Aubrey Hall, along with her, Hyacinth, and their mother. Even Gregory had come home from Eton before Christmas and stayed until the end of January.
And if it had just been her three siblings, their mother, Kate, and the kids, Francesca would not have minded it. But often, Benedict and Sophie spent their days at Aubrey Hall because My Cottage was only a few miles away, and they brought their son. Penelope and Colin came to visit at least once a week with their children, usually coinciding with Eloise dropping by with the twins and Philip if he had the time. Even Daphne and Simon visited quite often. The average day at home in the winter for the Bridgerton family was busy.
All Francesca wanted was to be alone in a quiet house for a while before the season began. She followed the servants upstairs and made her way to her bedroom. Her and John’s bedroom. Francesca had not been in there for a very long time. One of the maids had already opened the door, many of her bags already sitting on her bed and the floor. She took a deep breath before entering.
She had expected to feel something shift as she crossed the threshold of the room, but nothing happened. Francesca exhaled and shut her eyes tightly. It had been almost two years since John died. She had mostly come to terms with her grief, but she still missed him dearly. The hole in her heart that had formed the day he had passed was made even more unbearable by Michaela’s absence.
She had left without saying goodbye, after Francesca had asked her to stay, and had barely said any word to her since then. Sure, Michaela had sent her a few cordial letters from India, which is where she had run off to, but that was about it. Just as they seemed to be getting along better, it was quite a shame, but Francesca had tried to give it little thought.
“Lady Kilmartin?”
Francesca startled, her eyes jumping open as she whirled around to the door. Her housekeeper, Mrs Parrish, was standing in the doorway.
“Yes,” she said. “Sorry.”
“It is all right, My Lady,” Mrs Parrish replied with a soft smile. “All of your other belongings are still on the way, and the servants are tending to the rest of the house. Would you like for me to send someone to put your things away up here?”
Francesca shook her head quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. “No, that is perfectly alright.” She gave a sheepish smile. “I think I may take a nap. Travelling all day has tired me out.”
“Of course, My Lady.” Mrs Parrish curtsied and swiftly left the room, shutting the door behind her.
Finally, for the first time in what felt like absolutely ages, Francesca was alone. She took the bags off the bed and pulled the covers back. Not even bothering to change into a nightgown, Francesca simply took off her dress and climbed into bed in her shift and underclothes. She closed her eyes and pulled the blanket up to her chin, curling up underneath it.
After a minute of trying to fall asleep, Francesca opened her eyes again. All she could think about was where she lay was exactly where John had lain for the last time. She rolled over and cringed at the sunlight as she faced the window. Reluctantly, she got up and drew the curtains closed before crawling back into bed. This time, when she shut her eyes, she managed to drift off into a light sleep.
~
Michaela had been on her way back to London for what felt like years. In reality, it had been about nine months. She still longed for it to be over. And for solid ground. By the time the captain had announced they were almost at shore, Michaela was ready to never be on a ship again for at least the next two years.
The second the ship had pulled into the dock, Michaela was hauling up her bags and getting off. The rest of the belongings would be delivered to her later on. She quickly hailed a carriage and directed the driver to Kilmartin House.
The drive wasn’t too far, but it was still longer than she would have liked. About a half hour later, she had arrived at Kilmartin House and stepped out of the carriage with her bags. She pulled the house’s keys out of her pocket and unlocked the front door. The main entrance was dark, with no candles lighting it. She wondered if any servants were at the house at all.
Michaela dropped her bags on the floor to the side of the entrance, grabbed the nearest candlestick and a match, and lit a candle to guide her. She made her way to the library through the door connected to the main hall and walked straight to the fireplace inside. She had forgotten how cold London winters were. Michaela set the candle on the floor next to the fireplace and grabbed a piece of paper.
She knelt by the fireplace and carefully lit the piece of paper with the candle. Michaela tossed the paper into the fire, setting the wood aflame. With a bit of stoking, the fireplace had come alive. She smiled contentedly and stood, candlestick in hand. Michaela was just about to turn and find a book to read when someone behind her interrupted.
