Always Everywhere (Franchaela One-Shot
Francesca finds herself returning to the haunted land of Scotland faster than she’d have liked.
In the days following John’s funeral and Michaela’s abrupt departure, the Kilmartin estate in London became unbearable. There was not a corner of that building Francesca could retreat to that would not continuously rip apart the fresh sutures holding her battered heart together. Their bedroom no longer brought upon fond memories of late-night laughter or gentle touches but instead inflicted a terrible loop of Francesca’s broken screams the night she found John. Their portrait that hung on the wall now reminded her of what little happiness she had felt and how fragile it all is. Not even the piano in the drawing room could bring her comfort.
So, she decided to leave London, hiding behind the excuse of needing to run the estate while the Kilmartin line attempted to reestablish order.
Violet and Eloise had tried to persuade her to stay, at least for the season, but Francesca remained adamant. She couldn’t tell them that there was an undertow to her reasoning for returning to Scotland. That there was a dangerous fire growing deep in her belly at the thought of catching Michaela in her cowardice and confronting her about it.
If you would like it, I shall stay…
The fire in Francesca swells as the carriage grinds to a stop, gravel crunching under its heavy wheels. When the door to the carriage swings open, the Scotland air greets her like an old friend. There’s a noticeable chill as the wind rolls over the damp vegetation, the smell of rain in the atmosphere. A multitude of staff are there to greet her arrival.
“Lady Kilmartin,” the Steward greets. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sutherland,” Francesca offers, voice hollow. “I am sorry about my delay.”
“No need for apologies.” He offers a steady hand as Francesca plants herself in the soil. “I’ve had the kitchen prepare dinner for your arrival.”
She tries not to let him see her disappointment that it’s clear there is no one else residing here, meaning Michaela had not fled to Scotland. A forced smile and nod in good manners satiates the Steward’s need for validation as he directs a servant to prepare the table setting.
“Are there any duties in need of my attention? I will try my best to address them, but John was adamant about never letting me worry about such things when we-”
“We can talk of duties if you wish, m’lady, but I assure you, you needn’t worry,” he offers as they walk through the misty lawn. “We can resume propriety when you’re rested.”
Francesca wants to insist because duty and propriety are the only things that seem to quiet the hurt and anger festering within her. Busy hands kept her mind quiet, and now that it’s clear the real reason for her return isn’t present, she’s met a wall.
“Perhaps you can fill me in lightly while I eat dinner?” she suggests.
The Steward fulfills his promise as he speaks of the estate and things that require addressing, though he has done a seemingly remarkable job in their absence. He suggests hiring one or two more lady maids if Francesca plans to stay long-term and advises her to spend time getting to know the staff. Other than that, it seems Francesca has walked into a quiet loneliness that will prove difficult to bear. Despite this fact, it still doesn’t compare to the estate in London and offers her fonder memories of the summer following her and John’s marriage.
The only issue is, of course, Michaela’s presence, or lack thereof.
Only once dinner is over and the staff has turned down for the night does the vacancy of the castle threaten to swallow her whole. She lay in bed with nothing but the company of a dwindling candle and the ghost of her happiness, plagued with a dangerous emptiness in her chest. She thinks of John’s celebration of life and how Michaela had managed to not only make her feel happiness, but a sense of hope. She recalls the way Michaela’s hands felt upon her arms and how her heart had fully betrayed her the moment she asked her to stay in London. The painful sting of learning about Michaela’s sudden departure the next morning and how she hadn’t even left a note or a whisper of an apology with a servant.
Francesca is now truly alone for the first time in her life. She vows to face it with a sense of bravery and the utmost determination to avoid failure, if not to prove it to herself and her family, then to make John proud from the grave.
She receives another deadly blow in the form of a letter a few weeks later.
When Mr. Sutherland hands it to her, Francesca is visibly confused. She suspects it’s from her mother or one of her siblings, but he assures her it cannot be because it was initially sent to the estate in London by mistake. When Francesca learns this, she knows precisely who it is from and forces herself not to immediately throw it in the fire to burn. Instead, she gives Mr. Sutherland a polite thanks and waits for the night to read it.
She stares at the letter through the candlelight upon her bed, as if waiting for it to mock her just like Michaela’s absence has. Her eyes trace her name written in Michaela’s hand and allows her fingers to touch it. The ghost of her fingers and the indentation of the quill send a shiver up Francesca’s spine. She slides her finger delicately underneath the wax seal to coax it open.
I wish to assure you that my sudden departure from London, as untimely and rude as it seems, is by no means a reflection of you or your family’s hospitality.
Francesca can hardly contain the anger growing in her chest. The flames that lick at her throat beg her to scream in pain, but she resists. The formality of it all is utterly nauseating! As if Francesca is nothing more than a distant acquaintance and not someone Michaela had spent obscene amounts of time with. She forces herself to continue reading.
And though I should only address you by title and portray civility, because society expects as such, I cannot, in good faith, bring myself to hurt you further by depriving you of honesty.
The beginning of the next sentence steals Francesca’s breath.
