Then, just some months ago, Lady Michaela hired temporary staff to reopen and refurbish several disused parts of Kilmartin for larger quarters for her aunt and mother. In addition to that, she also revived the guest rooms and designed the conversion of one of those rooms into a nursery.

"Lady Francesca has a large family with many nieces and nephews, and Lady Michaela wishes to always have rooms ready to host so that they may spend as much time with them as possible. Although hosting children in Kilmartin can be demanding, it does wonders for the spirit," Mrs. Beaumont explained.

"Mr. Benedict Bridgerton's son, Charles, is a menace," Footman Frederick added as he entered the kitchen with Footman Paul, "He demanded I be his Footman and take him all about Bridgerton House. I was his footman and horse and carriage! But luckily Mrs. Sophie is generous with tips."

"Well, she was one of us," said Footman Paul. "Imagine a Bridgerton loving a servant so much, they find a way to marry... Perhaps Miss Hyacinth—AH! Ow!"

Mrs. Beaumont swatted his shoulder with a nearby wooden spoon. "Miss Hyacinth is a woman of status, also with taste, Paul," Mrs. Beaumont warned with a scolding, motherly tone, "She will marry for love, but that love is reserved for well-bred men of the ton. Women do not have such luxury to consider a servant as Mr. Benedict."

"The laws are changing though! Look at the Countess—" Miss Tabitha said as she walked past to start preparing tea, but she silenced herself when Mrs. Beaumont raised the spoon again.

Tabitha mostly assists Michaela's mother and aunt with Mrs. Beaumont, and once Mrs. Beaumont has overseen Lydia for another month, the Countesses will be her and Miss Mary's primary responsibility. Tabitha and Mary assure Lydia almost daily that the Countesses are kind and forgiving, so there is no reason to worry. "They can be quite... independent..." Mary had added with a small giggle, earning her a light elbow to the ribs from Tabitha.

They are indeed independent in many ways, often only requesting the minimum from staff. Because there are no men other than footmen or visiting Bridgertons, Lydia has noticed how unique her position is and finds it hospitable. She cannot help but worry there is some secret that will reveal itself, proving this is all too good to be true.

But Lydia only keeps learning things about the Countesses that proves they are more honorable than any other nobility would ever admit. From what Mrs. Beaumont has said, with fondness, Miss Michaela Stirling, in her youth, was a source of stress for her mother and aunt, but the young—at the time, Viscount—John Stirling always seemed to know how to balance the family, kept everyone at peace.

Then there had been the mourning period after Lord Kilmartin's unexpected death, when Lady Michaela had traveled about the globe for two years and Lady Francesca stayed with her family most of the year. The staff kept the room ready regardless, as Lady Michaela had requested.

The spring before Lady Michaela's return to London, upon word that Mr. Beaumont, Lord Kilmartin's butler, had been injured while tending to the garden on the estate, Lady Michaela replied by mail with a signed retirement pension. Once she returned to Kilmartin with Lady Francesca in her company at the end of that season, the first decision made by Lady Francesca, Countess of Kilmartin, was to have a modest home built on the outskirts of the estate, for when Mrs. Beaumont would join her husband in retirement.

Such generosities are unheard of amongst other royal families, but even in the first two weeks of her time at Kilmartin, Lydia has learned that the Countesses and Stirlings make such gifts commonplace—that is, after all, why they are all at the neighboring village's tavern this evening. After dinner was served, Lady Francesca politely dismissed the staff and said their service would not be needed until the next afternoon.

Paul knocks his mug into Mary's and Lydia's, his eyes glossy and smile crooked. "Has Mrs. Beaumont been giving you a hard time?"

Mary laughs, "Just a bit more than her usual, but it shall pass once Lydia has learned the particularities and takes over with the Countesses."

"Is there still much to learn?" Lydia asks, a tad nervous for the mead-inspired, loose-lipped truth.

Mary's cheeks are tinged pink as she faces Lydia to give her full attention, putting on an exaggeratedly serious expression, "Lady Francesca is specific but not unkind. Do not mistake her short phrasings to be indicative of her feelings toward you," Mary explains before sipping her mead.

"All of us could arrange Kilmartin to her liking with our eyes closed at this point," Paul says in reassurance. "It will become familiar to you quickly."

"It is easy enough to look after Lady Francesca, so long as you do not misplace a jigsaw and affect the Countesses' games on Thursdays," Mary says with a laugh. "If you forget something specific pertaining to Lady Francesca's preferences, you may ask us. If you must, and she is not too preoccupied, Lady Michaela can also tell you—she knows Lady Francesca best, after all."

