Chapter Text
Michaela cannot exactly pinpoint when Francesca’s peculiar habit began, but she can tell you how it ended.
The new lady of Kilmartin had taken quite an apparent dislike towards her lingering presence when she had first arrived, one of which did not go completely unnoticed by the other woman. Francesca seemed avoidant at best, quietly sardonic at worst, and overall a pretty fiddly individual. Michaela supposes that she can understand John’s reasons to court and charm the former Miss Bridgerton, but she cannot decipher the woman’s personality entirely, even if her gorgeous appearance served to distract her from her own displeasure towards her cousin’s wife.
John had suggested that her headstrong personality could be quite an adjustment, especially towards people who were far more lenient in reservation and quietness, like Francesca, and although she had initially tried to be more outgoing towards the woman, the brunette simply did not seem to warm up.
It was a slight disappointment, but Michaela did not allow that to simmer and waver with her own sentiments. Surely, Lady Kilmartin would come around, and all this strange animosity that isn’t exactly that will dissipate into nothing but friendly company.
Well, that was what Michaela had hoped for, anyway.
It is late, and Michaela is just now sneaking back into the quiet halls of Kilmartin Castle after spending a good portion of the night in the throes and wonders of a party. The hallways are vast and as decorative as other large estates, but the Stirlings had always preferred the deep, dark hues of greens, reds, and golds over vibrant pastels. The darkness that encompasses the estate is further induced, but the quiet ambience is not at all unwelcomed or frightening. Her simple mission is to reach her bedroom chambers anyway.
It should be an easy task; Michaela has done this very same stunt many times before without getting caught by her cousin, even if at times she would accidentally spill her nightly endeavors to him the very next morning.
So, you can imagine her surprise when she turns the corner and nearly collides with Francesca.
Instinctively, Michaela wants to snark something standoffish in response to the inevitable strange aloofness that the other woman would return, but this time, the shorter woman holds her tongue when she sees Francesca eyeing her with a strange look in her brown eyes; the glint in her irises seems to burn in something scalding, like restrained ire. She cannot fully register the stare, and then Francesca speaks with a tone that is void of any warmth despite her sweet voice.
“The hour is rather late, Miss Stirling.” Francesca addresses, a slight hint of a smile seems to tug at the corner of her lips, but Michaela has seen enough of those to know they are not given in a humorous manner. She doesn’t elaborate any further with her accusation; it is as plain as the Scottish Highlands. Michaela burns with slight embarrassment, but mainly subtle irritation.
“So it seems,” Michaela answers, glancing at Francesca over. The woman is wearing a light blue gown with sleeves, and her hair is braided for the convenience of sleep. An uncomfortable, tense silence ensues for a minuscule moment, and Michaela notices that Francesca’s eyes seem to fall on the necklace that Michaela is sporting. It doesn’t ignite any form of alarm within the shorter woman, although the unsolicited attention is nearly dubious in itself, and then Francesca questions yet again, “Where were you?”
“Where was I?” Michaela repeats, eyebrow raised and a silver of confusion making itself known through the twitch of her eyebrow. Since when did Francesca ever care for her activities?
Francesca nods, “You are dressed very finely. My brother does the same when he ventures in his nocturnal escapades.”
“I was about, Lady Kilmartin.” The other answers at last, low and unamused. “My cousin does not restrict me, and in fact, he does not question me either. I would appreciate it if you’d do me the same courtesy.”
She tilts her head in a nod and then begins to make haste past the woman, but Francesca follows a few paces behind like a lost, wandering terrier. “Isn’t it unjust to be out so late for you?”
“Whatever you mean?” Michaela responds, halting momentarily to turn and stare at Francesca, who stops. The sheepish gaze is unlike the interrogative stare from before, and the candle in her hands allows just enough light for the shorter woman to spot the reddening of Francesca’s cheeks. “Well, I-I assumed it improper for ladies of the ton to leave unchaperoned-”
“My dear, this is Scotland.” Michaela interrupts, “We do not fully abide by the rules of the ton.”
Francesca averts her gaze with a strained laugh. Again, Michaela is not unaccustomed to being the cause of those, but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t ignite a feeling of uncertainty. She does not exactly wish to discomfort the Countess of Kilmartin.
“Ah, my apologies.” Francesca murmurs, “I um… I must get back to bed-”
“Did John send you?”
Francesca blinks at the sudden question, and her mouth opens, but words seem to fail. Her stunned pause is reinforced with the knitting of her eyebrows, and Michaela feels sudden amusement at the idea that her cousin had sent his wife to interrogate her.
“I-No? No!” Francesca frowns, taking a breath and clearing her throat, “No. John did not send me.”
“I see.” The shorter woman answers, smirk increasing. The sudden mischief burns bright within her. Francesca seems to cower now, even though she is as stiff as a board. The quiet tension lingers further until Francesca smooths an unseen wrinkle on her dress with a hand while saying, “I’ll admit that I was worried about your absence.” The taller woman acknowledges, “But as you have reminded me. This is not England.”