My dearest Fran, if you by some miracle allow yourself to read my letter despite the betrayal I have left you with, I wish you to know my reasoning. If not for possible forgiveness, then to ease the hurt I have no doubt added onto you as repentance.
From a very young age I was told I was born with a storm in my heart. One that could evade predictability and decimate a land if not properly monitored. John, comparable to the jigsaw puzzle we once completed together, was the steady mountain that never wavered in my winds. He offered a sort of stability and comfort no one else could, because he did not demand anything of me but authenticity, something I am sure you are familiar.
The mention of John tugs another suture of Francesca’s heart, blood oozing from the wound.
Even as we approached adulthood and entered the marriage market, he did not question my decisions to evade such expectations, nor did he insist upon an explanation, unlike so many others. Like your Eloise, I am not akin to having society determine my fate simply because of parts I cannot change, but my reasons extend into less intellectual territory where hers seem to reside. While Eloise’s reasons against marriage are noble in cause, mine are shrouded in blasphemy.
Francesca’s pulse begins to quicken the more she reads.
The moment I laid my eyes upon you was the moment I knew I would someday be required to disappear from your life. Despite this fate, I willed my heart into submission as you eroded my resolve with your quiet strength and sharp composure. Your beauty captivated me like Mealt Falls, where one’s attention has no choice but to surrender to its sheer magnificence. A beauty with that type of power could only end in ruin if one were to remain in its proximity for a moment too long, and ruin me you did, because the guilt of betrayal consumed me every time my eyes fell upon you.
The letter shakes in her trembling hands as she rereads the last paragraph, unable to continue without composing herself. So, she had not imagined things between them. Their first summer in Scotland had begun with an intoxicating sort of freedom and fire where she, Eloise and Michaela enjoyed discussions beyond propriety and the societal expectations of London. In the short time before Michaela’s presence became hard to catch, the three of them instead spoke of travels and books and music and the hope to see the reins of society loosen from their necks in their lifetime.
There were looks, stolen moments between Michaela and Francesca that left the newlywed teetering on the edge of madness from feelings she did not understand. The vivid heat that would overcome Francesca when she would catch Michaela’s gaze upon her lips or when their hands brushed in passing had suddenly become as addictive as her fixation for piano forte. It began to consume her mind where, in every waking moment, Francesca would search for the woman as she paced the halls of the estate.
Then, Michaela pulled away, leaving Francesca wondering if she had somehow imagined it all, That is, until she reappeared in London.
It shames me deeply to admit these things to you, especially in John’s absence, but as said prior, I owe you both honesty for the grace you both offered me. I had once hoped to manage my affliction, like I have many times before, but I could not seem to command it properly around you, and I fear my storm would not only demolish the Bridgerton name, but also what remains of your heart.
Tears gather on Francesca’s waterline while she commands them not to fall. One manages to escape and rolls down her cheek, falling to the parchment that still shakes from her grip.
Francesca, there is no combination of words, no lyrical line, nor stanza of poem that can properly convey how utterly captivating you are, nor is there a world that exists where I can remain a steadfast friend to you, though I wish I possessed the strength for it. Time and distance are the only hope I have at curing this quandary, for it is the only option that would preserve the good standing you and John have cultivated.
My presence would only threaten it. I hope you will understand and show me grace one last time.
The letter ends there and Francesca can hardly breathe at the revelation. It echoes the pain she feels when she thinks of John but is somehow worse, because Michaela is not gone from the land of the living. She is still here, somewhere, running from the pain while leaving Francesca to preserve in it, alone. And to leave her in this self-righteous way and pretend it to be noble, stealing Francesca’s choice in it all!
“It is unfair!” Francesca sobs, her own resolve crumbling in the privacy of her sleeping quarters. “Damn you, Michaela! Damn you!”
Pain tears through Francesca like a winter wind. The gaping wound in her chest howls with agony as she doubles over, unable to breathe as her lungs cry for relief. She’s certain this is where she will die of heartache, leaving both London and Scotland estates to be haunted by her and John’s ghosts for eternity. A strangled gasp finally breaks through and fills Francesca with life, a life she no longer wants, a life she wishes would just end.
She falls asleep with Michaela’s letter clutched to her chest and wakes well into the day to the sound of knocking on her door.
“Are you well, m’lady?” a maid announces. “Do you wish to eat breakfast in your quarters?”
Francesca tries her best to find her way through the haze of the morning but feels sickly. She clears her throat and discovers her voice is nearly gone while her tear-stained pillow that had endured many cries of distress from last night holds it for the time being.
“I will be down soon!” she forces.
Once she removes herself from bed, she dresses with precision, if only to convince her mind that she is still alive. Her eyes are puffy, but it is no matter. A grieving widow is expected to mourn. Yet, there’s a familiar shame that reminds her it is not only John she weeps for. She can’t bear to even think her name without tears threatening to fall again.
Instead, she tucks her sorrow away in box and shoves it into the shadows of her mind, desperate to overcome and forget about it. If Michaela insists on becoming another ghost in Francesca’s life, then so be it. It is simply another disappointment Francesca will learn to live with, along with the many others. She will find purpose in responsibility, let the pain create callouses over her heart, and ensure that the Kilmartin line will survive this tragedy, even if her heart dies preserving it.