Lydia is about to inquire about their relationship over the past year since the Countesses have been granted the Kilmartin peerage and formally recognized by the Queen, but a drunk footman chooses that moment to loudly taunt the table.

"Careful around those ones," he says, to another footman in his company, his Scottish tongue immediately obvious to Lydia, something her mother trained her to forget so she would appeal to more English nobility as a maid, "If you spend too much time around those Kilmartin folk, you might attract some mollies."

Fredrick, who had been immersed in a jovial conversation with Tabitha, nearly slams his mug down on the table. They, too, had slipped back into their Scottish tongue as they drank and spoke familiarly. (Mary has managed to keep her Welsh accent hidden for the most part, but she has been consuming her mead at a slower rate than most. Paul, who grew up between Scotland and England, mostly just has an ambiguous slur to his speech.)

"Don't," Tabitha whispers, watching as Fredrick clutches his mug tighter. Lydia can tell that this is not the first time Fredrick has responded to another footman in such a manner. "He does it to get to you."

"I know," Fredrick says through clenched teeth, chest rising and falling with steadying breaths.

Paul chimes in with a grin to hopefully calm his friend, "Let's focus on having a good night. They're envious that we practically get weekly outings when they get one per fortnight if they're lucky."

Paul follows Fredrick's glare as the other footman smirks before gulping from his ale. Lydia briefly believes they escaped further issue, but then the footman calls out, "I'm no queer, so you can stop lookin'."

Fredrick abruptly stands then, knocking over the small bench he was sitting on. Paul rushes to fix the bench, but no one else moves for a moment except those turning their heads to watch.

Fredrick looks down at Tabitha, sighs, then raises his mug with a smile, "A round of ale for everyone! All thanks to the Countesses of Kilmartin!"

Despite their state, Lydia believes their table may be the most sober out of the two dozen people in the tavern, so when they all cheer and return to their conversations, she breathes a sigh of relief.

Fredrick pours all his coin into his palm to count it out and hands almost all of it to the barmaid as she pours ale for the table. He grabs an extra mug before approaching the other footman.

"Dumb bastard," Paul mutters as he watches, taking a heavy drink of ale as the footman stands to meet Fredrick.

Fredrick still has a large grin on his face when he stops in front of him, "Footman Peter."

"Fredrick."

Fredrick huffs a laugh at the presumptuously familiar greeting and puts the mug of ale down on the table beside him, "You work for Viscount Fairfax, if I'm not mistaken," he squints, as if trying to recall, but Lydia can tell it is for show.

"Aye, as my father did."

Being the closest to Footman Peter's table, Lydia is unceremoniously shoved by Mary to the end of her bench to have a better listen.

"Ah, yes, it is a shame, is it not, that Lord Fairfax was hit with such strife last harvest? In fact, I remember the Countesses of Kilmartin made a great point to secure rations for your province."

"I would not say—"

"I would not say more, Footman Peter." Lydia suspects that without the need for propriety, Fredrick is no longer being careful with his words or voice, his Scottish giving his words power as he says them firmly. "It was a generous amount, as I oversaw the rations being sent out. And this was after Viscount Fairfax's son, the Honorable Douglas Fairfax made quite the spectacle last season in London, did he not? Why, I believe Lady Whistledown even wrote of it."

Peter's face turns an embarrassing shade of red.

"So please, enjoy this ale afforded by the wages those queer Countesses have granted us," he says with a smirk. Peter gives a small nod. "They have treated us, and many others, with kindness. Do not mistake their generosity and forgiveness as my own. I simply ask that you mind your manners," Fredrick says slowly, poking his finger into Peter's chest with each of his last few words, then dropping his last coin into Peter's coat pocket and patting his shoulder condescendingly. "If not…" he says, his smile wide as he steps back, "well, I'll put your own blood in your mouth next time instead of ale."

..

The next morning, Mrs. Beaumont is pouring Chinese tea meant to help after too much to drink. Most of the staff eagerly drinks it as they sit silently in the kitchen.

Fredrick appears, groaning as he sits beside Lydia.

“Did you spend all your coin last night?” Mrs. Beaumont asks, knowingly, pouring some tea for him.

Fredrick grumbles a response.

“You got to stop doing that," Paul says, shaking his head with a light laugh.

“You know how he gets,” Tabitha says, giving Fredrick's arm a gentle squeeze, “So defensive of his Countesses.”

