Archive of Our Own

The facts of the matter are this: first, that Francesca very much wants to avoid spectating another season in Mayfair. Second, that their mother has spent the last six months pestering Anthony about checking in on one of their semi-distant great aunts. And third, that this aunt lives in Bath with a particular liking for the pianoforte.

Really, it could not have been written better if she’d orchestrated every piece of the puzzle herself. The idea comes easy, and she proposes it while the family is still in Kent for the summer. Anthony seems a bit puzzled as to why on Earth Francesca would want to spend an entire season with an aunt they have only seen a handful of times, all of the instances over a decade prior. 

Nevertheless, he does not outright deny her, and a week later Francesca is fetched by a footman to his study. Anthony tells her that Aunt Winnie will have to write back approving of the idea before the matter can be considered settled, but if Aunt Winnie does, then Francesca has his permission to go.

“Spending a season with Aunt Winnie would not be top of my list of things to do for fun,” he says, shrugging, “but if that is what you wish, then so be it. I dare say it is not a crime for you to enjoy these next few months as much as you can.”

Francesca pauses to stare at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

And Anthony just stares back. “Well, you are to debut next season, are you not?”

She deduces that saying Ah, I had hoped you forgot is not an appropriate response, so she just smiles, nods, and then excuses herself. 

Francesca’s lack of enthusiasm surrounding debuting is not because she is against the concept of it on principle, but more so the fact that she admittedly has not paid much thought to the specifics of it at all. Ignorance is bliss, perhaps, and in her mind, her impending quest for a husband will just be a series of steps to follow that mostly end in her favor.

Step One: Find a mildly-impressive and half-tolerable man in the town to marry. There will be many options, and Francesca does not plan on being especially picky. She has no intention of spending much time with her future husband anyway, so what does it matter? He will be kind, approved by her family, and ideally not bother her very much.

Step Two: After a year or so there will be children, though they will be mostly raised by wet nurses and nannies, especially while they are in the phase of being loud and sticky. Her husband will be working at… well, whatever it is that noblemen work at, and what kind of man will not appreciate having a wife who does not particularly care where he is or what he is doing?

Step Three: If she is lucky, her husband will find a mistress, and they will spend most of their time together in a tucked away estate. That means Francesca’s home will be all her own, and that means it will be quiet, peaceful, and she will be able to do whatever she likes for the rest of her life until she or her husband is dead.

But the more realistic implications of debuting have started to become clearer anytime anyone speaks about it, and Francesca does not like the way the conversations are going.

It is evident that the pianoforte is expected to become nothing more than a girlhood pastime as soon as she is married. The needs of her house and husband are to come before anything else, though nobody ever really specifies what those needs will be. Not to mention, of course, there will be children to attend to, though the degree to which overseeing them is necessary is also unclear, given the liberal use of nannies in Mayfair. 

But Francesca ultimately extrapolates that, while piano playing can be the hobby of a young girl or an attractive quality of a well-educated debutante, it will be seen as wholly incompatible with life as a wife and mother. 

On top of all of that, her mother has begun pestering her about falling in love ever since her skirts came down. Francesca mostly tunes these conversations out, but the essence of it is clear: her parents had had a love match, and the same is expected for each of the Bridgerton children. Does her mother realize that saying such things comes across more as a threat than a blessing? 

The idea that it will happen for every single one of them has always seemed ridiculous, or at the very least unlikely, but then it had happened to Daphne. Francesca begins to wonder whether love is something that just afflicts a person once they debut, and perhaps her lack of eligibility is why she finds herself completely uninterested in any of the gossip about which bachelor is the most handsome or has the best hair.

When Francesca detailed to her mother her goals regarding marriage once she debuted, namely the multiple homes and big gardens, her mother had simply frowned and said, “You do realize you are speaking of the union and the life, but not the person with whom the union is with?”

To which Francesca had answered, “What does the person have to do with any of it?”

To which her mother had said, not at all hiding her exasperation, “Because I should think that that is the point of courting, Francesca.”

And it went on from there for about fifteen minutes until Eloise grew bored and demanded they change the subject. Unfortunately, it did not clear anything up at all, and Francesca has remained stumped ever since as to what exactly she is meant to be looking for when the time comes to begin searching for an engagement. It has never been a question that she will marry a well-respected gentleman, so of course her imagination has been spent more towards picturing her overall life and future. 

What is so wrong about that? Why should she care about who it is with? What difference will it make regardless?

According to her mother, the answers to those questions were: ‘lots of things’ and ‘because I said so’, and ‘many,’ though none of those responses made things any more sensible, in Francesca’s opinion. 

And while perhaps she cannot run forever from her inevitable season of eligibility, she can certainly hide. And Bath seems like a perfectly appropriate place to do so. Anthony hears back from Aunt Winnie in a short time, and grants the final approval to go with a shrug.

Thus, Francesca wins a season away from her impending future. She will be away from Mayfair, away from society, away from Daphne’s chronic need to overshare private marital matters, and away from her mother, who still whispers to her every so often about absurd things like handsome men and the wonders of marriage. 

Francesca arrives in Bath three months later. The carriage deposits her on the steps of Aunt Winnie’s dower house, a respectable estate that Francesca grows even more fond of when Aunt Winnie shows her the designated pianoforte room.

“It overlooks the garden, you see,” Aunt Winnie says. She points unnecessarily at the walls that are more crystal window than stone. “Great music must be inspired by great environments, do you agree?”

Francesca says that she does, and the tour continues. Her room is on the opposite end of the house as her aunt's, which means she will mostly be left alone, though her lady’s maid, Daisy, has accompanied her from Bridgerton House and will be sleeping right next door. Francesca makes a mental note to marry a man who can afford a house large enough for their staff to sleep in separate quarters. 

The day turns to night, and before Francesca knows it, several weeks have passed and a routine emerges. 

Each morning, Daisy draws her curtains back a few minutes before sunrise so that Francesca can wake to the natural light that blooms in the morning. Then she dresses quickly, savoring the still-girlish dresses and hair ribbons that signify to the crawling eyes of Bath’s bachelors that she has not yet come of age. Her aunt usually meets her downstairs for breakfast, and the kitchen quickly learns that Francesca eats the same thing every morning: one cup of tea to start the meal, then two pieces of toast, two boiled eggs, and two pieces of ham, alternating the three items back and forth until she finishes with a second cup of tea.

By the time breakfast is over, it is usually time for Francesca’s first pianoforte lesson of the day, whether it is self-guided or with an instructor. Aunt Winnie has arranged for her to be taught by England’s finest, a man called Mr. Despereaux. The accreditation is not endorsed by anyone except Aunt Winnie herself, but Francesca is inclined to agree that he is a very good teacher indeed. 

Mr. Despereaux is kind and gentle, but firm when necessary, and has an eye for the finer details of musicianship, which Francesca appreciates. They spend four days in a row working on the curve of her wrist over the keys, and little by little Francesca learns to work with the instrument rather than just trying to tell it what to do. 

A month into their lessons he invites her to a dinner party at his house. He has already picked up on her avoidant nature in regards to events, but he urges her to come, saying it is an invite extended to all of his current students. According to him, it will be a night filled with delicious food, an appreciation for the musical art, and other like-minded young people. Francesca assumes that the offer is meant to be an attractive proposition.

Her first urge, naturally, is to decline him politely. She could make an excuse about her aunt being ill and needing care, or a visit from one of her siblings that she must be home to receive them for. But then Francesca remembers that she is technically a representative of the Bridgerton family while she is here. Not showing to her first invitation of the season will not leave a very good impression, and her mother will chastise her if she hears about it. 

So she thanks Mr. Despereaux very much, and says that she would be happy to be in attendance. 

Of course, that is not true. Francesca is not sure which she dislikes more: the parties themselves or the dresses she must wear to them. 

Her daily wears are not so bad, loose and soft and comfortable to move in, but her gowns made for events hardly feel like clothing at all. They are stiff, tight, and the texture of the fabric sets her on edge the instant Daisy finishes lacing up the back. She has to rub her pointer finger and thumb together to distract herself from the discomfort of the dress, which she does throughout the entire carriage ride to Mr. Despereaux’s home.

