Chapter Text
Francesca Stirling has already felt her world turned upside-down a few times too many in her young life. But one of the most impactful occurrences by far happens on an unremarkable Saturday evening in mid-September.
On that fateful evening, Fran returns home early from a dinner party hosted by her mother and a visiting Daphne, having drunk slightly more wine than her usual amount. She had planned to stay the night at Bridgerton House, had told Michaela that she would be, but decided at the last moment that she would prefer the warmth and comfort of her own bed after all.
Returning to Kilmartin House now, she feels light, limbs pleasantly buzzy, as she takes a moment to enjoy the slight chill of early fall in the air before heading inside. Turning to unlock the front door, she thinks she'd like to see if Michaela is up for one of their evening talks over a last glass of brandy, but upon entering the foyer, she is surprised to find all the house staff elsewhere and the home dark. Perhaps Michaela is not here after all, she thinks a bit dejectedly.
Quietly, she makes her way up the stairs, pausing to sit at the top step and remove her shoes. She continues on towards the hall that runs between their respective bedrooms, passing her own on the left and dropping her shoes and her shawl by the door before padding forward in her stocking feet towards Michaela's chambers on the right.
She grins; the door is ajar, open about three-quarters of the way, and a soft slice of firelight lances into the hallway and across the plush floor-runner. Fran approaches, smiling and pleased that Michaela is in fact home and awake, and looks through the gap in the door.
At first glance, Francesca does not understand what she is seeing. Yes, most of the scene is set as usual: Michaela loose-limbed and relaxed on the low couch facing the door before a dying fire, a near-empty glass and bottle of Scotch on the table at her elbow. But the rest of the scene is foreign to Francesca, and alarmingly so.
For one thing, Michaela is dressed in far less than Fran has ever seen her in. She is wearing a beautifully embroidered and very low-cut bustier ensemble that is only loosely covered by a silken dressing gown of dark green that shimmers in the firelight. Her hair is in a loose arrangement at the nape of her neck with a few tight curls falling free around her beautiful face. The smooth, soft looking expanse of skin at her shoulders, throat and collarbones seems to glow in the firelight and her full breasts press and heave up against the bodice.
But most notably and alarmingly of all, there is also another person–a stranger–with her tonight. A stranger kneeling so near on the settee as to be almost atop Michaela's partially exposed thighs. A stranger with her lips pressed to Michaela's neck, kissing and licking there and forcing Michaela's jaw to tip back gently as one hand cups the back of her head. A stranger whose other hand is moving swiftly and rhythmically beneath Michaela's skirt. Michaela's eyes are closed, dark eyelashes fluttering delicately against her soft cheeks, throat bobbing as she swallows a groan.
The instant that Francesca hears the muted sound fall from Michaela's lips a flash of pricking heat floods through her body, originating from the point at the juncture of her thighs and sparking its way out to her fingertips and toes. She feels herself blush heavily; she has never heard a sound quite like it before. She thinks (suddenly, wildly, almost deliriously) that she'd like very much to hear it again.
Then, devastatingly, she realizes that she can hear another sound in the quiet room, a sound that is rhythmic, wet and somehow thrilling. And at the sudden thunderclap of knowledge at what that sound means, Francesca does finally lose the last grip of herself. As though from a distance, she hears herself gasp just as two things happen in quick succession: Michaela moans again, louder this time, and her head tips forward to face the doorway. She opens her eyes and her gaze locks with Francesca's.
Suddenly, all Fran can hear is her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.
The look on Michaela's face is like nothing she has seen before, hungry and open in her pleasure and Francesca's blood feels like fire in her veins. Their gaze holds steady for another instant, long enough for Michaela's hips to give another slight jerk up against the stranger's fingers.
"Fran–" her name falls from Michaela's mouth with such delicate reverence despite the slight slur of the drink clearly affecting her. Michaela's eyes are dark liquid pools of heat as they gaze at her, slightly unfocused. Without her permission at all, a small moan falls from Fran's lips, a sound she has never heard herself make before, at hearing her own name spoken so gently, so beautifully, so wantingly by Michaela.
As though awakened from a dream by the sound, Michaela's gaze sharpens instantly into panic. She startles and moves to push the other woman away quickly, lurching up unsteadily from her seat with a look of horror on her face.
"Francesca! What are you-"
At the sound of her name, Fran jolts, and then she is back on Earth from wherever she went. Oh God, she thinks. She has been caught, she has been found spying–and on this most private of acts no less–like some kind of peeping lecher. She panics and begins to flee, groping for the doorjamb to steady herself as Michaela reaches out a hand towards her and the stranger beside her stands, turns to look.
