Chapter Text
Michaela returns to Mayfair with a sense of duty that eats at her. Her years-long avoidance of the place was partly due to her dislike of society there, but mostly because of the very woman who had caused her to flee, and all the emotions that stemmed from her. Neither of these reasons mattered, not when the Crown commands something. So she is beckoned back by the Crown's reaching hand after an heir had been thoroughly searched for and not found. But in Scottish law, where the Kilmartin title resides, a female relative can be pronounced heir in the absence of a male relative. And this particular reign favored bold and experimental concepts, and so she is to be passed John's title.
Which means she is to be the new Countess, and the Crown has called her back from India for it on short notice, truly. Scottish law or not, the men of the ton will not like it. But Michaela has never much cared for what the sprawl of men thought anyway. Least of all those in London, who look down upon her because of her gender and yet act like beasts in bars and backrooms. She had personally witnessed it, experienced it even.
Mayfair is exactly as she recalls when she steps out of the carriage onto the busy streets, parked just in front of Kilmartin House. The very place she had run from two years ago, when she had fled in the wee hours of the night under the secrecy of darkness.
In all that time, two years of it, she had not received a single letter from the woman who still occupies the house. All of her own letters, sent every third week like clockwork, went unanswered. Michaela was not sure if they had even been read, not without confirmation from the other woman. The thought pains her, a sharp stab of hurt as she looks at the windows of Kilmartin House. She cannot blame Francesca for not replying, not truly, considering how things were left. And yet, despite that, she had hoped for word back from the woman. She wanted it, despite the knowledge of why it would not happen. Perhaps part of why she had continued to send them, even without reply, was that want. She could not help it.
It is distinctly different being back. John's death had changed everything, of course, but it was clearer when she was in places they had once walked together. She was not used to him being gone, or at least not gone where she could not follow him. All the traveling she did, she could always return to him in the end. Not anymore, she thinks, chest clenching.
Being back in Mayfair is painful; she feels his absence like a hole in her chest. It is like that everywhere, but it is sharper here, where he died. This is the first time she has ever arrived here without him being there too, and she feels her distaste for the city grow. Francesca and her family may be the only good parts of it, a bright spot in an otherwise dull city.
But she is here now, with his title worn around her neck like a collar and leash, tethering her to this place for as long as it takes for the Crown to finalize the inheritance. The issue of having a woman titled and landed, of giving her power. It is a concept that the crowd of London is not used to, which means they will make it hard for her. She had expected this when she first received the news, and yet the reality of it eats at her.
Despite all of that, Michaela cannot tear her thoughts away from Francesca. Today will mark their first time speaking in years, her stomach tying itself into knots at the thought. Mere minutes separate them, Michaela stuck just beyond the threshold of the door like a stranger. Afraid of what will come, unsure if she has the will to avoid it or even handle it.
In the two years of absence from the other woman, her emotions had not left her. If anything, with her attempts to rid herself of them, they had grown cemented in her. Many nights she would sit and try to untangle the web of them, only to have them return the next morning in a fierce display. Nothing helped.
Her avoidance of London was not only because of her distaste for the city, but mainly because of her heart's inability to be drawn away from Francesca. She was in love with her, had been in love with her for twice the time she had been away from her. And those emotions, no matter how desperately she tried to get rid of them or avoid them, always clung to her. Francesca haunted her, had done so since their very first encounter, albeit unknowingly on her part. Michaela knew she should not feel the love she did, and yet it would not leave her.
It is not Francesca's fault that Michaela is so weak-willed regarding her. Not her fault that Michaela had needed to run across an ocean to escape it all, escape the proximity and pull of her. Michaela's guilt over that, too, had been her companion during her time away. Fleeing like a coward in the middle of the night, unable to help herself around the woman. The hurt she caused, the damage she must have left in her wake, haunts her too.
Knowing that, despite it all, it was still the only course of action that could come to pass. She had to leave before her emotions ruined them all. Her guilt and grief and love were overwhelming her, drowning her then.
She straightens at the door, willing herself to knock. Technically, it is her property now, but it is also Francesca's. She had been the one here for the last two years, tending to it with diligence, as she had done while John was alive. It is only right for Michaela to knock like a guest, even though she will be staying here.
Her most recent letter told Francesca of her plans, though it had, like all the others, received no reply. It mentioned her plans to return to Mayfair, to stay within this house where they had both butted heads and become friends before she had left. It also mentioned her new title, still unannounced and thus unofficial. She truly hopes Francesca has at least read the correspondence, even if she refuses to reply. For all of her chaos, Michaela truly does not wish to upset Francesca any more than she has already. Surprises did not suit the taller woman, that Michaela knew, and she would hate to spring such a massive one on her.