But the dinner party is not too terrible. Francesca envisioned a stuffy, buttoned-up affair that would consist of four hours of sitting at a long dining table and pretending to care about whatever small talk the men on either end of her decided should be discussed. It is a rather unappealing thing to think about, and Mr. Despereaux apparently dislikes the idea equally as much, for the food is laid out buffet style, and the dozen and a half attendees mingle throughout his home as they like. 

Francesca is delighted by this. With her luck, she will be able to hide in the corner for an hour, make a point to speak to Mr. Despereaux in a way that would make her mother proud, and then she will go home and collapse into bed right on time. 

But luck is not on her side, and she has only just settled herself on a couch to observe the rest of the living room when a voice addresses her. And it is not Mr. Despereaux.

“Hello again.”

Francesca looks up, immediately confused. She is sure her face reflects this. There is a girl in front of her, slightly older. Perhaps a year or two, maybe more. Pretty, if Francesca had to say so.

“Do we know each other?” Francesca asks.

“No,” the girl says, “but I hope that we will.”

Honestly, Francesca is quite sure that nobody has ever wanted to get to know her. Struck slightly dumb, she shifts uneasily on the couch and says, “Why?”

The girl laughs. It’s a tinkling sound, flowing like a scale on her piano keys. “Because I have spoken to just about every other guest in attendance, and I am quite sure you are the most interesting person in this room.” She tilts her head slightly, curls around her face falling to the side as she does. “I have been to my fair share of parties, and my conclusion is that the ones sitting on their own are always the best conversation.”

“I’m afraid I am about to both disappoint you and upset your hypothesis,” Francesca says. Ordinarily she would just leave it at that, but something about this girl makes her want to keep talking. It’s a peculiar feeling. So she gestures to the sofa. “But if you should like to sit, I will not stop you.”

So the girl does, with a decisively swift movement matched by the strong eye contact she then attempts to bestow upon Francesca. “What is your name?”

“Francesca,” she answers. The other girl raises a brow as if to say, and what else? But the weight of her family’s surname is not one she would like to carry tonight, so she says, “Just Francesca.”

The other girl takes this in stride. “Alright then. Call me Michaela.” She winks, relaxing onto the other end of the couch far more than Francesca would ever dare at a social function. “Just Michaela.”

Subconsciously, Francesca flexes her shoulder blades as she straightens her spine even more than it already was. Maybe she can offset some of her diligently-trained posture onto this strange girl. Then she tries to recall what she is supposed to speak to people about when they meet for the first time. 

She remembers once, when she was young, asking her mother if she could have a list of questions to ask every stranger she ever met so that she could memorize it and then ensure she would always know what to say. Her mother just laughed and said that conversations are not meant to be planned, they are meant to be had, and assured her that when the time came to talk to somebody she would always find the right words.

Well, that has not been Francesca’s experience. She squints around the room for a topic to discuss, eyes landing on Mr. Despereaux. There.

She turns to Michaela. “Are you a student of Mr. Despereaux?”

“Only on paper,” Michaela says. “I am here as his guest for the season. He and his wife are friends of my family, and I have found Scotland to be rather boring as of late, so I elected to come and live with them while I pretend to want to get married.”

“You are a debutante?” Francesca says, heart sinking. She was actually feeling enticed by the idea of a friend, though that dream may have just ended, as she has no interest in spending the season hearing about courting and marriage. 

But Michaela wrinkles her nose. “Please.” And then she grins, a wicked one that winks in the candlelight, a knowing glint in the corner of her eye. “I am an eligible lady by technicality, but not in practice. I find myself too troubled by the presence of men to consider either wedding or bedding one.”

“Oh,” is all Francesca can muster up to say. Her first instinct drives her to want to say something like, I find myself often holding a similar opinion, but a nagging feeling in her throat tells her that the intention behind the sentiment isn’t quite the same. Instead, she offers, “You sound like my sister. She has what my mama would call ‘radical opinions.’”

“And do you consider yourself a shareholder to these radical opinions?” Michaela asks, curiosity seemingly piqued.

“I suppose we do tend to agree on the practicality of things, though our fundamental differences are clear,” Francesca says. She tries to search for the words. “You see, my sister is against the nature of society itself, whereas I simply object to the expectations of my personal participation. Not because I disagree with the reality of it, but because of the by-product.”

“And what is the by-product?” Michaela probes.

Francesca gestures around. “People. And uncomfortable dresses.”

“Well, regardless of the reasoning, I can appreciate opinions that differ from the masses,” Michaela says agreeably.

Francesca smiles at this. She is not sure anyone has ever appreciated her opinions on anything, except for her piano teacher in Kent who is approximately eighty-thousand years old and far from being considered a friend. 

“I am here for the season because I find London to be far too chaotic for my taste,” Francesca says. Michaela may be avoiding suitors, but Francesca is simply avoiding everyone. “So perhaps both of us will find what we want here in Bath?”

Michaela’s smile softens. “Perhaps.”

A silence ensues. In Francesca’s history of attempted social situations, silences have most often been unpleasant, and contained a lot of uncomfortable eye contact while she and the other participant desperately searched for something to say. But this lull in the conversation seems to lack both of those things, mostly because Michaela does not seem bothered by it. She appears to be content just to sit there. Unfortunately, Francesca feels the awkwardness creeping up her own spine anyway, so she speaks.

“I am to be married next year,” she says. She tries to sound pleased, but can tell from the way her tongue curls over the words that does not succeed. So she adds, “If my mama has her way.”

“Does your mother usually get what she wants?” Michaela asks.

Francesca considers this. “Yes, I think so.”

“And what do you want?” 

Nobody has ever asked that before, though of course Francesca has the answer she is sure every girl of her age has in mind. Debuting, courting, marrying, happily ever after. But Michaela’s earlier frankness, though initially surprising in a distasteful way, has settled in Francesca’s mind as both refreshing and disarming. She decides to match her candor.

“I want to find a husband who is very wealthy, enough for us to have multiple homes,” Francesca says. She pulls her shoulders back again, hoping that her perfect posture will make up for the blasphemy she is saying out loud. “Ideally he will have a mistress, and they will live together on one of the properties, while I will live in another and hopefully never see him outside of societal obligations. During those times, he will be polite, quiet, and not talk to me very much.”

Michaela raises an eyebrow, seemingly impressed. “Is that all?”

Francesca blushes. “I should like my home to have a large garden as well, with a piano room that overlooks it. Also, a chef who is trained in Chinese cooking.”

“And your husband?” Michaela asks, amused. 

Francesca tries not to appear puzzled. There is that question again, first posed by her mother and now Michaela. “What about him?”

It is still unclear what exactly the intention of the question was, but Francesca seems to answer it in some way anyway, because Michaela just smiles and nods, and does not press it further. “I like the way you think, Francesca.”

It is a name Francesca has heard many times. It is her name, after all. But hearing it from the mouth of this new stranger is different for some reason. Michaela did mention Scotland. Perhaps it is that. Not an accent, her words are still distinctly English, but there is a cadence that indicates time spent abroad. Clipped vowels, misplaced emphasis. Is that why Michaela saying her name causes a swooping sensation in her stomach? Is that why she longs to hear it said again, ideally right now if possible? 

“Do you play an instrument?” Francesca asks, desperate to move the conversation to safer territories. 

“Define ‘play,’” Michaela says. She jerks her head to indicate a Clementi in the corner. “I hope you do not think less of me, but I will confess that Mr. D has tried and failed many times to teach me the pianoforte.” 

“Ah,” Francesca says, trying not to frown. “That is my instrument of choice.” It is also her only preferred topic of conversation, which does not bode well for this fledgling friendship. “But you… dislike it?”

“I suppose I have discovered more of an interest in listening rather than playing,” Michaela says. She smiles slyly. “Sometimes, I hear Mr. D’s students when they have lessons here. Sometimes, they are rather good. Sometimes, they are named Francesca.”

There is that swooping feeling in her stomach again. It makes her blush, and then the feeling of blushing makes her blush more. “So you have heard my playing.”

Michaela nods. “I apologize that our relationship has been a bit one-sided in that way.” She does not sound sorry at all. “But it is lovely to put a face to the music that has been gracing this house for the past month.”

Slightly embarrassed still, Francesca peers over at her. “Are you only saying that to be kind?”

“Absolutely not,” Michaela says. “Most of his students are awful.” She points. “Especially that fellow. Thank goodness he has the bank account of an heir, for he is certainly not a musician.” Francesca stifles a laugh, and Michaela seems delighted by this. “The piece you were playing yesterday sounded quite good, don’t you think?”

