Chapter Text
Michaela had known she was different her whole life. But the way she figured it out was slow. The type of slow realization that can only be imposed on you by society and it's expectations.
The days of her only requirements being to run free with John chasing behind her in the high grass fields of Scotland, embed away by snide comments.
"A young lady shouldn't wear this."
"Way too spirited for a growing girl."
Whispered through tight lips and sometimes worse, by her own family.
But the sting of that had faded enough only to be replaced by something more pressing, more forced.
The first time she had her course, now thrusting her into the grotesque expectations of the the marriage market. Of womanly "duties", finding a husband, giving him a heir. All the things she would never want.
That she had figured out quickly.
The way her heart had almost leapt from her chest when she ten, her friend Alessia, eleven. Had asked one night under twinkling starlight, curious after she had caught one of her maids and a footman kissing, to recreate it with Michaela. It was unrefined, like most first kisses were, especially at that age. But she had known after Alessia had pulled away from her lips looking disappointed, she wanted to do it again.
And that feeling had never stopped, no matter how much she tired to bury it in the years to come. It came to her late night when she struggled to sleep, when she got a little older and started noticing the features on other woman more deeply. Or when a beautiful maid hands linger a second too long as she was helping adjust her dress.
Then that memory was buried later after she found herself more. Found places that offered solace for people like her, found her way into other woman's bed, married or not. Away in different places, blurring meetings of different faces.
She had rejected every offer of marriage she could, till her mother was blue in the face and her cousin sported a smirk so frequently she had grown worried for the slope of his mouth. Took her life on the shelf with as much pride as society would allow an unmarried woman to show. She had settled into her unusual circumstances as well she could.
So it shouldn't have been much of a surprise to anyone that she would die an unusual death.
-
The sun rains down rays of unforgiving sweltering heat, igniting everything it touches on the way down. Michaela included.
"Do you fear the earth is angry?" Michaela jest, voice on the verge of panting, the heat making even the mundane task of talking a strenuous activity. Her horse not fairing that much better as it carried her on the dirt road towards her current place of residence.
"At me or you?" The question is volleyed right back with ease from her companion.
Lady Elizabeth Ashworth.
Her long time friend, she had met during a romp with a lady's maid from another prolific house in London during one of her visits. The woman had snuck away with her during the night promising a fun excursion for people like "them". Michaela had been nervous, going somewhere where people can perceive her dailies on the fringe of society was risky, not only for herself but for her family and their ranking.
Thankfully her luck played out and the woman had brought her to a bar, hidden on the outskirts of London's high society. And she found solace in the place to be as open as she can with her preferences, finding a new paramour when her taste so desired. She let loose, so much so that the bartender had commented that she had garnered a reputation with a joyous laugh. Michaela had simply raised an eye and asked why the other was so interested in her escapades with a flirtatious lit to her tone. The other had waved her charm off with witted ease and introduced herself as the club owner. And despite Michaela's slightly wounded pride the two had become fast friends and Elizabeth one of the few people allowed in her inner circle over the years.
"Well I'm not the one who charmed that Patil then seduced his wife from under him." Michaela replied, like she was recounting the weather, rather than stating something scandalous. Though that's what Michaela loves about their companionship, the freedom to be themselves when it was just the two of them, or when their surrounded by people with their same inclinations.
"Says the one who bedded a princess."
"She was only second in line to be one, actually."
"Yeah, yeah, potato, po-ta-to." Liz waves off and Michaela laughs.
At her friends antics, at the recounting of their misadventures across the this foreign country in the last two years. She had shown up unexpectedly to her friends home back then after a long travel back to Scotland. She was greeted with open arms, well as open as you can when your friend shows up in the middle of the day unannounced and clearly antsy and exhausted beyond measure. She had stayed, laughed and caught up with her, until an opportunity in the shape of a letter landed in Liz's lap and Michaela, like a horse tempted by an open stable, ran.
Now here they were, approaching two and a half years away, the thought jump starting the part of her brain that usually ignores how quickly time passes. The unfamiliar land of India quickly became a pleasant fixture in her nomadic heart, probably the third country she's stayed in the longest. The customs, land and of course handsome woman had all left and imprint on her.
