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The change of season proves to be a very challenging period for all of high society. Aside from the rapid weather shifts, which can prove testing and tiring to any plan one attempts to organize, there are new fashion trends to keep up with, new fabrics and textures to familiarize with and implement in one’s wardrobe, and changes to make in all decorations and elements of the house. Especially when spring gives way to summer, which is when the season’s debutantes present themselves to the Queen, it appears every single house of the Ton suddenly wants to show off all its riches at the idea of a potential marriage.
Francesca is grateful indeed not to fret over such trivial things during her time in London. Her debutante days are long gone, and so are her family’s anxieties over her prospects. She is not big on fashion, either, and merely decorative objects such as pillows, candelabras, or flower vases, she does not concern herself with.
So it is diverting, overall, to spend time with her siblings, an outsider as she is to their London drama.
That is not to say, however, that the fortnight spent among the Ton is peaceful. Francesca fights her own internal battles during this time.
At least once every few days, Michaela visits Francesca in her sleep.
For a handful of nights after that first… Incident, Francesca is so ashamed over what her brain conjured that the horror manages to prevent the mental images from coming back. Momentarily, she is relieved, even manages to forget about it, successfully ignoring it ever happened. Francesca is elated, she ascribes that one dream as the confusing after-effect that unfortunately follows a confusing discovery. The dreams mean nothing at all, it is silly to imply they even do. Her head is only scrambled up by her introduction to Michaela’s unconventional way of life.
But then, naturally, comes the second dream. And Francesca’s carefully constructed, feigning carelessness façade crumbles like a house of cards.
It is harder to shake that one off. Impossibly, it is more elaborate than the first.
She does not merely see herself being ravaged by Michaela (on the pianoforte bench, of all places), she is not only haunted by her lustful eyes and her skilled mouth in theory, but in practice too. Francesca feels Michaela on her, she feels her undivided attention on her body, and her expertful dedication to her pleasure. The moment she opens her eyes, Francesca has to call for a cold bath, lest she forgets all about her brain’s laborious creation, and the weight of Michaela’s body over her own.
Shortly after that, four days, if Francesca is not mistaken, comes the third dream.
And the day after that, the fourth.
And maybe two more shortly after that.
As if Francesca’s inner struggle is not enough cause for plenty of grief already.
Frankly, it becomes a bit of a problem. Francesca guesses that their frequency and variety in terms of scenery and actions are forcing her to come to terms with the fact that this, apparently, is something that occurs to her, for whatever funny reason, and it slowly gets easier and easier to cope.
Granted, coping equals having to repeatedly lie to both John and Michaela, but beggars unfortunately cannot be choosers.
And is it really lying if all one does is evade the truth entirely?
Francesca does not believe so.
In any case, after however many dreams, the time comes for the Stirlings’ return to Scotland, therefore Francesca’s mind is inevitably occupied by concerns of greater value.
She does not have time to even catch her breath upon entering Kilmartin House before her staff approaches her with all sorts of questions and opinions about which carpeting needs a refresh, which furnitures are out of fashion and in need of a refurbish, and which curtains’ colors are too dark for the forthcoming summer.
Francesca is overwhelmed by the attention, yet giddy all the same for the distraction. Never again has she been so opinionated over curtains, and pillows. John makes sure to stay out of her hair, himself having to attend to his own business, and Michaela, as predicted, carves her own path, and consequently does not opine on such matters unless immediately affected by them. Francesca hopes all this ladylike decision-making day in and day out will totally exhaust her, so much so that she will fall into a dreamless sleep every night, free from all and any visions of velvet-soft skin and hands fisted in coily hair.
She should not be so lucky, though.
All the energy she exerts over getting the house ready for summer, all of the thought she is putting into new sets of china, the wood stain on the dining room set, or the choice of flowers for the backyard garden, instead of wearing her out, is making her jittery and anxious. For three nights in a row, Francesca is unable to get a proper rest. She tosses and turns for hours upon hours, laying in bed for what seems like centuries, begging for her tired body to catch up to her racing mind, and put it to sleep already.
Francesca cannot believe she is saying this, but she misses falling asleep and dreaming of Michaela. Sure, it is mortifying, and the extremely vivid and increasingly vulgar illicit activities she engages in with her in her mind’s eye are actively putting Francesca’s friendship with Michaela to the test, but at least then she was getting some shut-eye.
However… Frustrated she felt, upon waking up.
On one such night, Francesca sighs, turning over to lay on her back. It must be well after midnight by now, which means she has been hopelessly trying and successfully failing to sleep for about two hours now.
Wonderful.
Her mind drifts to the numerous dreams she has had of Michaela. At this point, she has lost count of the differing visions she witnesses in them. Dreadfully enough, they far exceed Francesca’s own experiences in taking and giving pleasure, which she has gained through matrimony. If she were to journal about them, she could easily fill dozens of pages of the things she dreamed of Michaela doing to her, and occasionally, Francesca doing in return.
Granted, if those journals were to somehow be discovered, Francesca would promptly be sent to the seaside to be cured of hysteria. But she digresses.
Many of those dream scenarios start out inconspicuously enough, which is often the reason she is finding it so difficult to chalk them up to utter foolishness, normal and possible and real as they are. Michaela’s wit and mouthiness is an active component to her charm, and she openly indulges in teasing Francesca, who is, in a way, her polar opposite, closed off and measured and quiet.
In some dreams, Michaela brings Francesca out of her shell by coaxing her with her fingers and tongue.
In other dreams, Francesca is particularly courageous, and forces Michaela to stop talking by licking into her mouth and sneaking her hands under her skirts.
It is glorious to witness Michaela being the quiet one for once.
Which was the case for one dream in particular. Francesca commonly finds herself revisiting it, when possible. In it, dream-Francesca has enough of dream-Michaela’s teasings, so she promptly stands up from her seat, goes down on her knees in front of Michaela, whose eyes widen in perplexion, and spreads Michaela’s legs apart, Francesca’s mouth quickly going to work between her thighs.
Dream-Michaela is not laughing, then.
