Archive of Our Own

Time was a funny thing.

It was hard to think of the years passing, for even though the seasons change, Violet does not feel much older in her mind.

Yet, the evidence of time was everywhere: in the way her body has changed after having nurtured eight children and an estate, in the changing constellation of people in the ton, in her increasingly empty home.

Her children were almost all grown now and were occupied by their own lives. Half of them were married with families of their own, and though seeing them so settled bolsters Violet’s heart, she often finds herself missing them, particularly those who are not there.

It was usually Daphne that was missing, focused on her beautiful growing family in Clevedon. If not her, then Anthony was often here and not, spending more and more time establishing his home in Aubrey Hall. Benedict was likewise in the midst of setting up his marital home with lovely Sophie in the country. Thankfully, all three of them were now in Mayfair, which meant that there were fewer people to miss. 

For the first time in a while, the entire family was together in one place, her eight, as well as Simon and Kate, and Penelope and Sophie and…

John.

She misses sweet quiet John. His thoughtful steadiness was a balm within the whirlwind that is their family and she misses his presence.

She misses Francesca too. She is here, but sometimes it feels only in name. Even now, sitting across from her at tea, she feels a million miles away.

Gratefully, things are much better than they were a few months ago. In the immediate days after John’s passing, Violet had been terrified. Terrified for Francesca’s well-being, for her stability, her future. 

There were moments while sitting beside Francesca where the shape of her own early grief returned vividly. When she’d lost Edmund, her world had collapsed. She had suddenly been cut adrift with no sense of up or down or left or right. There had only been an abyss where Edmund had been, a wound on her heart that was both unbearable and unhealable.

She was not proud of the way that she behaved over those years, at times remote and at others, lashing out most angrily. 

Edmund had been everything. When you lose everything, how are you to keep breathing? 

Hyacinth had been her tether. She had given her something to focus on besides the pain, something to hold on to, to find her way back to breathing, and even after she had been born, breathing had been something that she’d had to learn how to do again over the course of years. 

Grief had seemed to be the complete opposite with Francesca.

Where she had lashed out, Francesca had withdrawn. Where Violet had Hyacinth, Francesca had nothing.

Of her children, Francesca had always been the most contained, and it had seemed like that containment was going to consume her.

She had refused to outwardly grieve, and instead had focused on the practical.

To a point.

It had further broken Violet’s heart to see her finally break down, but it had also been a relief to see Francesca express what was within her.

Things had further taken a turn for the better after John’s beautiful celebration of life. There, she had seen Francesca truly smile for the first time since John’s passing, had seen her dance with a lightness she was not sure she’d ever seen.

Before she’d left Kilmartin House that evening, Violet had made sure to thank Michaela, who was also grieving a loss, but had managed to change the air with a joy that had been transformative. “It was my duty to my dear family,” Michaela had said, eyes lingering on the draped portrait of Francesca and John, “but also my pleasure.” 

From there, Violet thought that the worst had passed. But there had only been chaos. Securing Sophie, saying goodbye to Agatha, losing Marcus…

In the midst of it all, Francesca had come home, as somber as Violet had ever seen her. Kilmartin House, she had said, was far too quiet.

She barely ate and didn’t sleep. Instead, Mrs. Wilson reported the staff finding her at odd hours of the night seated at the piano, not playing, but studying it like it had some secret it refused to share.

Violet watches her at tea.

The drawing room is lively in the way it only ever is when her family gathers in sufficient quantity to speak over one another. Kate shakes her head at the morning’s paper that Anthony abandoned to keep Elliot from climbing atop the side table. “It seems like Parliament does not agree with The Prince Regent’s decision to let women watch debate.”

“You mean The Queen’s decision,” Daphne replies. “He does whatever she says.”

“How shocking,” Eloise says at exactly the same time. “They act as though government might collapse entirely at the sight of a woman doing something.”

The trick to letting them go on, Violet has learned, was to know when to let them be and when to jump in. 

Anthony shakes his head as he lifts Elliot and deposits him onto the floor near a sleeping Edmund. “You might attempt, just once, to discuss a topic without sounding moments away from leading a revolution.”

“I would,” Eloise shrugs, “but then you would all be bored.”

Benedict laughs from where he lounges near the window beside Sophie. “What precisely are they afraid will happen?”

“That women may possess thoughts,” Simon says gravely. Near his elbow, Augie waves his toy in emphasis.

“A horrifying possibility,” Hycynth agrees sarcastically.

Anthony points a warning finger at her without looking. “Do not encourage her.”

“Why not? Rebellion is the only thing Eloise excels at.”

“Hyacinth,” Violet warns.

“Sorry, Mama,” her youngest replies with absolutely no remorse.

Kate smiles faintly into her tea. “One gentleman apparently claims women are too emotionally governed for political responsibility.”

At this, Penelope lets out an audible snort.“Forgive me,” she says. “But I find it difficult to hear men described as creatures of superior restraint after observing the ton for any meaningful length of time.”

Colin laughs from his perch on the floor.

“Besides,” Penelope continues, “if emotional instability truly disqualified one from governance, half the House of Lords would be removed by Tuesday.”

“Perhaps the mysterious new Whistledown ought to cover parliamentary affairs instead,” Benedict suggests. “It certainly sounds scandalous.”

“There is already one Whistledown imposter, and now you are suggesting there be another?” Sophie asks.

Penelope lifts one shoulder. “I am writing my novel. If someone else wishes to put gossip toward useful ends, I cannot entirely object.”

“You know who it is,” Kate says knowingly.

“I know everything,” Penelope replies serenely.

“That is not a denial,” Simon notes.

Before Penelope can answer, Elliot barrels directly into Colin’s legs. Colin scoops him up with practiced ease while Edmund startles awake with an offended little cry.

As the room dissolves briefly into chaos, Francesca remains silent. She sits near the edge of the settee with one hand wrapped around a cup of tea that has long since gone cold.

“Francesca?” Violet asks gently.

Francesca blinks once, as though surfacing from deep water. “Hm?”

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Women being allowed to watch debate,” Eloise fills in. “Honestly, I think it would be far more interesting to let the women actually do the debating.”

“A woman would have to be a member of Parliament in order to debate,” Anthony points out.

“The Queen certainly seems to think women capable enough to observe governance,” Kate says mildly as she settles Edmund more comfortably against her shoulder. “There are a few women I could think of that I would love to see in a debate.”

“The Queen enjoys making powerful men uncomfortable,” Daphne nods.

“A noble public service,” Eloise says. “She and Michaela would get on famously.”

Hyacinth brightens immediately. “Sister, have you heard from her?”

After a beat, Francesca answers. “Yes. She has written a few times regarding her travels.”

“Oh?” Colin asks. “Where has she gone now?”

“India first, I believe. Then Paris.”

“Paris?” Hyacinth sighs dramatically. “Some people truly are determined to enjoy themselves.”

“Michaela generally is,” Francesca says quietly. If Violet didn't know better, she would say that there was anger in her eyes. “Speaking of travel,” Francesca puts her napkin down carefully. “I shall be returning to Scotland within the fortnight,” she says. “There is too much requiring attention at Kilmartin.”

Violet’s heart sinks. “So soon?”

