Wrote a small fic of my babies; Francesca and Michaela. You can find it on A03 too - https://archiveofourown.org/works/82052431
It was an awful, a terrible feeling to not only be its witness but the recipient of Michaela's betrayal when Francesca, had not half-expected it.
Words possibly misspoken.
A vow, shattered into tiny, little pieces that left doubt and consequence in its wake.
Alas, Michaela Stirling never made such a vow in blood but there existed a certain expectancy within Francesca Stirling.
A trusting disposition that as Michaela said, so it would inevitably be. She had promised with a twinkling eye as night met sky; that if Francesca might like her to remain in a single, solitary place as they navigated this insurmountable loss, she would stay. She would remain, she would help and she would tend. This had been of welcome fruit to Francesca who eased her shoulders as a small smile formed against the curl of her lips. She would feel safe in her grief and in her own mind that a partnership would form with someone who could understand the depths of losing a man as gentle, as patient, as yielding as John. It was as though her beloved John who had ventured to the Beyond but left a piece of himself, a piece of his heart in Michaela Stirling that Francesca could abide in. 'What a gift,' she silently mused. 'What a gift you have left me, John Stirling.'
Therefore, it seemed inconceivable when Francesca had heard, through channels not forthcoming from Michaela herself, that she had departed like a thief trying to escape the night.
She did not and would not understand, despite desperately wanting to, why Michaela had promised with such clarity, such affirmation that she would stay. That she would oblige Francesca with her permanent presence and put down roots in the warm, London soil. That in her own bleary-eyed despair after losing John in a manner so unforeseen, she would not be forsaken.
Had she forged conclusions in her grief, in her tiredness, with words that never came from Michaela's lips?
Francesca could not be certain because grief did something terrible to a person. The days folded in each other with haste and without forgiveness, the expectation that her life now would be defined by duty as Countess of Kilmartin until a new heir was sought. How terrible, how almost destabilising to know that the Ton's sympathies only extended for merely a week and a day when her world was quieter and full of less colour with John. A headache. An innoucous headache. She had suddenly lost the person who understand her soft nature and temperament. Francesca felt a loss of her own person and purchase. Michaela had cut a wound so deep that four years on, the wound still effusively bled. It did not take much, her mind could not escape the gravity of her betrayal and it existed in moments, in rooms that carried an indignant note; in empty parlours at Kilmartin, in the Grand Hall where portraits of John hung of a beautiful life cut short before it had the chance to bloom, in the gardens; lush, green and wide.
She had never been unkind and it was unkind to suggest (evenly quietly and to herself) but she hated Michaela.
Maybe hate was too strong and too divisive of a word but she held Michaela in disfavour that often felt at times too much to hold. In a bid of her own selfish choosing; Michaela had left her amidst the rubble and the ruin. A gift that now felt like something foreign in her hands.
Francesca had expected that they would trudge through the muddy waters together because Michaela knew John.
She knew what it was like to lose a presence of John's stead, who was both quiet but equally enormous.
A man that exuded patience where such a virtue was often begrudged. A man so gentle, so kind, he was Francesca's peace in the midst of the most troubling storms. A man so devoted to Francesca, to Kilmartin, to his family. A man that understood the fabric of Francesca's being and met her in the valley. Her truest friend, her partner in and through all things.
And Michaela had still departed, without leaving a note or sending her apologies in the manner that a considered person would.
How unfortunate that Francesca had thought she had forged an amiable friendship with Miss Stirling.
Michaela did write, albeit years later on the presumption that Francesca harboured no ill will, effusing about the places she had seen that were full of grandeur and promise. Francesca attempted to write, tried to share in her joys and be most amiable but the ink remained dry with blotches of tears spilled on every telegram she dared to send. She could not reconcile the Michaela who regaled her family as well as her own with stories about John to the same spirit who departed in the middle of the night.
Michaela wrote three hundred and two telegrams whilst Francesca could only bear to write one.
Her words, spilled in ink, were not of friendliness but rooted in duty. Civility. Responsibility.
... I have been informed by Mr Wraight, the steward who you must be most familiar that Kilmartin has now been bestowed with a new Countess. It is you. I shall not stand in the way of your affairs given your impending return but should you require my insight, I would not be hard pressed to give it.
- from Francesca Stirling to Michaela Stirling, now Countess of Kilmartin.