She knocks on the door, which is opened quickly by one of the footmen, and then she is ushered in. There is no need for an introduction; the staff would all recognize her despite her prolonged absence. Most of them had worked for her family since she was still a child, and the younger members of the staff would still know of her.
"Where is Lady Kilmartin?" she asks, turning towards the young man with a smile. He hesitates for a moment before he replies.
"In her drawing room, Miss Stirling," he eventually manages to spit out. He seems nervous, though she does not know why. Perhaps nervous for her arrival, even with the weeks of notice she had given the staff to prepare for it.
"Thank you."
She walks off in search of the woman, unwilling to make herself comfortable in the space until she can speak to her. The winding halls lead her to Francesca's drawing room, the one with her puzzles and pianoforte. Michaela, even without setting eyes upon the space in years, still recalls it in detail. It had been a gift from John to Francesca, a space entirely for her to do with as she pleases. Her heart gives a painful jolt at the thought, memories coursing through her like a wave, threatening to send her out to sea.
When she arrives at the door of the room, she hesitates. Unsure of herself, unsure of how Francesca will react. From within, she can hear the woman playing what sounds like Beethoven. She takes a deep breath, centering herself before knocking. The playing stops, the tune from within the room cut short.
Francesca's voice floats through the door, light and airy to beckon her in, even without knowing who it is. Michaela's heart pounds in her chest, nerves choking her. Already, she can predict that this will not go well, whether because of how the other woman reacts or how her own body does. She opens the door slowly, as if giving herself time to flee instead. When she enters, Francesca is sitting on the bench to her instrument with her fingers poised above the keys in interruption.
"Francesca," she manages to say, voice less steady than she wants it to be. Her heartbeat begins a frantic rhythm, almost painful in intensity. The other woman looks breathtaking in her blue dress; the mourning blacks she had worn last time they had seen each other suited her, but blue was Francesca's color. Every color suited her, truly, but Michaela always privately preferred blue on her.
"You are here," Francesca says, tone more closed off than it was just a second ago. Michaela stifles a wince, trying to keep the polite mask on display instead of the sprawl of other emotions within her.
"The inheritance…" she begins to explain before pausing, shaking her head instead. That's not why she came here first, before anything. "I hoped you had read my last letter?"
A question more than a statement, inflection curling at the end of the sentence. The vulnerable part of her wants to know that the other woman had received and read them, even if she had not replied. From the bench she sits on, Francesca looks like a blank wall. Gone are any traces of the affection from before, from that night that their hands had met and she had fled. Michaela tries very hard not to let the hurt show on her face. Years of practice allow it, but only barely; her heart clenching in her chest desperately as if attempting to flee once more.
"I did," Francesca says, offering nothing else but the two words and the blank look on her face. Michaela hesitates, wondering what else she can say to the woman who seems so intent on shutting her down. The air is tense, Michaela shifting where she stands.
"This is your home, too, Francesca," Michaela says softly, injecting as much sincerity into her voice as she can. "If you would rather I leave, I will. I do not wish to cause you any discomfort."
Francesca's eyebrows pinch together as she looks away, out towards the windows and the bright sunshine outside. Her fingers curl on the keys, dancing upon them rhythmically without pressing down. She opens her mouth once, and then twice, closing it both times before making eye contact once more.
"It is a large house," Francesca says eventually, voice icy. "It is not like we must see each other often."
A flash of hurt, bright and painful, curls through Michaela at the statement. All of those unanswered letters, all of the memories they share, and Francesca does not even want to be in the same room as her. As much as it hurts, it is her own actions that created this rift between them. Her wayward emotions had gotten the better of her, and now here they are, both sharing this tense silence.
She had disappeared, desperate to escape the stifling emotions and this city, and had not even tried to explain before she left. In fact, she had agreed to stay, only to immediately pack a quick bag after she had left the room and leave as soon as the carriage was available. Running to escape the pull of her emotions.
Guilt prickles along her skin. In the correspondence to Francesca, she had apologized, of course. That first letter, Michaela had written a mostly complete explanation for her quick exit from town. Redacting only the parts about her emotions towards the woman.
She had explained her dislike of London society and the grief that rattled her so totally, so fully. Michaela knew it lacked the root of what had urged her away, that her love was choking her with the proximity, but what she had explained was the truth as well. Her grief still accompanies her like a shadow, even years later, made worse by her return to this house. It is better to avoid talk of her emotions, for they are a trap waiting to be sprung.
Throughout the dozens of letters she had sent, she had offered apologies multiple times. Still not totally explaining her absence, but trying to give a version that would suffice. None of which had received an answer. She had not exactly expected one, especially as the unanswered correspondence grew in number, but she wished to talk to the other woman once more. Even if just through letters, words upon a page.