Her mares gait slowing suddenly catches her attention. The animal already knowing the routine for bringing her home and she was also probably quickly approaching exhaustion, the heat had been extra unforgiving today.
"Good girl." Michaela praises, sliding off the animal and the gentle giant makes a soft noise of approval.
"Even able to charm a horse." Elizabeth comments in almost disbelief as she dismounts her own steed.
"And don't you forget it." Michaela jokes, handing the reigns to the young stable hand, and starting towards their current residence.
Liz scoffs in disbelief at her friends audacity, catching up to the other as the stable hand takes her horse too.
"You're incorrigible."
"And you love it."
When they enter the house they are greeted by a plethora of servants taking their spoils from their trip to the market and the others asking if they need anything.
"Prepare the baths for both of us." Liz suggests and Michaela agrees. The feeling of clothes dampened by sweat suddenly feeling extra heavy against her heat cooked skin.
Liz walks off, likely going to her room to remove her cumbersome clothes and Michaela goes to follow to do the same in her own room when she is stopped in her tracks.
"Sorry to interrupt my Lady." It was Priti, who had been acting as Michaela personal ladies maid since she arrived in India. The woman has been attentive, yet discreet as Michaela needs. "There's a letter for you that the paper boy said was of upmost importance."
"Thank you." And the letter is placed in her hand with a courtesy then an exit from Priti.
When she turns it over she automatically knows who it's from. Her aunts neat and clean writing had quilled her name perfectly. She considers saving it for later, letting the ink smudge and age from the heat.
Her gut had always been her guide, leading her like a compass through actions and consequences. Some had admonished her for it, her mother and some had said it was her greatest strength, John. And now her gut was telling her to run away from this paper, that this would lead her down a spiral to her own ruin.
But her heart, the foolish thing. Was telling her how much it longed for her family, even a tiny piece of her home. That her aunt was a clear headed woman and wouldn't call upon her in urgency if it wasn't a pressing matter. And sometimes her heart won out, if her current place of residence was proof enough. So her nimble fingers tear at the seal and read.
Dearest Michaela,
The flowers still bloom at the same time every year here in the Highlands but you and I both know I didn't rush this letter to you to talk weather.
The season is starting in some months in London, with that brings new ladies for the marriage mart and returning ones. Francesca being the second.
I know you needed freedom after a great loss and Lady Kilmartin has been doing wonderful holding down the estate in your absence. But with the prospect of her new marriage so close you must return and claim the title, less it's stripped and returned to the queen.
I know it is hard but I hope you make a sound decision.
With Love, Dowager Lady Janet Stirling.
Michaela reads the letter once, than twice. Neither read changes the words or their meaning. She'd knew she'd have to return home eventually, she wasn't struck with madness. But now the choice was forced from her own hands, she hated ultimatums.
"But with the prospect of her new marriage." Michaela eyes scanned over that sentence several, twelve, a thousand times until it sunk in. And when it did it's effect was immediate.
The familiar feeling of her lungs constricting on themselves and trying to expel the foreign object suddenly lodged in them. The spams traveling up into her wind pipe with enough force to make her cough and wheeze. Dizziness from the sudden lack of oxygen is enough to make find purchase against the nearest wall for balance. Then a gloved hand digs into the riding jacket she had yet to take off, finding the handkerchief there and bringing it to her mouth to cough into.
"Michaela." Her named is called in a panicked tone that only a close confidante can when they're worried about your well being. And sure enough when she looks up, there is Liz rushing towards her, along with several servants hovering near by. Not quite sure how to help without being given instructions, not wanting to overstep.
"Tonic. Drawer." Two words Michaela manages to hack out, using her right arm to point at the table on the wall across from herself and fill in the blank info her words could not.
Liz rushes over to the object, searching for what seems like an eternity. Which was probably under two minutes, exacerbated by her oxygen deprived brain.
"Oh piss, got it." Liz cursing in a manner that would've turned heads and had the stricter London society talking for a week.
And then the tonic is pressed into her hand and she waste no time uncorking it and taking a giant swig. Letting the bitterness coat her tongue and throat, the relief isn't instant, it never was. But it's quick enough that she soon finds herself relaxing as do her lungs, the itch to hack and gag now gone. She can feel herself release her death grip on the wall and the medicine bottle now being clutched like how someone would hold a miracle and it kind of was. Her senses return enough that she feels the set of eyes burning a hole into her face. Tough she doesn't need all her senses to know who it is.
