Chapter Text
Francesca’s marriage to John was a happy one. Happier than she had ever hoped for. Not happier than she had ever dreamed, though — because that would have required her to have dreamed about marriage. And she never did.
But she was happy, now. With John, she was happy.
Or rather, she wasn’t unhappy. Actually, maybe she wasn’t happy at all.
Because how could she be? How could she be happy, when she was yet with child. How could she be content, knowing she had one duty as a wife, and she had failed yet to fulfill it.
Crying over the arrival of her monthly courses had become a regular event.
Each month passed the same. She would lie with John over and over. She painstakingly followed the advice she gathered from all the midwives of Mayfair — eating more vegetables and less meat, bathing in cold water once a day, drinking a particular and foul-tasting blend of herbs. She even began bloodletting with a physician once a month.
And then her hopes would rise as the month went on. She would stare at herself in the mirror, imagining a curve of her belly, convincing herself that this time, it was really there. It was really happening.
But inevitably, the time would come where her stomach would cramp, her head would pang, and her courses would come — signifying her failure once more. Another month without an heir for John, for the Stirling name.
It didn’t make sense. She was doing everything in order to conceive.
Well, not everything. She still hadn’t achieved her pinnacle.
With each month that passed, each month of yet another failure, it became increasingly clear. Her inability to reach her pinnacle was impeding her ability to conceive. It had to be that.
And she had to find a way to fix it.
It was only that — she had tried. Tried and tried and tried. She talked to her mother, to Penelope, to Kate, to the maids — everyone. She did everything they suggested. She tried by herself, with her own fingers. She tried when it was John’s hands, when it was John’s member.
Nothing.
She had come to accept nothing for an answer. But it couldn’t be. Not anymore.
Except — what else could she do?
Fuck.
Francesca, overwhelmed by the weight of the world, stood up and wiped her tears.
Tonight, a whiskey would be her answer.
One whiskey became three, and then suddenly, Francesca was drunk on the floor of the upstairs sitting room.
No matter. John wouldn’t be looking for her. He was probably out at the club, or off with Michaela, or already in bed. He tended not to worry about her whereabouts. Nor she his.
Not like how she worried about Michaela’s.
No. She did not. Why would she? She wouldn’t. That’s why she didn’t. Obviously.
Although — maybe she did. Sometimes.
But it made sense! She should be worried. Where does a single woman of suitable marrying age galavant off to in the middle of the night! In rural Scotland, no less!
At least now that they were in London, her frequent comings and goings more made sense to Francesca.
It didn’t stop her from noticing them, though. And from wishing they’d stop.
She knew it was strange that she cared so much. And because it was strange, it was probably wrong. But she couldn’t help that she cared about Michaela, what she was doing, what she was feeling.
Who she was with.
Francesca’s stomach lurched.
She stumbled to her feet, then. And turned to the pianoforte. She would play, to distract herself.
Oh. No. She couldn’t. It was the middle of the night, wasn’t it?
She fell back onto the chaise instead. Perhaps she’d just have another whiskey. Maybe if she drank enough, she would just fall asleep, and this horrible day would be done with.
Tomorrow, she’d start again.
A new month. A new chance to conceive.
Just as she made up her mind to find some more whiskey, she heard a creak in the hallway. And then another. Footsteps.
Someone else was awake. And they were walking towards the sitting room.
She watched as a figure stood at the doorway and walked closer — Michaela.
Frankly, the first and last person Francesca needed to see right now.
“Good evening,” Francesca nodded, trying so very hard to sound sober.
“You’re drunk,” Michaela accused. So much for trying.
“Yes,” Francesca confirmed. She realized then she still had the empty glass in her hand.
“Why?” Michaela asked, moving to sit down on the chaise across from her.
Francesca should have hesitated, should have lied. But alcohol always made her lips loose.
Michaela always made her lips loose.
What was the difference, anyway? One intoxicating substance swapped with another.
“I am not with child,” Francesca said, shrugging. As if it didn’t matter. As if it weren’t all that mattered.
“Your courses?” Michaela asked softly, eyes filling with empathy.
Francesca could only bring herself to nod.
“I’m sorry,” Michaela said, and Francesca knew she was earnest.