Maybe it is just as well she had not gotten a reply, considering the half-truth of it all. Francesca was someone who enjoyed puzzles; surely she must know that the reason for Michaela's absence was still incomplete. Michaela sincerely hopes the truth, the whole truth, can bury itself deep enough to avoid her keen eye.
"I am sorry, Francesca," she says into the distance between them. "For how I left."
She does not apologize for leaving. As much as her leaving cracked the foundation they had built together, Michaela could not stay. Even now, those same emotions that had sent her running swirl in her head. She had left, for the sake of everyone involved.
John had been born not long after she had, mere weeks had separated them. All of her memories included him, for as far back as she could recall. Never a moment of their lives alone, not truly, because they always had each other. Until, of course, that night when a sudden headache had taken him away unexpectedly.
He was the one person who knew her, all of her, and loved her. After her father died, her uncle had taken her in, his twin brother's daughter becoming his own through death. They were siblings, she and John, for all intents and purposes. Their bond was solidified by grief and love.
John had been her own personal haven, just as much as she had been his. As a child, he had been small and quiet. It made him an easy target for harsher relatives and other kids, which meant she had protected him as best as she could. Their roles were reversed when John was bestowed his title after his father died. He had protected her wholly following her debut; she could travel and be a spinster if she so pleased under his title.
He was the softer soul between them, and he had loved Francesca fiercely. Yet Michaela had coveted her since the first moment they had met, albeit not of her own will. Unable to tell her cousin, because what sort of person could covet their cousin's wife? To imagine her in the late hours of the night, to want her so deeply that it burned. Even when any of the countless women she entertained were near her, even from an ocean away.
The guilt built and built, boiling over only after his death. Not because her emotions had disappeared, but because they remained. Coveting her dead cousin's wife. What kind of person did that make her? Even in the depth of her grief, she had still wanted Francesca so badly it stung. The power that love held over her scared her; never had she felt so intensely, never had she been in love at all. Yet it is just her luck that the first woman she does fall in love with is someone she absolutely cannot have.
She and John did not keep secrets, at least not after the revelation of her love for women. Her love for Francesca had been the only thing she had to keep from him, for obvious reasons. That sort of guilt was not easily shaken, even now. Still, it is growing within her, just as the love that causes it.
She could not stay with all of that hanging around her like a dark cloud, like a pit in her stomach. Even as her mind wanted to, to bask in Francesca's presence, she knew she could not.
Part of her wished her time in India had erased those emotions, the love and guilt both. But instead they grew steadier, more woven into her life. She could not help it, even with the distance and pain between them. The heart was funny that way, persisting even when denied. Again and again, reaching out across the ocean.
Despite all of that, she is still sorry for how she had done it. Francesca deserved more than her silent fleeing, letters arriving only after she had put enough distance between them to breathe again. A dozen apologies, and yet she would apologize for how she had left a dozen times more. If only Francesca would believe her, that she had not wanted to leave but had to, even if she could not fully explain why.
"I am sorry," she repeats, unable to offer any additional explanations that she has not already said before. If they had not worked then, she knows they will not now. Not with how Francesca was unable to even look at her, face still as solid as stone. "For the hurt I caused. I should have spoken to you, I know."
That is not to say she will give up trying to get through to the woman, but she concedes to a draw for now. Francesca nods, eyes focused upon the keys. Michaela can tell when she is no longer welcome, the taller woman so tense she looks wooden where she sits on the bench.
"If you'll excuse me," Michaela says as she dips her head into a bow. "I will bother you no longer."
Francesca says nothing at all as she leaves the room. Just outside the door, Michaela drops her head to her chest, breathing through the pain. Seeing her again after so long, hearing her voice is like a dream and a nightmare both. Memories of before clashing with the reality of now, affection and silence contrasting.
She decides to keep the room she had stayed in before instead of assuming the ones that John had when he was alive. Countess or not, John and Francesca had shared that room. Michaela was not quite strong enough to contend with the ghost of him, not in there at least. The room sits empty, Francesca having abandoned the room too. Michaela had checked it out earlier, only to be met with some of his belongings and a neatly made bed. If she thought about it hard enough, she could almost still smell him. But she knew it was her mind playing tricks, that the room smelled of clean laundry.
Her own rooms are similar in size, anyway, and familiar to her. Decorated the same as when she had left, clean and comfortable. A haven of space, as much as a room can be in this house of memories.
Francesca's chambers are just down the hallway, close enough to reach in mere seconds. The thought is not helpful, but her thoughts regarding Francesca rarely are. She hopes that the woman does not mind this proximity, but she consoles herself with the thought that Francesca herself had chosen the room she now occupies and had known Michaela would be in the same hall if she ever were to return. Even after the letter informing her that she was returning, Francesca stayed put.
The thought sends a small thrill through her. Francesca may avoid her, but she will still be by her regardless, just down the hall.