“Michaela?”
She turned to find Francesca standing at the doorway to the library. She wore her silvery blue night robe and slippers, her hair down and completely brushed out. Michaela looked away. She hadn’t known Francesca had been in London.
Francesca didn’t say anything. She just kept staring at her. Or Michaela assumed she was staring at her, since she refused to look at her. She couldn’t. Not when that dressing gown was so thin and sheer, and it seemed like Francesca wasn’t wearing very much under– She had to stop this.
“Michaela?” Francesca whispered, like she hadn’t already said her name. Why did she keep having to say her name?
“Francesca,” she said finally, determined to look only at the other woman’s face. Although that was not much better. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” She shook her head. “I’m not the one who’s supposed to be in India. What are you doing here?”
Michaela shrugged. “Thought it was time to come home.”
“And you did not bother to write?” Francesca asked.
“The letter would have gotten here after I did, Francesca,” she said.
Francesca frowned. “Someone could have been here to greet you.”
“You are here,” said Michaela.
She sighed. “We could have gotten the house ready for you.”
“It is ready enough,” Michaela responded.
Francesca crossed her arms. “Fine. The important thing is that you are home. Your mother will be thrilled.”
“Oh, please do not tell my mother just yet,” Michaela said. “I’d like a few days of peace before seeing her.”
Francesca nodded. “Well, I am delighted to have you back.” She did not sound very convincing when she said this, almost as if she were trying to force herself to believe it.
Michaela smiled tightly. “Are you cold?” she asked.
“Not at all,” Francesca said.
“You’re lying,” Michaela teased.
“Perhaps.”
Michaela stepped to the side so that Francesca could stand next to her at the fire. Although this was inevitable self-destruction, Michaela could not stand to see the woman nearly freeze in front of her.
“You are allowed to join me at the fire,” she said, a wry grin growing on her lips. “I will not bite.”
Francesca grit her teeth and stepped closer to her. She practically melted once she felt the warmth of the fire, and Michaela would be a liar if she said she did not relish in watching Francesca as she closed her eyes and soaked in the heat. The warm light of the fire illuminated Francesca's pale skin. She was just so beautiful. No, that was not the right word. She was elegant, dazzling, enchanting. Michaela may never find the right word to describe her.
“You look well,” Francesca said, opening her eyes. She flicked her gaze over Michaela’s body, causing a chill to run up her spine.
“As do you,” Michaela replied.
Francesca cleared her throat. “It has been a long time.”
“I know,” Michaela said. “Two years, I believe.”
“Just under.” Francesca swallowed.
Silence stretched between them, more awkward than either of them were accustomed to. Michaela stared at the fire, unable to watch Francesca’s face now that she was so close. It would be impossible to hide the awe and longing behind her eyes.
“Do you have any plans?” Francesca asked, finally breaking the silence.
Michaela hummed. “The only thing I am able to think about at the moment is getting warm.”
Francesca huffed. “It is unseasonably chilly for this time of year.”
“I cannot believe I had managed to forget how cold it can be here,” Michaela muttered. She folded her arms.
“I would not think it possible for you to escape the memory of a Scottish winter,” Francesca replied quietly.
Turning to face Francesca fully, Michaela smiled. She had missed Francesca, her quiet wit, her soft smiles. She seemed different now, if only slightly. More solemn than she had been before, even after John died.
“One would imagine,” said Michaela. “I came home partly because I could not stand the heat in India a minute longer, and here I am nearly freezing to death.” She laughed dryly, running her hands up and down her arms to warm up.
“It will be spring soon,” Francesca supplied. She was carefully watching the fire, almost as if she was avoiding turning her gaze to Michaela. But perhaps she was imagining that.
Michaela snorted. “Not like that is much better.”
Francesca nodded in agreement, sighing. She looked up at her finally, a kind smile on her lips that Michaela was certainly not staring at.