And then her mind went back to the matter at hand. Her pinnacle. Her need to achieve it.
“Have you ever reached your pinnacle?” Francesca heard herself ask. Words she immediately regretted. Because her stomach was already uneasy enough as it was — hearing now about how Michaela had laid with another, the prospect alone was enough to make her sick.
Michaela eyed her carefully. “I have,” she admitted after a moment.
“I am — I struggle to,” Francesca confessed.
Michaela blinked back at her. “Oh.”
“I did not wish to tell you, involve you. What with John being your cousin. But it seems as though I have asked everyone else, and nothing they have suggested worked.”
Michaela looked positively disturbed.
“I’m sorry,” Francesca rushed out. “Nevermind. I should not have said anything. It was inappropriate of me —”
“No,” Michaela cut her off. “It is alright. I’m sorry, I was just surprised.”
Francesca felt her heart beat in her ears.
“John — does he know?” Michaela asked cautiously.
“He does,” Francesca confirmed.
“So you cannot, when the two of you —”
“No,” Francesca said quickly.
“And alone, by yourself?”
“Then neither.”
“Oh.”
“It is not as if I have not tried. It feels like it’s all I try. I wouldn’t think anything of it, except that the midwives say it helps with conception. And now, it seems obvious that this is the problem. Because once again, I am not with child, and once again, the only thing I seem to be doing wrong is that I cannot reach my pinnacle.”
Michaela looked at her with such pity that Francesca wished she hadn’t looked at her at all.
“You are not doing anything wrong,” Michaela insisted.
“I am,” Francesca countered, unable to tolerate any arguments to the contrary.
Horribly, she felt tears began to well in her eyes, and slowly drop off her eyelashes to roll down her face.
Michaela sighed at the sight.
Francesca — too embarrassed — could no longer meet her gaze. She lay back on the chaise and stared up at the ceiling, her tears rolling down into her ears now.
“Did you want my advice?” she heard Michaela ask, so gently it hurt.
Francesca hummed in response.
“Try more by yourself. Without any expectation. Just try to find what feels good, and go from there.”
Francesca couldn’t stop the laugh that bubble up inside her. “I have.”
“Ah,” Michaela exhaled. “How about what you think about?”
“During?” Francesca clarified.
“Right.”
“Oh — well, nothing at all, really. Mostly about how much I hope to become with child.”
“That sounds stressful. Stress can make it hard —”
“Don’t,” Francesca interrupted. “I know. I’ve heard it all. Don’t stress. As if it were that easy.”
“I understand,” Michaela sympathized immediately. She was good at that.
“Does it ever feel good?” Michaela continued.
Francesca thought for a moment. “Sometimes,” she admitted.
“Alone? Or with —”
“Mostly alone,” Francesca cut her off before she could say his name. “Because I’m more focused on me, then, I think.”
“And during?” Michaela pressed. “How does it feel?”
“I do not think you want to hear about that,” Francesca shook her head.
She wished she did not have to impose this wall. She was tired of this wall. Tired of censoring and hiding from Michaela when all she wanted to do was exist wholly in front of her, with her, inside her.
No, sorry — beside her. Beside her. Not inside her.
“Fine — how about when he kisses you? What do you feel then?” Michaela changed her question.
Francesca was weak. And the wall was poorly constructed.
“When he kisses me —” Francesca started, then shook her head. “I don’t feel anything at all,” she whispered.
With whiskey coursing through her veins and the metaphorical sledgehammer in her hand, she sat up to meet Michaela’s gaze once more. “Nothing like when you kissed me.”
“Francesca,” Michaela hissed, eyes screwing shut.
“I’m sorry,” Francesca apologized reflexively, but there was no heart behind her words.
“I told you never to bring that up,” Michaela said, exasperated.
“I know,” Francesca said. And she did. But she was weary from holding the wall up, constantly battling the memory out of her mind.
She wanted Michaela in.
“I am sorry,” she said again.
But now the memory was here in the room with her.
Back in Kilmartin, an argument late at night, by the fire. Voices rising and rising, stepping closer and closer towards each other, until suddenly their lips were touching, her hands grabbing Michaela's hips, Michaela’s hands tangling in her hair, kissing, kissing, kissing until her lungs threatened to collapse, until every nerve in her body was set ablaze. Fuck.