Francesca feels her cheeks redden in embarrassment as she brings the image back to memory. The person she is in her day-to-day life is diametrically contrasting to the person she is in her sleep. For one, Francesca is never this assertive and decisive when intimate with John. She does not even… Desire him that often. Sure, they get on well, and they do frequently engage in the business of heir-making, Kilmartin estate will need a Lord to inherit it, after all, but Francesca rarely seeks out her own pleasure. And men’s pleasure, she finds, is fairly easy to be satiated, so she does not need to try much for John.
In her dreams, however…
Let us merely say that when dream-Francesca desires something, she must do anything to get it.
Sighing, Francesca sits up on the bed. John is fast asleep at her side. She so envies his ability to fall asleep within minutes. It would be so helpful in times such as now.
Maybe some tea could help her relax. But she surely will not call for it at this hour.
Quietly, she throws her legs over the side of the bed, and reaches for her bedside candle. She carefully gets up, winces when the floorboards creak under the heels of her feet, and makes her way out of the bedroom.
The house is dark and still at this time of night. And if Francesca wants not to rouse any staff, she needs to move as silently as possible.
Francesca pads down the long hallway of her quarters, the candlelight making her shadow wonky and restless as she walks. At the end of the hallway, she beelines toward the staircase, but cannot stop herself from glimpsing at her right, where Michaela’s quarters are.
She cannot deduce why she does so, Michaela must be sleeping herself at the moment, but all of real-life-Francesca’s nighttime indulgences have her wondering a little about what real-life-Michaela is up to. And surely enough, the door to Michaela’s bedroom is shut, and so is the door to her study.
Predictable.
Except… Is that light she can spot coming from her study?
There is a thin band of yellow glow shining under the door, which means either that Michaela left a candle lit by accident, or that Michaela is awake.
Francesca’s feet take her closer to the study. She does not dwell on that decision for too long, as previously established, she is intrigued. She cannot hear anything from the inside, which does not mean much, because Francesca did not expect Michaela to be, say, playing the pianoforte at one in the morning, but it does have Francesca doubting whether Michaela is in there at all.
Just when Francesca is about to lean in closer and check if she can hear any movement, the door to Michaela’s study creaks open, and Francesca is standing face to face with none other than Michaela herself.
Francesca steps back, startled, a flush creeping up to her cheeks. Michaela furrows her brow at her, undoubtedly surprised as well.
“You are awake,” Francesca whispers, eloquently enough.
“I am,” Michaela answers, still furrowing.
Francesca nods. Words are not on her side this evening, as they are not on any other evening whenever Michaela is concerned.
“I was just going to the kitchen to brew some tea,” Michaela explains.
“Cannot sleep?” Francesca asks.
“I suppose so,” Michaela replies. “I thought it best to give up entirely and catch up on my correspondence. The letters tend to accumulate over the fortnights one spends away from home.”
“Anything of import?” Francesca is suddenly extremely fluent in small talk.
“Not really. Mostly inquiries about all sorts of tedious matters. My health, my next trip, and the like.”
Francesca frowns a little at Michaela’s characterization of such questions. “I rather find these inquiries quite caring.”
Michaela smiles. “They are indeed, do not mistake me. I do so hate writing letters, though.”
Francesca’s frown deepens. “How come?”
“Is it not so much more riveting to engage in conversation face to face? There is such depth of emotion expressions and posture can convey, that mere words on paper could only envy. Besides, my penmanship is abysmal.”
Francesca smiles, a little stiltedly. She can always count on Michaela to have strong opinions on even the smallest thing. It is part of the reason she is such a favourable interlocutor.
Michaela cocks her head at her. “Do you want to join me?”
Francesca flushes. “Pardon?”
“To the kitchen. For some tea.”
“Oh! No, I— uh—” Francesca feels silly, “I was just in the kitchen myself,” she says. “I needed some water.”
Michaela nods. “Nevermind, then.”
“I saw light coming out of your room when I passed by.” Francesca explains. “That is why I stopped.”
“Indeed,” Michaela smiles.
“I thought you might have forgotten to put out a candle.”
“I will take extra care not to.”
Francesca backtracks. “Have a good night, then.”
“You too, Frannie.”
Francesca almost stumbles at the pet-name. Key word: almost. She already lied about her true intentions that made her exit her own bed chambers, there was no way Francesca could endure more than five consecutive minutes alone with Michaela in the middle of the night, not when Francesca was imagining herself between her legs mere moments earlier.
So back to her room, it is.
— — —
It would seem that every single interaction Francesca has with Michaela she must think back to on the regular as some sort of divine punishment for her subconscious mind wanderings. Even the most meaningless of conversation, Francesca carefully approaches and tirelessly analyses again and again, considering whether how she reacted to a verbal quip, or how she responded to a question was adequate enough.
That candle-lit moment she and Michaela spent outside Michaela’s chambers in the middle of the night quite rattled Francesca for this very reason. It is not like they said anything too intimate or personal, if anything, the two shared opinions over basic small talk concepts. But Francesca never had a special talent over small talk, and even though Michaela is hardly a stranger, she repeatedly finds herself poring over the few minutes of this interaction, and internally cringes at herself for indulging the curiosity she felt when she saw light coming from her quarters.
It is not as though Francesca is outright avoiding Michaela, but she considers it best not to initiate much interaction, and only speak when she is spoken to, in order not to accidentally make an utter fool of herself and entertain her subconscious ventures any further.
That is the wisest thing to do, indeed.
Until the letters start to appear.
Francesca does not particularly take notice of the amount of mail streaming in and out of the Kilmartin estate, let alone the contents of such mail. With both the Bridgerton and Stirling families counting relatives and family members all over Great Britain, letters are all they have got to keep in touch.
But the thing about Michaela is, as Francesca has come to discover…
She receives a lot of letters.
Francesca supposes that it must be a consequence of Michaela’s wandering spirit. She never stays in a singular place for too long, already planning the next adventure before yet having returned from her previous one. Michaela boasts and rambles about the people she meets abroad, eager to answer every and any question addressed to her person regarding the cultures she experiences, the balls she attends, the conversations she engages in, and the trends she observes. She takes great pride in being privileged enough to even find herself in the position of travelling as much and as often as she does, and Francesca easily comprehends why. There is a mere scant amount of ladies of Michaela’s rank and status that are capable -or allowed- to live such a carefree, enriching lifestyle.
So, Francesca does not concern herself with Michaela’s correspondence. A lady is entitled to however many letters she so chooses to receive.