“The house will be better tomorrow,” Francesca told her eventually. “I had only just arrived this afternoon. Mrs Parrish has informed me that the house will be fully restocked tomorrow.”
Michaela nodded. She turned away from the fire so that she could warm her back. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?”
She gestured to the empty room. “Exactly who else would I be asking?” Michaela quirked a brow at her.
“I live here,” Francesca said.
“But you do not usually come down until at least April,” Michaela responded.
Francesca paused. “You know that?”
Michaela flushed. She averted her gaze to the floor. “My mother’s letters are remarkably detailed.”
Francesca shrugged, inching closer to the fire, and to Michaela, although she did not think the latter was on purpose. The other woman hummed quietly in response.
“Is that an answer?” Michaela asked her.
“I simply felt like it,” Francesca replied finally. “Is that not a lady’s prerogative?”
Michaela turned so that her side faced the fire and incidentally ended up facing Francesca. Her face grew warmer. She was so close, and now that the woman had let her arms fall to her sides, Michaela could practically see straight through Francesca’s night gown.
“I thought it was a lady’s prerogative to change her mind,” Michaela said.
“It’s a lady’s prerogative to do whatever she pleases,” Francesca told her.
“Touché,” Michaela replied with a laugh. “You know, you have not changed at all.”
“How are you so certain of that?” Francesca asked, cocking her head.
“Because you look exactly as I remembered you,” she said. Michaela gestured down to Francesca’s nightwear. “Aside from your attire, of course.”
As if suddenly realising what she had been wearing this whole time, Francesca gasped and wrapped her arms around herself again. Michaela grinned as the other woman stepped back and turned her gaze to the room, her face flushed in embarrassment.
There was an air about Francesca that had shifted, but the longer Michaela spent next to her, the longer she realised that Francesca truly had not changed. Her personality, her sheepishness, the grace with which she held herself, all exactly as Michaela had remembered. It was as if she had been picked up and placed back two years.
The only thing that was truly different about the woman who stood in front of her was that she was no longer married, no longer in mourning, even. She was available, completely unattached to John. It hurt to see, not only because it told Michaela that her cousin was gone for certain, but also because it meant there was no buffer between her and Francesca. The only thing preventing Michaela from acting on her feelings for her was her own conscience. It felt like standing on the edge of a tall building, with nothing but a railing up to your ankles to protect you from falling.
Delirious from such a long journey back to London, Michaela began to laugh at her situation. Left alone in a house with her dead cousin’s wife, whom she was in love with. And Francesca had nary a clue about any of the feelings brewing beneath Michaela’s skin. It was ironic, cruel, and, at that moment, incredibly hilarious to Michaela.
“Michaela?” Francesca asked, finally looking at her again. “What is so funny?”
Michaela tried her best to calm herself down, but giggled even more at Francesca’s question. With a few calming breaths, she had managed to settle, although there was still a humorous smile upon her lips.
With a final exhale, Michaela replied, “You wouldn’t understand.”
Francesca pursed her lips. “Try me.”
“No, Francesca, truly, I am not sure I would even be able to explain it,” Michaela said. She could not explain it, not to her at least.
“Michaela,” Francesca nearly whined.
It was meant to come off as insolence, an attempt to get Michaela to break and tell her, but Michaela did not receive it that way. The sound abruptly ripped any sort of humour out of her, the sensation of it settling deep in her lower belly. Michaela could only hope that the light of the fire did not betray the darkening of her eyes.
“Francesca,” Michaela said finally. “There are just some things you will never understand.”
With a gasp, Francesca looked at her as if Michaela had struck her. It did make her feel guilty, but Michaela was mostly relieved that she had seemed to derail Francesca’s line of questioning.
“That was a terrible thing to say,” Francesca whispered.
Michaela only shrugged.
“You have changed,” Francesca said.
Oh, how Michaela had hoped that was true. At the very least, she had wished that upon running into Francesca for the first time since her return, she would have found that her feelings for the woman had been lost to time. Unfortunately for Michaela, those feelings had bubbled right back up to the surface the second she had heard Francesca’s voice again.