“You would be too if you were me!" Fredrick says defensively, "I went to war, only to come back to work for some old bat, giving me contradictions as commands and getting furious with me. I’ll serve Kilmartin for the rest of my days!”

“That is nice to hear,” says a sing-songy voice, descending the stairs. Lady Michaela appears with a bright smile. The staff jumps to stand, but she quickly waves them off for them to sit. "You are not working, and if anything, I am in your domain. So please, do not let me interrupt your leisure... Or, based on the tea I brought back from China, let me not interrupt your needed recovery," she says with a chuckle, walking through the kitchen with a familiarity Lydia has never seen a noble possess.

Lydia quietly offers again, "Countess, I am still able to assist if—"

“Drink your tea, Miss Lydia," she says kindly, "I assure you my title is not under any threat, nor is your position here if I retrieve my own breakfast," She disappears into the pantry, so Lydia sits back down and sips her tea. She had never seen green tea before, but she must admit it is delicious and another example of the Countesses' seemingly endless generosity.

They can hear her gently humming as she gathers breakfast, likely a tune they have heard Lady Francesca playing.

A moment later, Lady Michaela reappears with a basket, and Lydia can make out some fruit, bread, and some pastries the cook had made last night before departing—a favorite of Lady Francesca's that Lady Michaela had specifically requested.

“We are taking a promenade to enjoy breakfast and some fresh air," she announces, her smile never leaving her face. "You are welcome to continue as you are. We will only need tea in the drawing room in the late afternoon. Benedict and Sophie are expected to arrive with their children some time later today, so the guest chambers should be attended to as well."

“Yes, Countess," Mrs. Beaumont says with a nod. "I made lemonade this morning for Lady Francesca as well."

"You do spoil us, Mrs. Beaumont," the Countess replies with a grin, taking the lemonade and basket and ascending the steps.

Fredrick watches with an expression of adoration, but not the kind a suitor possesses when looking upon a love match, rather, how a younger brother looks to an older sibling, like gratitude.

Lydia can make out the sound of Lady Francesca's footsteps approach the top of the stairs. "That's perfect, darling," she hears her say, her voice warm and quiet but just as cheerful sounding as Lady Michaela's.

“Is the Countess usually this pleasant after granting us an evening and morning to ourselves?” Lydia eventually asks as you hear their footsteps grow distant.

Paul snorts into his tea, then choking on it and sputtering after Fredrick kicks him under the table. He clears his throat, standing and wiping down the front of his waistcoat. “Mrs. Beaumont, we trust you may explain with more grace than we could ever achieve,” bowing with exaggeration. Fredrick rolls his eyes but finishes his tea to dismiss himself as well.

Mrs. Beaumont practically shoos them out of the kitchen before she sighs and looks at Lydia. “We are very privileged here at Kilmartin. Out of respect and duty, we practice discretion. The Countesses tend to be pleasant at all times, and they never direct any frustrations toward us that are not a result of our work or error. Even if there are disputes amongst family or politics, as long as we are doing our work accordingly, we do not face undue consequences."

Lydia nods in understanding, seeing Mary and Tabitha quietly sipping their tea and sharing glances.

“And quite regularly, they enjoy time to themselves at Kilmartin, and it allows us time for leisure. Lady Michaela used to travel often, so she is quite independent. Lady Francesca gives plenty of notice of any of her needs.

“You will notice, if you have not already, how… comfortable they are in one another’s company. It may not be common, and you may not understand it, but you do not need to understand to appreciate your work here. To appreciate them."

..

Later, Lydia is tidying the drawing room, refamiliarizing herself with the space so she may attend to any needs when they have tea or upon the arrival of Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Sophie Bridgerton. She peers out the window when she hears laughter.

Though Lydia is sure Lady Michaela can charm and smile her way through any conversation, Lady Francesca is more reserved, so Lydia is surprised to see her laughing loudly as they follow the worn path back to the entrance. Her face is bright with a grin, so large that Lydia can see it from a distance. She has not seen such a smile in the two weeks since she arrived to Kilmartin, so she finds herself entranced by it. Lady Francesca Kilmartin is beautiful, as anyone with eyes would know, so Lydia finds herself wondering why no suitor in all of the ton was to Lady Francesca's liking on her brief return to the marriage mart.

Before the Countesses round the corner, Lydia watches as Francesca reaches toward Michaela, lacing their fingers together and lifting them to kiss the back of Michaela's hand. Michaela smiles, saying something quietly that Lydia cannot make out, but Francesca looks almost bashful, inspiring a laugh from Michaela who pulls her closer.