Michaela, however, almost never is at home to receive them when they come in, God Himself only knows what she must be up to during the day, and Francesca, permanently occupied with all practical matters of running an estate, is subsequently almost always the one responsible for the task.
Francesca cannot be blamed if her eyes start to linger for a few seconds too long on the names neatly written on the upper left corner of said letters, where the sender is declared. She does not recognize these people, indeed, she would not be able to discern any specific, unique flourish of their penmanship if she absolutely had to, but some names appear more frequently than others.
One of them in particular, a Miss Suzanne Beaufort, Francesca sees quite often.
Most of Michaela’s letters are sent by ladies, Francesca has observed. That should not be too surprising, considering society’s overall distaste for gentlemen and ladies of not the same blood conversing with no chaperone, let alone corresponding. Combined with the fact that Michaela does not overall… Converse much with gentlemen, given her proclivities, Francesca does not consider the female names in Michaela’s inbound mail too peculiar.
Miss Beaufort does seem very insistent, though. Originally her letters appeared once every fortnight, not nearly frequent enough to raise particular suspicions, but now Francesca is certain she sees a new letter come in once every week.
Not that she cares. As already stated, a lady can maintain whichever sort of correspondence she so wishes.
But now it is Friday morning, and when today’s mail comes in, Francesca is sitting in front of her pianoforte. John has already been out of the house for about two hours now, caught up in business meetings regarding the Kilmartin estates. Michaela herself emphatically announced her departure about thirty minutes ago, after cordially inviting Francesca along to a call at Lady Dankworth’s with her mother, Miss Helen Stirling. That proposal, Francesca had to politely decline, still preoccupied with many a decision regarding the summer fashions, and grateful for the opportunity to enjoy a quiet, lonesome morning at home.
She accepts the inbound mail without much consequence, glancing over the handful of signatures to take notice of the ones addressed to her, and smiling when she spots a letter from her dear sister, Eloise. She keeps that one aside, to read once she has finished her task, but then she spots yet another letter from that elusive, tenacious Miss Beaufort.
Francesca’s brows knit together in confusion. She could swear Michaela received Miss Beaufort’s latest letter just this Monday. What ever could it be, making Miss Beaufort write so often?
Curiosity pools at the bottom of Francesca’s stomach, along with something darker, more sinister she dares not name.
She knows it is not her place, she is well aware that whatever she considers doing next will certainly cross a boundary that a Lady of her status should never cross, and if anyone were to ever find out what Francesca is contemplating she would never live this down, gossiping alone is a grave flaw once caught in the act, let alone meddling just so.
But Francesca is alone in the house.
And the Kilmartin servants know to be discreet.
And that tricky, messy impulse flowing in her veins is certainly clouding her judgment at the moment.
Francesca retreats into her study, the offensive letter burning the tips of her fingers as if caught alight. She reaches for her letter opener, carefully gliding it under the wax seal of Miss Beaufort’s letter, barely leaving a trace behind as she does. Francesca unfolds the letter, her vision flooded by inked pages full of rounded, neat handwriting, one Miss Beaufort apparently is privy to.
She starts reading, the messy feeling that is possessing her cooling over her skin, raising it in gooseflesh, but rooting her in place all the same.
Dear Miss Stirling,
Apologies for writing to you again so shortly. At the time of writing, I am still eagerly awaiting your response to my latest correspondence, which I am sure I will have in my hands soon enough. There is but one consistent joy in my life nowadays, and it is your letters. I do so revel in being inside your head, studying the words it conjures, analysing the melody between them, locating all which is left unsaid.
I feel particularly blue this evening. I am sitting under the gentle candlelight, hunched over my desk, fingers stained with ink from my constant scribbles, and you know I love my solitude, but it feels especially stifling tonight. It is my last evening in Marseille before the upcoming summer. My family and I are embarking on our journey to Paris on the morrow, to prepare ahead of the season as the rest of our society will do.
I dread Paris. I am convinced I only feel warmly towards it because of how lovely it was meeting you there last time I was among society. So, why would I excite myself over returning, when its only pleasant company is constrained to the North of the continent for the season?
Should you find yourself back in France, and eager for a change of scenery, I would be glad to show you Marseille. The proximity to the sea grants the city’s visitors a refreshing reprieve from city chaos, and my family’s estate is a vision to behold, with its vast, expanding gardens and high-ceilinged rooms. Rest assured, the staff my parents employ know well to keep their distance, so whatever time spent in each other’s company will never leave the bounds of the house’s four walls.
If that, of course, is still a prospect you regularly entertain within the confines of your mind. I, for one, still do. Frequently. I never knew thirst quite so impossible to be quenched as the one I witnessed after you first laid in my bed. In my dreams, you still visit me, lovely and warm and irresistible as always.
Kindly,
Suzanne
Francesca’s breath hitches in her throat.
In my dreams, you still visit me, lovely and warm and irresistible as always.
Francesca’s own dreams of Michaela flash before her eyes, visions of dark skin and heated whispers and quiet sighs crowding the coherent parts of her brain. Her cheeks heat in anger and embarrassment.
So that is who the elusive Miss Beaufort is to Michaela, then. More than a friend, if the suggestive verbiage is anything to go by. A lover, perhaps. A time well spent in the French capital.
Francesca knows, realistically, that Michaela’s own admittance of being unburdened by duty probably entailed ventures of this nature. Strings of lovers spread across the continent, ladies enticed by visions of charming smiles and cheeky glances, sampling one taste of Michaela and left aching for more.
Francesca also knows, also realistically, that she has no proper claim over Michaela, none at all. Michaela is merely her husband’s cousin, a member of her chosen family, if one were to be technical about it, so whatever Michaela does, whichever lady’s heart Michaela so elects to conquer, is none of Francesca’s business.
But if that is the case, why does Francesca feel so rattled? Why is that ugly, evil feeling once gathered at the pit of her belly now coiled at the heart of her chest, suffocating her, constraining her of oxygen?
Francesca re-folds the letter, careful not to mess up the pages or the bends of its paper. Over a candle, she warms the crimson wax just enough in order to seal it over the paper, and leaves it on her desk to cool. The markings of the stamp are a little muddled and ruined as a result of Francesca’s snooping, but as she cannot replicate the original imprint, whatever is left of it will have to do. She trusts Michaela will not notice, the contents of whichever letter one writes are always more important that the wax one chooses to use to seal it with.