Of course, Francesca knows exactly what piece Michaela is referring to. She makes a face. “At least one of us is enjoying it.”

Michaela appears surprised. “Do you not?”

Francesca struggles to be polite. “It is a work by a Frenchman from the early 1700’s. But the century has turned, and I do not feel as though the piece deserves to join us here in this new age.”

“Then why are you playing it?” Michaela asks, and she seems truthfully curious. It is not often that Francesca meets another person who does more than tolerate her musical ramblings, so she takes the question for what she can.

“I may dislike the song very much, but I also think it is disrespectful to explicitly give a poor review of a piece that I cannot play myself,” Francesca tells her. She shrugs. “So I practiced. And now I have played it, and now I can decidedly say that I think it is confused, uninspired, and as interesting as my Aunt Winnie is when she talks about the necessity of a good napkin. Which is to say, not.”

Michaela considers this with amusement. Francesca is not a stranger to other people finding her amusing, though generally she gets the impression that they are laughing at her more than anything else. But Michaela does not have the same air of superiority, and until now Francesca never realized how nice that could feel. 

“So, you are a yes to the pianoforte but a no to Frenchmen,” Michaela says, still smiling. Which is not exactly how Francesca would summarize what she said, but no matter. “Do you like horses?”

“Not especially,” Francesca says. Then, in the back of her mind, her mother is nudging her to be polite. She stiffens. “That is to say, sure. I like them enough.”

“You should not have to lie,” Michaela chuckles.

On the contrary, nearly every one of her childhood lessons on conversation told her to do just that. But Michaela does not seem to be concerned with high society courtesy, so Francesca decides not to be too. 

“It is not that I dislike them,” she amends, “I just… Well, I have been told I have a limited scope of interests. And I would not consider horses particularly skilled at either playing nor discussing the pianoforte. Because they are horses.”

“Yes, I suppose they are not much fun in the way of conversation,” Michaela agrees. She hesitates, and for the first time Francesca sees her confidence flicker. A slight aversion of eye contact, a double intake of breath. It is endearing. “However,” Michaela continues, “I should think they are quite fun to ride, and I wager that you and I could do just that, all while talking about whatever you like. Including the pianoforte, if you wish.”

Francesca considers this. It is not a wholly off-putting idea. “Alright.”

Michaela’s eyebrows shoot up, and another pleased smile takes over her face before settling back into the knowing charm she has been wearing all night. She opens her mouth to speak, but from across the room someone begins calling for her. Her gaze twists hesitantly between Francesca and the rest of the party. 

“They are asking for me,” she says, apologetically. “But… are we to see each other again?”

It only takes a moment. “Yes,” Francesca decides. Then she frowns. “But not the horse thing. You could come over for tea. Tomorrow?”

Is that eager? Too eager? She could not say for sure. She has not invited anybody over in… well, ever. When she was young, her mother would arrange time for her to play with the other children of the town, and when she grew older she found herself put off by her peers as much as they seemed to be put off by her. None of them seemed to want to debate the merits of Rigel or Bach.

But Michaela seems delighted by the invitation. “Alright,” she says agreeably. “Then I shall come by… around three?”

“Two-thirty, if you please,” Francesca says. Then she explains, “Two-thirty is tea time. Before that I shall be having a walk in the garden, and after that I shall be reading six chapters of a novel to my Aunt Winnie.”

“Two-thirty it is then,” Michaela says. “Where am I to go?”

“Laughlin House,” Francesca says. “My aunt’s dower house. Shall I send a carriage?”

“I should think I can manage to walk over myself,” Michaela says.

Francesca stares at her. She may be a year behind, but debutantes do not simply ‘walk over’ to places by themselves. She knows that much. “But of course you must be escorted by a chaperone or a carriage.”

“Why?” Michaela says innocently. “Are there a pack of wolves prowling the streets and hunting down young women in Bath?” 

Franesca stares at her some more. “That is not funny.”

“Yes it is,” Michaela says. She waves her hand dismissively, rising to her feet and fixing her skirts. “Come now, Francesca. One thing you must know about me is that I have never much cared for society’s rules.” She leans forward slightly. “I shall see you at two-thirty tomorrow.”

“But—”

Michaela cuts her off with one final smile. “Tomorrow, Francesca.”

—

Tomorrow comes much too soon, and at the same time, not at all quick enough. 

Francesca tosses all night in her bed, unable to find respite for more than what feels like a couple of minutes before a vision of Michaela crosses her mind and she is sent tumbling back into her body, wide awake with her heart pounding. She half-wonders whether Michaela only pretended to want to be her friend, but has no real interest, or whether Michaela genuinely thought so last night, but will wake up in the morning and regret accepting the invitation. 

The alternative is just that Michaela enjoyed speaking with her, and wanted to do it again. It is not only unique for that to happen to someone else, but also unique that Francesca should share the same feeling. 

And what are they even meant to talk about over tea? Her experiences with tea time mostly consist of training days when she was young, so that she could learn to hold her cup and sit with her back straight, and then afternoons with her sisters and her mother, during which she primarily just listened to Eloise and Daphne bickering. Tea with friends was a theoretical concept she observed from afar, not one she personally partook in.

The other thing that is strange about the situation is the fact that Francesca is even bothered. She is not as unaware as her mother thinks, and she knows that her interests and conversational habits are not ones particularly celebrated by society. Her lack of attention to fixing this problem is not because she doesn’t realize it exists, but more that she could not really care less what society thinks of her. Rather, she has learned not to care, mostly because she is unwilling to change her ways, so she may as well accept the inevitably strange opinions that people form about her.

However, this upcoming teatime with Michaela is different. The reason evades her, but she feels it anyway in the racing of her heart. The possible fiascos about what could go wrong, the excitement at what it will be like if it goes well. 

Francesca cannot say why it is different, but that does not stop it from being true, and it is an unfortunate discovery to learn that the inability to name an emotion does not stop it from being felt. And she is certainly feeling it. 

Perseverating all night is exhausting, and she has barely drifted off for the fiftieth time when Daisy comes in to draw her curtains back. She pretends she is well-rested and not on the verge of strangling somebody. She just smiles and allows Daisy to begin readying her for the day.

Over breakfast, Francesca makes sure to say, “I have invited somebody for tea this afternoon.”

Francesca knows that Aunt Winnie has not seen the family in a decade, but it is extra apparent in times like these that she truly does not know a thing about Francesca. Instead of the poorly-veiled shock that her mother would display, Aunt Winnie just shrugs. “Wonderful.” 

Francesca blinks. “So it is alright then?”

“Of course,” Aunt Winnie says. She pauses. “Why? Should you need a chaperone? Is it a suitor?”

“A suitor?” Francesca repeats. The idea of Michaela being a suitor coming to call is… well, it is—it is— “No,” she says firmly, shaking her head to punctuate her words. “No, just a friend.”

“Fantastic,” Aunt Winnie says, smiling. “I have some things to attend to this afternoon anyway, so you shall have the house to yourself. Perhaps take your tea in the garden? Seems like the weather will be cordial today.”

Based on how the last month has gone, Francesca has deduced that ‘some things’ is code for ‘day-drinking with the other widows and gambling,’ but that is being done on Anthony’s purse, and therefore it is his problem, so she decides not to care. 

At exactly 2:29, Francesca finishes her walk in the garden, and ends at the table that has been arranged under the shade of a tree. At exactly 2:30, she waits with bated breath for the footman of the house to present her guest. Francesca plans to rise to her feet when Michaela enters, then they will exchange pleasantries, and then Francesca will offer her tea while they sit and begin to talk about whatever it is that young ladies are meant to talk about. 

Except that is not exactly how it goes. 

The footman tries to present Michaela, but it is more like he is chasing her because Michaela breezes through the gate on the side of the house while the footman huffs after her. They are speaking at the same time, and Francesca tries to catch each piece individually so she may arrange them together as intended. 

“Hello there—”

“—Miss Francesca, may I—”

“—lovely afternoon—”

“—presenting, Miss Michaela—”

“—and see?—

“—apologies, Miss, she just walked in—”

“—made it in one piece, no carriage needed.”

Francesca blinks. Michaela smiles at her. The footman tries not to look winded.

“Miss Francesca, your friend is here,” he says unnecessarily.