She takes a walk around the house, Francesca still hidden away in her drawing room. From what she can gather, the woman spends a lot of her time there. Michaela had known this, of course; her time with the couple had shown that Francesca was a person who greatly enjoyed solitude and space. The rolling hills of Scotland had suited her well.
Eventually, she goes about reacquainting herself with the rhythm of the place. Every inch of it is filled with memories from all parts of her life. After so long away, she finds she needs to settle back into the shape of it all.
At the top of one of the staircases, there is a notch in the wood from her and John's youth when they would chase each other up and down the stairs. She had slid one morning, colliding with the wood and chipping it slightly. She still has the scar; John had been scared witless at all the blood.
Her memories are a curse as much as they are a sanctuary. Every inch of the house brings forth a vivid memory, clashing with each other as she travels between rooms.
There is the spot that she had sat with Francesca that night before she left, where she and John had spoken in their early teens about the girls in the ton after she admitted her preferences, where she had sat that night he died. A house filled with memories, good and bad.
The hours slip by slowly, her own memories serving as a worthwhile distraction from the other woman occupying the house. When dinner arrives, she hesitates over what to do.
She had been told earlier that Francesca usually eats by herself in her drawing room at dinner. Sometimes a member of the family would stay for dinner: Janet, who has remained in Mayfair since John's death, any number of the Bridgerton siblings or spouses, or Francesca's mother.
But now it was Michaela there, and Francesca did not wish to see her. When she arrives at the table for dinner, though, Francesca is sitting there stiffly. Her perfected manners dictate her presence, Michaela considers, from years of rules put upon her for polite society. She should have known Francesca would arrive regardless of her upset, because society would expect it. Michaela wishes that Francesca did not feel the need to force herself for the sake of politeness, and yet cannot help the relief she feels when she sits at the table.
She has missed Francesca most dearly, missed her wit and her dry humor. Missed the very sight of her, eyes glowing in the firelight of the room.
"I did not expect you to join me for dinner," Michaela says, voice steady despite the crackling of nerves she feels. Francesca sits two chairs down, looking down at her plate, gaze never leaving the dish. Michaela's own plate has been set up at the head of the table.
"What happened to this being my home, too?" Francesca questions, her voice almost mocking when she repeats the same phrase Michaela had used earlier.
"Of course it is," Michaela replies earnestly, trying not to take a misstep so early into her stay. "Only, the staff mentioned you usually eat alone."
Francesca finally looks at her then, her eyes going slightly wide. A crack in the wall she has put up around herself when around Michaela.
"You asked?" Francesca's voice rises slightly in the middle of the question, the first time she has sounded impacted all day.
Michaela finds herself considering that she probably revealed a bit more than she wanted with that, shifting in her seat. She should have considered how clever Francesca was, that she would notice what the statement implied.
"Yes," Michaela admits, willing her face to be placid. She admits it because it is the truth, and she does not want to lie to Francesca more than necessary to hide her feelings. "Emma told me."
She does not admit that she had also asked about Francesca's other daily habits. Emma was one of the most loyal staff members and loved Michaela fiercely. She would answer or find anything the woman wanted. The questions hadn't even raised an eyebrow, and Michaela now knew how best to avoid Francesca, just in case. To stop her from learning just how badly she wanted to be around her. To tiptoe around her, in case her emotions prove overwhelming once more.
She is being as honest as necessary. This duty to herself, to Francesca, to John, to avoid these feelings of hers. To avoid letting them escape her own mind, where they can only hurt her.
Francesca's eyes close, and Michaela decides she must be the one to look away from the woman's face. Her heart is racing; honesty feels dangerous sometimes, at least wherever Francesca is concerned.
Her poker face, from her youth and her love of the game, is rather well put together. But even it must have its limits, and it is clear that Francesca is that limit. Especially with her eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
She hides her thoughts by cutting the food on her plate, giving herself a distraction. Francesca has a furrow between her brows when she glances back up, eyes on her own plate.
"If you wish to eat alone, I can return to my drawing room," Francesca offers, voice back to neutral.
Michaela's stomach plummets, considering that Francesca may think she is not welcome. That maybe her actions have leaned too far to one side, causing Francesca to think that she does not enjoy the woman's company. Does not want her near her always, even if the proximity is overwhelming. Michaela could not stop wanting that, Francesca by her side, even as she ran from it. She hopes that Francesca is making a joke, rather than genuinely offering.
"No!" she exclaims, too loud for the space. "No, of course not, you are always welcome. I was simply surprised."
Francesca nods, eyes back on her food. The tension sinks heavily onto the table, and the noise of eating fills the room.
"It is nice to eat with someone," Francesca says softly, voice so lovely it prickles along Michaela's skin. "The quiet is loud sometimes."