Michaela hums, and she keeps the sly smile on her features, and for a moment, enjoys seeing the skittish demeanor in the brunette. She takes another solid opportunity to further evaluate the woman’s appearance. Her tousled hair, despite the loose braid, has some strands poking out like misplaced petals. The silky fabric hugs her figure well, comfortable and evidently well-made.
Another inquiry pops up in Michaela’s mind, and she takes a step forward, closer to Francesca’s space, who eyes her skeptically with an obvious swallow.
“How did you notice that I was not on the premises of Kilmartin Castle?”
The question sounds loud and invasive, but that was exactly why Michaela asked it in the first place. It was with the intention to disarm the alarm in Francesca, who seemed to watch her with curious intent underneath the clear trepidation.
“I was… restless.” The other woman counters with an obvious hilt in her voice, which makes the amusement in Michaela’s consciousness further enhance. She takes another step, and this one makes Francesca flinch like she’s been struck, but she does not avert her gaze completely from Michaela’s wondrous eyes.
“So, you simply sought me out for companionship, then.” The shorter woman hums with finality that is open for rejection, but Francesca only takes a step back and glances over her shoulder and down to the hall that leads to John’s room.
“I really must get back to bed.”
“You are strange, Lady Kilmartin.” Michaela murmurs, smiling softly as Francesca gazes back at her with obvious confusion. The glance that they exchange is magnetic, almost; it makes Michaela give the brunette a final look before murmuring low and quiet, “Rest well.”
—
A few weeks have transpired, and it only gets stranger with each passing day.
Michaela wakes later than the norm, usually an hour or two after John has woken, and usually three hours after Francesca, who wakes before both of them. It wasn’t rare for the woman to occupy the lonesome hour in her mornings by playing the pianoforte that Michaela herself never bothered learning.
Today, however, Michaela wakes way too early.
She knows because she can hear the muffled keys of the pianoforte ringing down the hallway, in the room where the instrument is kept, along with other valuable items, some of those items being certain pieces of Michaela’s jewelry. Most rooms remained unoccupied, and Michaela usually preferred slipping into her necklaces herself rather than allowing the maids, and other times, whenever she needed specific assistance, John didn’t mind giving a helping hand. With so many years being each other’s only family, it wasn’t odd for them to be close. He would help with her necklaces, and she, at times, would adjust his collars.
And it is here exactly where the strange occurrences began to take their place. There are many instances where she wakes far earlier than usual, and she engages in quiet conversation with Francesca, who looks like she would much prefer to be anywhere else. But it isn’t that skittish behavior that is out of the norm, but rather the brunette's big appeal to watch Michaela put on her necklaces with precision.
Michaela does call in a maid to aid with the corset, and when she is finally clad in a deep red dress, she comes to realize that the specific necklace she yearns to wear for the day is in a box in the very same room where Francesca was currently playing her melodies. There was never hostility, more or less, a simple withdrawn appeal, but Michaela knows that Francesca would be beyond surprised to see her early rise, despite the common practice that it has become for her to be up at early hours of the day.
And that is proven true when she steps foot into the room where the music is the loudest, and the tone suddenly dies down into a ringing sound as Francesca eyes Michaela with evident astonishment.
And suddenly, Francesca blinks, and she seems to remember the hour, “Ah… did I wake you?”
Michaela shakes her head, “Not at all.”
“It is early,” Francesca murmurs almost suspiciously, but Michaela is feeling rather smug.
“I believe it is.”
The subtle frown of disdain does not fail to make itself known on Lady Kilmartin’s beautiful features. Michaela smiles softly at her companion and turns to walk towards the cabinet that possesses her box of necklaces, opening it and picking it, all while saying, “I applaud you for walking so early every day without a sliver of exhaustion.”
“It's a habit, truly.” Francesca answers quietly, and Michaela hums, “Were you allowed to play the pianoforte so early in your family home?”
“I was heavily discouraged.” The brunette says, her fingers tracing absentmindedly over the keys. Michaela picks her necklace for the day, turning around to face Francesca, who watches curiously.
“I’m not entirely fond of music.” The shorter woman begins to say, prompting Francesca to nod and look back at her hands, her fingers moving against each other in nervous fiddling. She looks dejected, and the light that seeps through the windows from the sunrise outdoors enhances the glow that Francesca always seems to possess. Michaela clears her throat, catching the woman’s attention, who glances at her.
“That does not mean I dislike it; I do enjoy your playing.”
Francesca smiles, a shy one that makes Michaela feel a slight triumph at the sight of it. “Thank you.”
Michaela tilts her head in a slight bow before turning to face herself in the small mirror. The necklace falls perfectly against her chest, catching the light in all its angles. It's articulated out of true diamonds, with deep red rubies spaced evenly out. It sits elegantly against the smooth skin of her chest, and while it is a pretty necklace, Michaela is much more intrigued by her companion, who watches the entire ordeal with heavy interest.