"Don't start."
"Don't start, what?" Liz replies, dismissing the lingering servants. Because she was definitely about to start.
"Liz…"
"Michaela…"
And Michaela sighs, ready for the verbal lashing her friend had been holding off on for a while.
"You know what. I'm not in the mood."
"You never are." Liz brushes pass her avoidance with ease. One of the few people that can. "And life still goes on."
"Is now really the time to wax poetic?"
"You're getting worse." No cushioning. A straight shot, like a boxer going for a knockout.
She wasn't wrong, she also wasn't right. The tonic kept the side effects of the disease at bay, subduing them. But today had been the longest she had gasped for air without her medicine so…
"It's more like a stale mate."
"You are out of your mind."
"That's not what you've said before." That was true, it was in the earlier years of their friendship. When they were young and partied, kissing and leaving beautiful women with ease. Her friend admiring her rakish ways, that even she wasn't able to reach in her wildest days.
"I also said it was your folly."
And Michaela shrugged, that was also true.
"You need to let your family know." Liz continues, breezing pass her half assed response.
"Absolutely not."
Liz wasn't even supposed to know but she had discovered Michaela, worried about her spirited friends unusual social absence on the boat ride to India. It was after one of her coughing fits she had attempted to hide. But the other had spotted the blood covered handkerchief and a petal sitting in the middle of it. And Liz was a brilliant woman on an off day, a genius on her on days and Michaela was exhausted to her bones, so the truth had spilled out that day.
"What about your family, Mick?" And Michaela feels her body involuntary react to the old nickname, relaxing. Only for a second before she is able to regain control and steel her spine back into something unflappable. "What if something happens here, do you really never plan to see them again before something does?"
Michaela could almost laugh if the words actually stirred something humorous in her, instead of an uncomfortable reality.
The person she was fully sure would miss her is gone now, forever. And she doubted he would miss her now if he had known the whole truth about her and her feelings. How she seemed to covet everything that was, and should be his.
Sure her mother would mourn for as long as society expected of her, but secretly deep down would she be glad to be ridden of a daughter who remained an antithesis to the life she planned for her at a tender age?
Aunt Janet would surely be genuinely distraught, having raised her and John like siblings after Michaela's father passed first then her own husband less than a year later. But would she secretly be glad in some twisted way that her child wasn't the only one who died unexpectedly at a young age?
And Francesca… Michaela buries that seed of thought before the roots of that line of thinking can even form.
"Well looks like fate is your side." Michaela says instead, holding up the letter her aunt sent. "Francesca is going back on the marriage mart and it's my duty to finally claim countess status."
Michaela finishes, letting the harsh reality of the words scrape against her throat on the way out. Her hand places down the bottle of tonic on the closet flat surface but holds onto the handkerchief, rubbing her thumb across the fabric like it's more precious than it is.
Elizabeth simply whistles and replies light heartedly.
"Heavy is the crown for the person who is always right."
And Michaela actually does laugh this time.
-
A B C D E F G
Eyes scan ivory keys, from one side to the other.
#A #B #C #D #E #F #G
The eyes go the other way, tracing the black keys this time.
This was Francesca's new routine, not playing the pianoforte. Merely observing the instrument, not letting the old thoughtful gift go to waste. But not enough will to play it either.
And that was her new motto, to not let things go to waste. Not to waste tears on grief and people that would be gone anyways. It's how she's survived the last two years and how she'll survive her second time on the marriage mart. She had told herself not to waste her youth, she was still young and could produce an heir for an eligible Lord or Viscount. It was her duty and she still had time.
She failed the Kilmartin line.
Her stomach clenches at that thought.
But she will not fail the next one.
A soft knock on the strong wooden door draws her attention.
"Enter."
She doesn't turn around, doesn't need to. It was the only person with enough steel in their resolve to address her non meekly for the past two years. Andrea, her ladies maid.
"Apologizes my Lady for the interruption." A formality at most, they both know there was no activity to disrupt. "But your carriage is ready."
"Thank you."