While far before, Scotland feels even farther in the wake of John’s death. When Francesca was there, Violet could not see whether she was eating properly, whether she slept, whether she spent her evenings at the piano staring silently at the keys instead of playing. And worst of all, Violet would not be able to tell when her daughter was suffering.

And yet, she knows that Kilmartin is her home. 

Before Violet can stop herself, the question escapes.

“May I come with you?”

Scotland is beautiful.

The landscape widens the farther they travel until eventually there is more sky than structure, more green than road. By the time Kilmartin finally appears in the distance Violet feels awe.

In the gold of the setting sun, Kilmartin is stately and distinguished. Not with the polished grandeur of great London houses, nor even with Aubrey Hall’s warm familiarity, but something more elemental. Kilmartin possesses something older.l, as if it is a part of the land itself. 

As Violet marvels at its beauty, she grieves again. This peaceful, wondrous place was where Francesca would have raised a family.

Francesca, however, seems to breathe easier the moment they arrive. It is clear that she is beloved. The housekeeper, Mrs. MacIntyre, clasps her hands around Francesca’s when she descends from the carriage. The younger maids brighten visibly at the sight of her. Even the groundskeeper, Burns, smiles when Francesca asks after his wife’s health.

And Francesca, her quiet reserved Francesca, moves through it all with calm assurance. It is strange and wonderful to witness. The rhythm of Kilmartin seems perfectly attuned to her.

In the evenings, after dinner, Violet enjoys spending time in the drawing room with tea and embroidery. Helen Stirling often joins her.

Violet likes her immediately. Helen possesses the same brightness in her eyes as her daughter, that same sense that amusement forever lingers just beneath the surface of even serious conversation. Janet, The Dowager Countess, is also kind company, Widowhood recognizes itself easily, Violet thinks.

They all understood what it is like. The devastation. The strange disorientation. The fury at a world capable of continuing after unbearable loss. And yet, while Violet and Helen understand, they also do not. They have both buried husbands. But neither have also buried a child. That wound, Violet suspects, knows, remains singular.

One evening, long after Francesca has retired upstairs, Violet and Helen remain alone beside the fire nursing cooling cups of tea while the castle settles gradually around them. Violet sorts through her correspondence. She misses the children terribly, but takes comfort in the fact that they write often. 

Agatha also writes from Sierra Leone, sharing pieces of her childhood and culture that warm Violet’s heart. 

Across the fire, Helen lowers her own letter, chuckling. 

“It sounds like Michaela’s travels are going well.”

“Yes,” Helen nods. “She writes so vividly of the things that she encounters, it is as if you are there.”

“Oh?” Violet asks. “Francesca has mentioned that Michaela writes, but seems reluctant to share what she has heard.”

“Mmm,” Helen looks away. “Michaela mentioned that she has not received a reply to her last few letters to Francesca.” 

“Really?” It was difficult to think of Francesca being rude. She often clung to the rules of propriety. “Perhaps her letters have gotten lost.”

“Perhaps.”

“If there is a disagreement between the two of them, I hope that they are able to resolve it. They seemed to get along so well.” 

Outside, rain begins against the windows, clattering  loudly enough that Violet can hear it beneath the crackle of the fire. For a moment, neither woman speaks.

“In fact, they quite remind me of one another sometimes,” Violet continues.

Helen smiles faintly. “Michaela and Francesca?”

Violet nods. “Not in necessarily in temperament. But there is something similar in the way they carry themselves.” She searches for the thought. “A certain inwardness, perhaps. As though they both would rather swallow the feeling than burden anyone else with it.”

Helen’s expression gentles with recognition.

“Though Michaela disguises it better,” Violet adds with a small smile. “She fills every room she enters.” Violet places the stack of letters on the side table beside her chair. “Francesca spoke very little after John died. But Michaela…” She pauses, remembering. “She seemed determined to carry everyone else through their grief even while suffering herself. It was a noble and kind-hearted thing for her to do, especially considering the strength of her loss.”

Helen nods, caught between affection and sorrow. “My daughter has always had a remarkable capacity for pain.” She folds the letter carefully in her lap. “There are some lonelinesses a mother cannot protect her child from, no matter how desperately she wishes to.”

Violet stills slightly at that, her fingers resting against the untouched embroidery in her lap.

Helen’s gaze remains fixed upon the fire. “When Michaela was younger, I used to think time would soften certain parts of her nature. That the world would eventually shape her into something safer. Simpler.”

“And did it?”

A sad smile touches Helen’s mouth. “No,” she says. “It only taught her to hide herself more carefully.”

Something in the remark catches against Violet’s thoughts, though she cannot entirely say why.

…

She is set to depart back to England in two days' time when Ms. MacIntyre announces that there is a visitor from His Majesty’s government. 

Even now, months after John’s death, the matter of inheritance hangs over Kilmartin like a spectre.

Violet feels Francesca conceal a flinch when Mr. Dundas is shown into the room. She reaches for her hand. Though she understands what was done and why it was done, it is not something that she will ever forgive.

Francesca squeezes back. “Mr. Dundas, you have traveled far. Please sit. Might I offer you a refreshment?”

“Thank you, Lady Kilmartin.” Mr. Dundas nods at them as he takes a seat. There is no indication on his face of what he has put them through. 

Beside her, Francesca sits perfectly still.

“As you know, the government takes matters of inheritance very seriously. The implications are enormous. The Kilmartin Earldom is associated with a large estate and properties, as well as a seat in Parliament.” He sniffs. “We have conducted and reached the conclusion of our inquiry.” Mr. Dundas  continues, consulting the papers before him, "Under Scottish law, the closest living relation is eligible to inherit stewardship of the Kilmartin title and estate irrespective of gender.”

“I’m sorry?” Violet asks. She looks around the room. “Do you mean to say that the person who will inherit everything is-“

“Michaela,” Francesca finishes. The squeeze of her hand becomes a vice.

 “Yes,” Mr. Dundas nods. “Michaela Stirling is now the Countess of Kilmartin.”

Two years later, Francesca laughs differently.

It is not loud in the way Hyacinth laughs nor free the way Colin does when Penelope says something clever. Francesca’s laughter is still contained neatly within herself, but it reaches her eyes now.

At tea, Francesca sits beside Penelope upon the settee while Colin lounges near them with one arm draped carelessly along the cushions behind his wife. Penelope is midway through recounting some disaster involving a publisher and an offended viscountess while Francesca listens with quiet amusement.

“There is no earthly reason,” Penelope insists, “for a viscount to threaten legal action because a fictional character possesses poor taste in hats.”

“She believed the character resembled her,” Colin says.

Francesca laughs softly into her teacup.

“Eloise is hiding upstairs again,” Gregory announces from across the room. “Another caller arrived this morning and she fled before the poor man had even crossed the threshold.”

“Oh dear,” Violet sighs. Over her shoulder, she can sense Mrs. Wilson stifling her laughter.

Unlike her second daughter, Hyacinth brightens immediately at the mention of suitors. “Speaking of society’s great romantic failures, Mama, Mrs. Mondrich  informed me yesterday that several families have already begun inquiring after my debut.” She sighs happily. “I shall be enchanting.”

“You shall be exhausting,” Gregory rolls his eyes.

Hyacinth ignores him entirely. “Honestly, I cannot wait any longer.”

Violet smiles into her tea.