Michaela digests the information, her heart clenching in sadness. Francesca's voice is tinged with a loneliness that eats at her, knowing that it is partially her fault. The other woman had asked her to stay, and she hadn't, and now Francesca sounds like that because she gets lonely. If Michaela were more noble, if she hadn't fallen in love with her cousin's wife, she could have stayed. Then that undercurrent of sadness in her voice would be gone.
But she had fallen in love, and she had left, and now she must find a way forward with all of it. Must make things right with the woman in front of her, no matter what. For John, but also for Francesca. They both deserved that from her, for her to show up and do something noble in exchange for her transgressions against them both.
She will treat his title and his widow both with the same care he had, no matter the pain. Even if she is in love with the woman, even if she cannot escape the thought of her. She will do the right thing, even if she has struggled so desperately with it in the past regarding Francesca.
"I am sorry for leaving, Francesca," she begins, tone gentle. "I never intended to make you feel any pain over my absence."
Francesca's eyes are wet in the light, still looking away, obviously avoiding eye contact.
"Yet you did."
Francesca has always done well at that, a truth wrapped in barbs when she is feeling particularly vulnerable. Her emotions overwhelm her, making her more forward in her words. Michaela's heart thumps with guilt at having caused such harm.
"I know," she says, feeling very much like the coward she knows she acted like when she slipped away in the middle of the night after saying she would not. "But I have returned, and I aim to remain by your side, so long as you would like it."
"With my title, Francesca, I wish to take care of you. As I am sure John would want of me. If you want to marry, I shall take care of your dowry. Or if you would prefer to stay a widow, I will provide for you. It is your choice."
She does not mention that of all the pursuits in her life, taking care of Francesca is perhaps the one she has craved the most. Any pain from it would be suffered gladly, so long as the taller woman was happy and content. John would want Michaela by Francesca's side, in his absence. A selfish desire, a noble cause.
Francesca doesn't say anything back for a while, once again plunging them into silence. Michaela does not wish to push her, so she sits in it.
She may not be able to have the woman the way she wants her, but she can use her stolen life to at least protect the woman. She knows Francesca is thinking about remarrying, back in her colors instead of her mourning black, back out into society. She was a practical woman, Michaela knew, and what was more practical for a woman in society than remarrying?
But Michaela knows that under all of her noble intentions, there is the added benefit of having Francesca in some way. The undercurrent of longing in her for the other woman threads itself into everything regarding her.
Guilt clings to her, and yet for Francesca's sake, she will do whatever is necessary. Her longing would be put aside, because Francesca should have the option not to marry. The option to live at her side in Scotland, where she knew Francesca was happier and freer than London society allowed her to be. Any of the options she could provide, she would, her own cloying emotions be damned.
"I assume you are to enjoy the festivities of the season?" Francesca says some time later, breaking their silence.
Her voice has gone back to that even level she keeps using, indifference and distance in it. Michaela can now hear the thread of something else in it, a certain ring to it that it had two years ago before she left. But it is clear Francesca is still at odds with her, a distance that remains even though Francesca is sharing the space with her.
She resolves to work at it, to be a friend to Francesca in whatever way she is allowed. It is a true want, every part of her craving it. Francesca deserves that, and every good thing that Michaela could do. To get rid of that thread of loneliness in her voice, to bring back that smile she had when they were intertwined in the stag dance. Though maybe not so close this time, Michaela considers. Her heart may not be able to handle it without wanting to flee, and she is bound to this place through duty.
"I am," Michaela nods, happy to be talking to the other woman after so long. Tension still clings to the conversation, but the wall between them is cracking. Francesca thawing to her, a process that Michaela is happy to undertake. "I have heard mention of a ball this week. Are you going to join me in the festivities?"
Francesca nods hesitatingly, seemingly torn between her wall and the promise of another presence in the house that will get rid of the uneasy silence that surrounds her.
"We can share a carriage," Michaela suggests, thinking of them arriving together at the event. The beast of her longing, the animal want in her regarding the other woman, perks in her chest. "If you would be so inclined as to accompany me, that is."
Francesca's eyes narrow slightly as she looks at Michaela. Processing the invitation, deciding on it. Deciding if she is willing to allow Michaela that close again, after the sting of abandonment. Considering her earlier remarks of distance, of space between them, and if it will be upheld.
Michaela's heart beats heavily in her chest, wishing beyond reason that Francesca decides in her favor. Decides to shrink the distance, even if it is just a chip in the wall of hurt between them, by sharing her carriage.
"That would be nice," Francesca eventually concedes, and Michaela feels her heart flutter. A sense of relief spreads through her body. She remembers suddenly just how dangerous her mission will be regarding the woman. If her heart can handle it, considering it could not last the last time. "Though you should be warned, I sometimes require an early escape."
