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When Michaela left, she took the final puzzle piece.
It was impulsive, as so many of Michaela’s actions were, and the entire trip back to Scotland, in carriages and coaches and in temporary lodgings, she held the piece tight in her hand or traced her fingers around its edges and thought about going back to London. Francesca would surely miss the puzzle piece, or at least notice the new gap in the middle of her formerly perfect puzzle, and if Michaela turned around and returned it and blamed her sudden flight on temporary madness brought on by grief, Francesca would forgive her. She could be the support Francesca needed until the next season, or for a few more weeks at least, and everything would be fine.
Then she remembered the way John looked at Francesca like she was his whole world, and how it had felt when Francesca held her hand, warm and tingly and exciting, and she did not turn back.
Instead she ran her finger over and over the puzzle piece, the bit of earth and sky on a thin piece of cut out wood, and looked out the window as she left carefully tended fields of England behind and returned to the rollicking hills of Scotland.
*
“Hurry!”
“Almost there.” Michaela stuck her tongue between her lips and stretched her fingers up higher. Scant centimeters away from her fingertips on the very top shelf of the pantry was the ceramic dish with the leftover ginger biscuits in it. The rest of the household was dead asleep after the ball, leaving a wealth of treats to be plundered by a pair of enterprising children. Or rather, one enterprising child and her favorite cousin she'd pulled out of bed to help her.
“Michaela, please,” John hissed from where he was standing watch outside the pantry. “Cook is a light sleeper.”
“Cook always drinks to calm her nerves after a ball, she’ll be snoring until at least half past seven.”
“Michaela -“
“Fine. You’re taller, you do it.”
She clambered down the shelves and pushed John towards them. He looked back at her with wide eyes. “I cannot do this.”
“‘Course you can. Ginger biscuits are your favorite.”
“What if we get caught? Our parents will be so cross.”
She grinned. “That’s what makes it fun.”
He shook his head at her, but dutifully climbed the shelves, his hands only shaking slightly. He reached for the top shelf and pulled off the dish with barely a strain or wobble. He tucked it under his little arm and awkwardly made his way down one-handed. When his feet touched the ground, he turned to Michaela with shining eyes and a grin wide enough to split his face. “I did it!”
“I knew you could,” Michaela said, taking the dish from him. “Now go back up there and get the teacakes, too.”
*
Being back in Kilmartin Castle should have soothed her. It usually did, at least at first, before her wandering tendencies took over and made her restless. But everywhere Michaela went, she saw John. She saw the places where they'd played together, where they’d had lessons together, where they'd cried together when their favorite dog had died, where they’d talked for hours late into the night together. Always, always together.
Now, as she walked those same beloved halls, she was conscious of the way her steps echoed off the walls, too loud and sharp, a singular rhythm instead of the cheerful cacophony of multiple feet. She ate at a long empty table for only a few days before asking that meals be sent to her room instead. She wrote to her aunt still in London hoping for news of Francesca that never came, and to her parents in Edinburgh, and then sat at her desk, staring at nothing, holding the puzzle piece and running her finger the edges over and over. She wondered what Francesca was doing - if she had stayed at the Kilmartin House or moved back to the Bridgerton’s, if she was still finding joy in celebrating John’s life instead of only mourning his death.
If she had noticed the missing puzzle piece at all.
The only time she felt any modicum of peace was when she was out exploring the hills behind the castle. The green lush grass under her feet and above her, the great wide sky as far as she could see.
*
“John! John, wait!”
The wind whipped at her skirts as she tried desperately to catch up with her cousin, stumbling along the uneven stone pavement between the barn and castle. John was almost as the back entrance to the kitchen before she caught him, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the nearby pavilion instead. “John, you much allow me to explain.“
John’s back was ramrod straight as he pulled his arm out of her grip. “Very well. Explain.”
“What you saw out there, it wasn’t what it looked like. Miss Stewart had a stocking fall down and I was merely helping her -“
“You hands were not on her stocking, and your head was not … it did not seem as though it was optimally placed to see her stocking,” John said slowly, like he was analyzing the scene in his head even as he said the words. Like he was still trying to understand.
“It was nothing,” Michaela insisted. “John, it was … it was …”
John looked at her, head tilted and expression considering.
“Please,” she said, because this was the only thing she’d ever hid from him. And if he hated her for it …
She wrapped her arms around her stomach, hugging herself tight, and whispered, “John, please.”
He swallowed and then took a step forward, then another. Hesitantly, he reached up and put his hands on her arms.
“It’s alright, Michaela,” he said, and he smiled. It wasn’t his widest smile, but it was sincere and it was kind, because John was always kind. And he loved her.
She nodded, taking deep steadying breaths. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until John released her with one hand and wiped her tears away.
“It’s alright,” John said again, and she believed him.
*
She met her mother in Paris. It was beautiful and there were plenty of things to do, even with the growing unrest among the people. Michaela went to the opera one night, a ball the next, and the ballet the third. She tried to let herself be swept up in the excitement of the city as she usually was, but she found herself loitering in the apartments her mother had rented more and more. She was restless as she’d been in Scotland and nothing seemed to help.
Every day, Michaela wrote to Francesca. She wrote of Paris, of Scotland, of their family, of her memories of John. She wrote about the play she’d seen that she though Francesca would have liked and the ginger biscuits she’d eaten that weren’t half as good as the ones she and John had stolen as children. She wrote of the magic of snow at Christmas and the sound of sheep bleating her to sleep every night at the castle.