And then Francesca looks up and says: “Sister, that is wonderful. We shall debut together.”

Violet chokes. 

Mrs. Wilson materializes with miraculous speed, pressing a napkin into Violet’s hand. She turns slowly toward Francesca. “I am sorry,” she says carefully. “What?”

Francesca looks faintly surprised by the reaction. “I shall be participating in the season.”

“Oh!” Hyacinth beams. “That is wonderful.”

Violet stares at Francesca.There is no visible distress in her. No uncertainty. She appears perfectly composed as she reaches for another biscuit as Hyacinth explodes with excitement.

She continues to stare later that afternoon as accompanies Francesca back to Kilmartin House.

She watches her daughter as she watches the city pass beyond the window. She worries the gloves in her lap. “My dear,” she begins. “You do not have to do this.”

Francesca turns toward her.

“The Stirlings love you,” Violet continues carefully. “And I know Michaela would never pressure you toward a match.”

Something flickers briefly across Francesca’s face. “This is not about them,” she replies, then hesitates.

Violet waits.

“I should not like to be alone for the rest of my life.”Her gaze returns to the window. “I would like a family,” Francesca admits after a moment. “A home full of life.” 

Violet’s heart aches. “Of course,” she says gently. “And love.”

Francesca blinks. She smiles gently. “Let us see.”

...

Music swells from the orchestra while conversation rises and falls in waves.

Hosting the first ball never gets easier, but it feels good to have the house alive, especially with Agatha back.

Violet smiles as she watches her move through the ballroom. Agatha had returned from Sierra Leone changed in subtle but unmistakable ways. There is more steadiness in her and even more certainty beneath her knowing eyes. 

“She is handling this far better than I would,” Kate murmurs beside her.

“She is certainly one of a kind,” Violet replies dryly.

A short distance away, Gregory is already making eyes at a debutante while Hyacinth dismantles one poor young lord’s opinions on literature with alarming enthusiasm. Near the dance floor, Eloise finishes a dance only to immediately evade the hopeful gentleman attempting to secure the next.

Violet’s gaze moves through the crowd until it settles upon Francesca. She stands near one of the towering floral arrangements in a gown of deep blue silk that makes her look luminous beneath the candlelight. There is color in her cheeks tonight, animation too, however restrained. Gentlemen approach her one after another with clear eagerness, clearly drawn toward her quiet elegance. Francesca smiles at them politely.

“Well, this feels familiar.” Agatha appears at Violet’s side with a glass in hand. Kate looks between them knowingly and turns to greet a guest.

“It certainly does.” Violet picks up a glass from a nearby table. 

“You are worried.”

“I am always worried.”

“About Francesca specifically.”

Violet exhales slowly. “There was no one like John.” Her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her glass. “And yet… I fear she may eventually settle for someone merely because she wants a family.” She watches Francesca nod through a  conversation she clearly wishes to escape. “I do not think she would ever demand more for herself.”

Before Agatha can reply, a noticeable shift moves through the ballroom. Violet glances toward the doorway, and immediately understands.

Michaela Stirling enters with the easy confidence of someone entirely accustomed to being looked at. She is stunning in dark green satin. Several people are already maneuvering for introductions before she has even properly crossed the threshold.

Agatha leans closer immediately. “The Queen is apparently quite invested in The Countess of Kilmartin this season.”

Violet blinks. “What do you mean?”

“She is the first woman in recent memory to inherit a title in her own right,” Agatha whispers. “Apparently Her Majesty finds the entire matter fascinating.” Her mouth curves. “And is eager for the Countess to make an impression.”

“Oh dear.”

As she makes her way through the room, Violet watches Michaela charm person after person. Her smile remains engaging and unchanged, but her eyes are wandering, as if looking for something, until…

It is fast. So small and so fast that Violet almost misses it. Across the ballroom, amidst the candlelight and movement and music, Michaela stares for a moment across the room at…Francesca. The look is one that is powerful and familiar and yet Violet cannot place it before it is gone. By the time she reaches them, she is again wearing a smile full of charm and warmth. “Lady Bridgerton,” she says fondly, taking Violet’s hands. “You look radiant.”

Violet smiles despite herself. “You are excessively flattering.”

“And truthful besides.” Michaela kisses Agatha’s cheek next. “Lady Danbury, you abandon society for years only to return even more fashionable. It is deeply inconsiderate.”

Agatha grins. “Why compete when they cannot compare?”

Michaela laughs, and Violet laughs in response. Helen’s daughter carries the same brightness about her, the same ability to make affection feel effortless and entirely sincere.

“Michaela,” Francesca approaches the group. 

“Francesca,” Michaela nods.

There is a strange air to the moment. Violet remembers Helen’s words in the Stirling drawing room, about how Michaela had written letters Francesca never answered. She watches them carefully now.

“You look well,” Michaela continues. “I knew that blue would be your color.”

“Thank you,” Francesca replies. There is an abruptness to it that makes Violet glance twice. Francesca lowers her gaze briefly. “Michaela and I saw one another at Kilmartin House last night,” she explains. “She had only just arrived from her…sojourn abroad.”

“I was not expecting to see anyone there,” Michaela jumps in. “But it was nice to catch up…and learn of Lady Kilmartin’s plans to marry this season.”

Michaela’s smile lingers, though it no longer reaches her eyes quite so easily.

Francesca does not reply.

Violet has the peculiar sensation that there is something she is not quite seeing. Perhaps their discord is unresolved.  Before the quiet can grow uncomfortable, Agatha, bless her, speaks.

“Countess,” she says smoothly as if no silence occurred, “I hear Her Majesty is equally invested in seeing you make a match this season.”

Michaela groans. “Lady Danbury, must we?”

“We must,” Agatha grins. “It is one of society’s greatest joys.”

Michaela shakes her head with exaggerated resignation. “Then I shall endeavor to survive the season with what dignity remains available to me.” She offers them all another easy smile. “Enjoy your evening.”

Agatha watches her go. “She may evade the matter all she likes,” she says calmly, lifting her drink. “But the Queen always gets what she wants.”

“Hmmm.” Violet looks toward Francesca, who is still watching Michaela disappear into the crowd.

…

As the season gets under way, Violet finds herself occupied in many directions. It has been a few years since she had a debutante and her youngest is much more like Eloise and Daphne than Francesca. She is somewhat afraid suitors may not be able to keep up with her. Benedict and Sophie are expecting their first child, which is joyous news. Her fondness for Sophie moves her to spend more time with her to soothe her worries and help coordinate their home in preparation. Gregory is increasingly spending more and more time socializing, which is encouraging but worrisome. Her youngest son is developing to be a man in love with love, which means he is liable to express feelings for the slightest of reasons.

Francesca is his complete opposite. She has been receiving a considerable amount of attention—the volume of flowers at Kilmartin House is so many, they trail into the hallway. “Double Diamond” is the phrase that she heard around the ton, though that could easily also refer to having two such eligible ladies living under one roof as it could to Francesca herself.

“If I were them,” Eloise declares one night at dinner. “I would scarcely see a reason to get married at all.”

And yet, Francesca seems steadfast in her desire. Violet is still concerned that she will not pick someone for love, but she certainly seems more engaged, which is heartening. The tension that she noticed at the beginning of the season has apparently thawed at Kilmartin House, which she is glad to hear. Francesca and Michaela’s friendship will be valuable, especially if both of them are navigating the marriage mart. Perhaps, Violet thinks, they can help each other.