Night had finally met day as Francesca, full of an anxiety she could not quell, awoke from her bedchamber. Strength from God knows where had propelled her with a force she could not name to the expanse where John lay; four years earlier, like his absence had not wrecked every living thing within Francesca. One more night, she whispered to herself, as she walked into the Grand Hall to a spread of breakfast that was befitting of her appetite.
She had heard from Mr Wraight, after inquiring further, that Michaela would return to Kilmartin the day after tomorrow. That in turn would give her until dawn to make haste so that their paths would not and would never intersect again. She did not wish to so speak or be in the company of the new Countess given that she wasn't sure the depths of how curt her words may still be. Forgiveness was not a virtue she could exhibit when she had not known the reasons. Nonetheless, if she had, would she be amiable? Forgiving? Understanding?
Francesca, of her own mind, knew she could not.
There was no explanation that might suffice, no inflected tone could soften the descent or the blow. And the most virtuous thing would be to disappear, akin to the way Michaela did. Not that it might matter but Michaela had neither returned her telegram for reasons Francesca did not wish to concern herself. But her mind, devastatingly human, could not help but wonder. Maybe, the explanation was entirely innocuous in that her telegram might have been lost at sea or the latter, more troubling idea, Michaela did not need her input.
If the latter was indeed true, Francesca thought it wise despite the sensitivity of her own feelings. They would not need to circle around each other, practicing the art of civility when her words were still sharp and her mind had not forgotten.
Suddenly, the servant came ambling in full of an apprehension that did not match the hour. "My Lady." Breathless, his voice cracked.
"Are you quite well?" Francesca asked, with a soft turn of her head.
"The new Countess has arrived." He said with such precision that Francesca almost did not believe. She wanted to scream, into the air, into the abyss, but the moment did not allow for it. Mr Wraight had been positively certain that Michaela's arrival would not be in close quarters to Francesca's departure but something had gone amiss.
Either the blunder, almost unforgivable, was Mr Wraight or Michaela, the new Countess was closer than her telegrams suggested.
"Are you certain?" Francesca asked, slowly faltering but not wishing to show it.
"There can be no mistake, my Lady."
Francesca pressed and harried her food with her fork. Her appetite had been stolen, by the moment, by her grief. "Send for Mr Wraight, if you please, and have him meet with the Countess of Kilmartin in a parlour of her choosing. Kilmartin is now hers after all."
The servant took an anticipatory step forward, "My Lady?"
"The Countess has requested an audience with you." The servant delivered with words that felt foreign, "Should you of course choose to oblige."
She had nothing of note to say to Michaela, so convening an audience, seemed futile.
"And of her reasons?" Francesca inquired. She thought of her beloved John and how without guilt and without shame, he would urge Francesca quieten her own complaints and listened to what Michaela had travelled, high and wide, to say. Peace was their shared language but in losing John, Francesca did not wish to be forgiving.
Ire flashed in her blood, disappointment was the taste saddled on her tongue and a flash of tears set in her eyes; remembering how her loss cruelly occurred in threes.
"She did not state except that she wishes to speak with you."
For a moment, Francesca paused, thinking about whether such an audience with Michaela would be of great need to her. This had been a moment, crystallised by time and Francesca, moved by her own mind left the Great Hall and walked through the corridors. She promised herself that she would not cry in the presence of the shadow who caused those tears, she would not beg Michaela for her reasons but she would hear. She would listen and then, she would go.
Michaela stood at the end of the corridor, hands frenzied in a fashion that Francesca
"Francesca." Michaela said with a curtsy, a familiarity she did not deserve.
"Countess of Kilmartin." Francesca, too curtsied, her heart pounding to the beat of a million drums. "Forgive us, we had not expected you to arrive so soon."
"There is no need for such formality. Friends, are we not?" Michaela arched her eyebrow in a playful glint but Francesca remained stoic, unmoved. For Michaela was playful at heart but the moment, charged with years of what was unsaid, did not invite geniality.
Francesca could not fathom the gall that Michaela seemed to speak with but she would not grant her the grace of searching within her heart for a reply. "I believe it fair for us to remain as we are. Do forgive me that I still remain here. I had planned to depart long before your arrival but I was unfortunately misinformed. My lady's maid and I will depart Kilmartin at dawn."
