Chapter Text
In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that one feels as if one’s been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows, absolutely knows without the merest hint of a shadow of a doubt that one’s life will never be the same.
For Michaela Stirling, that moment came the first time she laid eyes onFrancesca Bridgerton.
After a lifetime of avoiding the prospects of love and marriage, of pushing down her feelings of inadequacies for not finding affection in men the way other young ladies have.
She took one look at Francesca Bridgerton and fell so fast and so hard into love it was a wonder she managed to remain standing in that ballroom. Naturally, Michaela keeps her composure, she can not be seen gawking at her dear cousin's new wife. She had learned from a young age to keep her admiration of the female species under control, and hidden, for it is not proper. That did not make it any less of a struggle.
She hid it well. It wouldn’t do to be visibly out of sorts. Then some annoyingly perceptive soul might actually take notice, and—God forbid— inquire as to her welfare, or her suspicious lack of attention to the men around her. And while Michaela Stirling held a not-unsubstantiated pride in her ability to avoid and deceive (as she had spent the last twenty so years declining any sort of attachment to anyone romantically)—Well,the sodding truth of it was that she’d never been in love before, and if ever there was a time that a woman might lose her ability to maintain a facade under direct questioning, this was probably it.
And so she laughed, and was very merry, and she continued to stay connected to her family, her beloved cousin John, despite the ache in her heart when she would see Franchesca. Michaela tried not to notice the way blonde would get lost while playing the piano, or how her nose would scrunch up when she laughed. Michaela especially tried not to notice that at night, when she was alone, she tended to close her eyes and touched herself at night, the thought of Fran’s shocked expressions, or her bratty smiles replaying in her mind until she finished with a flush to her skin.
Michaela stopped going to church entirely, because there seemed no point now in even contemplating prayer for her soul. The thought of loving a woman had never felt wrong to her, despite what some outdated book was written to say, but the love of her cousin's wife felt like a transgression. Besides, the parish church near Kilmartin dated to 1432, and the crumbling stones certainly couldn't take a direct strike of lightning. And if God ever wanted to smite a sinner, he couldn’t do better than Michaela Stirling.
Michaela Stirling, Sinner.
She could see it on a calling card. She’d have had it printed up, even—hers was just that sort of black sense of humor—if she weren’t convinced it would kill her mother on the spot.
Michaela had many lesser qualities : romantically avoidant, impulsive, clinging to her family as a way to repair the loneliness in her heart, technically a sinner if you read into the thought of homosexual thoughts as a sin, which she didn't.
But this… This was beyond the pale. Entirely unacceptable. This was the one transgression that was finally going to blacken her soul, or at the very least—and this was assuming she maintained the strength never to act upon her desires—make it a rather deep shade of charcoal. Because this… this— She coveted her cousin’s wife. She coveted John’s wife. John. John, who, damn it all, was more of a brother to her than one of her own could ever have been. John, whose family had taken her in when her father had died. John, whose father had raised her and taught her to be a good soul, like John, with whom—
Ah, bloody hell. Did she really need to do this to herself? She could spend an evening cataloguing all the reasons why she was going straight to hell for having chosen John’s wife with whom to fall in love. And none of it was ever going to change one simple fact. She couldn’t have her. She could never have Francesca Bridgerton Stirling.
At least she could enjoy their new budding friendship. Despite their rocky start, John was pleased to see that Franchesca and Michaela had begun to interact with each other, instead of the total avoidance they showed each other at the Kilmartin house. This evening in fact, they had all three spent time together, before John retired for a nap before supper. Despite her nerves of being alone with Franchesca, each conversation became more natural for Michaela, and she found herself smiling intensely around the blonde. So much so, when Franchesca retired to retrieve John, the smile hadn't quite left Michaela's face. Until she heard a piercing scream, Francesca's voice filled with agony. Michaela's blood went cold, her whole body sitting up in a panic, not imagining how devastating the reason for the outburst was.
John had passed away in his sleep.
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Where the rest of her family was outgoing, Franchesca was… not shy, precisely, but a bit more reserved, more careful with her words. She’d developed a reputation for irony and wit, and she had to admit, she could rarely resist the opportunity to needle her siblings with a dry remark. It was done out of love, of course, and perhaps a touch of the desperation that comes from having spent far too much time with one’s family, but they teased Francesca right back, so all was fair.