She returns the letter to its rightful place near the entrance, where today’s other mail is also gathered, so when Michaela comes home she can collect it. No sooner has Francesca hand dropped the paper than the front door opens, revealing the subject of said letter herself.
Michaela’s eyes lock into Francesca’s, the latter promptly blushing in response. Had she walked in a mere five minutes ago, Francesca would be caught red handed, and God Himself could not pry a good justification of her acts if He so asked.
“You are back,” Francesca exclaims, unburdened shame stunting her reaction.
“I am,” Michaela smiles. “What are you up to?”
Francesca averts her gaze, Michaela’s own burning into her as if unknowingly accusatory. “The mail just came in,” she explains.
Michaela raises her eyebrows. “Oh! Anything exciting?”
“Not much, I am afraid,” Francesca smiles sheepishly. “Just one letter from Eloise. A handful addressed to John, regarding business I assume.” Francesca pauses. “And one for you.”
Francesca retakes the letter into her hand, perspiring fingers extending it to Michaela wordlessly. Michaela accepts it, frowning over the messed-up wax seal and flipping it over to check its sender, recognition flashing over her gaze once she does.
Francesca joins her hands behind her back, eager to hide her unjustified anxiety over the mail.
Michaela spares one glance to Francesca again, deep in thought but doing a good job of seeming nonchalant despite herself. Only Francesca’s trained eye would be able to notice such subtle changes in her demeanour, which frankly says a lot more about Francesca’s attention to detail than Michaela’s skill at handling her emotions.
“Is it from a friend?” Francesca finds herself inquiring, speaking from a corner of her mind she would desperately want to suppress.
Michaela smiles again, nodding. “Yes,” she says. “Miss Beaufort is a dear friend I made in France last Summer. She was kind enough to show me around Paris.”
Francesca’s lips curl into a restrained smile. “How agreeable of her,” she retorts.
Michaela’s fingers turn over the letter in her hands. Francesca focuses on them, lacking something better to pore over.
“Are you thinking of going back? To France, that is.” Francesca asks. After all, Michaela loves to talk about her travels. Nothing suspicious over one’s interest in her busy schedule.
“My priorities lie elsewhere at the moment,” Michaela replies. “I have a trip to the Pyrenees lined up for the end of season, and after that I would love to visit Cyprus. I do love the seaside.”
I would be glad to show you Marseille.
The words of Miss Beaufort’s letter swim around Francesca’s mind, hanging on to whichever prompt of dialogue fits their reappearance. “Understandably so,” Francesca says to her interlocutor, willing the words away. “My time spent in Bath with my relatives is some of the fondest memories I have.”
“It’s so relaxing, to be gazing into the open sea. You feel so small, so meaningless. Your troubles all fade away in an instant, any afflictions you may feel you are suddenly healed from. And the scent of salt in the air is downright intoxicating.”
Francesca shakes her head. She wipes her palms down her gown, hopeful that the heat reddening her cheeks does not show. “Eloise’s letter awaits,” she explains, walking towards the stairs.
“Do give her my love,” Michaela grins. “She is long due for a visit.”
“Will do.” Francesca affirms her, and hurriedly walks up the stairs, finding refuge in her study once more.
— — —
The next addition in Miss Beaufort’s long line of letters addressed to Michaela comes in just five days later.
Blessedly, Francesca is alone again when the staff enters the sitting room to hand the recent mail to her. That way, no one can see her snap the wax seal open with a quick swipe of the letter opener, and no one can question her rushed fingers as they unfold the ink-ridden paper.
One would think that Francesca could never participate in this messy activity again after the close call she almost had the singular time she did it, and the way the act haunted her conscience for days after. Francesca herself had to swear to herself she would not be so reckless anymore, nor would she insert herself in situations that do not concern her, if not for the obvious ethical gripes, then merely for the sake of her own peace of mind.
However, Francesca does struggle plenty with keeping her word, wherever Michaela is the variable introduced to this equation. Francesca tried fooling herself into thinking one lustful dream with Michaela was a fluke that would not be replicated, a character flaw, an unfortunate side effect of raw and confusing revelations, but no matter how many times she told herself that, the dreams kept coming, and Francesca had no choice but to keep being plagued by them.
This is similar. Francesca read one letter only, and despite having instantly regretted it, the letters keep coming, and Francesca has no choice but to keep reading them.
Her eyes wander over the pages.
My dear Miss Stirling,
I have yet to receive an answer from you to my latest letters, and our servants at Marseille regretfully informed us there has not been any inbound mail to our estate ever since we departed, either. I do hope the silence on your part is a result of tardiness from the post office, or tenuous health circumstances for you or your family, for the alternative, which would be you receiving my letters and purposefully ignoring them, is a prospect simply too painful to consider.
As it stands, I am officially returned to Paris. A big part of our neighbours is yet to return from their countryside estates, which is a blessing. I hope for a few more fortnights’ worth of tranquility before the balls commence, or the events. If I spend one more year incessantly being asked to dance by gentlemen so bland a loaf of plain bread would be more interesting than them, I am positive I am going to collapse.
Society, and its rules of courtship. As if men would not rather spend their every waking minute in the company of other men and lowly women in their clubs. So dreadfully they dance and converse with the ladies they are courting, it is a wonder my peers accept their hand in marriage at all. But I digress.
Last night I passed by that café we visited when you were here. Do you remember it? The one with so many a fresh, pleasantly scented flower as to be almost nauseating. How you made me laugh that day. My heart still longs for such laughter, my vision blurs at the thought of witnessing one of your blinding, dimpled smiles.
Does your skin still burn wherever it touched mine? Does your chest still flutter over the pleasure we both shared? Do your memories of me still haunt you, like phantoms, like demons, like something sinful and dangerous but so, so sweet?
Do the words left unsaid still gather at the base of your throat, craving to be let free?
Your friend,
Suzanne
Francesca feels faint. Miss Beaufort once again does not let herself be too descriptive with her writing, most of what she implies is exactly that, an implication, and yet she is under the impression she just glimpsed into a sliver of Michaela’s wicked, liberated pastimes.