“Thank you,” Francesca says, because it is not his fault that Michaela was not lying when she said she didn’t care about society’s rules. She nods to him. “We shall be okay now.”

He departs, looking rather grateful for the excuse, and Michaela folds into the seat beside Francesca. “Your footman is a nervous fellow.”

“Maybe because you are supposed to let him lead you to me, and then he is meant to tell me that you are here, and then you are meant to wait for him to wave for you to enter,” Francesca says reproachfully. 

Goodness, she sounds like her mother. But she cannot deny there is a comfort to the mundanity of all the routines and schedules that society expects. Imagining having to walk up to a home and knock or enter like a commoner makes her heart race. What if she were to go to the wrong address accidentally? What if they have forgotten her name? The introduction may be excessive, but it has its merits.

Michaela makes a face. “I do know about all that, you know. My cousin is an Earl, after all.”

“Really?” Francesca says. They did not discuss much of these details last night. While she is keen to know more about Michaela, she is not keen to reveal much about her own family. “So you have had the same training as I.”

“More or less, probably,” Michaela says. She waves her hand away. “But enough of that. Who cares?”

“Most people, actually,” Francesca says. 

“Well, I am not most people,” Michaela says. She arches an eyebrow as if to ask, Are you?

Francesca smiles. “I suppose I am not either.”

And for all her worrying, the afternoon never slows of topics to discuss, even if, later that evening, Francesca realizes she is not even able to recall what exactly it is that occupied the two of them. But that is alright, she decides. Because what they talked about is not important anyway.

The important part is how she felt. The falling afternoon dipped low enough to cast light over the whole garden, and that is what Francesca remembers most. Not the conversation, not the tea, not the weather. Just Michaela, bathed in the gold hour, and smiling at Francesca like she was the one who put the sun in the sky in the first place.

—

The black and white keys of the pianoforte are taunting her, Francesca is sure of it. While not sentient, she has long since theorized that they decide when they will sound good and when they will not. And today they sound terrible.

This opinion is, thankfully, not shared by her teacher. Mr. Despereaux calmly tells her, “Start again, from the fifth measure.”

Francesca does. Her fingers land lightly on the keys, then tap out the notes that are being fed to her from the sheet music atop the piano. Even from the first chord she can tell that it isn’t right, but she continues anyway, jaw clenching as she makes her way through the rest of the song. Her elbows grow rigid when she is upset, and that makes her playing stilted, so she tries to keep them loose, but now the tension falls to her shoulders instead, and apparently that sounds even more awful.

“I am wasting your time,” she says, pulling her hands off the keys and resting them in her lap. 

“No student has ever wasted my time,” Mr. Despereaux assures her. 

“Well, then I am the first,” Francesca says. She throws her shoulders up. “This is terrible.”

“It is not terrible,” he says, though his tone says he does not entirely disagree. “It is… uninspired.”

“That is worse!” Francesca cries out.

“Look,” he says, scooting his chair closer. “It is a love song, yes?” Francesca nods. “Paquin says he composed this the night he met his wife. He saw her across the room at a ball, and was so overcome with emotion he dared not even approach her. Instead, he went home, and wrote this piece.” Francesca just stares at him. Mr. Despereaux sighs. “Think about what he is saying with the music. Consider each measure, and wonder about his feelings.” 

“How can the music say anything,” Francesca objects. “It is music. He should have just used his words.”

“The pianoforte is his words,” Mr. Despereaux counters. He gestures for her to start over. “Close your eyes, and let yourself feel the music.”

So she does. Eyes shut, her fingers return to the keys, the cool ivory beneath her skin warming slowly to her touch. He softly counts her in, and the first measure begins, awkward and, well, uninspired. 

But then Mr. Despereaux’s voice finds her ears. “In the beginning, he is in awe of what he has seen. The most beautiful woman in the world, can you imagine it?”

For some reason a face comes to Francesca’s mind, and for some other reason it is Michaela’s face. Her fingers fall into a rhythm, plunging out the measures faster than she has ever tried before.

“But wait,” Mr. Despereaux says, “he realizes he cannot simply admire her, can he? If he should like to marry her, he must court her first. And that is more frightening than anything imaginable. Be timid now, gentle so as not to make a wrong move.”

Francesca’s tempo slows, her pressure on the keys softer as she adjusts the speed. What must that be like, to be afraid of speaking to somebody? To long to court them, but to be fearful of what that might mean? Then, she considers, it may not be unlike how she felt the night before Michaela came for tea. A new friend, a budding courtship. Is there a difference? Is that how it will feel when she debuts? 

“Plus, he does not even know her name,” Mr. Despereaux continues. “What if she is already betrothed? What if her heart has been taken by another? That cannot be. It will not be.” 

One hand carries a simple melody, the soft worry and rumination, while the other hand grows heavier, striking out with determination of what must be done. 

Francesca is sure of many things in life: there are facts, like the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, there are her routines, like her breakfast time and evening tea, and there is the formula of compositions, what with all the chord progressions and such. But she has never felt such certainty about a person before. Is that really how people move around the world? Seeing someone once, and being sure enough to decide their whole lives? 

Finally, Mr. Despereaux finishes, “But it is time for bed, and so Paquin must put the pen down. He will go to bed, and he will dream of her, and in the morning he will find this beautiful woman who has inspired the most honest of all forms of communication—music.”

The ending notes of the song play out, drifting down Francesca’s arms as if pouring from her lungs, flying into the keys and swimming through the air. She lets the final chord resonate, then removes her hands from the piano.

Her eyes open. She turns anxiously to Mr. Despereaux. “Better?”

He smiles. “Better.”

—

“Are you truly not going to get married?” 

Michaela does not seem surprised by this question. On the contrary, she seems pleased to answer it. “Well, yes.”

“How is that possible?” Francesca asks. They are walking around town, which is perhaps not the best of choices for a conversation such as this, but she has already opened the gates, so here it will be. “Spinsterhood is…”

“A society-inflicted term that I do not claim,” Michaela offers. She side-steps a young paperboy running down the sidewalk. “You remember my cousin is an Earl, yes?” Francesca nods. “Well, we are close. Very close. We are almost the same age, and we grew up together because our fathers were very close too. Cousins by blood, but our parents used to call us twins when we were young.”

For some reason, Francesca pictured a much older man as Michaela’s cousin. To be an Earl as young as… Well, it reminds her of Anthony. She frowns. “So your uncle has passed already. I am sorry for your loss.”

Michaela nods. “Thank you. He was a great man, and he raised a great man too. My cousin is the best of us, truly, and he told me when he inherited that he did not wish for me to marry simply due to filial piety.”

“That is kind,” Francesca says. She wonders if Anthony feels the same. Probably not.

“I am uniquely fortunate,” Michaela agrees. Then she chuckles. “And he even said that before he knew that I—” she cuts herself off, casting a sideways glance at Francesca. “I am fortunate,” she repeats.

“Before you knew what?” Francesca demands.

“I should not say,” Michaela refuses.

“Please, do not find your concern for societal manners now,” Francesca grumbles. This makes Michaela smile. “I have come to appreciate your outlook on life, and I should like to know what you were going to say. Truly.”

“I am not sure if it is proper, even by my standards,” Michaela jokes. But it is not a joke. Her lower lip worries between her teeth, and her eyebrows are knit together. This gives Francesca enough pause to reconsider her approach, but not enough to abandon her goal altogether. “Really, I… I have come to enjoy spending time with you, and I am afraid you may not want to see me anymore if I were to tell you.”

Francesca shakes her head before the sentence has even finished. “That is unlikely.”

“Easy to say when you have not heard what I am withholding yet,” Michaela points out.

Francesca stops in her tracks, turning to face Michaela fully. She looks down at her slightly, head tilted so she can more easily read Michaela’s expressions. It is a unique sight to see her so unsure of herself. “If you truly do not wish to say it, I swear I will not force you. But I can tell you that there is almost nothing you could say that would make me rethink what we are starting to build together.”

“Truly, you mean that?” Michaela asks. It is now her turn to look shy.

Francesca considers this honestly. It is now her turn to be the confident one. “Well, maybe if you confessed to a murderous rampage I would not invite you for tea again. But in the absence of that, then yes. I truly mean it.”

At this, Michaela smiles, then seems to come to a decision. “I have been thinking about what you said regarding your future husband.” The reminder of this unnamed future man makes Francesca wince without realizing it. Michaela laughs. “Yes. Like that. It is one of the things I found intriguing about you. But you are a lady of very high society.”