Rather than respond, Francesca ducks down to kiss Michaela's cheek. Lydia expects her to pull away, for them to share another joke, but instead, Michaela's voice utters something softly, and Francesca leans back in to press her lips to Michaela's. Lydia realizes she's holding her breath as she watches their lips part, only slightly deepening the kiss with a breath shared.

When they part, Michaela opens her eyes as if cautiously waking from a dream, only to find she is still awake.

Francesca says something else not long after, and Michaela lets out a boisterous laugh. Francesca has a proud grin on her face as they keep their hands joined and disappear around the corner.

There is a slight clearing of the throat behind Lydia, causing her to jump.

Tabitha gives her a small, knowing smile. "Would you help me bring up the tea and biscuits?"

"Yes, of course," Lydia says, her cheeks warm now that she knows she was caught watching the Countesses share a private moment.

As they descend the stairs, Tabitha takes Lydia's elbow and stops her. "I know Mrs. Beaumont introduced this to you this morning," she says quietly, "But she is rather old-fashioned with how she speaks of it. She is trying to be gentle and not to overstep, but I speak freely of it because I see the Countesses' restraint often—When they wish to reach for each other on promenade in Mayfair, when they wish to kiss goodbye as her siblings do their spouses. But they trust us here to perhaps not understand completely, but to understand enough that they can love one another in the open, at least here."

Tabitha keeps quiet as Lydia contemplates her words. "Has my arrival changed this?"

"Yes, but not as a judgement of your character, rather for your comfort as you learn a lot of unique ways Kilmartin works."

"I have never known a woman who... desires other women in that way, but I have heard of it, so it is not completely foreign. If the Queen has looked upon them and trusted their character to grant them both the title of Countess, then who am I to judge?"

Tabitha laughs lightly as she nods, then continues the descent to the kitchen with Lydia following. "It is no different from the love her brothers possess for their wives, or her sisters possess for their husbands. If anything, what they have been through has made them more... everything. More sincere, more grateful. They are kind women, but most of all, they are brave."

"And very passionate," Mary adds, already at the stove heating up water retrieved from the well. Her lips quirk as Tabitha let's out a loud laugh.

Lydia just raises an eyebrow in question, and Mary sighs before clarifying. "They are not reckless in the passion, as they will share a kiss in front of us when parting ways or will hold hands in the drawing room together."

"To be expected from lovers, of course," Tabitha says, retrieving the tea.

"I just warn you that... if we are given the night off, and you wish to stay at Kilmartin for the evening, do not use that time to try to get ahead of tomorrow's duties or seek out the Countesses for anything."

Lydia turns to Tabitha who is smothering her laughter.

"I... found them in a... passionate embrace, one evening in the first month of being hired," Mary explains, her ears turning pink.

Tabitha manages to keep her laughter brief, "I am not sure who apologized most amongst the three of them for the next three weeks."

"I thought I was going to lose my job!" Mary huffs.

"Well, tell Lydia what happened instead."

Mary blushes even more deeply but lifts her chin to answer, "I broke off my engagement because not once had my fiance ever done such a thing for me."

"Done... what?" Lydia asks.

Tabitha takes a seat to smother her uncontrollable giggles in her arms.

"I have said enough. But you can read well enough, yes?"

Lydia nods.

"Great, I shall lend you a copy of Sappho's poetry."

"Poetry?"

Paul appears, grabbing a biscuit that the cook had set aside for them, "Ah, we've reached that point already?"

Fredrick appears shortly after, insisting on taking the biscuit Paul has bitten into just to annoy his friend.

Mary pulls a face at Paul and Fredrick before she turns to Lydia and takes her hands, "There are diagrams in the copy you will be given. But if you take anything from today, please know—nothing of value can be learned from the men here."

"I was going to disagree, but she's right," Paul says, taking a bite of a new biscuit and sipping some of the cold tea leftover from the morning.

Fredrick lifts his own tea up with a nod, "Welcome to Kilmartin, Miss Lydia."

//

And no I don't know any of the servants' names in canon Kilmartin.

Also, the Viscount title applied briefly to John is based on what I could find DuckDuckGoing (fuck Google) regency titles and the eldest son is given the next available title as a courtesy title.

But this also gives me joy because Michaela as Countess is higher in rank than Anthony, and I like to think if he found out Michaela has inherited the peerage before her return to society, and that she's just as rakish as he was, he'd be a little annoyed. One of my headcanons is that Anthony is triggered by his own title because he remembers everything that suddenly became his duty when his father died, so he rants about Scotland's exceptions to inheriting titles, and Benedict, getting drunk to just tolerate this mood Anthony is stuck in, "Brother, please..." And Anthony just keeps saying, "But another thing—" ad infinitum.