Just how taken by her is this Miss Beaufort, exactly, as to pore over these pages with such careful prose, suggestive enough as to arouse the addressee, but elusive enough as to avoid being outright lewd? Letter after letter being sent with no prospect of receiving a response, which is a fact plenty interesting by its own right, just to coax out a piece of Michaela’s attention.
How lucky Miss Beaufort must feel, to be anything to Michaela Stirling. Even this small piece of attention will likely fuel her dreams for many a night to come, such appears to be the gravity of Michaela’s charm.
Francesca folds the letter, seals it anew, the seal imprint maintained a little better this time, and returns it to today’s incoming pile. Knot in her stomach, lump in her throat, she sits in front of her pianoforte, hands spread out over the black and white keys as she prepares to practice the angriest melody she knows.
Does your chest still flutter over the pleasure we both shared?
Pursing her lips into a thin line, she starts playing.
— — —
It appears Miss Beaufort, and excuse Francesca’s explicit speech here, would not know someone is purposefully ignoring her unless that someone slapped her across the face.
Barely three more days have passed by the time Francesca and John are in the sitting room, each wrapped up in their own pastime -John: reading the morning paper, Francesca: studying sheet music-, and a servant brings them the mail.
Francesca, stomach flipping, stands up to receive it.
Surely enough, Michaela has received yet another letter from Miss Beaufort.
How much more eager and pestering is this Miss Beaufort going to be before she finally, blessedly, takes the hint?
Francesca frowns, her mouth pursing as if deeply offended by that fact. John pays her no mind, engrossed as he is by the news, but when she soundlessly storms out of the room, Michaela’s letter in hand, and heads towards her study, that is when her husband notices her.
“Is everything alright?” he inquires.
Francesca, frazzled, merely smiles. “Of course. Why would it not be?”
“You seemed rather anxious when you left the room.”
Francesca twirls the foreign letter between her fingers. “I am quite alright. I received a letter from my Mother, is all.”
John’s eyes widen in surprise. “Another? She sent you another one two days ago, did she not?”
Francesca winces internally. She should have thought of a better excuse. “She suspects Benedict may be courting a maid. As you can imagine, there is quite a lot to share regarding that front.”
John’s mouth hangs open. “A maid?”
Francesca shrugs. At least that part of her deceit is truthful.
“Best of luck to him, then. Give her my regards.” John smiles gently, letting the door click shut behind him as he leaves Francesca alone.
She drops the letter on her desk unceremoniously, reaching for the opener. Any shame she used to have regarding this annoying habit of hers long ago vanished, now she just feels curious.
The wax seal is torn from the paper, and Francesca once again reads.
My dear Michaela,
I do not wish to hide between my words, I believe you and I are way past the point of judging each other over rules of propriety, and what is and is not pertinent to say in a specific context.
To put it plainly: I miss you. My heart aches to consider my letters are not reaching you, hopes of ill health or external unforeseen circumstances no longer satiate my innermost fears of you having grown sick of me, and wishing to write to me no longer. The farther away I feel you from me, the more intense my memories of you. My eyes drift shut in the dead of night, when my head hits the pillow, and instead of sleeping, instead of resting, I see you. Vivid as ever, handsome, with your gorgeous, blinding, dimpled smile and your soft, enticing body, laying alongside me, no layers of clothing hiding you from my greedy, prying eyes. My fingers yearn to touch you again, to feel you on me, in me, to spread you open carefully, to revel in your soft heat. My mouth longs to sample your sweet taste. I never knew one could be addicted to a flavour before yours hit my eager tongue
You know me so well, Michaela. Barely two days we knew each other before you saw right through my needs, and addressed them one by one. Every inch of my body belongs to you. Every pleasurable gasp you have elicited from me, every sigh, every laugh, is yours and yours only.
If I have slighted you in any way, prompting silence on your part, do let me know at once, and I will cease writing to you immediately. I would hate to know that my longing musings may be bothersome, especially since the fading memory of you remains so beloved to me.
Yours,
Suzanne
Francesca wordlessly bends the letter back to its original folds, reaching for the candle to promptly reseal it. She lets out a chuckle, surprising even herself.
If only Suzanne knew Michaela’s eyes are in fact not the first to glide over her heated words.
Miss Beaufort’s audacity astounds Francesca. Michaela is absolutely right to ignore her. Their paths crossed for, what? Two weeks? What kind of obsession prompts such insistence, especially when all previous efforts remain unrequited?
The resealed wax cools over the paper, the stamp no longer easily legible, but Francesca long ago ceased caring.
She supposes infatuation makes people do and say all sorts of odd things. The newfound bravery one experiences once aware their feelings are shared by the object of their affection is akin to the adrenaline experienced when participating in rigorous exercise. Francesca cannot say she does not understand. The deep, intimate feeling she was victim to when first becoming acquainted to John was so forceful, so strong, as to sweep her clear off her feet.
The confounding, transfixing one she felt upon meeting Michaela, however…
Francesca knows better than to examine it too closely.
Attributing the numerous letters to infatuation, however, still does not justify Miss Beaufort’s all too imposing letters. If she were Michaela, Francesca would certainly feel uncomfortable at the thought of being pursued so persistently.
She flops down onto the chair nearest to her, deep in thought. She is unaware of the passage of time, she must be sitting there for hours, days, preoccupied as she is with the clashing feelings twisting and turning in her chest.
Eventually, she leaves her study, Miss Beaufort’s letter hidden between the pleats of her dress as she inconspicuously places it back among the mail stack. Silently, she rejoins her husband at the sitting room, all too eager to refocus on her sheet music. John eventually heads off, bidding her farewell with a kiss upon her cheek, a meeting at the House of the Lords being in his schedule for the day, so Francesca is left, once more, to the machinations of her own brain.
She originally thought she must have been alone in the estate, the tranquility of it a clear indication, until light footfalls are heard descending down the stairs, steps that by now Francesca recognizes all too well to be Michaela’s.
Francesca checks the time. Just after ten in the morning.
“Bit of a late start today?” Francesca teases as soon as Michaela enters the sitting room.
Michaela smiles sheepishly, dimples showing. Miss Beaufort’s musings about Michaela’s gorgeous, blinding, dimpled smile come to mind just then, and Francesca is blind with rage.