Michaela's affection for the woman swirls in her chest; Francesca's quirks are endearing to her, they always have been. Yes, she is quite aware that the other woman would require an early retirement from some events. Francesca liked solitude, after all. Michaela does not mind; she prefers Francesca exactly as is, her early escapes from events included.
"Yes, I expected as much," Michaela ventures, teasing slightly now that Francesca's demeanor has softened a bit. "Warning received."
Francesca huffs out a small laugh, and Michaela's eyes soften at the sound. Heart racing, her hands worrying her silverware as she ducks her head.
"And you are okay with that? You are so often the center of a group when you are in public."
This is true. Michaela is charismatic, and she always has been. It came with the ability to charm almost anyone and had served her well in her pursuits of romance and conversation. A small part of it was an act, a barrier between her and the world, but most of it was just her. John had been the reserved one; she had always been bold.
The hurricane twins, their parents had taken to calling them in their youth. Two sides of the same coin, going everywhere together. Opposites to each other, in a similar way to Francesca and herself.
"With my new title, I think I shall also need the occasional escape," she half-jokes, half-predicts. Already, the politics of her situation are settled like a weight in her chest, the reality of it stark and heavy.
Francesca nods, agreeing with her. There is a small smile on her face, the first one she has had since Michaela's arrival. The sight sends a spark through her, longing briefly overwhelming the guilt that usually stifles it.
"Yes, I imagine so."
Francesca's voice settles her, even as it sends her heart stuttering. She had missed the woman, even as much as she had tried to rid herself of the love that overwhelmed her.
The conversation is lighter after that. Francesca never accepts her proposal of help, but she also does not deny it. They simply talk, though not as freely as they had done before. The taller woman asks about some of her travels, parts of her questions stemming from things Michaela had written about in her letters. She had read them all, it seems, as various letters throughout the span of her absence are mentioned.
It sends a thrill down her spine, the knowledge that Francesca has remembered her letters so vividly. One of her questions even comes from a throwaway line in a letter from one of the first months she had been gone, back when Michaela had still thought she might receive a reply.
Francesca had read them all and had remembered most of them. Michaela feels her longing tug at her, guilt eating at her with the proof of how dearly Francesca considered her friendship. Even through the pain, Francesca still felt that closeness. Enough to read all of her letters, to remember details so that she may ask now.
They talk for a couple of hours, conversation rarely slowing. Their food is mostly untouched by the time Francesca yawns, one hand coming up to stifle the noise. Michaela smiles, knowing all of the talking must have tired the other woman after so long living mostly alone.
"You are tired. I have kept you later than I expected."
"You and your tales, yes," Francesca says, a sliver of affection in her voice. "Thank you for filling the silence."
Michaela bows her head quickly, cheeks heating as she watches her leave. The hour is late, and she herself is exhausted from travel. But she had missed Francesca so much that she could barely tear herself away from her company. Even if the other woman is not as open with her, not like she was before Michaela had left. But it is something, because she is talking to Michaela, and that means their friendship can be mended. Michaela would just need to be careful. Would need to control this love in her that threatened to upset the balance of everything.
She would just need to control herself. Get a handle on these emotions of hers, through whatever means necessary. She could not repeat her mistakes.
---
The first night that she stays in Kilmartin House, just down the hall from Francesca, she dreams of the other woman. Of them, rather, together. Her dreams have their own will, unmanageable even as much as she wishes they could be controlled. She dreams of her hands on the other woman, of being in bed with her, of giving her pleasure.
It was not, by far, the first time she had dreamed of Francesca. But when she wakes up, for once, she finds herself nervous of it. Because now she is well and truly rooted, unable to take flight in quite the same way before. The weight of her new title takes hold of her, grounding her from fleeing.
Not that she would run from Francesca again, she refuses to consider it. Considering how she had hurt the other woman before. She cannot run from her feelings, either, as much as she has tried. But still, not having the option feels distressing. She would have to go through whatever this storm would bring, as much as it scares her. Because Francesca deserved the choice in her life, and she was intent on repairing the damage she had caused the other woman. But also because it was demanded of her. John's legacy sat heavily on her shoulder, his title now hers. Her duty to him, to Francesca, to the Crown.
The dreams will be inescapable, and she is nervous to weather them. Because she knows they will not stop, not with their proximity and shared space. Even now, the knowledge of Francesca's distance, even just down the hallway, is thrilling. To be back in her space after so long is quite like gravity itself, pulling her in. In India, she often dreamed of the other woman. An ocean away, and still Francesca had made frequent appearances in her mind's unconscious imaginings.
Her control is of the utmost importance, she thinks, waiting for the wave of emotions to pass before she can prepare for the day. Breathing through the longing until it is well and truly under control before she faces the world.
Francesca is in the gardens, she knows, for breakfast. She considers interrupting the woman, thinking of her company and banter, as she walks to her own breakfast. But she decides against it, giving the woman the space she deserves.