Another ball means another evening of watching society orbit the two ladies of Kilmartin.

Violet has begun to suspect that half the unmarried gentlemen in Mayfair now structure their evenings entirely around whichever room Francesca and Michaela happen to occupy.

Tonight, however, Michaela appears particularly sought after.

Violet notices it first during the second quadrille, when Lord Fenton—a handsome bachelor with a respectable estate and a sunny disposition—secures Michaela for a dance and then remains beside her afterward far longer than propriety strictly requires.

“Now there,” Violet murmurs quietly to Agatha beside her, “is a man with sense enough not to overwhelm her.”

“Hm,” Agatha hums into her drink. “And yet someone appears overwhelmed.”

Violet follows her gaze.

Near them, Francesca stands in conversation with two young ladies and an elderly duchess while appearing to hear absolutely none of them. Her attention rests entirely upon Michaela.The look unsettles Violet, though she cannot entirely say why. It is not anger exactly, nor annoyance. Before she can question it,  Lord Fenton laughs at something Michaela says and lightly touches her wrist.

Violet startles. Champagne spills over Francesca’s glove and onto the marble floor below.

“Francesca!” Violet moves immediately toward her. “You have cut yourself.”

“I have not,” Francesca reassures her.

“Are you all right?” Michaela appears suddenly at Francesca’s elbow. “Shall we call someone?"

“For a spilled drink?” Francesca is incredulous. “I’m sure we have all seen worse.” She sniffs, clearly embarrassed. “You need not abandon Lord Fenton on my account.”

Something flickers across Michaela’s face. “I assure you,” she says, “Lord Fenton will recover admirably.”

“I am relieved to hear it.” She sets down the remnants of glass. “Excuse me.”

Violet watches Francesca disappear through the terrace doors into the cool darkness beyond the ballroom.

A moment later, Michaela follows.

“Well,” Agatha is clearly amused. “That is interesting.”

Before Violet can ask what precisely she means, she is swept up by a suitor asking again after Eloise.

She does not see them return.

…

The following afternoon, Francesca arrives at Bridgerton House unannounced.

Mrs. Wilson has barely finished informing Violet of the visit before Francesca appears in the doorway of the morning room dressed for travel.

Violet rises immediately.

“My dear.” She crosses toward her at once. “Has something happened?”

“No,” Francesca answers too quickly. “Nothing is wrong.”

And yet everything about her suggests otherwise. Her hair is tucked beneath a beautiful bonnet, and her dress is immaculate. But there is color burning unnaturally high in her cheeks and a fire in her eyes Violet has never seen before.

“I hope you do not mind the intrusion,” she continues. “I intend to depart for Scotland tomorrow morning and thought perhaps…” She hesitates. “…that I might stay here tonight.”

“Of course,” Violet says immediately. “You never need ask.”

Francesca relaxes.

Later still, when the household has quieted and Francesca sits before the vanity in her old bedroom while Violet loosens the pins from her hair. Francesca closes her eyes briefly as Violet’s fingers move gently through her hair. She looks very young again, and again Violet marvels at the passage of time. Where has it all gone?

“You are troubled,” Violet observes.

Francesca smiles faintly. “You always know.”

“Of course. I am your mother.” She brushes her hand against her cheek. “It is my duty to know.”

Francesca leans her face into her palm, and she is reminded of Francesca’s wedding day. They’d stood together in this very room, talking of her future and of love. “Did you ever…” she stops.

Violet waits.

“When you and Papa were first courting,” Francesca begins carefully, “did it ever feel as though your thoughts no longer entirely belonged to you?”

A strange tenderness moves through her. “Yes,” she says gently. “Though at the time I found it extremely irritating.” She studies her daughter’s face. There is wonder there. And terror. “Dearest, what you are feeling is perfectly natural. Your emotions are speaking a language your mind is yet to understand, but it will. If there is any advice that I would give you, it is to let yourself experience it. Do not run from it. It is a gift.”

For one moment, it feels as if Francesca will say more. Instead she lowers her gaze. “I do not know if I can,” she whispers.

And Violet, though she does not fully understand, feels her heart tighten all the same. She kisses her temple to soothe them both.

Three days after Francesca’s departure for Scotland, Violet learns quite by accident that Michaela has apparently done the same.

Colin is responsible, naturally.

“I only mention it,” he says around a mouthful of biscuit during afternoon tea, “because Mrs. Stirling looked moments away from climbing into the Countess’s carriage herself to prevent it.”

Violet lowers her cup slowly. “Prevent what?”

“Michaela’s pursuit to Scotland.”

“Pursuit?” Violet repeats.

Colin does not answer. Instead, he grins with entirely too much satisfaction. “Apparently half the unmarried of the ton are heartbroken.”

“Only half?” Eloise asks dryly from the sofa.

“Perhaps three quarters.”

Violet shakes her head faintly. “I had not realized Michaela intended to leave town.”

“She departed yesterday,” Colin says. “Quite suddenly, according to Penelope.” 

“And Francesca right before her,” Hyacinth says brightly, never one to miss gossip. “How convenient.”

Colin coughs into his tea. Eloise slaps his lap quite harshly. Violet ignores them both. Instead, she finds herself unexpectedly relieved. Francesca had seemed so unsettled before leaving. And though she still cannot entirely make sense of whatever was between Francesca and Michaela at the ball, she is grateful her daughter will not be alone at Kilmartin.

Still, the season feels oddly diminished in their absence. The balls continue. Society never pauses for long. Hyacinth continues collecting admirers with terrifying efficiency while Gregory falls halfway in love approximately twice a week. Eloise continues terrifying eligible gentlemen.

However, it does not take long for the absence of the Kilmartin ladies to cause a stir. The gentlemen complain first. Then the mamas, because the gentlemen are not paying attention to their daughters. Then, more dangerously, the Queen herself.

By the second week, Her Majesty’s irritation has apparently become impossible to ignore.

“She asked after Michaela three times at Lady Penwood's musicale,” Agatha remarks one evening over drinks and cards. “By the third inquiry, Alice had to run interference."

“Surely the Queen has more pressing matters than the Countess of Kilmartin’s social calendar,” Violet remarks.

Agatha gives her a look. “My dear, this is the Queen’s pressing matter.”

Penelope tells her that she’s sending a footman to Scotland the next day.

….

Michaela returns the following fortnight, along with Francesca. Something about her daughter is different, though it takes an interesting evening to see what is new. 

She is halfway down the corridor in search of the shawl she is nearly certain she abandoned earlier when laughter spills from the small drawing room.

The family gathering appears to have dissolved into smaller factions after supper, and curiosity slows her steps as she nears the partially open door.

Inside, Agatha lounges against the settee with Alice Mondrich beside her while her married daughters occupy the surrounding chairs with varying degrees of composure.

“…all I am saying,” Alice insists through barely restrained laughter, “is that men possess entirely too much confidence for creatures requiring such extensive instruction.”

Penelope chuckles. “To be fair, many gentlemen seem convinced that enthusiasm alone constitutes talent.”

“That is certainly a skill issue,” Daphne replies.