“Go to bed, Francesca,” Michaela said. “It’s late and you’re drunk.”
Francesca hated when Michaela spoke to her like that — so cold and unfamiliar. But she deserved this side of Michaela, didn’t she?
“Alright,” she agreed.
She stumbled to her feet, placing the empty glass on the table. She left the room without another word.
She changed into her nightgown alone, then climbed under her covers.
Her conversation with Michaela played on an endless loop.
How did it feel. What did she think about when she touched herself.
Well, now she was thinking about Michaela. How beautiful she looked with her curls loose. How soft she looked in the pastel color of her nightgown.
How divine her kiss had been. She remembered it like it was yesterday.
Salty, ferocious, unyielding and — passionate. So, so, very passionate.
Her right hand slipped between her legs, her fingertips brushing her center. She felt wetness.
Michaela, yelling at her to draw back. Michaela, smiling at her as they completed a jigsaw puzzle. Michaela, hugging her, touching her, kissing her kissing her kissing her.
Her fingers found the familiar places she had previously explored, the ones she was learning she liked. She imagined Michaela’s fingers there instead.
She imagined Michaela over her, imagined her scent enveloping her, imagined her whispering in her ear that she could do it. Oh.
Oh.
Michaela taunting her as she beat her in yet another round of archery. Michaela’s hand brushing against hers as she passed her the marmalade at breakfast. Michaela licking ice cream off her spoon.
Oh.
Her legs trembled, her shoulders clenched, her head tilted back, her eyes squeezed shut.
Oh.
The next morning left Francesca dripping in shame.
Her friend. Her beloved friend. She had used her. She had used and abused her image and memory to reach her pinnacle.
It was wrong. She did not know how, exactly, but she knew it to be true all the same.
Francesca was selfish. Francesca was lustful — not for her husband, but for her husband’s cousin.
For her Michaela.
Fuck.
She loved Michaela. She loved Michaela more than she loved herself. And yet she had disrespected her in every conceivable way.
God help her.
She did not have time to dwell. The physician would be arriving soon, for her monthly bloodletting.
He had instructed her not to eat or drink anything the morning of, so Francesca busied herself at the pianoforte until a maid came to tell her the doctor was here and would meet her in her bed chambers.
With shaking legs, she walked back down the corridor. She hated this. Hated it.
But she would do anything. She would try anything. Anything to give John an heir.
Dr. Block was waiting for her by her bed when she got to her chambers.
“Good morning,” she murmured, her lady’s maid Alice helping her disrobe.
“Good morning, Countess Kilmartin,” Dr. Block said as he began laying out his devices on a tray by her bed.
Francesca took her customary spot on the bed and laid back — the session would likely end in her fainting, so she liked to be horizontal already from the start.
“How have you been feeling?” he asked her, pulling her forearm towards him so he could inspect her veins.
“Well enough,” she answered softly. It was the truth, at least physically. Mentally, well, that was another question.
Francesca knew the routine well by now. Dr. Block would make the incision and let her blood out until she lost consciousness. She wasn’t quite sure what happened thereafter, but she knew by the time she woke up, he had packed up his things, and her arm was left with a dry cut that would slowly heal over the next month until he came back again.
After her session with Dr. Block, Francesca broke her fast with a meal of porridge and roasted carrots. She missed meat dearly — but she would try anything. One midwife’s attesting that cutting out meat would increase the chance of conception was enough for Francesca to immediately obey.
It was around that time of the day when Francesca began to wonder where Michaela was, what she was doing, who she was with. If Francesca was lucky, the question would be answered by the sight of Michaela joining her in the breakfast room to eat. Those were Francesca’s favorite days.
Today, it seemed something had drawn Michaela out of Stirling House. John, too, was long gone, likely at Westminster for the day.
Another day, alone. She could go visit her mother and younger siblings, but of course, she was trying to reduce her stress in order to conceive. And unfortunately, Bridgerton House was nothing but a source of stress for Francesca.
After choking down her herbal tea and finishing her meal, Francesca retreated back upstairs to the pianoforte. Lately, she had been writing original compositions, her fingers refusing to play storied songs and opting instead to go their own course.
Ironic, that Francesca could not do the same.