Kate will later talk to him, asking him why he is in such a state, and he will try to claim it is out of concern for Francesca and her associations before she reenters the marriage mart. She'll see right through it, "You lost your father and were expected to take his place, and you think of how much work is to be done in the name of duty to society and the Queen. You know of sacrifice and loss. But do you think Michaela—Countess of Kilmartin—to be undeserving? Did she not find her dear cousin, who was like a brother to her, with Francesca? Was she not by your sister's side when we could not be there for her?" (Kate truly saved that man from being a complete jackass.)

Anyway, I had fun writing this because I just really wanted to imagine Franchaela as being the best and treating people fairly and being in love and knowing that the people around them help protect them and make them feel safe. Michaela and Francesca as Countesses will always seek to build community and family.

Hope y'all liked it. I kind of love these OCs right now, but I hope we get to know the Kilmartin servants next season, and I hope Sophie is shown in scenes interacting with maids, etc. GAHHH I need a TASTE of something. The radio silence the entirety of Pride month so far feels HOMOPHOBIC. As homophobic as the fact that this is the busiest time of year for me at my job right now, and I worked an average of 10 hours per work day for the last 3 weeks 🪦.

It had been a far kinder return to Mayfair than Michaela had expected, but then again, she should know better than to expect the Bridgertons to be anything but warm. She believed that perhaps she overestimated the effect of her absence, that Francesca had not made mention of her abrupt departure to her family. After all, Francesca’s siblings were delighted by Michaela’s return, though undoubtedly due, in part, to the gifts she brought.

Eloise remains unmarried, though pleasantly so, having taken up letter writing to aid the women of the ton with seeking suitors. She was thrilled by the well-crafted dip pen Michaela had purchased from a British merchant in India, as well as the high quality India ink to go with it. Michaela had no doubt half the joy would be Penelope’s envy when she shows her gifts at nuncheon; Lady Bridgerton had insisted on hosting the the small gathering for Michaela’s return the next afternoon, and Michaela suspected it offered an opportunity for Lady Bridgerton to show off the chinoiserie tea caddy she had gifted. She was grateful for the Bridgertons’ social graces, for the tea caddy would also provide a good excuse to spend most of her time speaking of her travels in China.

Gregory, having grown quickly in the three years since she last saw him, had entered the marriage mart this season. He expressed his gratitude for the American pocket knife in a very masculine, controlled manner, so Michaela pretended not to notice as he excitedly examined and fidgeted with it as she conversed with the rest of the family.

Hyacinth requested (aggressively insisted) that Michaela accompany her on a visit to the modiste after receiving a beautiful silk ribbon for her hair, which Michaela had acquired on a visit to China a number of years prior but brought back from Kilmartin, where Francesca had been notably absent even before the season began in Mayfair.

The young Bridgertons had said goodnight earlier, while Lady Bridgerton kept polite conversation for some time after. It allowed a good opportunity to inquire on the whereabouts of Anthony and Benedict without much suspicion—the papers were safely locked in her trunk of valuables that was promptly delivered the Kilmartin House after she arrived at the Bridgertons’. Anthony and Kate were taking respite after a visit to India at Aubrey Hall, as Benedict and Sophie were residing at My Cottage after a trip out East, so Michaela knew she was to wait at least a week’s time. As a woman outside of the Bridgerton family, she knew the risks and likelihood of rejection, but she also remembered how the Bridgertons welcomed Sophie and the fabrication of her birth if only for their brother’s happiness.

Francesca, however, showed no happiness toward Michaela but a politeness one showed a stranger, evident enough that Michaela is convinced that Lady Bridgerton stayed as long as she did to offset the cold tone of her daughter.

There is only the soft sound of shuffled paper when Hyacinth’s new lady’s maid—at least new to Michaela—enters the drawing room and offers to show Michaela to the guest quarters.

Francesca speaks quickly then. "Miss Stirling does not require a room, as she will be staying at Kilmartin House."

"Yes, of course, Lady Kilmartin."

"Thank you, Miss Jane, you may retire for the night."

Miss Jane bows her head with a polite goodnight, leaving Michaela and Francesca to themselves and the heavy silence between them.