Violet stares at the door. Oh goodness. These are her children. Of course what they were talking about was natural, but—

“Enthusiasm without attentiveness is merely chaos,” her eldest continues. “Pleasure, like anything worthwhile, is a skill.”

“A skill requiring patience,” Sophie agrees.

“And study,” Francesca adds.

“Oh?” Agatha raises an eyebrow.

From her vantage, it appears faint color rises beneath Francesca’s cheeks though her voice remains steady. “There is something to be said for knowing someone thoroughly.”

Francesca? Was this about John?

Agatha looks ready to expire from cackling. “And frequency?” she asks wickedly. “Surely Lady Kilmartin has opinions on frequency.”

“Well,” she says perfectly reasonably, “one cannot expect excellence from infrequency.”

Her words sound as if this is recent. She thinks back to Francesca’s words before she left. She had been afraid of starting something new, but perhaps she had done it. Was there someone else?

As the room explodes into laughter, she retreats down the corridor before she is discovered and dies of mortification.

…

The house is quiet after the last of the guests depart. Violet walks slowly beside Francesca to the door, listening to the soft rustle of her skirts against the carpet. “My dear,” she begins carefully, “may I ask you something somewhat delicate?”

Francesca glances toward her. “Of course.”

Violet hesitates. It had seemed much easier to begin this conversation in her own head. “You are aware,” she says slowly, “that I would never judge you harshly for… seeking happiness.”

She feels her daughter stiffen beside her. Violet presses forward before she loses courage entirely. “You were widowed so young. Far younger than anyone ought to be.” She looks down briefly at her hands. “And loneliness can be… very long.”

Francesca does not answer as they continue to walk.

Violet lowers her voice instinctively, though they are quite alone. “I understand that there are certain… relationships… which may not always fit neatly within society’s expectations.” She winces inwardly at her own phrasing as they come to a stop. “Companionship. Affection. Comfort.”

Francesca’s gaze drops toward the carpet.

“You need not explain yourself to me,” Violet says quickly. “Truly, you need not. I only wish you to be happy. 

At that, Francesca finally looks at her. “I am happy,” she says. “Truly.”

Violet can truly see that in her eyes. There is a joy and brightness there that makes her heart sing.  “Good. Good.” She pats her arm. “Might I ask you then to please be careful? I understand that as a widow, the pressure of society is not as great, but—“

“Do not worry Mama,” Francesca reaches for her hand. “We are careful.” Violet clasps it and squeezes gently. 

“That is all I wished to hear.” She smiles, proud that Francesca has shared something so personal with her and a little embarrassed by the entire conversation. “And perhaps… one day… I might even meet him.”

“Oh,” Francesca says. The smile on her face turns, though Violet is unsure why. “Perhaps.”

As the carriage drives off, she finds herself speculating on it. Is this gentleman married? Or unsuitable?

 Why would the prospect of her meeting him make her look so…sad?

….

It finally all makes sense at the next ball. Francesca has disappeared before they have had their opportunity to say goodbye, and so she endeavors to find her.

She hears them before she sees them.

“Why, I must confess this is quite scandalous.” 

Violet feels a blush rise to her cheeks. Her mysterious gentleman, she thinks. She does not hear a low murmured reply, but then Francesca laughs. “Only looking? That is surely a jest when it feels like your eyes have the power to undress me in a crowded room.”

Has she ever heard Francesca sound quite so… forward? 

“Hmmm,” the other voice replies, and Violet freezes. 

That is not a gentleman’s voice. 

In fact, it is a familiar voice.

Over her thundering heart, the voice continues, “If merely looking at you is scandalous,” Michaela replies, so seductively that even the most aloof person would be swayed. “Then surely that is cause for us to take our leave? For I have more scandalous things in mind at home.”

It is dark enough that it takes Violet’s eyes a moment or two to adjust to the room. There are two figures leaning toward each other on a settee, close enough that the skirts from their dresses mingle and it is hard to see their distinction in the low light. She sees the faint outline of her daughter’s face, eyes closed in what is obviously pleasure at the ministrations of the curly head tucked into her neck.

A cold washes over her, settling in her bones. “Pardon me.”

They spring apart; Michaela stands so quickly that Violet almost  could have imagined that she had not been sitting at all. “Lady Bridgerton,” she smiles winningly even while out of breath. “Francesca and I were just talking about the estate.” 

She was so charming, Violet could almost be convinced to believe her if not for what she’d seen and heard and if not for the fact that over her shoulder, the blood has completely drained from Francesca’s face. She looks as if a ghost, as she stands up behind Michaela. “Mama-”

“We are retiring for the evening,” Violet hears herself say. Her throat feels as dry as parchment. “Hyacinth wishes to discuss her learnings from the ball before she retires to sleep. Would you accompany us to Bridgerton House? John will see you home to Kilmartin House by carriage afterward.”

In the carriage home, Violet feels as though she might be a ghost. She doesn’t remember the journey or saying goodnight to the children.

She just sees Francesca in the arms of Michaela. Violet is barely aware that she is not alone as she paces in the drawing room, that Francesca is standing in front of her, still as a statue.

“Mama, what you saw-“

“Is that whom you’ve been…entertaining?” Violet asks. She thinks of the tension that she had seen all of this time. How where one was, the other would follow.  “Michaela is your mystery person?”

Francesca’s hands tremble in front of her dress. “Yes.”

“There is a simple explanation for this,” she says to herself.  “You and Michaela have formed a…close friendship in your grief.” She nods to herself, feeling the logic falling into place. “it’s not out of the ordinary for some women to-“

“Mama, no.”

“No? Then,” she casts her mind for something else, for an explanation. “You are grieving John and seeking to feel close to him-“

“Mama, please. What I feel for Michaela has nothing to do with John”

“What you feel?” Violet stops. “Francesca, surely, you don’t mean-“

Francesca stands before her, shaking but resolute. “I wish to be with her.” She lifts her chin. “I am with her.”

Violet feels a great many things. They knot together so tightly inside her chest she cannot separate one from another. Shock. Confusion. Grief. But beneath it all, sharpest of all, is fear. “Be with her? Romantically?” She feels the panic creeping into her voice. “Francesca, Michaela is your cousin by marriage.”

“I know.”

“You are both women.”

“I am aware. Mama,” she says, and now there is pain in her too. “When I am with her, I feel…” She swallows. “I feel as though I have awakened after years of sleep.” 

Violet opens her mouth.

Nothing emerges.

Francesca watches her with something unbearably hopeful in her eyes, as though she is waiting for Violet to reach for her, to say something capable of making this moment better.

Instead, Violet hears herself whisper, “but It is not proper.”

Francesca’s expression closes slowly upon itself and the hope fades in her eyes. “I think,” Francesca says carefully, “that perhaps I should return to Kilmartin tonight.”

“It is past midnight.”

“I would prefer to go.”

“Francesca—”

“I do not wish to argue with you.” 

Violet reaches for her instinctively. “Francesca—”

But Francesca steps back before she can touch her. For one terrible moment, Violet sees the child Francesca had once been—the quiet little girl forever standing half a step apart from the chaos of the family, watching carefully before deciding whether it was safe to come closer.

And Violet realizes with sudden horror that her daughter is looking at her that way now. She wants to stop her. She wants to say something reassuring, something capable of bridging the impossible distance that has suddenly opened between them.