Michaela sighed. “Forgive me,” she said, needing to fill the silence, and for Francesca to look at her again. “I’m tired, I’m cold, and I’m an ass.”
Francesca grinned at that, turning to face her. “It’s all right.” She smiled. Something deep within Michaela melted, glad that she was smiling again. Then, she placed her hand on Michaela’s upper arm. “You’ve had quite a long journey.”
Sucking in a breath, Michaela plastered a weak smile on her face. Of course, Francesca placing a hand on her arm was nothing of scandal, and she had done it many times before, but this first bit of contact in nearly two years was almost enough to knock Michaela off her feet. She cleared her throat.
“Yes,” Michaela said. “I should be getting to bed.”
“Oh.” Francesca removed her hand. “There will not be a room ready for you. You should take mine. I shall sleep here.”
“No,” Michaela replied immediately. “It is your room. I will sleep here.”
Francesca shook her head. “Absolutely not, not after all your travels.” She thought for a moment before her eyes widened. “I know! You should sleep with me tonight.”
Michaela froze for a second. Surely, Francesca– God bless her– did not mean it the way that she had initially interpreted it. “Oh, no, that is not necessary, Francesca, I–”
“Nonsense,” Francesca said. “I will not allow you to sleep on a couch, and you will not allow me. Clearly, the only solution here is that we share the master bed.”
“Are you sure?” Michaela asked.
“Of course, I am.” She said it without any doubt at all. “It is not as if our sleeping next to each other is inappropriate, Michaela.”
She supposed it wasn’t, despite how much her feelings made it seem so. Michaela sighed. “Alright.”
Francesca smiled. She allowed Michaela to put out the fire before looping her arm through Michaela's, taking the candle, and leading her up to the bedroom. The moment they had reached the bedroom door, Francesca let go of Michaela’s arm and walked inside. Michaela paused in the doorway. This was where John and Francesca had lain together as husband and wife. It felt like a horrible violation for her to just be standing here. She shut her eyes.
“What is it?”
Michaela opened her eyes to find Francesca watching her from the side of the bed, taking her slippers off.
“Nothing,” Michaela replied automatically. “I just… I left my things downstairs. I have nothing to change into.” She began to turn and head back downstairs. “I should go and–”
“You can borrow some of my clothes for the night,” Francesca said. “It is silly for you to go all the way downstairs when I have more nightdresses up here than I can count.”
Michaela nodded. “Right. Of course. Thank you, Francesca.”
Shutting the door behind her, Michaela finally entered the room. Francesca pushed herself up from the edge of the bed and led Michaela over to one of her armoires.
“Pick whichever one you would like,” Francesca told her. “And there is a partition over there that you can change behind.” She pointed to the changing screen in the corner of the room. “Just leave all of your things on the chair next to it, and I shall have one of the maids bring it to your room tomorrow morning.”
Unsure of what else to say, Michaela simply replied with a quiet, “Thank you.” She turned to the armoire and picked out one of the darker blue nightdresses before making her way over to the partition and changing out of her dress into the softer fabric.
Michaela placed her dress on the chair next to her, removed her jewellery, set it on top of the dress, and then came out from behind the screen. Francesca sat on the further side of the bed, facing away from her. She smiled softly as she watched the other woman brush through her hair. Francesca had taken off her robe, now only wearing the thin dress Michaela had been able to see through the even thinner fabric of her robe.
Francesca turned to look over her shoulder as if she could feel Michaela’s lust-filled gaze trained on her back. She smiled softly.
“A perfect fit,” Francesca said.
Michaela blushed, hopefully imperceptible in the dim light. “Yes. Thank you, Francesca.”
She hesitantly stepped towards the bed. Francesca, like she could sense Michaela’s nerves, pulled the covers back for her and climbed into bed. Michaela did the same, lying on her side, facing Francesca.