"My belongings were brought to Kilmartin House, so I may depart to see to getting myself sorted there if you need—"

"Your room at Kilmartin was cleaned and readied just prior to our arrival this season," Francesca says, folding her hands atop the stack of sheet music, as if to keep her hands from mindlessly undoing her work. "I have already advised one of our maids to take a carriage so she may assist you until you can find someone more permanent—that is if you do not plan to leave in the night without warning… again."

Michaela feels the corner of her mouth twitch, but she smothers the smirk, knowing it will further upset Francesca if she is to glance her way. She does not delight in Francesca’s evident distress regarding her return, but she is almost proud to hear Francesca speaking her mind, and, selfishly, she enjoys the confirmation that Francesca has any feelings toward her at all, even if it is resentment.

"That is kind of you, Lady Kilmartin," although she successfully hid her smirk, the slightly facetious tone of Francesca’s title does not go unnoticed, if the clench of Francesca’s jaw is anything to go by.

"It is not kind as much as it is to be expected," Francesca refuses to meet Michaela’s gaze, but she cannot keep still any longer so she walks over to the fireplace, her back to Michaela, as if seeking light and warmth will alleviate the chill that seeps into the room from more than the cool, spring night.

Michaela thinks of her bed linens in Kilmartin, then of the warm beds she sought on her travels in a pitiful attempt to forget her cousin’s widow, whom she finds herself now helpless to avoid, helpless against the magnetism that makes her wonder how she ever escaped it to begin with.

But then again, she hadn’t, had she? She is standing before the very woman who haunted her for three years, whose appearance has matured in a manner that proves her memory did not do her beauty justice. Then she thinks of the cold bed in the master bedrooms of Kilmartin and the house in Mayfair, knowing that Francesca, who often craved the quiet in the company of John, now preferred the sound of her siblings bickering; the softness of family like salve to the cuts from the sharp edges of a solitary widow’s life.

"It is the same every year," Francesca’s voice draws her attention to her back, the rigidity of her spine similar to how she stood before the Queen, "but you have likely forgotten since several seasons have passed since your absence."

With the confirmation they are alone, she allows herself to speak more candidly. "Yes. And you are upset with me," she says slowly. It is a statement, but she still pauses for Francesca to answer. She watches as her shoulders rise and fall as she breathes deeply, as if filtering what words to release from her lungs.

"I am."

Michaela stands from her seat, taking quiet but pronounced steps to avoid startling Francesca, moving toward her. "You may be upset with me for as long as you need."

She stands with some distance between them but looks upon Francesca’s face from beside her. The firelight dances across her pale skin, casting a shadow from her furrowed brow juxtaposed with the gold light of her cheeks. Michaela feels her heart stutter—everything feels simultaneously changed and the same. They are both different now, but Michaela’s desire to touch, to pull Francesca closer, still remains. She curses every night she took a woman to bed with the false hope that it would alleviate the ache she would feel in this very moment with Francesca—what a failure, what a fool she was. What a fool she remains.

"Do you expect gratitude for such generosity?" Francesca asks harshly, her voice a bit too pronounced, like she let a wild animal slip through the gaps of her ribs, out into the open air of a place without cages. She continues staring into the fire as if it holds the answers to her pain as she wrangles that animal back behind its bars.

"Not at all. I know I am the source, but if there is anything I can do to ease the distress I have cause—"

A brief, bitter laugh escapes Francesca, but it loses momentum halfway through and turns into a halted sob. "You could have stayed like you said you would," the caged animal cries out from its prison, straining her voice. It is familiar now, like a figure coming into focus from a distance: Kilmartin House, when Michaela’s presence had caused Francesca’s distress a second time, as it had in Scotland.

Third time’s a charm, Michaela thinks, her own sardonic voice reverberating between her ears.

Michaela realizes too late that her hand has extended forward without her consent, reaching toward Francesca, "I am truly so—"

Francesca flinches away but turns fully toward Michaela with shining eyes, her face pinched as if refraining from letting every ounce of grief and anger over these years leave her lips as curses or her eyes as tears. "You just left!" her raised voice cracks over the word, a scoff escapes her, seemingly frustrated by her traitorous voice. She fixes her expression as if to reclaim her tongue, but her brow remains furrowed, "You left when I needed you." It seethes out from her, something above a whisper that wishes to be a scream. It burns more than if Francesca had yelled.