There is a room, relatively isolated in a far corner of the house, that she had claimed as her spot in the years before her debut. She and John were the only two who used it all those years, and it had continued that way even into her eventual spinsterhood. It had always brought her comfort, their shared space where they would share breakfast, but especially now.
When she walks in, however, she sees Francesca. Sitting at the table with her own food in front of her, posture rigid. The woman's eyes snap to her when she walks in, a flash of emotion crossing her face. Francesca had asked after her own routine, it seems.
"Michaela," she says, voice high and slightly nervous. Michaela smiles at her, startled but pleased to see her. Her nerves from earlier are not so unbearable when the other woman is in sight, shining in the morning light like the sun. For as much as Francesca made her feel, among the top emotions there was always love. Gentle and bright like spring, like the sunshine outside shining in on Francesca's hair. Her presence was soothing like water, a gentle embrace.
"I thought it might be nice to share breakfast," Francesca says, voice once more steady. "The Warren Ball is soon, you know."
"Yes," Michaela replies, moving to sit by the woman. The table here is smaller, meant for two people. Before, it had been her and John; now it is her and Francesca. Sat close enough to reach out and touch after the distance from dinner last night. "Three days, my invitation arrived earlier."
Her invitation had been a special case; usually, they were sent out weeks in advance. But Michaela's appearance was a surprise to the ton, as she had told only Francesca and the staff beforehand. The Warrens had sent it priority so it could reach her today.
News of her arrival had spread quickly, as gossip usually did in the ton. Lady Whistledown, whoever had assumed the moniker, was popular for a reason. The people of London society enjoyed drama and gossip greatly; information was another sort of currency in the monied population of Mayfair.
"What of your outfit?" Francesca asks, taking a bite of her food. Michaela, despite how unsteady her dream has made her, finds herself smiling easily. She is excited for the event, as she has always loved a good party. But she was also excited to share a carriage with Francesca, to arrive and leave with her, to see what her dress would look like. Michaela had always loved the woman's style; she shone so nicely in color.
"Awaiting me wearing it, of course," Michaela tells her, unable to stop herself from donning a teasing smile. "Attention drawer for sure."
Francesca lets out a small huff of laughter, conceding to the banter, a crack in the wall once more. Their friendship had always been easy, despite the longing Michalea felt. Francesca was easy to be with; clever, funny, and soothing to be around. It was what made Michaela's love so inescapable. Francesca was beautiful, but she was also one of the best people Michaela had ever known. She and John both were.
"I am sure," the taller woman replies. "I would expect nothing less from a Countess."
The title has, up until the very moment Francesca utters it, been nothing but a burden. A duty to bear, or suffer through. The weight of it is laden with guilt and grief. But the way Francesca says it sends a shiver down her spine like a streak of lightning, uncontrollable and sudden. She shakes the thought off, clenching the reins of her control in a tight fist.
Michaela pours their tea, and they finally begin breakfast together. She cannot find a reply in herself, trying to steady her own mind. The dream has knocked something loose in her, it seems, primal and warm. Though if Michaela were being honest with herself, it was not the dream that caused it. That desire had accompanied her for four years now by this point; the dream was just one of many ways it seeped out of her.
They talk about the plans for the night of the event, their opinions on various parts. They discuss everything from the hosts to the attendees, food to music. Francesca glows in the morning light from the window, wearing a light purple today that makes the flush in her skin pop.
After breakfast, Francesca excuses herself quietly and leaves. Off to her drawing room, or so Michaela guesses, refusing to allow herself to ask. It truly is no business of hers what Francesca does with her time, and it would do no good to think about it. Control, she thinks.
She passes the day by herself, mostly responding to an ever-growing list of correspondence. Her new title, though not announced to society as a whole yet, has brought work. She skips lunch, wanting to get through as much of it as possible.
As a child, she had not envied John this burden. She had no reason to, and she certainly had not wanted it for herself. She had gotten all of the education he had, anyway. They had shared the same childhood, the same experiences for the most part in their youth.
Her attention, as the day creeps steadily by, is drawn to Francesca. From her office, John's office, she can hear the other woman playing. He had admitted to her one night, as they stayed up late drinking wine and talking, that the room was gifted to the woman so he could hear her from his own office. The proximity of the rooms was intentional, so while he worked, he could listen to his wife play the music she loved so dearly. The melodies would float down the hall, through the walls themselves, a private concert.
Michaela understands why, of course. Francesca plays like a master, every tune melodic and beautiful. As she responds to the countless letters, the music that floats into the room from the drawing room soothes her heavy emotions.
She doesn't know if Francesca even knows that, once she remembers the information. If she knows that John, and now Michaela, could hear her play. Perhaps it would please the woman to know her husband had thought of something like that. She wonders what Francesca would think now that it was her listening in.