Months pass like years as Francesca works closely with the Steward. She writes letters and addresses concerns, sees to patching roofs and settling renter disputes, helps Mr. Sutherland with hiring and overseeing payroll, and is sure to respond to the concerned letters of her family with nothing more than what is necessary.
I am needed here in Scotland, though I am well. You needn’t worry.
No, I do not require visitors, nor do I have time for them.
I will visit London when I am needed. The journey is long and treacherous.
There is no piano here for me to play, but I am getting by just fine.
A year into her residency at the Scotland estate things are going well, that is until Mr. Sutherland brings news that there are talks of Kilmartin’s future amongst other wealthy families. Deep down, Francesca knew this day would come and had prepared as best she could, but without a proper heir, there is little she can do. A year’s worth of work had kept Kilmartin alive and bustling, but Francesca couldn’t produce the one thing that would solidify success. Instead of wallowing, she writes to Benedict and John’s family for more information on her options.
Their answers resurrect a name Francesca has long since buried.
Benedict writes: I will call upon a solicitor and have them advise you. Perhaps you should return to London soon after for a visit?
Francesca doesn’t respond.
Janet, John’s mother, responds: Francesca, I am unsure on how to properly council you on this issue. Of course, there are instances where Scotland can pass earldom through the matriarchal line if a proper heir does not exist, but it depends upon the original title and is incredibly rare. This is information I cannot provide. However, I am sure a solicitor will be at your door very soon.
Depending on the verbiage of the original title, and if John prepared any sort of codicil before his passing, Michaela may very well be next in line.
It would be a cruel joke, would it not, for Michaela to inherit the estate Francesca had propped up in her absence? Even if Michaela by some miracle became the next Earl of Kilmartin, would she return? Would she stay? Will that require Francesca to finally leave Scotland and return to London? Her world begins to tilt but she has trained her body and mind for this. She folds the letters from her brother and mother-in-law and tucks them away before heading down to eat dinner, effectively filing her pain in another box in the corner of her mind.
The solicitor arrives at Kilmartin castle a few days later.
He’s a tall, lanky man that reminds her even the feeblest of men can somehow hold a woman with her title hostage through societal rules. Luckily Mr. Fraser brought with him as many documents as he could manage to help Francesca understand the complicated process of earldom and how it passes down. It takes him until lunch to finally produce the original title of Kilmartin. As he finds it and displays it upon the desk in front of him, he explains further.
“While the standard for titles in the Peerage of Britain is to remain exclusively inherited by male bodies of the heir, Scotland differs,” he explains. “Most titles can and do pass through women if no male heir is present simply by stating heirs general in the original title.”
“And Kilmartin’s title?” Francesca presses. “What does it state?”
“It states heirs general,” Mr. Fraser determines. “Meaning Michaela can inherit all estates and the countess title, but not John’s position in parliament.”
“Of course,” Francesca says it out of agreeance, but also out of spite.
Of course, Michaela’s presence would somehow find a way to return in ways meant to strip Francesca of any sense of control she thought she had. Of course, the sound of Michaela’s name still makes her burn and ache despite all the time that has passed. Of course, Francesca would be required to leave Kilmartin and her history with them the moment Michaela returns due to her “affliction” for Francesca.
“Tell me, Lady Kilmartin,” Mr. Fraser states. “Have you any idea where Miss Stirling is?”
The solicitor leaves the estate with a promise from Francesca to provide the whereabouts of Michaela. She has a few ideas of who to ask and decides against putting off the inevitable. If her time with the Kilmartin estate is coming to an end, it’s best not to prolong it. She speaks with Helen and Janet through separate letters while also asking the staff of Kilmartin if they’ve heard any rumors amongst the town. As answers come in droves, she filters and cross-references, determining Michaela was last seen in the heart of Paris, France. She promptly notifies the solicitor and continues her daily duties as if nothing new is happening behind the scenes.
Francesca expects Michaela to return to Kilmartin within three weeks, give or take given the weather, and makes plans to be gone before she shows. She vows to the staff to make sure her absence will not create turmoil while Mr. Sutherland assures Francesca that she does not need to leave so soon. Francesca wishes she could tell him that her leaving before Michaela’s return is in the best interest of everyone here but bites it back with a polite smile.
What she doesn’t expect is for a visitor to arrive in the dead of night before she’s set to depart for London the next morning.
“M’lady, Kilmartin has a visitor,” a lady maid announces with a frantic knock on Francesca’s door.
“Any idea who?” asks Francesca, peeking outside.
The lady maid shakes her head and leaves Francesca to make her decision, aware thar Mr. Sutherland would greet whoever it is first. She gravitates to the window that overlooks the terrace in front of the castle and watches the carriage crawl down the gravel road and through the Scottish drizzle. The thought of it being Michaela doesn’t even cross her mind because it is much too early and Francesca had meticulously calculated to assure she would be gone before then.
Francesca’s world tilts the moment Michaela’s skirts grace the soil of Kilmartin for the first time in over a year.
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