But as she played, her thoughts wandered, and her guilt returned. She had touched herself intimately to the thought of Michaela.
It could no longer be denied. She desired Michaela the way she was meant to desire John.
And she did not desire John at all.
Love, in fact, was not enough.
If she were honest with herself, she knew this truth all along. She knew it the moment she first laid eyes on Michaela, surrounded by butterflies, both outside and in.
Her body knew it first. It knew it when she kissed Michaela that night in Kilmartin. It knew it when it sent jealousy coursing through her veins at the thought of Michaela with another. It knew it when it made Francesca’s breath hitch when their fingers brushed as they reached for the same jigsaw puzzle piece.
Her heart knew it next. It knew it when it raced at the sight of Michaela dazzling every room she walked into. It knew it when it panged for Michaela when she cried over her father’s passing. It knew it when it beat loud and strong whenever their eyes met and Michaela smiled softly at her.
And now, her mind knew it too. It knew the words behind the feelings. Love, lust, and everything in between.
Francesca’s fingers fell off the keys. What in the world was she going to do?
That night, Francesca found herself in the same place — in the upstairs sitting room, three whiskeys deep.
She laid on the chaise, waiting. For which Stirling, she knew not.
Finally, footsteps.
“What are you doing still up?” Michaela asked her as she entered the room.
“Waiting,” Francesca answered, staring at the wall in front of her.
“I told you not to wait up for me anymore,” Michaela reminded her.
Her words stung more than Michaela likely intended them to.
“Waiting for John too,” she said, her head lulling to the side.
“Are you drunk again?” Michaela asked, eyes narrowing.
Francesca hummed.
Francesca finally looked over to her, then. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes dark, her dress still loose, as though it had been taken off and not fully put back on.
“Your lips look swollen,” she said, the words tasting sour. “Like you’ve been kissing someone,” Francesca continued.
“And if I had?” Michaela challenged.
But Francesca did not take her up on it. Instead she slumped back further into the chaise.
She did not want to fight. She could not fight. She had nothing left in her.
When Francesca did not snap back at her, Michaela drew in closer. “Fran,” she said her name like a caress. “Are you alright?”
Francesca did not want her concern. Nor her pity. Not when it came at the cost of her admiration.
“I am quite well,” she tried to say, though a hiccup stuttered her words.
“I am worried about you,” Michaela confessed.
You should be, Francesca thought. Even if she did not want it, that was not to say that Michaela’s worry was not warranted. Francesca knew she was on a downward spiral, descending deeper and deeper at higher and higher velocities every day.
Michaela approached her and knelt down beside the chaise until they were face to face.
She looked at her tenderly. Too tenderly. Francesca did not want her tenderness. She did not deserve it, not after what she’d done.
“I am sorry about last night,” Michaela said softly. “I know you are hurting.”
Francesca thought she might be sick.
“Don’t apologize,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Michaela was so close to her like this. Francesca could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, illuminated by the glow of a nearby candle. She was so beautiful it hurt.
Francesca could not help herself. She reached a hand out and placed it on Michaela’s cheek. Michaela let her. And then, Michaela leaned into the palm of her hand.
Her cheek was cold, still from the chill of the nighttime air. Francesca ran her thumb across her soft skin. So soft. Her lips had been soft, too, when they’d kissed.
Kiss. Francesca wanted to kiss her. Needed it.
Unconsciously, she leaned her head forward, her eyes dropping to Michaela’s lips.
“No, Francesca,” Michaela murmured softly, pulling her head back out of Francesca’s reach. “Not again,” she sighed.
Tears pricked at Francesca’s eyes. Stupid, moronic, awful.
Of course Michaela didn’t want to kiss her. She was her cousin’s wife. Michaela had already spent the night with some other woman, no doubt far more intelligent, beautiful, sociable than she. Why would she want anything more from Francesca?
So this was her fate? To be forever haunted by the memory of one, glorious, life-changing kiss, never to have anything close to it ever again?
It was more than Francesca, already weak, already broken, could bear.
“I am to bed,” she slurred, sitting up slowly — though the room spun anyway.
Michaela eyed her suspiciously. “Perhaps you should sleep here,” she suggested.
Francesca fell back against the cushions.
And promptly fell asleep.