In that instant, Fran registers that the woman is very beautiful, tall with pale skin, a long, finely-boned face and auburn hair a shade darker than her own, and that somehow makes everything worse.
That something she has felt since Michaela's return anytime she has been forced to watch her talking and laughing with women at balls is back, but it is so much stronger now. She panics completely at this realization, turning fully away from the door and scrambling out into the hall, gasping out a small apology as she goes.
Distantly, she hears Michaela say "I am sorry, Alice, she was not supposed to be here, she should not have seen-" But Fran is already too far down the hall now to make out the woman's reply, practically sprinting towards the safety of her own rooms.
She reaches her rooms, wrenches open the door and then presses her back firmly against it to close it. She is still gasping for air, her hand coming to tug at the high collar of her gown at her throat as she tries to breathe more easily. She squeezes her eyes shut, breathes through her nose to calm herself. Once she is feeling marginally more composed, she moves through the dark room to light the lamps on the mantle with trembling hands, then paces in front of the cold fireplace.
What had she just seen? She is no longer a blushing debutante so she finds that she knows without a doubt what it was. But how could two women-? How was this possible? And then in an instant she thinks, Of course it is possible. Of course there would be people for whom the rigid structures and trappings of society and convention would not fit. How could she have never considered it? And how could Michaela have not told her?
Distantly, she hears the front door open and then close again downstairs, and then a moment later footsteps nearing her door.
Michaela.
Unbidden, the look on Michaela's face as the woman–Alice, she thinks with a sudden sour feeling–had touched her springs to Fran's mind. Michaela had looked so different from her usual composed and charming self. She had looked undone, wild, her eyes so dark in the firelight as to be liquid pools of ink, heavy-lidded with pleasure as they had locked with Francesca's own. The something that lies hot in Fran's stomach tightens and twists again at the memory and Francesca gasps and presses a hand flat to her abdomen as a quiet knock echoes through the room.
"Fran? May we speak? I should like a chance to explain what-"
Fran has crossed the room in two strides and wrenched the door open, revealing a distinctly nervous-looking Michaela. Blessedly, she has pulled her green silk robe together and is holding it closed tight against her throat but Fran still feels her gaze drop down before she can help herself and she has to wrench it back up to meet Michaela's eyes. Flustered, she interjects:
"I do not need you to explain." She can hear how high and thin her voice sounds, hear the slight tremor in her tone. Michaela is searching her face, but Fran is desperately trying to avoid eye contact now, a feat which Michaela, in her proximity just across the threshold, is making difficult. "I know perfectly well what I just saw."
"Fran, Alice and I-"
"No, do not speak to me of her. I do not wish to hear her name." The mention of the stranger sends Fran back to pacing wildly, her evening gown swishing off the hearthrug with every turn, fingers twisting together over and over in front of her.
Now that Fran has abandoned the doorway, Michaela enters the room to sit on one of the twin settees near the cold hearth. She remains quiet for a moment. Then speaks in a small, sad voice: "Francesca, will you please sit?"
Despite her panic, Francesca realizes distantly that she wants to know, needs to make sense of what she has just seen, what she has just learned, this thing that has pulled the proverbial rug out from under her feet. And that Michaela can give her the answers. She stops pacing abruptly and moves stiffly to sit opposite Michaela on the other low couch. She continues to twist her fingers in her lap, still avoiding eye contact and waits.
"So." Michaela clears her throat gently and begins after a long moment, a slight waver to her tone, "Now you know."
Fran nods once wordlessly, more a sharp jerk of the head than a proper nod. She keeps her gaze locked firmly on her own twisting hands. Then pauses as a thought occurs to her. She remembers the incident with Lord Taylor all those years ago that lead to the start of their friendship.
"And...and John knew, didn't he? He knew about your- that you-" she breaks off, realizing she doesn't even have the words to describe it, shoots a glance up to Michaela for help.
Michaela winces a bit but replies: "Yes. He did... And he always tried to protect me as best he could because of it."
Fran is silent again, desperately trying to resist the urge to pace again and returning to tangling her fingers over and over in her lap instead. Of course John had known. And of course he would have done anything to keep Michaela happy and safe. Anything including keeping the truth from his own wife. But Michaela– the words are out of her mouth almost before she can stop them.
"Why did you not tell me?"
"Francesca..."
"No! I want to know why you did not tell me." She knows that she is being petulant, can hear the slight whine in her voice but she does not much care.
Michaela pauses for a while, avoiding Fran's gaze, bites her full lower lip and Fran's heart squeezes strangely in her chest again at the sight. Michaela speaks: "You are from a very well-bred, respectable family."
Even to Francesca's ears, it rings hollow, an excuse. Fran resists the urge to scoff in frustration.
"And what has my family got to do with anything in this moment?"