It was the way of her family. They laughed, they teased, they bickered. Francesca’s contributions to the din were simply a touch quieter than the rest, a bit more sly and subversive.She often wondered if part of her attraction to John had been the simple fact that he removed her from the chaos that was so often the Bridgerton household. Not that she didn’t love him; she did. She adored him with every last breath in her body. He was her kindred spirit, so like her in so many ways. But it had, in a strange sort of fashion, been a relief to exit her mother's home, to escape to a more serene existence with John, whose sense of humor was precisely like hers.
He understood her, he anticipated her.
He completed her.
It had been the oddest sensation when she’d met him, almost as if she were a jagged puzzle piece finally finding its mate. Their first meeting hadn't been one of overwhelming love or passion, but rather filled with the most bizarre sense that she’d finally found the one person with whom she could completely be herself.
It had been instant. It had been sudden. She couldn’t remember just what it was he’d said to her, but from the moment words first left his lips, she had felt at home. And with him had come Michaela, his cousin—although truth be told, the two were much more like siblings. They’d been raised together, and they were so close in age that they’d shared everything. Well, almost everything. John was the heir to an earldom, and Michaela was just his cousin, and so it was only natural that the two children would not be treated quite the same. But from what Francesca had heard, and from what she knew of the Stirling family now, they had been loved in equal measure,and she rather thought that was the key to Michaela’s good humor.
Because even though John had inherited the title and the wealth, and well,everything, Michaela didn’t seem to envy him. She didn’t envy him. It was amazing to Franchesca. Michaela had been raised as John’s sibling—John’s older sister, even—and yet she’d never once begrudged John for any of his blessings.
And it was for that reason that Francesca loved her best. Michaela would surely scoff if she tried to praise her for it, and she was quite certain that Michaela would point to her many misdeeds to prove that her soul was black and she was a scoundrel through and through—but the truth of the matter was that Michaela Stirling possessed a generosity of spirit and a capability for love that was unmatched. Francesca saw it shine at John's memorial as Michaela led the others in her dance, even when she was overcome with grief, there was a sense of charm and grace that she held, one that reminded Fran so much of John.
Michaela, not wanting to disappoint the Bridgerton, promised to stay in London to grieve, after all, she was the only other person who truly understood what franchesca was going through with the loss of such an angel like John. But the pain and the rumors had begun to already become too much.
Already she had heard that men in the clubs were calling her the lucky. Overnight, she’d gone from the fringe of aristocracy to its very epicenter. How could anyone possibly speak as if something good had come of all of this? No one seemed to understand that Michaela had never wanted this. Never. She didn’t want an earldom. She wanted her cousin back. And no one seemed to understand that. Except, perhaps, Francesca, but she was so wrapped in her own grief that she could not quite comprehend the pain in Michaela’s heart. And she would never ask her to. Not when Fran was so wrecked by her own. Michaela understood her despair better than anyone could ever imagine.
What was she to do, Michaela wondered. She felt herself sinking down, down, sliding against the wall until she was sitting on the floor, her legs bent in front of her, head resting on her knees. She hadn’t wanted this. Had she?
She had wanted Francesca.
That was all. But not like this.
Not at this cost.
She had never begrudged John his good fortune. She had never coveted the title,the money, or the power. She had merely coveted his wife. Now she was meant to assume John’s title, step into his shoes. And guilt was squeezing its merciless fist right around her heart. Had she somehow wished for this?
No, she couldn’t have. She hadn’t.
Had she?
The feeling of all of it became too much, and suddenly Michaela was hastily packing a bag.
She felt awful. She had to leave, and couldn’t force herself to say goodbye, to look into Francesca's eyes and break her promise to stay.
She thought that her grief might finally overtake her longing for Fran, that Michaela might finally be in the same room as her and not want her, but no, her breath still caught every time Fran walked into the room, and her body tightened when Fran would brushed past her, and her heart still ached with the pain of loving the blonde.
Except now it was all wrapped in an extra layer of guilt—as if she hadn't had enough of that while John was alive. Francesca was in pain, and she was grieving, and Michaela ought to be comforting her, not lusting after her. Good God, John wasn't even cold in his grave. What kind of monster would lust after his wife?
And for Francesca. She couldn't bring herself to be a friend to her, not the way she ought, had promised, but she could make sure that Francesca was safe with her family. Call Michaela weak, or shallow, but she could not be Francesca’s friend. Not yet anyway.
Her mind fought itself. ‘You can’t abandon her’ one thought spoke. ‘She was never mind to abandon’ another spoke. The thoughts followed her out the door, and away from London, away from Franchesca.