Instead she says nothing at all.

Francesca leaves.

You always see your children so clearly.

Kate had said that to her once with easy certainty years ago during Francesca’s debut.  

Now Violet sits awake long after dawn wondering if she has ever truly seen Francesca at all.

It is not that she is naïve. She is a widow with eight children. God knew she and Edmund had known every inch of one another. She has listened to enough conversation at Agatha’s gatherings over the years to understand that desire rarely behaved itself neatly. Even her sons, for all Anthony’s lectures on propriety, had not always exercised perfect restraint in matters of affection.

But this is different, isn’t it?

Every time she attempts to recoil from the thought, her heart betrays her. She sees Francesca staring at nothing after John has died and Michaela has left. She sees the color in her cheeks these past months. She hears again the way Francesca had sounded in that darkened room, breathless and warm and alive in a manner Violet had only ever heard from her other children when speaking of love.

How can she begrudge her daughter happiness when she had spent years praying Francesca might someday find it?

And yet still, fear coils tightly around every thought. Because happiness does not protect a woman from society. Love does not protect her from ruin.

After the third sleepless night, Violet sends a note requesting Helen Stirling’s company.

…

They sit in the gardens behind Kilmartin House where the hedges grow high enough to ensure privacy. 

Helen breaks the silence first. “So,” she says gently, “you know.”

“You do too.”

Helen exhales slowly. “For many years now.” A sad smile touches Helen’s mouth. “Michaela has known herself for far longer than she ever allowed me to realize.” Violet thinks suddenly of Helen before the fire at Kilmartin. It only taught her to hide herself more carefully.

“I keep thinking,” Violet admits quietly, “that perhaps Francesca is simply confused. That grief has…” She cannot finish it.

“She is not confused.”

The certainty in Helen’s voice makes Violet’s chest tighten. She presses trembling fingers together in her lap. Hearing it spoken aloud makes it frighteningly real.

“I have spent years terrified someone would notice Michaela too closely,” Helen continues. “That she might trust the wrong person. That the world might decide to punish her simply for existing as herself.” Her gaze drifts toward the hedge. “That is why she traveled for so long.”

“But she cannot disappear now.”

“No. She is the Countess of Kilmartin.”

“What happens if Her Majesty insists upon a marriage?” Violet asks quietly.

Helen lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “Michaela will refuse.”

Alarm shoots through Violet immediately. “She cannot.”

“She can. Whether she should is another matter entirely.” Helen rubs absently at her gloves. “God help us all.”

“It is too dangerous,” Violet whispers. “Even if Michaela does not marry. If anyone were to suspect—”

“I know.”

Violet sighs. “What are we meant to do?”

For the first time since they sat down, Helen looks truly helpless. “I shall speak to her,” she says quietly.

…

The drawing room feels too full. Children weave between furniture while conversation overlaps in familiar waves of noise and warmth. Eloise argues with Daphne over some absurd point of literature while Colin attempts unsuccessfully to steal biscuits from Benedict’s plate. Ordinarily, the chaos would soothe Violet. Tonight it only exhausts her.

She becomes aware of Michaela the moment she enters the room.

The Countess of Kilmartin carries herself exactly as she always has: poised, charming, effortlessly self-assured. She greets Agatha with a grin, bows over Sophie’s hand with theatrical elegance, and somehow has Anthony laughing within moments. But now, Violet notices the strain now that she knows to look for it.

Michaela never once allows herself to stand too close to Francesca.

Where once they had orbited one another instinctively, now Michaela maintains careful distance, speaking to Francesca no longer than propriety requires before redirecting her attention elsewhere.

And Francesca—

Francesca watches her constantly. Violet sees every small thing now: the way Francesca’s gaze follows Michaela unconsciously across the room, the way disappointment flickers briefly each time Michaela turns toward someone else.

She excuses herself under the pretense of refreshing her tea, though her cup remains nearly full. By the time she reaches the sideboard tucked into the alcove adjoining the drawing room, she realizes someone else has done the same.

Michaela stands next to her with a glass in her hand.

For a moment neither woman speaks.

Then Michaela says quietly, without looking at her, “I fear I owe you an apology.”

Violet’s spine stiffens instinctively. “For what?”

“For placing you all in a position that has caused pain. It was never my intention. I just-“ She trails off, swallowing harshly. Michaela turns the glass slowly between her fingers. For once, there is no easy charm waiting at the corner of her mouth. “I will fix it,” she promises.

She understands what “fixing” means, as she always seems to these days, entirely by accident. 

She overhears Michaela first: “—cannot continue to do this.”

“Do what?” Francesca asks. When there is silence, Francesca speaks again. “So you are running away again.”

“I am protecting you.”

Francesca laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “Don’t play at being noble. This is cowardice.”

“Call it what you like. You don’t understand what it’s like-“

“What what is like?” The dimensions of the doorway make it difficult to see without being seen, but Violet cannot help but hear the angst in her daughter’s voice. “To exist as if the world is speaking a language I do not understand? To feel as if I do not belong? You do not know what it’s like to finally understand oneself. To realize that there was nothing wrong with me.”

“Francesca—“

“I finally understand what my mother was talking about when she talked about butterflies. About being so lost in someone that you forget your own name and reason and sense. To long for someone so that it feels like your soul is coming out of your body?”

Francesca gasps, an anguished sound that breaks her heart. “Michaela, I have been waiting for you my entire life.”

“What do you want me to tell you?” Michaela asks, clearly undone. “That being with you…” she does not sound jovial, but rather like the words are coming from the deepest part of her. “is more than I could have ever imagined? That it could never be enough? But The Queen is watching every move that I make. I must protect John’s legacy.  I must protect you.”

Violet hears uneven breathing and the quiet rustle of fabric.

Then Francesca speaks. “You do not get to decide for me what sort of life is worth living.”

“That is true.’ Michaela exhales so deeply that Violet can hear the tears in them.  “But I cannot give you the life that you deserve.”

Violet steps back from the doorway before either woman can realize she is there and walks blindly back to the drawing room.

The days after Francesca’s return to Bridgerton House pass strangely.

They speak at breakfast of weather and correspondence and whether Gregory has remembered his appointments. Francesca thanks her when tea is passed. Violet asks after her sleep. 

Neither of them speaks of Michaela.

Several times Violet thinks she means to try. The words rise as Francesca stands to leave the room or pauses beside the window or lifts her face absently toward laughter elsewhere in the house. But then every attempt collapses beneath the terrible memory of hope disappearing from her daughter’s eyes.

Francesca, perhaps sensing this, never reaches toward the subject either. 

She suspects that the children know, but no one speaks of it directly. Hyacinth begins appearing in Francesca’s room each morning under increasingly transparent excuses. Gregory lingers nearby whenever Francesca walks in the gardens. Colin coaxes faint smiles from her at dinner with ridiculous stories while Penelope quietly redirects conversation whenever the silence threatens to become unbearable. Eloise simply sits beside her. 

One evening, after Francesca has retired early, Violet finds the rest of her children gathered in the drawing room, clearly having a meeting amongst themselves.

“You all knew,” she says, looking from one to the other. “And none of you thought to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Eloise asks carefully.