“My body needed the rest, apparently,” Michaela explains. “I only managed to get up an hour ago.”
“I envy you,” Francesca replies, somewhat stiltedly. “The chores associated with running a house are seemingly never-ending. I could not sleep in even if I tried.”
“Oh, I am sure even Lady Kilmartin herself must deserve some days off,” Michaela winks. “No one would blame you if you chose to rest once in a while. I certainly would not.”
Francesca feels like her insides are about to burst out of her skin. She chooses not to respond, folding her hands on her lap.
She wonders if Michaela knows just the kind of impact a few simple words of hers have on the average person.
She wonders if the wickedness she so boasts of possessing constitutes her particularly powerful with tedious dialogue, if the charm she so easily turns on and uses to capture the attention when in an audience adds charged, cheeky meaning to words which would be otherwise innocent.
She wonders if said charm was the very one Michaela used to beguile Miss Beaufort, wrapping her around her finger, bewitching her, compelling her to compose letter after letter practically begging for scraps of her attention.
She wonders if Michaela had to even try at all.
Francesca steals one look at Michaela’s profile. Her eyes drawl over her high cheekbones, the gentle slope of her nose, the soft, inviting fullness of her lips.
She averts her gaze.
Probably not.
A handful of seconds of loaded silence later, Michaela speaks again. “I should be on my way, then.”
“Do not forget to collect your mail before you go,” The words spill out of Francesca’s mouth before she knows to withhold them.
Michaela’s eyes widen. “Oh! Did something arrive for me?”
“Just one thing,” Francesca quips.
Michaela exits the room, presumably to go check out said one thing. She returns, Miss Beaufort’s letter in hand. She twirls the letter around her fingers. “Thank you for letting me know,” she says to Francesca, and Francesca, no matter how unladylike a reaction it is, wants to snort.
“Awfully insistent, this Miss Beaufort is,” she snipes, because apparently all her good manners Francesca left among the bedsheets this sunny morning.
Michaela’s smile drops a little upon hearing it. “Nothing for one to be awfully concerned about, I assure you.”
“I am not concerned.” The corners of Francesca’s mouth tilt upwards.
Michaela nods. “Indeed, you are not.”
Francesca nods, as well. The lull in their conversation stretches and bends endlessly between them, like boiled sugar shaped into hard candy. That is, of course, until Francesca goes and ruins it.
“With the amount of letters she writes, one would assume Miss Beaufort is perhaps more than a dear friend.” Francesca states, heat climbing to her cheeks.
Michaela’s smile deepens. “Is that so? And who would that person be, making such daring assumptions?”
“You mean to tell me they are wrong?”
Michaela chuckles, her head thrown back in mirth. “My dear Francesca, you must know already that a lady does not kiss and tell.”
Francesca frowns, all words dying in her throat. It is one thing for this stranger, this Miss Beaufort, to retell with such detail the many adventures she and Michaela engaged in, but it is another thing entirely for Michaela to confirm it so openly.
“So she is a lover, then?” she asks. Where she encounters such courage from, Francesca knows not. Perhaps some of Miss Beaufort’s audacity has rubbed off on her, with all the time Francesca spends reading her letters.
Michaela shrugs. “Friend, lover, companion… The label does not matter.”
Francesca’s blood boils in her veins. “And what does?”
“Feelings,” Michaela states. “Memories.”
“Miss Beaufort seems to have plenty of them,” Francesca mutters, and instantly regrets it.
Now it is Michaela’s turn to frown. “Francesca, what are you talking about?”
Okay. Let us not think too harshly of Francesca right this moment.
As already explained, her good manners completely evade her on this day. Indeed, it is not at all her place to judge Michaela or her acquaintances over shared letters and intimate memories, and Francesca clearly should be the one to blame over such an adverse invasion of Michaela’s privacy not just once, but multiple times over the last few weeks.
But she… She was curious, Francesca supposes. Michaela leads a life so different to Francesca’s own, with no responsibility ever burdening her, and it seems that this enormous, gaping contrast between the two ladies haunts and gnaws at Francesca more than she could ever admit. First it was the dreams, now it is the letters. Francesca does not own the proper tools needed to examine the true effect of Michaela’s doings on her, does not know how to dig deeper into it, locate the root, and rip it out of her heart completely, lest she finally be free.
So she resorts to petty actions and catty comebacks, such as these. A growing pest can only go unnoticed for so long before it multiplies into a real problem, infecting everything that grows around it.
Francesca smoothes her hands down the silk of her skirt. Then she reaches for her long-abandoned sheet music, wishing for something to busy her hands with. She cannot bear to look at Michaela, so she settles for staring into the pentagrams at her lap.
“Forgive me,” she says. “I did not mean to overstep.”
“How did you overstep, exactly?” she hears Michaela ask.
Francesca presses her lips into a thin line. Words evade her. She cannot speak.
Michaela walks toward her, footsteps echoing around the vast room. She stops when she reaches Francesca’s seat.
“Francesca.”
Francesca is rooted in place. If she looks up, she is certain she will catch on fire.
“Francesca, look at me.” Michaela repeats. And when Francesca does not, the impossible occurs. Michaela reaches out to her with a gentle touch that sizzles when meeting Francesca’s heated flesh, causing her to shiver, and lifts her chin, forcing Francesca’s eyes to meet her own.
Francesca’s breath dies in her throat. Staring into Michaela’s eyes is dizzying and dangerous on a good day, let alone now that Francesca feels so vulnerable. The act reminds her way too much of sinful daydreams and salacious visions, and Francesca fears that one prolonged look into her eyes, especially when locked in this position, with Michaela’s hand crested under her jaw, will reveal all this embarrassing truth to her.
“Forgive me,” she utters once more, quietly this time.
“I should have known someone was snooping when I noticed the botched up wax seals.” Michaela states. Her hand is still resting under Francesca’s chin. Not that Francesca cares. “Why did you snoop?”
“I should not have,” Francesca says.
“Indeed, but why did you?”
“I was… Curious.”
Michaela cocks her head to the side. “Curious, or covetous?”
Francesca startles. Her chin slips from Michaela’s grasp. It is perhaps for the best. “Covetous? No, Michaela I–”
“Francesca, you read my mail.”