The hours creep steadily until dinner, her hand slowly aching from writing. Michaela arrives early at the table, hungry after skipping a meal earlier. Francesca's spot is already set, the same as last night, the spot hugging the corner next to the head of the table. Michaela's spot is set up across from her.
A shift from the previous night, the distance that had been between them now erased. This proximity is a lot more dangerous, and yet Michaela cannot help but like it. She likes that they can talk and look at each other as they eat. What better way to fix the hurt between them than to slowly draw close again? Through talking, through time spent together, through showing Francesca she would be there. Dangerous or not, Michaela wanted to draw closer, like Icarus towards the sun. She hopes this does not end in her being burned.
When Francesca arrives, she looks radiant. There is a small smile on her face when she sees Michaela, warmer by far than their first meeting yesterday morning at her arrival.
"Francesca," Michaela says, enjoying being able to say the name again. The very feel of it on her tongue. "How was your day?"
"I am learning a new piece," she says, a light in her eyes as she gets to talk about her music. "It is rather challenging; I was not expecting it to be so difficult."
Michaela listens intently, thinking about the tune floating through the hall earlier today. Francesca is incredibly talented and skillful; she is beautiful to listen to. She had played occasionally for them all during their shared stay in Scotland, and Michaela had enjoyed those afternoons greatly. It really had been too long since she had last had the pleasure of listening to it, and she is suddenly thankful for John's sentimental actions.
"I heard you from the office," she finds herself admitting, remembering her thoughts from earlier about whether Francesca knew about the show she was putting on. "You sounded brilliant."
Francesca looks away with a smile, seemingly pleased by the comment. Michaela feels a clawing in her chest, reaching out towards the woman, her longing chewing at her.
"I am still learning, but thank you," she says, eyes lighting up where she sits. If Michaela focuses enough, it is almost like she can feel herself fall more in love sometimes. Like she can feel her heart expanding in her chest, growing branches to accommodate the emotion.
They continue talking, topics flowing easily between them. Occasionally, there is a stutter in the conversation, like a misplaced foot in a dance that causes a stumble. Her wariness and Francesca's wall, trying to avoid any clashes.
The time she had spent away was spent missing the other woman, a loneliness that had chased her relentlessly. Women had surrounded her during her time in India; parties and social events and drinking, yet none of it had satisfied her. Not like simply being with Francesca did, completing a puzzle or trading jokes. Nothing compared.
And she is here in this city, sitting across from the very woman who had haunted her, so happy that she feels fit to burst. Happy to be back at her side once more. Her emotions swarm in her chest; guilt and grief and love all vying for space.
Dinner does not last as long tonight as it did the night before. Moderating herself, Michaela thinks, taking small doses of the other woman to avoid doing anything rash. To avoid having her emotions all spill out of her heart, messy and improper. They could share meals and carriages, promenades and visits to shops. But only in doses, because Michaela cannot afford to have her heart become reckless in want. She needs to find something to distract herself with, and soon, an idle body is dangerous when her want for Francesca occupies her so totally.
Once they finish their food and their conversation, Michaela excuses herself to retreat to her rooms for the night. Being in Francesca's company for too long did funny things to Michaela's will, even as well-practiced as she was in containing herself. She was drawn towards Francesca like the inevitability of time, an inescapable force. Two years away have done nothing for her want, save make their proximity addicting, newly returned to her after so long away. Her love for Francesca was a lesson in contradictions; in her was the constant battle between wanting always to be near the woman and the knowledge that she could not be.
There is a fine line to walk there, she knows. A thin tipping point between close and too close, falling ever deeper in love with the woman. She had known, of course, when she returned that her feelings would be a battle. But the reality of it poses a problem, another weight to her chest.
But, as much as the thoughts distress her, she knows she will power through it all for the other woman. She will take the title and use it to help her as much as she is allowed. Protect Francesca from a society so keen on putting women in a certain position, backing them into corners. She did not wish for Francesca to ever want for anything, or to marry for the sake of society or duty. She wanted the woman to marry only if she wanted to, rather than being forced to.
Truthfully, if she thought about it any deeper, she knew she did not want Francesca to marry at all. She would prefer, if she had her way, for the taller woman to stay a widow and accompany her back to Scotland. But the choice was Francesca's, whatever she may decide.
But first, she must receive her title properly and show Francesca that she is truly staying this time. That no matter what comes, she will stay. She resolves very firmly to make sure the other woman knows she is here by her side for good, if she wants it to be so.
The thought sends a shiver down her spine, resolute and yet nervous for how it would all turn out. She moves slowly through her nightly routine, distracted by thoughts of want and duty. Four years of loving her with the knowledge that she should not, and two years of absence, and still the feeling consumed her. Moved her like the tide, washed over her like rain.
She would need to be very careful indeed.