Francesca frowns. Recognizing her as nobility is one thing, rankings are another matter. Has Michaela figured out her family name? “But I never—”

Michaela cuts her off with a look. “Your aunt’s dower house is larger than some of the baron estates I have seen. You speak like someone who spent her youth in training every day, and your attention to norms indicates the same.” She hesitates. “I know you may not necessarily agree on a principle level, but there is a future you have been taught to dream of, a version of yourself that you have been made to inhabit, and I do not wish to scare you.”

“Whatever would I be scared of?” Francesca says, puzzled.

Michaela shrugs. “Of yourself.” Francesca just shakes her head slightly. Once, twice. Confused. Michaela sighs. “It is not just an… aversion to men that keeps me from being interested in the marriage mart. It is also a particular consonance with the fairer sex.” When Francesca still does not speak, Michaela adds, “That is, women.”

Francesca still has no idea what that has to do with her, but she thinks she is understanding Michaela, and while she is not quite sure what exactly she is supposed to say, she decides that anything is better than nothing. 

“Well, that is alright,” she supposes. “My radically-opinionated sister is also avoiding marriage. All she wants to do is spend time with her best friend all day.”

“And you?” Michaela asks.

“I…” Francesca trails off, not quite sure what is being asked. “I am to be married. I have always known that. With a family as large as mine, it is essential to have as many safety nets as possible. My father died when I was so young, and my brother was hardly an adult when he inherited. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Not particularly,” Michaela admits. “It is just me, my cousin, and our mothers. Of course, that is until my cousin marries, but then he will have heirs, and it will not be a problem.”

Francesca considers what it must be like not to have so many other people to think about. Freeing, to be sure. But lonely too. “Then I suppose I am not asking you to understand,” she capitulates. “It is unlikely you would, anyway.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Michaela says, eyebrow arching.

“You said it yourself. You have no siblings,” Francesca says. “You have nobody that you must consider, or that you must take care of. Nobody that… well, nobody—”

“I have nobody,” Michaela interrupts, nodding. “Thank you for your wisdom, Miss Francesca.”

“Michaela,” she says reproachfully. “That is not what I intended.”

“No, it is just what you said,” Michaela says. She maintains this sharpness for a heartbeat longer, then smiles gently. “I am not offended. I confess that it is true. I cannot truly imagine the pressures you must face to marry. But I also think that life should be about more than obligation, should it not?”

“If possible,” Francesca agrees. They begin walking again, and the earlier parts of the conversation come back to her. “What did you mean, exactly? About an affinity towards, um, towards…” her voice trails off, for some reason hiccuping over the word ‘woman.’ It is hardly improper to say aloud, but it makes her look around self-consciously anyway.

Michaela takes pity on her, and just continues onward. “Let us discuss the finer details of that later.” Then she offers, “Tomorrow.”

“Oh, and you are so sure you will be seeing me tomorrow?” Francesca says, smiling back.

“I wish to see you every tomorrow,” Michaela answers. The honesty of it just about takes Francesca’s breath away. 

“Very well then,” Francesca says. “Tomorrow it is.”

—

Tomorrow turns out to be one week later. Francesca goes to Mr. Despereaux three times in the time between, and she does not hear or see from Michaela once. For all the worries that Michaela shared, for all the accusations that Francesca would not want to be her friend anymore, it appears that it is Michaela who is doing the avoiding.

But then it is all fine. Michaela pokes her head into one of Francesca’s afternoon lessons and invites her for dinner, and Mr. Despereaux says that of course it would be fine, if his wife agrees, and a series of messages are passed back and forth until it is settled that Francesca will join them for a meal after her lesson. 

“So, how is it that you know Michaela’s family?” Francesca asks. 

“Her uncle,” Mr. Despereaux starts, “the late Earl of—”

“—Francesca and I do not bore each other with details of our surnames or family titles,” Michaela says. “We are far too interesting for that.”

Cautiously, Francesca peers around the table, wondering if anybody will be offended. But spirits remain high. Apparently Michaela makes an impression everywhere she goes. It is impressive, really.

“We are family friends,” Mrs. Despereaux jumps in, and for the first time Francesca detects a slight accent. “I grew up in Scotland, alongside Michaela’s uncle and father. When she asked to come to Bath for a couple of years, well, how could we refuse?”

“Mr. D just hoped he would finally teach me some pianoforte,” Michaela says around a bite of potato.

Mr. Despereaux does not deny this, just points a fork at Francesca. “Lucky for you, I have found the best student I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.”

“Oh, that cannot be true,” Francesca mumbles, blushing. 

But Mr. Despereaux assures her that it is, and the conversation continues without her. Francesca is content to observe, speaking only when someone addresses her directly. Usually, this is because she has no interest in participating, but right now it is because she enjoys the dynamic that she sees. Michaela, as carefree as always, an indication that her disposition is genuine, not simply rebellious. And the Despereauxs, who seem so fond of her despite her differences from the other young ladies of her station.

After the meal is over, Francesca wanders out into the back porch with Michaela. The home is modest because the Despereauxs are not technically nobility, but teaching music is a coveted profession and pays handsomely enough for them to live with society and hold the respect of the clients that Mr. Despereaux serves. 

“They are kind people,” Francesca says. 

Michaela likes this observation. “Yes, and I have known them since I was small. Sometimes they feel like second parents of sorts.”

“What does your mother think of you refusing marriage?” Francesca says.

Michaela thinks about this for a moment. “She is… okay with it. Probably because she understands she has no choice in the matter. I think it is hard for her to see my position, but John’s benevolence on the matter has done much in showing her that it is a respectable option.”

“I think you may be the most intriguing person I have ever met,” Francesca murmurs.

Michaela turns to her, eyes flashing in the candlelight. Something tugs in Francesca’s gut, something nameless and wild. “My dear Francesca, I believe you are far more intriguing than you give yourself credit for.”

“That is generous,” Francesca says, shaking her head.

“Well, let us see: you desire a husband who never lives at home, you prefer the pianoforte to the dreariness of society, and while you have been raised to recognize the norms and expectations of the world you live in, you are able to dream further and understand the ways in which I feel differently,” Michaela says, ticking them off one by one on her fingers.

“I suppose,” Francsca agrees. She bites at her lower lip, finger and thumb pressing together at her side. “Although, there is one thing that still confuses me.” Again, they make eye contact, Michaela’s silhouette backlit by a few candle lamps. She glows like the flames themselves, and feels just as out of reach as the smoke of a burning wick. Francesca wonders how to avoid getting burned. “How did you know that you feel the way you do about women?”

“So you have been thinking about it?” Michaela counters with a question of her own.

“I am a curious person,” Francesca says. She feels her hand twitch, presses her fingers together harder, then fights the urge to over explain herself. “I mean, I am just curious how that feels. It is not a decision I could make, of course, I have known my whole life I am going to marry a titled noble, but it is an… intriguing option.”

“Well, I suppose I don’t see it as an option or a decision,” Michaela says thoughtfully. “It is more of a calling, if you will.”

“A calling,” Francesca repeats.

“An understanding of my soul with another,” Michaela says. “If you believe in souls.” Francesca does, to a degree, and her head dips in agreement. Michaela sighs. “When you look at a person, when they touch your hand, when you share a conversation, and your heart just stops you in your tracks, points with a finger, and then says, them. Well, my heart has only ever longed for a her.”

Francesca cannot imagine what that is like. Again, maybe this is the curse that befell Daphne, the affliction of affection that only touches a person once they have debuted. The closest thing she can compare it to is the budding friendship between herself and Michaela. The way her stomach swoops when her name is said with that clipped Scottish cadence, the way she sometimes feels as though her skin aches to be near Michaela any time they are away for too long. 

Is it like that?

She nods. “I think I understand.” Sort of. She winces. “I have more questions.”

Michaela nods. “But perhaps that is enough for tonight. We can speak more of it…” she winks. “Tomorrow.”

“Because there will be more tomorrows,” Francesca agrees.

Together they stand at the stone railing overlooking the gardens. They cannot see the plants and flowers anymore, but the moon is almost full where it sits in the sky, and the stars do their duty of glittering down in their formations. 

Michaela rests her forearms on the railing, looking out into the inky blackness that will sweep across Bath for several more hours. “The night holds so many secrets, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” Francesca says. “Or maybe they are dreams.”