“Well, you receive a lot of it! The majority from one sender!”
“And yet, whose business is that but my own?”
Francesca opens her mouth to respond, then snaps it shut.
“Do not fret, you have not angered me.” Michaela says, softly.
Francesca frowns. Her gaze lowers to her lap. “You have every right to be angered.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Francesca says nothing. Michaela steps back a little, giving Francesca some space, which the latter is grateful for.
“Miss Beaufort is, indeed, very persistent. You would think we have been cordial childhood friends with how highly she thinks of me.”
“Do you love her?” Francesca whispers. Her mind plays a steady tune of notmybusinessnotmybusinessnotmybusiness. She finds it hard to believe it is not her business, however, for some inexplicable reason.
“Love?” Michaela laughs, the sound musical and enthralling. “A wicked lady like me is incapable of love. I have tried to explain this to Miss Beaufort numerous times, to no avail. I believe I no longer wish to encourage her advances, for fear my amicable feelings for her are misunderstood.”
“Indeed,” Francesca answers, stupidly.
“But let this be known, Lady Kilmartin.” Michaela’s tone is serious, and falls upon Francesca like a blessing and a curse. She falls into the gravity of her gaze once more, unable and unwilling to look away. “Do not entitle yourself to my correspondence. It is not your place. Whatever… Inquiries you may have, about the nature or status of my acquaintances, should be addressed to me directly. My lifestyle occasionally may be too… Rough, for the ears of a lady of your consequence, but I am never too unwilling to impart some knowledge, if asked. I would hate for the trust we have built to be ruptured due to some silly letters. Understood?”
Francesca swallows around the knot at her throat. Her cheeks burn so bad, she is certain they appear bright red. “Understood.”
“Good.” Michaela winks again. “For now, though, I am needed elsewhere, and already running late.”
“Of course,” Francesca states. “I apologise for keeping you.”
Michaela has fully walked away, exited the room as well as the house, and another five minutes have passed before Francesca is able to breathe again.
— — —
Predictably enough, neither Michaela nor Francesca bring up the matter over the course of the following week. Francesca is still overridden by guilt for having imposed on Michaela’s privacy in such a way, so she would much rather do anything than discuss it. If she could, she would go back in time and undo all the acts of foolish decision-making that led her to opening that first letter, and subsequently the ones that followed.
As for Michaela… Francesca supposes she has much better things to occupy herself with than pore over Francesca’s idiocy. As far as any outsider is concerned, the two ladies treat each other as cordially and amicably as ever.
Until one morning, Francesca leaves out two letters to be collected by the mail, one for her Mother and one for Eloise, and discovers a letter Michaela has left out to be sent as well.
Francesca freezes in place, the letters still clutched in her hand.
She looks around the entrance hall, stays quiet as she listens in for any movement of the staff. She was joined this morning by her mother in law for some tea and cake, which did not last, seeing that the Dowager had plans in the city afterwards. John is locked in his study with his advisor dealing with some tricky book-keeping, and Michaela had an appointment at the modiste.
All that to say, Francesca is alone, and will probably not be bothered for some time.
She should not snoop. Again.
Last time she did, she was so embarrassed by her exposure, and unnerved by the invasive memory of Michaela’s touch, she could not sleep all night, tossing and turning and perspiring and sighing as she was. It is a miracle she did not rouse John with her unease.
However, Michaela’s letter is addressed to Miss Beaufort. And as far as she is aware, Michaela has not written back to her for quite some time now.
She drops her letters on the pile, and picks up Michaela’s own, retreating into her study and softly clicking the door shut once she is inside. With practiced ease, she discreetly breaks the wax seal, and her eyes glide over Michaela’s rounded handwriting as she reads.
Dear Miss Beaufort,
I thank you for all of your good wishes upon my person and my health, I do hope you are well yourself. I apologise for my delayed response, lately it appears that no matter how much business I attend to, there is always double that amount yet to be dealt with.
I do not wish to deceive you by saying I was not surprised indeed by your repeated letters. If I were you, given the silence on my part, long ago I would have stopped writing. I will admit, I am flattered. It is a lady’s own right to heartily accept any compliments directed to her person, especially when made by such a handsome, agreeable companion.
I too look fondly at the moments we shared in Paris. Truthfully, I do not know whether and when I would be able to come back, my planned excursions sadly pull me elsewhere for this forthcoming season. But in the event that I do, I would much enjoy Marseille. You must know, you are welcome to show me around any areas of France you so desire. Your company is a kind and gentle respite for the many unknowns of a lonesome journey.
And indeed, I do miss you, as well. I miss undoing your auburn hair from their intricate updo, the silky locks falling in rippling waves over your back. I miss unbuttoning your gown, untying your corset, my fingers grazing over your soft, pale skin, raising goosebumps. I miss kissing down your spine, exploratory, curious. I miss the sight of your hazel eyes snapping shut in pleasure, the taste of you, the feel of you, heated and heavy and sinful over me as I dive head-first into your liquid desire. I miss the mewling sounds you make when you give in, your sighs, your deft, pianoforte-agile fingers wrapping into my hair, pulling and tugging as you ride my tongue. I miss the peace in your expression when we finish, slender limbs tangled up into my own, your long hair fanning out onto my pillow, your mouth on mine, soft and pliant in silent gratitude.
In short, I miss you in my bed. And at night, sometimes when sleep cannot reach me, I think of your lithe and supple body -the one you say belongs to me, what a pleasurable, exquisite thought- as my hand slides over the juncture in between my legs, in search of relief.
Should you ever find yourself in Britain, I would be glad to meet you again.
Your friend,
Michaela
Francesca’s fingers threaten to tear the paper in half with how hard they are grasping it. Her vision blurs, she sees red, her legs threaten to give out.
And to think Michaela did not want to encourage Miss Beaufort’s advances any longer. How foolish of Francesca to believe her, how naïve!
Is this how a lady rejects one’s advances, then? By musing about her soft skin, and mewling sounds, and liquid desire?
Francesca laughs out loud. Of course Michaela wanted her to cease her snooping. This is a private, risky business, and even though Francesca is no more innocent than any common woman confined in marriage for years, she is aware of all matters of the bedchamber, thank you very much, she is certain no one’s eyes should be privy to reading all this, not even Miss Beaufort herself.