"Fran," Michaela stepped closer, untempered by the distance and reached for Francesca's hand who pulled away at once. Michaela looked forlorn, "I do not wish for you to go."
"And yet, I wish to leave."
"Kilmartin is enough for the two of us to inhabit. You need not leave." Michaela whispered and Francesca in her own fury and euqally in her own shame, could taste the notes of her breath.
"So I must repeat myself, I wish to leave." Francesca said sharply.
"Is anything the matter?" Michaela asked softly, wanting to assure Francesca that she did not need to make the arduous journey back to London.
"You need not concern yourself when, in your travels, you did not think of me." Francesca returned.
In a moment, Michaela understand the source of Francesca's ice. "Francesca, I wrote." Her voice was tight with defence and something softer beneath it. "In every place I had the grace to visit, I wrote to you. You did not write and I was left in a world full of your silence."
"And if you think that is the cause of my grievance, then you are mistaken."
"Then speak plainly, for it is you and I."
"I do not wish to speak plainly. I do not wish to talk of it." Francesca said, a tremor beneath her restraint, as though wind itself strained her breath.
"As you so wish." Michaela replied, no longer pressing the matter. She turned and passed Francesca, moving into the corridor.
Francesca watched, in despair and in fury. Michaela had returned, oblivious to what she had left in disrepair. She had selfishly met her own needs and Francesca was required to exist alongside her. Forget the days, the nights where her heart had been dislodged a second time. This time more savagely than the last.
A feeling so vast, so unnameable, rose within her that Francesca moved; stepping into Michaela’s path, her stillness suddenly charged with intent. It was enough to draw a quiet, unspoken fear into Michaela’s eyes.
"Francesca." Michaela breathed her name like a secret and a siren.
"I do not wish to speak of hate but," Francesca said, her gaze dropping to her hands as if they were no longer her own, "leaving in the manner which you did, I hated you."
"I do not know what it is I feel, Michaela. My mind has been marred by grief, by your leaving," Francesca's eyes rose to meet Michaela's eyes which were desperate in its tone and quiet in its heartbreak. "But you remain silent as to why you left in such a manner."
"Francesca, I... do not know what I should say."
"I wish to know the truth, Michaela." Francesca repeated, her chest rising and falling with each breath.
"There is none, not one that could be explained in words most familiar to you." Michaela said, her eyes level with Francesca who almost felt reticent but her Bridgerton blood made her cutting and determined.
"You will not do me the disservice of leaving me in the midst of my grief, only to bury the truth of your departure. You will speak, Michaela." Francesca returned shortly.
"Francesca, you are not the only one who grieves John." Michaela replied gently, "He was my cousin. A friend so true, in life and in death."
"Be that as it may, you still left in the middle of the night without word and without apology."
"Francesca, sorry would not have abated you."
"And here you stand, full of defence, even now." Francesca returned coolly, her face flushed with red.
"I needed a moment... away from the grief that existed in every room, every parlour. It pressed upon me and I could not find my breath."
She laughed, but not in a way so genial but unmistakably full of bite that Michaela almost missed it. "You found my grief discomforting. My apologies that I was not so far removed from the feeling as you were."
"Francesca, your words are untrue-"
"Yet that is what your words still say."
“Michaela, it is not you that is wicked, but the act itself.” Francesca’s voice faltered, though her resolve did not. “Why must you torture me so? Who am I, that I do not deserve your truth?”
“It is all I seek,” Francesca admitted softly.
"Francesca, I... did something most unforgivable. In the midst of mourning John; a man so virtuous, you captured my entire being. You haunt in my dreams when you ought not. My heart, darkened and undone, turns to you when it must not. It is a crime, this feeling. A guilt that tears me in two. You are my cousin's wife, his widow, and I..." She faltered, her breath unsteady. "It is reprehensible that such feeling should exist within me. I left as I did to preserve your virtue and what remained of mine. And yet I stand before you, no better in truth. Damn me for it.”
Words failed Francesca but all she could gather, "You love me?"
"I must retire to my room." Michaela evaded the colour in Francesca's eyes; "It might serve us both if we allow ourselves some distance."
This time, Francesca did not plead. And did not beg; but stood in the corridor after Michaela crossed to her threshold, heavy with a feeling she could not name.
theartofmadeline
dededos
vaporwave
origamiaround
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
izzy806
titsay
prguitarman