“Some might say that secrets and dreams are one and the same,” Michaela says. 

“And are you hoping for either tonight?” Francesca says. 

Michaela turns. “That depends on what you are willing to give me.”

“Oh, please.” Bashfulness washes across Francesca’s wry lips as she stares out into the shadow shrouded gardens. In the lowlight she feels like she could be twelve again, safe with the knowledge that growing up is still a lifetime away. “Unfortunately, you are out of luck, for I have neither.”

“I do not believe that,” Michaela says airily. “Everybody has secrets. And everybody has dreams.” 

“Not me,” Francesca says. “Not anymore.”

A soft wind curls around Michaela’s body and she takes another step closer to Francesca. They are not touching, but they could. There are a lot of things that are not happening, but could. If Francesca thinks about it, which she certainly does not.

“Did you ever wish on shooting stars when you were young?” Michaela murmurs. Francesca nods. She points upward, and together their eyes follow the gesture into the infinite night sky. “Pretend there is one now. What do you wish for?”

“Oh, all sorts of things,” Francesca laughs. “For my eldest brother to allow himself to be happy, for my mother to shake the cough that has come and gone for years, for—”

“No,” Michaela says gently. She comes behind Francesca, one hand sliding to rest on her waist just firmly enough to cut her off from speaking. Then she whispers, low enough that the stars cannot overhear, “Close your eyes.” Cheeks warming, Francesca obeys. Softly now, “You are five-years-old. You and your siblings have spent the day out in the park and are warm with the sun. Your mother and father are well, and they are laughing now as they dress for dinner, can you hear them? The life you are to live is exciting. The demands of our world have not yet found you. You are small, but your hopes are big.” She pauses. “Are you there now?”

Francesca sighs. “Yes.”

She considers a world in which Anthony is still just an heir. Her father is there, and has watched her grow. He is proud of her, and he tells her often. He allows Anthony to joke again, to smile again, to laugh with Benedict instead of chastising him for the merriment that he used to partake in. A world where Eloise finds her peace, where Benedict need not hide secrets from the family that he thinks nobody notices. A world where Francesca is still young, still light on her feet and lighter in her heart. A world where she has not learned of the burdens that sit on Anthony’s shoulders, or the grief that weighs their mother’s heart down. A world where nobody thinks she is strange. A world where anything is possible.

“What do you wish for?” Michaela asks again.

Francesca swallows. “Freedom.”

—

Before Francesca knows it, the ‘budding friendship’ becomes just a friendship. She has never had a friend like this before, so the turning point is unclear. 

Aunt Winnie does not seem to find it peculiar, so Francesca tries not to either. She has no other friendships to compare it to, but is sure that the one with Michaela is as normal as any other. Still, there is a guilty feeling in her stomach sometimes, usually when they are standing close together or whispering low or smiling a little bit too long. Francesca gets a swift shiver up her spine, but when she looks around, nobody else seems to find it strange or untoward. 

After all, there is nothing strange or untoward. They are ladies. And ladies talk. Closely, sometimes. 

Right?

Except that Francesca realizes she has felt this unease before. It may have been surprising and new in the beginning, but it is unquestionably familiar in hindsight. 

Watching Daphne's friends putting makeup on each other, and feeling a low tug in her gut when she registers that she has been watching one of them more than usual. Being fitted at the modiste and feeling her heart race when a young assistant takes her measurements with soft, nimble fingers. Huddling in a closet with a neighborhood girl while playing hide-and-seek, feeling her palms sweat as they stuff themselves close together to watch for footsteps under the crack of the door.

Francesca categorizes everything, when possible, into two categories: understandable and not understandable. 

The pianoforte is understandable. Cellos are not understandable. Flowers in the garden are understandable. Flowers cut and arranged for vases inside are not understandable. Sweet foods for dessert and tea time are understandable. Sweet foods for breakfast are not understandable. 

And unfortunately, Francesca has decided that this uneasy feeling—which has begun to submerge every moment spent with Michaela—can only be considered categorically in the middle of ‘understandable’ and ‘not understandable.’ It is not foreign enough to be classified as the latter, but not coherent enough to be the former either. This gray area is both inconvenient to think about, as well as horrifying to experience. 

Still, there is nothing to be done about it, so Francesca puts it firmly out of her mind. If the feeling still crawls under her skin or fills her lungs without her consent, particularly when Michaela is nearby and they are alone, well, that is really none of her conscious business. 

The days turn to weeks, and the weeks turn to months, and the season continues without much to note. 

She and Michaela continue to have tea, share meals, walk in the park, and promenade around town. Michaela takes to sitting in on Francesca’s pianoforte lessons, and afterwards they go out together. They observe the blooming couples of the season here in Bath, they guess whether married pairs are love matches or business deals, and they gossip about the fates of those who do not seem to be able to secure engagements even as the season is coming to an end. 

Then they part ways, promising another tomorrow. And each day, eventually, another tomorrow comes.

The year slips by without her even noticing, though Francesca passes the time mostly by counting letters that arrive from members of her family. 

Anthony writes only to wonder whether Aunt Winnie is still alive, to which Francesca replies ‘yes,’ and he is also wondering whether she is spending money responsibly, which Francesca has no idea, so she says ‘yes’ to that too. When Aunt Winnie has ‘somewhere to be,’ it is of no consequence to Francesca, and as far as she is concerned, Anthony can come to Bath himself if he cares so much. 

Her mother writes endlessly, detailing all the events of the season that Francesca does not care about at all, but she forces herself to read them so she can respond appropriately. She wonders if it would be possible to delay her debut. It is heard of, she knows this, though unusual. And while she has no discernable reason for wanting to do it, the urge grows stronger with each letter.

Eloise sends her a single piece of mail close to the end of the year, just begging her to come home. She does not say much more than that, and it is all very dramatic.

And then, with no fanfare or warning, Anthony sends her one final letter. He says he has gotten married to a woman he names as Kate Sharma. The family is returning to Aubrey Hall, and Francesca is to join them there for the summer so she can prepare to debut the following season. 

He sends her a date of departure, and Francesca’s throat tightens. The numbers are drawn in ink, and they taunt her. With the time it took for the letter to travel from London, the days have been eaten up, and Francesca’s date to return home is the following day. 

Tonight, Michaela has invited her to a ball. Francesca did not want to go, but Michaela begged her, saying that she had to show her face at least once this season to appease the town, and she would much rather do so with Francesca at her side. She promised they would not stay long, and said something about stealing a flask of alcohol to make it bearable. It is a very Benedict thing to do.

So Francesca agreed. She is going to the ball tonight. Michaela is coming by carriage in six hours. And it was supposed to be fun, but now Francesca is going to ruin it by leaving. 

The etiquette of a friendship like this evades her. Will they write? Will they see each other again? Will they simply let this year fade into an affectionate memory of the past? None of it feels right, but Francesca cannot decide what is. 

Francesca is still trying to figure it out when the carriage picks her up. Michaela greets her like nothing is wrong, because of course she does not yet know of Francesca’s news, though now Francesca realizes that Michaela must have seen that the season was coming to an end. Why would she not mention it? Then, she considers, perhaps this was just a seasonal friendship. Maybe that is just what debutantes do. Michaela is staying in Bath after all, at least for another year. 

Francesca pushes her perseverations down, and enters the ball with a smile. Michaela spikes their glasses of lemonade with something from a little bottle that makes Francesca’s throat burn, and after suffering through the ball for an hour, they find their way outside into a back garden. They can still hear the music, chatter, and shuffling of footsteps through an open window, but the night air is cool, and Francesca breathes deeply for the first time since they walked in. 

“Goodness,” she says, leaning against the wall. “I am not looking forward to having to actually participate once I debut.” 

“You are still planning on that?” Michaela says, downing the rest of her drink.

“Of course,” Francesca says, though for all the times they have had an exchange like this, there is some doubt that creeps into the edge of her words.

“These parties are exciting in theory, but wholly exhausting,” Michaela says. “And not really my type. I prefer the off-season. Everybody is so much… looser.” She shakes her head. “At any rate, I am looking forward to the time that I am old enough for nobody to want me anymore, that way I can stop pretending I might want them too.”

“I cannot imagine you would ever not be wanted,” Francesca scoffs. Whatever Michaela put in their lemonade is making her head spin, and the spinning shakes out all the things she has never said before. “You are beautiful, Michaela.”