Cursed, wretched Miss Beaufort, with her auburn hair and hazel eyes and her pianoforte-agile fingers. Francesca plays the pianoforte too, has dedicated her entire life to it, she reckons Miss Beaufort is no more special at it than any casual player, and certainly no more skilled at it than she is.
Francesca refolds the letter and seals it, with shaky hands. She descends down the staircase to replace it among the outbound pile, before she is discovered. Still seething, she returns to her study, locking the door behind her. She throws herself onto her chair, rests her elbows onto her mahogany desk and runs her hands over her face.
She is being impossible, she is well aware of it.
And yet, in all matters related to Michaela, Francesca is unable to act normal.
She cannot, will not, consider why that is. It hurts too much to do so.
She thinks back to Michaela’s words. She brings her obscene comments to the front of her mind. None of what Francesca saw on page was all too different from what she herself has dreamed of in her numerous visions of Michaela.
And yet, to think that all this, all this prose about Miss Beaufort’s body, and the ways Michaela pleasures her, and the ways Miss Beaufort embraces such pleasure, are matters Michaela herself admits to regularly thinking back to, is especially enraging by itself.
In fact, not only does Michaela think back to her stolen moments with Miss Beaufort, she also uses said stolen moments, to apparently please herself, or so she says.
The thought of Michaela engaging in such an act while in her own quarters at the Kilmartin estate, the thought of her so eager to satiate her body’s hunger that she chooses to act on it, all while being physically so close to Francesca and yet so far, drives Francesca’s mind into a place she has not ventured to before.
She thinks of Michaela laying in her bed, late at night, the prospect of sleep elusive and foreign. She thinks of her wandering brain, looking back into wicked memories of ladies she has slept with, searching for something, anything, able to grasp her attention. She imagines her thoughts resting on the memories of Miss Beaufort, pausing, saying to herself that she would have to do.
Francesca’s hands travel down the length of her body. She bunches up her gown between her fingers, lifting it towards her thighs, exposing her stocking-clad legs.
She imagines Michaela touching herself tentatively between her legs, exploring her own heat as her thoughts wander into fragmented visions of brown hair and hazel eyes. Francesca does the same, her own hands foreign and unpracticed on her body, ironically enough.
Her own personal feelings for Miss Beaufort aside, Francesca has to admit that regarding Michaela’s accounts of her appearance, she must not be too dissimilar from Francesca. It is easy for her to insert herself into the subject of Michaela’s words, easy to visualize her own lithe body over Michaela’s own, after all it is not unlike what Francesca’s brain already conjures in her sleep, only this time it feels different, because it is Michaela’s fantasy she steps into, not her own.
Her hesitant fingers glide over herself, slippery desire gathering onto the pads, pooling and spreading over her folds, creating delicious friction. Francesca tries different rhythms, different pressures and patterns, focuses onto the swollen nub crested under her mount, rubbing slow circles over it, sighing in relief as she finds a pace that works for her.
Francesca wonders if Michaela ever thinks of her during those sleepless nights. She questions if she herself has registered the similarity in the two women’s descriptions, if Francesca has ever unwittingly become a placeholder for Miss Beaufort, in the months Michaela has spent apart from her.
She thinks about how odd it was, how peculiar, that Michaela found out Francesca had been reading her letters, and did not get upset. Did she know Francesca would read this last one, too, despite her affirmation to the contrary? Did she secretly hope for it?
Francesca’s fingers quicken over herself. She throws her head back in pleasure.
How easy it was, to surrender to Michaela’s grasp that morning. How pliant her skin felt under Michaela’s touch, how natural it felt to listen to her, and accept her wishes. Is she like that with her suitors, too? Do their wills bend to her desires, wordlessly saying and doing as she wants, because the last thing they would ever need is to disappoint her?
Francesca feels herself getting closer. Her fingers glide erratically, circling and pressuring and working tirelessly between her legs, in search of her peak.
This situation with Michaela is treacherous, tempting. Francesca was never one to submit so easily to her body’s needs, but after Michaela came into her life, it appears that is all she knows how to do. Every conscious and subconscious thought she has is haunted by her pretty mouth, her gentle eyes, her full figure, accented just right by the A line of her gowns. It is tiring, so tiring, to be consumed by her this way, she wishes she could stop, but the truth is that she does not want to, not in truth, not when her skin comes alive when Michaela touches it, not when Michaela knows just what to say to tease her, to make her cheeks redden in abashedness.
She must know, Michaela must know. She must be doing it on purpose, rousing Francesca just enough to get a reaction out of her. Maybe that is how Michaela conquers her suitors, gently prodding and cleverly teasing, until they have no choice but to shower her with their attentions. To look upon her with eager, widened eyes, to accept whatever it is she says to them, not because they have to, but because they want to, because Michaela’s will is their own.
Francesca’s thoughts once again wander to the feel of Michaela’s fingers on her chin. She could have stepped away after forcing Francesca to look at her, but she did not. She lingered there, into Francesca’s personal space, her bare fingers on her chin, close enough for Francesca to smell her sweet, intoxicating perfume. Vanilla, like the world’s most tasteful cake. Whiskey, rich and dizzying, like the world’s most dangerous addiction.
Her pace quickens anew. She is close, so close, just one quick flick of her middle finger and she—
Francesca gasps, pleasure overcoming her, sweat pooling at her brow. She rides the high of her release, waxing and then waning, slowing down gradually as her breath catches in her throat, and her heart threatens to burst out of her ribcage.
She releases her hold over herself, wiping her fingers onto her chemise, smoothing her skirts down her legs as if nothing ever occurred. In the clarity that follows, Francesca knows she has yet again crossed another boundary she should have never encountered, and she briefly regrets it, but at this point she is so used to it, the intruding thought barely throwing her into a loop.
It is merely another thing to tuck away within the layers of her chest. Another secret that could never be discovered, lest Francesca be destroyed.
Francesca stands, exits her study, descends and settles on the pianoforte in her sitting room. If she brings her hand to her face, the scent of her arousal on her fingers still lingers. But this is unimportant. And no one will find out.
She starts playing, the French melody as familiar to her as the back of her hand.
The day must go on. Francesca must, too. And if John notices anything amiss with her demeanour over the hours that follow, he surely does not let on.