"It is only that I did not wish to...sully your view of the world. Some things are best kept away from society's scrutiny-"
"Don't, Michaela. Do not do that!" Michaela is stalling, pushing Fran off with useless excuses when she needs answers, and it is infuriating. "You have rarely, if ever, cared a whit what society thinks, so do not patronize me with it now."
Michaela's eyes jump to meet Fran's in surprise at the fierceness of her tone.
"I am not meaning to! I don't-" her gaze slides away again, worry creasing her smooth brow. "Fine! I suppose I did not know if you would...approve. And I feared greatly that you might not." She is twisting the ring she wears on her finger and Fran thinks she sees a slight tremor there. "I did not wish to lose your friendship, Fran."
Fran does scoff aloud at that, feeling strangely wounded. She can feel too that Michaela is still holding something back.
"And why should I not approve? My family are Bridgertons, and my brother married Sophie, a former Lady's Maid, need I remind you! And you yourself said that often love does not look how we expect. Do you really think so little of me as to believe I would shun you?" She is gaining steam now, leaning forward on the sofa, her voice rising and her spine straightening, hands gripping and bunching the material of her gown at her thighs. "No, this changes nothing! It certainly does not change that you are my-"
"Francesca-" The look on Michaela's face is dark again, almost a warning, but now it is tinged with something sorrowful.
"-my...well, we are friends, are we not?"
Fran finds herself flustered by the intensity of Michaela's gaze, loses her confidence suddenly. But she wants to make sure Michaela knows that she could never leave her, could never think less of her for this. "Nothing can ever change that."
Michaela stares at her from the opposite couch. She looks exhausted suddenly and almost as though she might cry. Then, she clears her throat gently again and passes a hand over her brow, breaking the tension of the moment. She huffs out a hollow laugh. "I—I do not know what to say. Your family is–you are–most definitely surprising."
Fran shrugs, scrunches her nose gently, now feeling a bit embarrassed by the ardor with which she had spoken. "It is...nothing."
Now it is Michaela's turn to scoff, albeit gently.
"It is most certainly not nothing, Fran. Most of society shuns people like me as aberrant, as degenerate, as a horrible mistake of nature that they would rather not think of."
Fran feels her brows crease into a frown at that. "Well, they are in the wrong then. You are..." she pauses, thinks back to a particularly vulnerable moment with John years ago, "you are just right as you are."
Michaela's eyes are definitely a bit wet now as she looks at Fran for a long moment. Then, a deep breath and she replies: "Well, I am certainly very relieved to hear you say that. Thank you, Fran."
Fran flashes a small grin and they settle into silence for a moment.
Then, Michaela clears her throat again, not quite meeting Fran's eyes. "I must apologize, though. I did not mean for you to find out...like that. I thought you would be away for the evening."
Fran feels herself blush again.
"No! No, I am the one who should apologize. I truly did not mean to intrude on you and your...well, on your evening." She feels a prickle of shame as she talks around the words that she still cannot bring herself to say.
They lapse to quiet again, though this time it feels a little more bearable, a little closer to their usual companionable silence.
Finally though, Fran's curiosity gets the better of her. She opens her mouth and for an instant, nothing comes out.
"How-I mean-how long have you known? And how did you know that you were-?"
Michaela chuckles, rescuing her again from things she doesn't have the words for yet. "I think I always sort of knew, at least I cannot remember a time when I did not feel...different in this way."
She fiddles with the embroidered hem of her robe. "I told John when I was seventeen. Well, in truth, I was sort of forced to."
Francesca frowns at that. "What do you mean? Forced by whom?"
Michaela grimaces as though she hadn't meant to let that slip. "Well, he saw me with...someone."
Fran's stomach twists again at that.
"A woman?"
"Another girl, yes. A friend and one of my peers from finishing lessons."
Fran is intrigued but something in her also feels a prickling, odd sort of annoyance at the thought of Michaela entangled somehow with another strange woman. And she feels that she still doesn't quite understand how John could have known; there is nothing inherent in Michaela to signify her difference, she dresses and behaves much as everyone else does, all additional chaos aside.
"How could he tell what you were?"
Michaela looks nervous again for an instant, swallows audibly.
"The girl and I, we were...intertwined."
"Oh." Fran blinks, sits back against the couch. "Oh!"
Michaela quirks a brow sardonically. "Yes, quite." She smiles then, softly. "John-mercifully and in true John fashion-did not say much. He merely reaffirmed his love for me and vowed his silence."
Fran smiles gently as well at that. She is not surprised that her John would have taken it in stride as he did most things, quietly and with a gentle grace.
She is silent for a while longer, thinking of a young Michaela and what that experience must have been like.