Francesca smiled at her. “You’ll have to tell me all about your travels tomorrow.”
“I would have written to you of them,” Michaela said simply. And she would have, if Francesca had only responded to the few letters she had sent her.
Francesca studied her face for a moment. “I was rather angry with you for leaving.”
“I’m sorry.” Michaela did not have anything else to say, but the two words did not feel like enough in the face of the tension between them.
“I specifically asked you to stay, Michaela.” Francesca’s voice was thick with something Michaela could not place. Anger or sadness? She could not tell. “How could you have up and left so soon after that? Without telling me?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I had to leave, Francesca, and I feared you would have stopped me.”
“But why?” Francesca asked. Her eyes bored into Michaela, almost as if she were trying to read her every thought, perhaps to get an answer to her question telepathically.
Michaela swallowed. She certainly could not give Francesca the real answer, that she had left for India because of her. So, instead, she offered up a half-truth.
“I spent half of my childhood running these very halls with John,” Michaela told her. “I spent those weeks after he had died expecting to find him every time I turned the corner. It hurt every time that I did not find him. I could not bear the thought of returning to Kilmartin in the autumn and feeling that hurt tenfold. I had to leave this house, leave England, leave Europe. I needed to be somewhere that allowed me to believe that John was still alive and well here in London.”
Francesca nodded solemnly. “I understand. It is nearly the same reason I went to Aubrey Hall at the end of that summer. I am sorry for being so angry with you for so long, Michaela, but you could have confided in me.”
Michaela smiled but said nothing else. Francesca reached across the bed to grab hold of Michaela’s hand. She squeezed it tightly before letting go, curling her arm back into herself.
“Good night, Michaela,” she said.
“Good night, Francesca,” Michaela replied.
Francesca’s eyes fluttered closed, and Michaela continued to watch her, her impulse control worn thin for the night.
She was convinced the woman was asleep until she whispered, “It is really good to have you home, Michaela.”
“It’s good to be home,” Michaela replied. She, too, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
~
The next morning, Francesca woke early as she usually did. She opened her eyes slowly and found herself facing away from the window. The morning sun still bounced off the light-coloured walls, making her squint. Francesca tried to slip out from under the covers and get ready for the day, but as she did, she found a weight around her waist anchoring her to the bed.
Looking down to her hip, Francesca found an arm curled around her midsection. Not just any arm. Michaela’s arm. She looked behind her to find the woman fast asleep, tucked into Francesca. She smiled softly, glad that Michaela was getting her much-needed rest after the trip back from India.
Francesca carefully removed Michaela’s arm from her waist and snuck out of bed. She went to her closet, picked out a dress for the day, and changed before heading downstairs. According to the grandfather clock in the hallway, it was just before seven. Francesca made her way downstairs, passing by a few maids who greeted her as she went. She stopped one of them on the staircase, requesting that they take Michaela’s things from her room and bring them to a room they could set up for her.
The house appeared to be in full swing as she walked through the halls. Once she had arrived at the sitting room, Francesca made a beeline for the grand piano that sat in the centre of the room. She lifted the cover that sat over the keys and stared at them, her fingers hovering just above. John had bought this piano for her after their wedding. She had not touched it since he had died.
Softly, Francesca brought her fingers down to the keys. On the music desk was a sheet of music she recognised instantly—the piece John had rearranged for her. Francesca sighed. It was like he was there with her, telling her that everything would be alright. She began to play the first few notes from the sheet, muscle memory quickly taking over, allowing her to close her eyes as she played.
Francesca’s fingers flew over the keys, and she could feel the vibration of the piano’s chords in her bones. When the song was over, she held the last note for a minute before opening her eyes. She lifted her hands from the keys and settled one in her lap, the other trailing across the edge of the piano.
“It is a beautiful song,” a voice from behind her said.
Francesca turned to find Michaela leaning against the doorway, smiling at her. Francesca smiled back before she noticed that Michaela was still wearing her nightdress. Her smile faltered, and she turned to look out the window. Francesca had not given it a second thought the night before, but now that Michaela stood in the sitting room, in broad daylight, wearing Francesca’s dress, a weird feeling settled over her.