And she waits until she hears footsteps retreat and the door click shut, then she releases the weight from her shoulders. Letting the perfect posture slip from her frame as the heaviness of society, expectations and loneliness slips back onto her, just for a second
Then Francesca fixes her posture back into the elegant rigidness that was taught to her. Shoving everything back into a box, then raising, accepting her fate as she heads towards her carriage.
-
The trip to her family home had also become apart of her routine.
It had been more of a hostage arrangement at first. Her family, one part being egged on by their mother and the other part was them trying to help her in the best way they knew how.
Eloise ranting about the latest book she's read and allowing Francesca to silently sit there and listen. Benedict making ill timed jokes and not being offended by her lack of laughter. Hyacinth, excitedly ranting about something she had learned at her lessons that week. Colin chiming in with random facts he had heard on his travels. Gregory offering one of the sweets he sneaks during the time he's here because he's trying to appear as a grown man now.
Her mother had taken to asking mundane questions, avoiding the ones she knew would cause Francesca to shut down more. In return she would give clipped responses while her mother accepted them and they both awkwardly sipped their tea.
That had been at the beginning right after…everything. Her family has settled from their fumbling at comfort to walking on eggshells around her, holding the quiet around her like a fragile glass ornament. It wasn't better but it was different from the silence that once brought her comfort that now permeates the halls of her Kilmartin home, that she has to brave everyday, by herself.
The servants let her in with no fanfare, expect the pitying look everyone seems to give her now. All whisperings of "Poor young widow."
She keeps her head held high, showing as much emotion that society allows a woman to express, which is none.
"Francesca dear, perfect timing." Her mother greets her as she enters the sitting room.
"Yes, soon enough to save me from the from this conversation." Eloise chimes from the settees across from their mother. Placing her book face down in her lap to save her place as she utters her dramatic sentence.
"Oh Eloise please, enough with the theatrics." Violet huffs into her tea. "I simply asked her if she had any ideas for Lady Danbury's returning ball."
Her mother was hosting a ball in her honor for their family friend's long return from Haiti. The older woman deserved her long vacation but that did not mean she was not missed.
"What ideas did you already have?" Francesca asks as she takes a seat next to her sister, grabbing the waiting tea cup. The servants pour her a cup while she waits for her mothers answer.
She hears Eloise scoff beside her at be subjected to more formal ball talk. She does not care much about it herself but it's something to focus on. Better than that bottomless pit feeling that takes ahold when she is too idle. So she forces herself to listen.
Her mother describes every detail and the ramifications of each. How a certain flower arrangement would get the ton talking, in a good way. Or an invitation to one family would be a slight to another one. Which color ribbons would Lady Danbury appreciates the most.
All while Eloise pretends to focus entirely on her book but still giving quip comments.
"I also thought," Violet starts, snapping her daughters attention back to her."This would be a great ball for you to come out of mourning.'
She says the words less like someone who's suggesting an idea they're shy about. And more like someone who is talking to a wounded animal who is a few seconds from fleeing.
She can feel Eloise eyes on her, deciding for once to hold her tongue. Watching, waiting for a reaction, good or bad.
"I mean I was just thinking because of your suggestion of returning to the marriage mart." And the tea cup in Violets hands anxiously gets it's handle played with. "And if turns out to be too much you can escape back to your old room or Kilmartin an-"
"I understand." Francesca cuts off the ramble and she feels the room tense. Both her sister and her mother watching her. "I will think about it, thank you."
And the air eases but only a bit.
"Of course, dear."
"Right."
Two different answers from two different people with extremely opposite temperaments. Yet the same amount of scrutiny, probably waiting for her to be anxious like she was the first time she started her debut.
But it's not like the first time. She's older now and she's lost the childish naivety of believing she'll find someone who is the least worst and they'll both brave it out together. She had that with John, he's gone now and she didn't believe the odds of finding a man like that again were in her favor. She's is going to provide a heir for a gentleman like she failed to do before and that's as far as she let's herself hope for anything as of late.
"Right." Francesca repeats her sister words from earlier, taking a sip of her neglected tea. The porcelain still slightly too hot and it digs into the skin of her palms, she presses against it harder.
Her mother goes back to her rambling, her sister, back to her snide remarks. And Francesca,
She prepares to walk head first back into a battle field with no end in sight.