“That Francesca and Michaela were…” Violet struggles even now for the language. “Attached.”

“Mama,” Benedict grasps her hands. You once told us that love was the only thing that made life worth enduring. Did you mean only certain kinds?”

The question lands harder than any accusation would have.

“That is not fair,” Violet shakes her head.

“After all that Francesca has been through…”Hyacinth shrugs helplessly. “I simply do not understand why love cannot be love.”

“Because society is not kind,” Violet replies sharply.

“No,” Colin replies gently. “People are not kind.”

Anthony sets down his glass carefully. “Mama is not wrong to worry.”

Benedicy exhales sharply. “Anthony—”

“No,” he says quietly. “You do not bear responsibility for this family’s standing. I do. If this were discovered publicly,” Anthony continues, “the consequences for Francesca and Michaela would be severe.” His jaw tightens. “Cruel.”

“Then the world is cruel,” Hyacinth snaps.

“It is,” Anthony replies immediately. “And pretending otherwise will not protect them.”

Violet feels relief bloom at hearing someone else speak the fears she cannot seem to stop carrying. Benedict studies Anthony for a long moment. “And what precisely do you suggest Francesca do?”

Anthony’s gaze drops briefly toward the fire before lifting again.

“I do not know.”

Francesca barely reacts when Daphne mentions Scotland. 

“I heard,” Daphne says carefully, “that Michaela intends to travel and remain at Kilmartin indefinitely.”

“What? It is absurd.”

“Eloise,” Daphne sighs.

Francesca stares down at her untouched tea. “It is practical.”

“No,” Eloise says firmly. “It is cowardly and tragic and not at all Scottish.”

To Violet’s surprise, the corner of Francesca’s mouth almost lifts.

Then Penelope appears in the doorway, visibly unsettled.“There you are,” she says quickly. “I’ve just heard word.”

“What is it?”

Penelope hesitates. “I did not wish to alarm anyone unnecessarily, but…” Her eyes flick briefly toward Violet. “I understand the Countess has taken ill.”

Francesca goes white.“How ill?”

“They would not say.”

Francesca rises before Penelope even finishes. “I am going to Kilmartin.”

“We are coming with you,” Daphne says immediately.

No one argues.

…

By the time they arrive at Kilmartin House, dusk has fallen fully over Mayfair.

The house feels wrong.

Francesca reaches Helen. “What happened?”

Helen catches both of her hands at once. “Michaela has been bedridden for days.” There are shadows beneath her eyes. “Weak. Feverish.” Her grip tightens faintly around Francesca’s fingers. “But this is not the fever you fear.”

Relief appears to hit Francesca so violently Violet sees it physically stagger through her. “But days?” Francesca repeats hoarsely a moment later. “She has been ill for days?”

When Helen’s expression falters, Francesca shakes her head. “Why was I not told?”

“Because she wished it kept quiet,” Helen answers. “At first she believed it could be managed.”

“And now?”

Helen does not answer, but Francesca is already moving. Servants pass carrying fresh linens and basins of water.

Inside Michaela’s room, the curtains have been drawn mostly shut against the evening light. The heat strikes Violet first. A physician stands near the hearth speaking quietly with Janet Stirling while Michaela lies motionless beneath tangled blankets, buried beneath a sheen of perspiration.

For one terrible moment, Violet thinks absurdly of Edmund.

Francesca crosses the room immediately. “Michaela.” The word breaks apart in her throat. Michaela stirs faintly at the sound but does not wake. Francesca sinks into the chair beside the bed and reaches immediately for her hand. 

The physician clears his throat quietly. “The fever has persisted longer than I would like, but there has been some improvement this afternoon.”

“You said that this morning,” Janet says tightly.

The physician does not answer.

Violet watches Francesca carefully smooth damp curls back from Michaela’s forehead with trembling fingers. The gesture is so intimate it almost feels unbearable to witness.

The following morning brings rain and Mr. Dundas. Violet hears his voice before she sees him.

“…merely procedural, I assure you.”

Francesca stiffens at the sound of his voice.

He stands in the drawing room dripping rainwater onto the carpet while removing his gloves with maddening composure. “As representatives of the Crown,” he continues smoothly, “we are obligated to remain informed regarding matters of succession involving the Kilmartin title.”

“Michaela is not dead,” Francesca snaps.

“Of course not.” Mr. Dundas smiles with practiced sympathy that never reaches his eyes. “Though should the worst occur, we will naturally require prompt notification given the unusual legal circumstances surrounding the inheritance.”

“You should leave.” Benedict says very calmly:

Mr. Dundas blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have upset the ladies of the house.” Benedict smiles pleasantly. “And I find I no longer wish to look at you.”

What happens next occurs so quickly Violet barely processes it.

One moment Mr. Dundas is sputtering indignantly. The next, Benedict has taken him firmly by the arm and is physically steering him toward the door despite increasingly scandalized protests.

“Lord Bridgerton!” Dundas gasps.

“Second son,” Benedict corrects easily. “Far less invested in consequences.”

“Unhand me at once!”

“Gladly. The moment you reach the street.”

When the door slams shut, Benedict, still slightly breathless, straightens his cuffs and says:

“Well. I feel much better.”

Francesca laughs tearfully.

…

They decide quietly amongst themselves to keep watch in shifts while they wait for Michaela’s fever to break.

When it is her turn, Violet finds herself standing outside Michaela’s door with a fresh basin of cool water balanced carefully in her hands.

Inside, the curtains have been drawn against the brightness of the day.

The room smells faintly of lavender and sickness.

A discarded cloth lies half-fallen from the bedside table while another rests forgotten across the blankets. 

Michaela sleeps restlessly beneath tangled sheets.Even now, feverish and exhausted, she appears somehow resistant to vulnerability, as though her body itself refuses weakness out of sheer stubbornness.

Violet sets the basin quietly beside the others and lowers herself into the bedside chair. She reaches for one of the cloths and gently presses it against Michaela’s brow. Without thinking, Violet begins humming softly under her breath. It is an old song that her father used to sing while carrying her half-asleep through dark hallways after storms frightened her awake. She sang it to all eight of her children when they were small.

“John?”

Violet looks up.

Michaela’s eyes remain closed. “Please forgive me. I loved her before I knew who she was,” she whispers. She turns her face slightly against the pillow, looking for relief. “From the moment I saw her…so guilty,” Michaela murmurs. “Francesca, I was so guilty for loving you while you belonged to John.”

“I tried to leave.” A faint, fractured laugh escapes her. “Tried for years.” Her breathing catches unevenly. “But you are with me wherever I am.”

Then Michaela opens her eyes. She looks directly at Violet without truly seeing her. And Violet finally recognizes the expression there. Her throat tightens painfully.

The door opens softly behind her.

Francesca enters immediately, still adjusting her dress as though she got dressed without managing the sleeves properly.

The moment she sees Michaela awake, everything else falls away. “Michaela.”

She does not appear to care that Violet is there.

At once, Michaela turns toward her voice like a flower toward sunlight. Francesca presses Michaela’s hand against her cheek.

“You are still too warm.”

“And you are lovely on this fine evening,” Michaela slurs. 

A watery smile flickers across Francesca’s face. “You always say that.”

“Because it is always true.”

Francesca closes her eyes briefly. Michaela studies her with exhausted devotion. Then she asks with sudden grave concern, “Are you to go courting this evening?”