Her curiosity wins out again after a few more moments, though.
"Was that the first time that you'd...?" Again, she finds that she does not even have the words for what two women might do together, finds that it frustrates her greatly that she does not.
Michaela laughs again gently. "No, that had begun about a year before."
Fran leans forward again suddenly, compelled by the return of that restless, searching feeling low in her gut and spurred on by the last traces of the wine she can feel in her blood.
"What did you do together? You and the girl? Will you tell me how it feels to-"
Michaela breathes in sharply, grins fast in a flash of white teeth. "No. No, I do not think it wise to discuss this in any greater detail."
Fran purses her lips in annoyance. "Why not?"
Michaela casts her gaze around the room searchingly as though to find an escape. "Because- Fran, it is improper. It is-" she breaks off as though searching for the right words. "It is...wicked."
Fran feels that sharp flip in her stomach again at the low tone in which Michaela speaks those final words.
She finds that she is breathing harder now, feeling a bit light-headed again. "Perhaps-perhaps I should like to hear something wicked."
Michaela avoids her eyes entirely now.
"Please, Fran, we should not discuss it. Perhaps another time, in the light of day, and when we have not both been drinking."
Fran huffs and leans back again as quiet falls over them once more. Her thoughts drift through all of the new information she has just learned. She wonders if she knows anyone else who shares these...inclinations.
After a time, and against her wishes, she yawns.
Michaela smiles gently across at her and then rises. "It is very late, certainly well past ten o'clock and I did promise never to keep you up past then." Her eyes sparkle as she looks down at Fran still seated on the couch. "I shall bid you goodnight, Francesca. Thank you, again, for your grace and...understanding."
Fran smiles softly up at her as well, reaches to take Michaela's hand gently.
"Goodnight then, Michaela." She bites her lip. "Thank you for telling me- or...well I am glad, either way, to know this part of you. Even though I certainly did not mean to intrude."
Michaela's smile widens and she squeezes gently at Fran's fingers before turning to go.
Michaela is almost out of the door when Fran feels the need to speak again, a worrisome thought rising in her mind.
"Is this why you ran?"
Michaela pauses, back still turned to her, posture stiffer all of a sudden.
Fran swallows her nerves.
"Why you stayed away for so long?" She hates the slight warble she can hear again in her voice.
After a long, silent moment Michaela turns and meets her eyes.
"Yes." She pauses, throat flexing with a swallow. "Well, no not only that. I was running from...someone, from my feelings for her."
"Alice?" The name still tastes sour on Fran's tongue despite her efforts to keep her tone light.
Michaela smiles, shakes her head.
"No, someone else. Alice and I are just...friends."
Fran's lips part and she wets the lower one anxiously. This information, the knowledge of yet another additional woman, unsettles her greatly for some reason.
"There-there is someone else, a woman, here in London whom you...care for?"
Michaela laughs once, quickly, though it sounds almost bitter. "Yes, I care quite deeply in fact. Although I am certain that the feeling is not reciprocated." Michaela smiles sadly as she gazes absently at the floorboards between them.
Fran feels her heart squeeze in her chest, that odd kind of flipping sensation again. Who on earth would not return Michaela's affections? She is-before she can stop it, her mind supplies the word-perfect.
Wrong-footed, she snorts again, speaks too loudly. "That is absurd!"
Michaela's gaze jumps to her with a look of confusion and slight alarm and Fran scrambles to correct herself quickly.
"No! I mean only that I do not believe it possible that someone would not want you."
Michaela lets out a sound like a scoff and speaks. "Fran, you must have indeed had a bit too much to drink tonight and-"
Fran stands at that, feeling bold again. "I assure you that I am being quite serious, Michaela. You are-" She pauses, wets her lower lip again and gestures to Michaela, "Well, you are...you."
Michaela appears stunned, standing stock-still as though stricken. Then she shakes her head quickly as though to dislodge a thought and clears her throat. "Very well then."
She grins, "I suppose I should know better by now than to try to argue with you, Frannie."
Francesca inclines her head slightly in a mock bow, relishing the strange flush of heat that hearing the nickname from Michaela's lips produces.
"Thank you." She grins and shrugs lightly again. "I am indeed so often right, after all."
Michaela laughs at her cheekiness, full voiced and beautiful.
"You are indeed a marvel Francesca Stirling."
Michaela's grin turns warm and fond again. "Now, it is time for me to retire for the evening. Goodnight Fran, and sweet dreams."
"Goodnight."
Fran sits on the couch before the cold hearth for a long while afterwards, sobering up now and head writhing full of questions.
Later, when she does sleep, her dreams are not particularly sweet after all, but rather restless and filled with the images of what she had seen and the confusion that she had felt.