She can see Francesca through the mirror and notices the way her eyes flicker from the necklace’s diamonds and rubies to her collarbones, eventually her eyes cast even lower, where it would be improper, but Michaela only watches with a sly smile as the realization sets in.
Francesca was looking at her, and not in an innocent, playful manner.
The mere idea of it is so scandalous and so amusing that Michaela turns around and looks at Francesca with a tilt of her head, “Your eyes are wandering, Lady Kilmartin.”
“I’m merely…observing.” Francesca answers with a tremble to her voice, “You so happen to be within my line of sight.”
An admirable attempt to excuse her stray eyes, Michaela will give her that. But her jaw clenches, and her fingers continue to work between themselves against her lap in anxious anticipation. Michaela gives the countess a smile of amusement, but mainly of tease.
“So you say.”
The silence that ensues is one that is tense, but not entirely unwelcome. Michaela basks in the glory of it, of the prospect of it, actually. She always thrived in chaos, playful or otherwise.
Francesca still sits on the bench, hands still idle upon the ivory keys of the pianoforte, as if her hands itch to play but her eyes cannot acknowledge them.
And this phenomenon becomes their routine. It was one of those instances that simply fell into accordance, like a Thoroughbred being born and bred to race. Michaela wakes when the tranquil chords ring down the hall from the music room, and it is her unofficial cue to prepare for the day before venturing into the room where the sound was sourced.
Francesca hums a quiet apology each time for disrupting the amiable silence, and Michaela reassures each time that it is not an issue. She picks from a variety of necklaces; some days she wears golden ones with green emeralds if her dress is of an appropriate shade. Other days, she chooses to wear a simple diamond pendant with specks of blue sapphires.
Francesca sometimes continues playing her melodies while Michaela clips the clasp of a locket or a pendant, and she notices that the countess would watch with curiosity and something else entirely different. A foreign look that makes Michaela swallow in anticipation, she knows she is not allowed to feel.
And decidedly, Michaela wakes today only to walk into the same room where Francesca was playing with quiet reverence.
“Good morning, Miss Stirling.” The countess addresses, though she does not smile fully yet. Francesca still possessed that aloofness that was not animosity, but rather feeble avoidance. It was reminiscent of a colt accustomed to being seen from a distance and not yet entirely approached.
“Countess.” Michaela gestures in acknowledgment, smirking lightly with coy mischief. Francesca eyes her warily, but she does not say more.
Usually, it is here that Michaela ventures across the room and picks her necklace for the day. This time, she walks straight to the couch in the center by the pianoforte and takes a seat on the floor, leaning an arm against the couch.
“No necklace today?” Francesca questions, a flicker of hope presents itself in her pretty eyes, and Michaela only hums in thought before responding calmly.
“I’m afraid not.”
Francesca frowns, “Oh?”
Michaela clicks her tongue, “I find that my jewelry has become predictable as of late. Every day I parade a distinct piece, I want to spare myself the thought.”
A pause, and Francesca returns her look from Michaela to the ivory keys before her. When she speaks, her tone is etched with dismay.
“I see.”
Michaela’s smile grows, and her voice adopts a timbre of tease, “Is that disappointment I sense?”
Francesca presses a key at last, though she does not exactly play. It is a test, just a poke and prod at the instrument to divert her attention from her companion.
“You are being interrogative, no?”
“Not at all.” Michaela answers, “I’m simply intrigued."
Francesca swallows, another key is pressed, and the sound is loud and invasive. Michaela raises an eyebrow, but says nothing more.
A maid comes in with tea, and she pours the steaming liquid into a cup for Michaela, but Francesca rejects the offer. Another key is solemnly pressed; this one vibrates languidly into the room. Michaela takes a sip of the slightly scalding liquid, eyeing Francesca as she does so, who looks at the pianoforte with more enthusiasm. Her body, however, is stiffer than normal; her posture is too straight, too tense. Michaela smirks into her tea before taking another sip.
“If you have lost interest in playing,” Michaela begins to say, catching Francesca’s attention, “You must join me.”
“Have I not been within your company this time?” Francesca questions, eyebrows scrunched in genuine confusion. Michaela laughs lightly but composes herself.
“I meant, join me here. Next to me.”
Francesca opens her mouth, but no words come out. Michaela takes another easy sip of her tea, still watching and assessing the other with curious eyes.
“Oh, I-” Francesca closes her mouth, opens it again, closes it, and looks down at her hands with a strained laugh, “Forgive me, I think I’ll decline. It is…”
“Unwise?” Michaela finishes for her, a smirk present which makes Francesca’s jaw clench.
“Perhaps another time I’ll… join you. On the floor.”
“It is quite comfortable.” Michaela hums, and the eye contact burns deliciously, especially because a flicker of something foreign presents itself in Francesca’s gaze, and it no longer feels like a shy, innocent stare.
“Yes. Comfortable.”
Michaela sips her tea with a hum.