Francesca shakes her head, “I will not be going anywhere unless I am with you.”

Michaela relaxes visibly against the pillows as though reassured by this. “Good,” she murmurs. 

Francesca shakes her head, smoothing the hair away from Michaela’s forehead. “You are very confident for someone incapable of sitting upright.”

Michaela smiles weakly. “I am sorry,” she whispers suddenly. Her fingers tighten weakly around Francesca’s hand in her face. “For pushing you away.”

“I know.” Francesca’s expression softens with such overwhelming tenderness that Violet has to look away. “It is okay. You make me happy,” Francesca says simply. “I want us to be happy together.”

Violet feels tears sting unexpectedly behind her eyes.

“The only future that I want,” Francesca continues softly, “is one with you in it.”

Michaela looks at her as though the words themselves are salvation. “I would stay,” she whispers. “For you, I would stay.”

“Then stay,” Francesca replies. She bends her head and presses a kiss reverently against Michaela’s knuckles as she drifts back into sleep. “I am waiting for you.”

Violet quietly leaves the room before her daughter notices she is crying.

…

Violet finds Anthony alone in the study late that evening.

He looks up immediately as she enters. “Mama?”

For a moment, she cannot speak.

Anthony rises at once. “Has something happened?”

“Yes,” Violet says softly. “I think perhaps something has.” She moves slowly toward the window. Outside, rain taps softly against the glass. “I kept thinking that this relationship is foreign,” she says quietly. “Unnatural because I did not understand it.” Her eyes sting suddenly. “But I do understand it.”

“The look in Michaela’s eyes when she looks at Francesca…I have seen that look before,” Violet whispers. “Your father used to look at me that way.”

It was same helpless, consuming devotion Edmund had gazed at her with across countless crowded ballrooms and quiet mornings and candlelit bedrooms. It was the same look that had once made Violet feel entirely known. The look that said: You are the center of my existence.

For a long moment, the only sound is rain against the windows.

Then he exhales quietly and looks down at the untouched drink in his hand. “I do not know how to protect them from this,” he admits quietly.

“Neither do I.” Violet wipes her eyes. “But we will try.”

Anthony rubs a hand briefly across his mouth before finally looking at her again. “Yes,” he agrees. “We will.”

...

Michaela’s fever finally breaks just before dawn.

Francesca says very little. She sits beside Michaela’s bed with one hand wrapped tightly around hers as though unwilling to trust the world not to take her away.

Later that evening, Violet finds her alone in the gardens behind the house. The air smells faintly of wet earth and roses. Francesca turns at the sound of her approach, immediate caution flickering across her face before she can hide it. That look wounds Violet more than she can bear. “Francesca—”

“I know this is difficult for you,” Francesca says quietly at once, as though trying to spare her. “You need not say anything you do not mean.”

Violet feels tears sting again. “Oh, my darling girl.” She crosses the remaining distance between them and takes Francesca’s face gently between her hands.“I have been so frightened.”

Francesca grips her hands, eyes already full of tears.

“Yes,” Violet admits helplessly. “Yes, of course I fear this. I fear anything capable of hurting you.” Her voice shakes. “I fear the cruelty of this world. I fear what people may do to you. I fear what may happen if they realize how precious you are to one another. But love…” Violet swallows hard. “Love is sacred.”

The words seem to steal the air from Francesca’s lungs.

“And I know love when I see it.” Violet brushes trembling fingers against her daughter’s cheek. “Your father taught me that.”

Tears stream down Francesca’s face.

Violet smiles through her own. “So no,” she whispers. “I shall not ask you to live without it.”

When Francesca sobs, Violet gathers her into her arms, holding her as tightly as she did when Francesca was small enough to fit against her shoulder.

“I am sorry,” Francesca sobs softly against her. “I am so sorry.”

“Oh, no,” Violet murmurs fiercely. “Do not be sorry. Never be sorry for love.”

The Queen summons Michaela within a fortnight.

By then Michaela is recovering, though still weak enough that Francesca hovers nearby with a glare whenever anyone tires her.

The audience itself takes place in a private drawing room rather than court proper, though this does little to lessen the tension.

Violet and Helen accompany them to the palace in near silence. Michaela alone appears calm.Helen reaches for her daughter’s hand just before they are announced.

Michaela squeezes once in return and whispers, “Whatever happens, thank you for loving me as I am.”

Inside, The Queen studies Michaela for a long moment. “You are becoming extremely inconvenient,” she says at last.

Michaela coughs. “I’m sorry Your Majesty?”

“I presented you to society as the future of the modern Kingdom.” The Queen lifts her teacup calmly. “Instead of embracing this boon,  you have spent the season refusing suitable matches, fleeing London, and nearly dying. And now,” she continues, “I am informed you intend to refuse marriage entirely.”

Michaela’s jaw tightens slightly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Mm.” 

“That is not entirely true.”

To Violet’s shock, Francesca takes a step forward.

“Oh?” The Queen asks. “Then what is true?”

Francesca looks toward Michaela only briefly before answering. “I love her.”

Violet feels her heart jump wildly into her throat. Helen looks similarly apprehensive. The Queen arches one brow faintly.

Francesca continues quiet but unwavering. “Michaela is the most beautiful woman I have ever known. Charming. Intelligent. Funny.” The faintest smile graces her mouth. “Talkative.”

A few startled laughs break softly around the room.

“I have never much enjoyed talking, but hearing her talk sounds like music.”  Tears gather in the corner of her eyes, though they do not fall. “When she smiles, I cannot help but smile also. And when she looks at me…” Francesca’s breath catches faintly. “My spirit is content.”

Next to her, Michaela stares at Francesca with welling eyes.  

“After Michaela’s illness, we decided that we want to declare ourselves in front of the people that we love. I wish to declare that to you as well. It is an impossible love,” Francesca says. “But it is still love. And after finding it…” She looks toward Michaela finally. “I will not surrender it.”

The Queen regards her with unreadable eyes. “No,” she says quietly. “I do not imagine you could.” She turns to look at Michaela. “She speaks for the both of you?”

Michaela nods resolutely. “She does.”

The Queen watches them for a very long time, for so long that Violet begins to fear.

“If my diamond refuses to provide society with a husband,” the Queen finally says. “Tthen she shall provide it with something considerably rarer.”

Her gaze sharpens upon Michaela.

“You will take your seat in Parliament. You will involve yourself in parliamentary interests and those which interests the Crown.” A pause. “You will prove that my faith in you was not misplaced.”

Michaela straightens immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good.” The Queen lifts her teacup once more. “Society already knows how to make ornamental wives. I should like to see whether it is capable of tolerating something more interesting.”

The Scottish hills roll endlessly green while late summer sunlight spills gold across the stones of the Kilmartin. Francesca stands beneath the open sky with her hands clasped tightly in Michaela’s.

Violet watches from beside her children and Janet and Helen as ribbon is wound carefully around their joined hands, and suddenly she is again thinking of time. Time, Violet thinks, is a funny thing.

Sometimes, after years of sorrow and confusion and waiting, it gives something back so beautiful.

Sunlight catches against the ribbon binding Francesca and Michaela’s hands together, and Violet watches her daughter step fully into her happiness at last.