“Thank you,” Francesca replied. “John arranged it for me.”
She looked back at Michaela, soon enough to see an indecipherable expression pass over her face. Michaela smiled again as she noticed Francesca looking at her.
“I had one of the maids bring your things to your room,” Francesca told her.
“Yes, I noticed,” Michaela said. “Thank you.”
They were both quiet. Michaela looked around the room.
“Well,” Francesca said, standing up from the piano stool. “I had asked Mrs Parrish last night to have breakfast ready by seven. Of course, I did not know that you would be here, but the kitchen here always seems to prepare enough food for a whole family. Would you like to join me for breakfast?”
Michaela hesitated. “I shall have to change first.” She gestured down to Francesca’s dress.
Francesca nodded, really trying her hardest not to look at the dress again. “Of course.”
They both stood awkwardly for a moment before Michaela bowed her head and quickly left the room to change. Francesca let out a breath. What was it about that woman that made her feel so… She did not even have a name for the feeling. She truly liked Michaela, and she had mourned their friendship, but Francesca had not missed the weird tension that would occasionally pass between them.
Francesca shook her head, trying to right herself. She huffed and left the room, making her way to the dining room for breakfast.
~
Michaela made her way down to breakfast soon after changing into a day dress. As she entered the dining room, she found Francesca sitting at the table, in the chair next to the head of the table. The one next to John’s chair. Francesca turned, presumably at the sound of Michaela’s footsteps. Her face lit up as she saw her and waved her over.
Stepping closer to the table, Michaela saw that her plate had been set up at the seat across from Francesca. Or at least, she had assumed that was her plate, because the one that was in front of John’s seat was not accompanied by a glass of water like hers was. Michaela sat in the chair across from Francesca.
Francesca smiled at her. “Forgive me, I know it’s rather silly to set a plate at John’s place still, but I had accidentally asked Mrs Parrish to set three plates.” She laughed softly. “I suppose there are some habits you really cannot shake.”
Michaela smiled back. “It’s all right, Francesca. I understand, and I do not mind having John’s place set.”
Francesca only nodded in response. She began to take food from the plates on the table. Michaela looked down at the breakfast array between them. Francesca was right, the kitchen did make enough for an entire family.
“So,” Francesca started. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really back?”
Michaela took a sip from her glass of water to wash down the biscuit she had just eaten. “What?”
“Last night you said you had come home partly because you could not stand the heat in India any longer,” Francesca said. “What was the other part?”
Michaela stared at her for a moment. She had come home because the crown had been unable to find a suitable heir of the Kilmartin Estate. Well, a suitable male heir. In India, Michaela had received a letter from Parliament informing her that the estate had been passed down to her, and she had left immediately after that.
“Do you really not know?” Michaela asked.
Francesca stared back at her, bewildered. “Know what?”
“Parliament has given me the title of Earl of Kilmartin,” Michaela told her. “Well, Countess, really, but I do not wish to steal your title.”
Francesca’s mouth opened in surprise. “What?” She stammered out.
“I can’t believe no one told you,” Michaela said.
Francesca shook her head. “Nor can I. That is… wonderful, Michaela. Truly.” She reached across the table to squeeze Michaela’s hand.
“Thank you,” Michaela replied.
They both continued to eat, falling into a silence that was much more comfortable than the one they had shared earlier that morning.
“So, does that mean you will be staying in London?” Francesca asked eventually.
Michaela looked up at her. “Yes. It will be easiest for me to conduct business affairs here rather than in Scotland, but I could find different living accommodations if you wish to stay here alone.”
“No!” Francesca said quickly. She looked rather surprised that she had said it, and cleared her throat. “No, I do not want you to find other accommodations. This is your family home, Michaela. I would not kick you out of it.”
Michaela smiled. “Okay. I shall stay here.”
“Good,” Francesca concluded.