Michaela clenches her jaw to lock away the urge to beg for forgiveness—such behavior is more about alleviating guilt than it is about consoling the one she has hurt. She was several pints deep in an American tavern—a place with no qualms about serving women ale if they possess the same coin as men—when she decided that she can live with that guilt for as long as necessary, maybe the rest of her life, if it meant Francesca would carry none. Perpetuating Francesca’s hurt, however, is the closest thing to sin for a nonbeliever like Michaela. So she does not beg or pray for forgiveness in the face of Francesca’s wide-eyed sorrow. "I was wrong to leave as I did."

"You were wrong to leave as you did," the emotion continues to rise in Francesca’s voice as she repeats Michaela’s words, as if her mouth tastes Michaela’s admission like a bitter medicine, only to be spat out when it proves to be a false concoction, as if Michaela had the offerings of snake oils salesman. "You were wrong to stay away," she adds with emphasis.

"I thought it for the best," Michaela says softly, knowing it is her only excuse and it will only lead to a justified reaction from Francesca.

"Do you think I lack such a capacity to possess my own thoughts?" Again, the volume and tone of Francesca’s voice reminds Michaela of the last time they had argued in Mayfair—the worst part of their history repeating itself once again. "You act as though I do not know what is best for myself!"

I will be a beacon for your anger, Michaela thinks. She remembers a French poet she met, who escaped the wars to America and made a show of inviting her to take wine after a meal with him. The Americas did not possess the same requirements in order for a woman to drink, nor the social taboos, but it was for a laugh, to make light of their shared plight—much like her own tales at parties—because everyone at the inn knew him to be a molly—one who is generous with his inheritance, so it was allowed without much discussion unless an individual was seeking his company for the night. Such private matters were to remain private.

To love, he said, waving his hands around flippantly, is to paint a target on your chest—The most you can hope for is good aim or that it might strike you in the head to spare you the pain. Or! he raised his glass, sloshing cheap wine onto the table, That you are drunk enough to forget ever having loved at all.

"It is hard to know many things when you are grieving," Michaela says, knowing it would not assuage Francesca’s anger but allow her something to grasp onto and vent whatever has been burgeoning inside her for almost three years.

"You say that as if you were not grieving, too."

Michaela feels briefly as if she had missed a step, quickly recovering but briefly disoriented, for that was not the response she had expected, but then again, other than the unlanguageable draw toward Francesca, as it was before, Michaela and Francesca still hardly know one another.

"This is true," Michaela admits once she finds her voice, "I was. Maybe I still am, and maybe that is why I have returned." Michaela steps toward Francesca, tilting her head as if to appeal to Francesca’s gaze, currently cast downward at the crackling logs in the fireplace. "We all love and grieve differently—"

"I am well-aware," Francesca says, lacking the same indignation as earlier, somehow making Michaela far more anxious. She knows what to do with anger, how to file it away as something that is often not personal, but this ambiguous in-between is not conducive to staying balanced around Francesca. "You did after all introduce us to a Scottish way of mourning," Francesca’s voice softens further at this.

Michaela lets herself smile just a little, and something in her chest swells when a hint—a flicker—of fondness flashes across Francesca’s face. "Francesca…" her name slips past her lips too soon, as if her tongue wished to taste the familiarity of it again before letting her mind formulate what is to come after. In the absence of the reassurance she wishes to give, she does not have time to halt the compulsion to reach toward Francesca once again. It is selfish, but she justifies it as a way to confirm she is not dreaming. Michaela’s dreams often played out in her mind’s eye like this—nothing joyous or celebratory in the reunion, but it was cherished all the same, to be close to Francesca once again.

She is surprised when Francesca does not pull away this time, so she does her best not to draw too much emphasis to their touch. "I am sorry—for leaving as I did, for not returning sooner. So when I say we all love and grieve differently, I mean to say that I am sorry that the way in which I did this caused you pain."

Francesca doesn’t say anything, but Michaela sees her shoulders drop slightly, as if peeling away a layer of defensiveness she had worn like armor.

"Francesca," her name comes out as a sigh this time—it is a luxurious indulgence to call her by her name and have it be heard, no longer held captive in her chest as if to speak it would only echo back in the emptiness whenever she lied alone. "You must understand—I am but one person. I am used to being alone, so I sought a peace that comes with what you have called 'chaos.' I could not bear to have you witness it again whilst in mourning."

"But you are never alone," Francesca mutters, "You are the most social person I’ve ever met."

"I can assure you, that feeling you have in crowded ballrooms, is not exclusive to you. I just… have a different way of trying to counter that loneliness."

Francesca pulls her hands from Michaela’s to move to the sofa, sitting closest to the fireplace.

"You have a loving family, so I knew you would be cared for in my absence."