Michaela’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “You are just now noticing?"

“No,” Francesca says. More spinning, more words coming loose. “But now it is decidedly my own opinion. Before, it was just… in concept.”

“Well,” Michaela says. “I think you are beautiful too. And not just in concept.”

Francesca’s heart lifts. “Really?”

A shadow passes over Michaela’s face. Instantly, Francesca wonders what she can say to make it go away. But Michaela manages to get rid of it herself, and steps back, extending a hand. “Will you dance with me, Francesca?”

The swoop in her stomach when her name curls out of Michaela’s mouth is doubled by the alcohol. Francesca is glad to take Michaela’s hand, if only to steady herself. Without thinking too much of it, she finds her hands pressed to the proper positions, feels Michaela’s fingers gripping her too. They have never been this close before. They start to sway with the music, a simple quadrant that Michaela leads. 

“If this is what courting is like, maybe it will not be so bad,” Francesca says. It is meant to be a joke, but Michaela does not smile. Francesca frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” Michaela says. She breathes in deeply, and Francesca can feel the expansion of her lungs because of how close they are standing. 

“It is not nothing,” Francesca insists.

Michaela finally smiles up at her, but for some reason it is not believable. Her eyes betray how she really feels. “Do you remember when we spoke about how loving someone can be a calling?”

Francesca nods. The conversation returns to her now. “You described how your heart stops, points, tells you where to go.”

Michaela will not meet her eyes, and the bashfulness is not endearing the way it should be. Instead it is nervous. Timid. “Yes. And for the first time it makes me afraid to feel those things, but I must confess that my heart is doing just that.” Peering up apprehensively, she adds, “I am being told where to go. Whom to follow. But I am not quite sure if I can listen.”

Me, Francesca’s heart thuds. She is talking about me. 

“Why shouldn’t you listen?” Francesca asks, dangerously.

“The heart does not take much consideration in reciprocity," Michaela answers. 

Their gentle swaying to the distant music stops, and for a moment they are just standing there. Francesca leans down if only to be closer, because no matter how much this moment is making her feel crazy, she has long since figured out that her thoughts are quieter when she is nearer to Michaela. Michaela rises to meet her, and their foreheads brush. It makes Francesca jump. Michaela moves to pull away, but Francesca’s grip on her hand tightens. So she stays.

After a few moments, Michaela speaks. “Do you know what it is that I would like to do?” 

Francesca shakes her head, and when she does, her nose brushes Michaela’s. She can feel Michaela’s words in her own mouth, and can only whisper, “No.”

Softly, as if not to spook the stars, Michaela says, “I should like to kiss you.” 

Francesca knows what that is, of course. She has seen it happen, understands that it is something married people do. Never before that. But Michaela has never followed the rules up until now. And maybe it is different when it is another girl, maybe it is okay. It feels like it should be okay. It feels like it is the only thing that makes sense.

She wants to lean in. She can somehow imagine it without anything even happening. Their mouths touching, the heat of Michaela’s lips like the warmth of her breath when she whispers. The fingers at her waistline, the intertwining of their other hands. The tightness, the softness. She can feel it like she can hear a song just by reading the sheet music. 

But Francesca remembers herself, remembers her family, remembers the letters she received today, and remembers the news she has to tell.

Instead of closing the distance between them, instead of chasing the answers to all of her questions, she just freezes, then whispers, “I am leaving.”

Michaela freezes too. “What?”

“I am going home,” Francesca says, letting her weight really fall into Michaela. “My brother sent me a letter. My family has finished in Mayfair and is returning to the country for the summer. So I am leaving.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Michaela steps away, and though it is only a few feet, what feels like a thousand yards blossoms between them. “Why does time move faster the more that it is desired?”

Francesca just shakes her head. The edges of Francesca’s vision stretch out in all directions, expansive in the forever darkness, and in it she feels lost. “I don’t know.”

“Then how do I build us more tomorrows?” Michaela asks helplessly.

Francesca can only shake her head again and repeat, “I don’t know.”

A moment of silence stretches between them. It does not bridge the gap, but it does slow the impending severance. Michaela speaks then, softly. “When I was small, my cousin and I used to try and catch fish from a river with our bare hands.”

The vision of this makes Francesca smile. “Did it work?”

“No, but I was very fast,” Michaela says, a shred of her usual playfulness returning. “I would wait patiently, and right when I thought that it was a good moment, I would reach down and grab at the fish. But each time, I would come up empty-handed.” She takes another step backward, but her eyes pull at Francesca’s feet. “I am reaching, Francesca. As fast as I can. But you have to want to be caught.”

“Michaela,” Francesca sighs. “You are asking me to claim something about what has transpired here, but it won’t be possible.”

“Then you deny it?” Michaela says. But she barely gives a moment for a response before she says, “I do not believe that, not for one second. And if you try to maintain that pretense I may never forgive you.”

“I do feel it,” Francesca says desperately. “Yet you are asking me for words that I cannot give.”

“I suppose it is not your fault,” Michaela says. She looks so beautiful in the moonlight. Then she holds up her hands as if she is afraid of them, gesturing to the space between them. “But I am standing here with my fingers dripping in you, and no matter how hard I try to hold on, there is nothing stopping the rush of the river’s tide from pulling you away. Can anything stop it?”

Francesca could say a million different things, but she just settles for a shake of her head. “No.”

Michaela looks as if she expected this answer. “Then this is it? I am never to see you again? I will stay here in Bath, and you will go home, find a husband you will not love, and think of me for the rest of your life?”

Francesca cannot argue with that, no matter how much it stings. “Yes.”

Another expected answer. Michaela does not say anything further, and neither does Francesca. Francesca expects her to storm off, but Michaela does not. She just stands there, staring. And Francesca does the same, memorizing. The way she wants, the way it hurts. She did not know she could feel this way, and she knows she will never allow this to happen to herself ever again. 

And so Francesca leaves. She wants to look back, she wants to let herself be caught. But she doesn’t, stopped by pride, fear or something in between. Instead, she just rolls her shoulders back, posture high, and walks away, wondering why Michaela is not coming after her, but lacking the courage to ask.

—

—

It is strange how things change, Francesca thinks. A year ago, her dream husband consisted of characteristics that she could never speak out loud. Business marriages were common, but not something to flaunt. Francesca was supposed to desire a love match, was supposed to speak of mornings in the garden and evenings playing with their children.

Now she is married, and she has found a man who has surpassed all of her wildest imaginations. John is titled, respectable, and generous in every way to her family. He listens to her talk about the pianoforte, and he sits quietly while she plays for him. Because of course he does. He is perfect, after all. He is gentle and kind and loving and he is all hers. 

And there is a calmness that comes with him, a lack of rough and tumble that she knows she cannot afford to feel again. It is… understandable. So she relishes his stillness, she basks in the eye of the hurricane, and she loves him for everything that he is while trying to avoid thinking about everything he is not. 

“Thankfully, my cousin has finally arrived to complete our travel party,” John is saying. He steps aside, proudly displaying an all-too familiar face. Francesca’s stomach drops. John does not notice. “It gives me great pleasure,” he continues, “to introduce—”

“Michaela Stirling,” Michaela says, the same quirk to her smile as she breezes into the conversation, as invigorating and untouchable as that night at Mr. Desperaux’s. She grins. “I caution you: every sordid detail John has spoken about me is a lie. The truth is far worse.” But her voice loses some haughtiness when she catches Francesca’s eye, recognizing her, leaning in, and is this it? Is this the moment Francesca has been running from her entire life? Is this the moment that she loses everything? Michaela pauses. Something in Francesca’s face must be begging her to pretend that they do not know each other, so she allows this fabrication to pass. She simply smiles. “And you must be?” 

“I—um, well,” Francesca stumbles, “I'm Francesca. Bridgerton. Kilmartin.” Her eyes flicker to John, sweet John. Softer, she repeats, “Kilmartin is my name now.”

Michaela seems to realize something in this moment, an imperceptible glance at Eloise before returning her sights back to Francesca. She plasters on an even smile. If Francesca did not know her as well as she does, she would think it polite. But the press of her lips and the darkness in her eyes says otherwise. They stare at each other, a stalemate in a battle neither of them planned on participating in.