"Did you think I was not worthy of an explanation?" Francesca looks up at her, her voice quiet but steady. "Or at least a chance to tell you all the reasons for you to stay?"

The sincerity in her voice grips Michaela’s heart. She kneels before Francesca, and the light reflects in her eyes as Michaela has dreamed it before. She is not sure if kneeling was more so to meet Francesca’s eyes or to give her legs some respite from standing in the same room as her and refusing to appear unsteady. Or perhaps it is penance.

"Of course you are worthy of an explanation, and I am sorry I did not give it."

Michaela is grateful that Francesca does not inquire now. It would be unkind to give her a truthful answer, adding further to the confusion and hurt.

"You did not write. You did not even say goodbye," Francesca says in a whisper.

"Because I knew I would not be able to leave if I did—that is part of why I had to." Michaela knows she has said too much, but she cannot take back her words. Instead she places her hands atop Francesca’s knees, praying they do not tremble, and buries her words with more honesty, as if to dilute them into something less weighted, less to pointed toward what lies beneath the veil of her heart, "I am not my cousin. I am not a good or honorable man, so I sought a way for you to keep the Kilmartin estates."

"I did not ask that of you—"

"I heard you," Michaela hates the pleading in her voice and desperately tries to speak past it, "I heard you overtaken by grief because your husband—my dear cousin—was gone. I heard you say you had nothing of John, whereas you and your siblings are treasured parts of your late father—Lord Bridgerton—for your mother look upon, to cherish. So I wanted to give you something, so you would know there was no failure on your part, but a failure of society."

Francesca’s eyes shine brightly with unshed tears, and this time, she takes Michaela’s hands in her own. "I do not miss John’s estate or title. I miss him."

"As do I. I wish I could offer you solace, carry more of him with me so you may find some peace in knowing you are not alone. But I am not him."

"Of course you are not him," Francesca says, too much empathy in her voice, for this was not Michaela’s intention—to be comforted by the one she has hurt, "but you loved him. He was your family. I wanted someone close to John to be close to me, so we could fashion these pieces of him we carry with us into something less… broken."

"Nothing about you is broken," Michaela asserts.

"Whether broken or incomplete, I feel this deep lack… the absence of something. Like a missing puzzle piece."

"You are not a jigsaw, Francesca. You are a whole person, and that feeling is consequence of being human—others just do not notice it the same way."

Francesca nods solemnly. "Perhaps that was unfair, to expect you to help remedy what is none of your concern."

"It is my concern. It should have been. But I could not be John when you needed—"

"John is gone!" Francesca says, the volume of her own voice taking her by surprise, her mouth slightly open as a tear escapes and trails down her cheek.

Michaela moves to free her hand to wipe the tear from where it resides at her jawline, but she is surprised that rather than letting go, Francesca clasps her hands tighter, like Michaela may disappear once again.

"John has been gone now for longer than our marriage, and there is still a void in my heart where he once was. I do not expect others to heal it for me. I do not expect anyone to take his place. I do not need you to act as the man he was… John was suddenly gone, and then, you were too." Francesca looks at their joined hands, easing her grip and almost absentmindedly stroking her thumbs over the backs of Michaela’s hands. "I did not need you as much as I want—" she swallows uneasily, biting her lower lip briefly before looking into Michaela’s eyes with an intensity that devastates any walls Michaela had hoped to keep as a defense, "I wanted you to remain exactly as you were—as you are. I wanted you to stay."

Michaela gently returns the caress, greedily, selfishly wishing she could extend this moment of Francesca wanting her. It seems impossible. She feels unworthy of this confession. "But I am only myself,” Michaela says quietly.

"Only?" a sadness crosses Francesca’s face, "Michaela—you are more than enough." She raises their joined hands and presses her forehead to them as if a prayer. "I need you to say it," she whispers in a tired voice, as if the adrenaline of this long-awaited confrontation had worn off, "Do not make me feel foolish enough to ask again…"

Michaela swallows down her anxiety, buries the feeling of being trapped under a lens to either be scrutinized or set aflame. "If you will have me, I will stay."

Francesca lifts her gaze over your hands, and the warmth of her breath and the ghosting of her lips across Michaela’s knuckles feels like a miracle and a curse, "Then stay. Please."

“I will. I promise.”

//

"then michaela has to unpack her guilt over being down so fucking bad for her cousin’s widow."

Also! If you know of the person who theorized that Eloise would do letter writing, please tell me! it was buried in one of my social media accounts and i can't find it 😭