Then Eloise curtsies, and Michaela’s attention is diverted. The conversation moves on. Francesca drifts through the exchange without saying much, allowing herself to be swept up in the conversation rather than participate in it.. 

Cousin.

Later, she gets some air. Her distaste for parties has not changed, and this one is no different, even if it being the last event of the season provides some respite. Ordinarily, she thinks John would join her in the fresh air. But he is an Earl, and a newly married one at that. There are congratulations to be had from the other men in the town, and while he may dislike mundane pleasantries as much as her, he is much better at going through the motions.

“I thought I might find you out here.”

Francesca does not need to turn to know who is approaching. She swallows, pointer finger finding her thumb. “Did you?”

“Yes,” Michaela says, coming to stand beside her. “You see, in my experience, the partygoers that are all on their own make the best conversation.”

“I am afraid I will disappoint you then,” Francesca says.

Michaela pauses. “Before tonight I would have said that was not possible. But now I must agree with you.”

Francesca takes a deep breath, but there is not enough oxygen to be found. She takes another one. Still, the tight feeling in her chest will not go away. She thinks she could suck up all the air in the entire world and it would not be satisfactory. “I told you I was going to be married. It is not my fault that you failed to believe me.”

Pointedly, Michaela ignores this. She turns to face Francesca head on. Francesca refuses to match this movement, and keeps her feet planted firmly forward even as Michaela’s gaze burns into the side of her face. 

“John and I were to return to Scotland after this season together, regardless of his prospects,” she says. “That was always the plan. But then he started writing me letters about a woman he could not live without. He would not tell me her name, thinking that if he withheld it it would motivate me to make the journey from Bath and meet her myself.”

“Here I am,” Francesca whispers. 

“Indeed.” Michaela sighs. Francesca can almost feel the breath of it on her neck. “I saw you across the room this evening, and I could not believe my luck. And then I saw your sister, and I saw the both of you talking to John. And I thought, or I hoped, that she was… that she was—”

“Well, she is not,” Francesca interrupts. She feels angry now for some reason, and while deep down she knows it should be directed at herself, irritation licks up her spine and spits towards Michaela instead. “Your cousin courted me, and I married him, alright? That is the truth of it. Those are the facts. I am Lady Kilmartin now, all because I fell in—because I love him.”

The slip-up does not go unnoticed. Francesca does not appreciate the knowing edge to Michaela’s tone when she says, “You love him, or you are in love with him?”

“I should think they are the same thing,” Francesca replies haughtily.

Michaela laughs. “Do you really believe that?”

“Yes.”

No.

Francesca now understands what transpired last year. Her unawareness, however self-inflicted, meant her time in Bath was not plagued by realizations and indecision, and while she is somewhat furious at herself for that, perhaps the obliviousness was also a blessing. It is clear now that Francesca failed to believe her own feelings enough to be afraid of them, and falling in love with Michaela was so easy that she did not even realize it was happening until it was already in front of her. And then she was leaving. She left it behind her.

Well, she tried to. Nobody can say that she did not.

“I asked you to stay.”

Francesca’s heart stumbles. Against her better judgment, she turns. “What?” 

“Not when it would have made any difference, of course,” Michaela says. She looks regretful now, ashamed too. “But after you were already gone. In my dreams, in my hopes, in the letters I never had the courage to pen onto paper. For days, for months after you returned to your family, I rewrote our history a thousand times and I asked you to stay with me in Bath the way I should have when it would have mattered.”

Francesca hesitates. “Oh.”

“You would not believe the stories I forced John to read in my letters. I refused to name you, I suppose him and I have that in common,” Michaela says softly. Her eyes swim with memories of another time and place. “But I wrote to him about all of it. My adventures that year, and the girl made of water who trickled through my hands.” She laughs now, harshly, as if chastising herself for being foolish. “I almost went with him when he came to Mayfair. And it was his idea. Him to search for a wife, me to come and find you.”

“I suppose you have both done that now,” Francesca says. 

Michaela’s lips turn down. “I suppose so.”

For the first time, Francesca allows herself to truly, properly look at Michaela. Her hair is pinned up, sophisticated like the lady that Michaela always swore she was not. And she is older now. Of course, Francesca is too. That is what time does to a person. It moves on, it forgets, it changes. At least, that is what Francesca hoped for. But it seems her heart does not agree, and it will not be quiet while facing Michaela so clearly.

Against her better judgement, Francesca takes a small step forward. “You really wished for me to stay?” she asks. 

“Yes,” Michaela says. “And I think I wish I had not been too afraid to chase after you.”

The possibilities swim through the air between them. The worst part is that Francesca can see it all clearly, and the options blur. Francesca in Bath for another year, delaying her debut the way that some young women do. Days spent running around with Michaela, fielding concerned letters from Anthony and her mother, evading Daphne’s curious and demanding correspondences. Life would not necessarily feel free, but possible. It would feel possible. 

Michaela is closer now. When did that happen? The two are inches apart, could touch if either one simply leaned forwards. Francesca wants to do that very much. She can remember how it felt to rest their foreheads together, can remember the way her skin buzzed with the wondering. Their breaths became one, their heartbeats danced in the quiet, confidential blanket of night. 

And maybe everything that happened that evening was due to the alcohol, or maybe it was the intoxicating, unbridled freeness of those months in Bath, or maybe it was the late hour and the anonymity of a back garden. But also, Francesca knows, it was just because of Michaela.

And that is the only thing she really remembers. Of course, there must have been music playing, but Francesca did not hear it. There must have been a crowd inside, but she did not see them. In her mind there is only the softness of Michaela’s hands, and the desire that came over herself the way the alcohol seeped into her bloodstream, and how she wanted nothing more than to press their bodies together and feel the way Michaela moved against her.

Francesca has seen her fair share of conceptually attractive people. Mayfair is full of them. Handsome, chiseled men she can appreciate in theory even if not in personal perception. Polished debutantes that prowl the streets. Daphne’s circle of fellow debutantes who, back when they were younger, came for tea and let their guard down around her since she was nothing more than their friend’s little sister.

Pretty, handsome, charming. Francesca has seen it all. But in that moment, all that Francesca remembers is watching Michaela and thinking, So this is what beautiful looks like. 

Now, Michaela makes as if to take her hand, and the memory is flicked away by the firm hand of reality. It washes over her like a sudden rain, and soaks her to the bone.

Francesca shakes her head, stepping back. “I love your cousin. I would never betray him.”

Michaela nods. “I know.”

“And he is a good man,” Francesca says.

Michaela nods again. “He is.”

“Then we will not speak of this matter any further,” Francesca decides, but the words come out clumsy as if her mouth disagrees with what she is saying.

“If that is what you wish,” Michaela says. She looks disappointed, but not surprised. 

“It is,” Francesca says insistently. But it is too insistent, and reeks of desperation. Still, she powers forward. “You and I will keep our distance this summer, and when the autumn turns, John and I will come back to London and you will stay in Scotland.”

“Francesca.”

Francesca’s stomach swoops against her will. It is enough to throw her off balance, and she stumbles back further, holding a hand out as if it will push the feeling away. “Please. You must let this go.” 

“How could I?” Michaela whispers. “How could you?”

It is an accusation of sorts, but Francesca does not let herself spill all the things she would really like to say. She simply stares off to the side, eyes unfocused on the distant chatter of the party. “I am going to collect John now. We have a long journey ahead of us, and we will need a good night’s sleep. I suggest that you do the same, and I will see you tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow,” Francesca insists. 

Her eyes rise to the sky, hoping the scattered constellations above may give her some answers. Unfortunately, they remain disrespectfully silent. 

Michaela too has grown quiet, and as much as Francesca is relieved at that, a part of her wonders what would happen if Michaela asked her to reconsider, even if only just one more time. It is maddening to have Michaela wanting after her, but it is worse somehow to think that she has given up.

So Francesca pauses. Her lips part in an exhale, and her hesitant gaze tracks back to Michaela’s face until eye contact blooms between them. For a moment, it is like everything stops. The stars begin to hold their breath. The night air thickens in her lungs. And a confession of wanting starts clawing its way out of her throat. But Francesca’s tongue feels too heavy in her mouth every time she considers speaking, and every word that comes to mind is just a little bit too honest. So she just waits, wishing, fearing, and hoping all at the same time.

But Michaela does not move. She does not speak. The world starts turning again, and Francesca walks off, ignoring that it feels more like she is running away.