Mostly, though, she wrote of how sorry she was. That she should not have left. That she would do anything to make it up to Francesca.
That John would have wanted them to hold each other up without him, and that Michaela had failed in that, but she hoped dearly for a second chance.
Francesca never wrote her back.
*
There was nothing Michaela loved more than being curled up in front of the fire with John, catching up on what they’d missed since they’d seen each other last. They hadn’t had the chance since she’d met him and his new wife in London; Francesca had been glued to his side every moment of the day that he was not working. But after a few nights in Scotland, they’d finally got some time to themselves, staying up long after the rest of the household had gone to sleep.
“And then the sheep knocked your father over. His feet went all the way up over his head!”
“No!”
“Yes! I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it. He landed straight in the mud and his favorite coat was beyond saving. We could not mention the word 'sheep' for the entirety of May without him leaving the room immediately.”
“Oh, I wish I could have seen that.”
“We missed you,” Michaela said, smiling fondly at him. “Me most of all.”
“I missed you, too. I have been worried about you.” John cleared his throat. “I have not seen Miss Stewart since I returned.”
“Miss Stewart has gone to Glasgow,” Michaela said, her smile turning stiff.
“Why? What happened?”
“She met a woman in the next town over that was of her station and they decided to open a modiste together. No one will question why they live together or spend so much time in each other’s company. It is a better life than I could ever give her. I’m happy for her.”
John put his hand on hers “I’m so sorry, Michaela.”
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath and tried to make her smile warmer. “I would prefer to discuss your new romantic development.”
“We’ve already spoken of it.”
“Barely. We have scarcely been alone since I met you in London. Your wife is beautiful,” Michaela said, squeezing John’s hand. “And she seems very nice.”
“Don’t,” John said, narrowing his eyes.
“I was being complimentary.”
“You were gearing up to tell me something I'd rather not hear. I know your disapproval tone.”
“I do not have a disapproval tone.”
John didn't argue, he simply waited her out. He was always more patient than her.
She sighed. “Are you sure she’s right for you? She’s a bit … reserved, I suppose, and tight-laced. I always thought you’d find someone who brought you out of your shell more.”
“That’s what I have you for.”
Michaela preened. “Well, when you put it that way -“
“It's true. You have always been the one to make me daring. But Francesca meets me where I am. I can have adventures with you and be quiet with her.”
“Then I’m glad you found her.”
“Thank you.” John smiled, so sweet and full of love. “I thought I would never find someone who I fit with so effortlessly, but now that I have … I hope so much that you will find someone like that for yourself. I know how much harder it will be, and I know you cannot have the same openness that I have with Francesca, but still, I hope you find this kind of love. It is all I want for you.”
She swallowed heavily, her gaze dropping down to her hands. "I do not think that is possible. And I am a content spinster."
"We are somewhat removed from society's gaze out here in Scotland, and you would not be the first spinster to live the better part of her life with a female companion. And who knows? It was unimaginable for people like us to be part of the Ton not so very long ago. Do not give up hope on love, dear cousin. Promise me."
Michaela doubted she would ever find what John had with Francesca, but she could not bare to deflate John's newlywed dreamy view of romance. "I promise."
*
It was at an afternoon tea at her mother’s friend’s town home in Manchester that gossip finally reached her ears of the Kilmartin widow.
“She rarely comes out of her family’s home, poor thing,” the lady was saying. She was a neighbor of the Bridgerton's country estate, and one of the few who had seen the family since the season ended. “Pale as a ghost when I caught a glimpse of her at the Bridgerton's Christmas party. My sister knows the youngest Bridgerton a bit, says we should not expect to see her this season. Not that any of us can blame her. Simply awful to lose a husband so young, let alone one as good as John.”
“There is no one better than John,” Michaela said, her mouth dry.
“I have heard you and your cousin were close,” the lady said, her eyes lit up with potential gossip. “Do you have any news to share of Lady Stirling?”
“No, I have not.”
“Ah, well, the season will begin soon, and I hear that the Bridgertons will hold the first ball again. I'm sure we'll find out more then. I feel for her, truly. She has a large family but I've never known her to have many friends. And we could all use friends during times like these. Please, when you see her again, let her know that my family and I would be there for her if she ever needs us."
"Of course," Michaela said, feeling like she had pricked with a needle with each word the lady spoke. "Francesca deserves to be cared for by every friend she can get."
That night, Michaela began to pack her things. The first of the new buds were blooming on the trees outside her window, and it was time to return what she'd stolen.
*
Michaela wasn’t surprised to see Francesca inside on a beautiful day - that had become the norm since their return to Scotland - but the hundred or so little pieces of colored wood strewn across their parlor table was new.
“Hello,” she said, approaching the table with a friendly smile. She was doing her best to be kind to Francesca even if they had very different ideas of the importance of propriety and what constituted as ‘fun.’ “I thought you might like to join your sister and I for a bit of excitement.”
“I am in no need of excitement.”
“If you say so,” Michaela said, eyeing the wood pieces doubtfully. “A paddock broke and some of our horses got loose. We need to round them up before the storm rolls in, and the stable hands are desperate enough to even let us high born ladies help them. You are good with horses, are you not?”
“I like them, yes,” Francesca said with a slight shrug. “But I am not particularly quick on my feet nor am I a skilled rider. I'm sure I would only slow you down.”
That might be true; still. “I am certain we can find something for you to do. It will certainly beat staying in here with … is that a jigsaw puzzle?”
“Yes. I find them peaceful.”
“That is one word for them.”
“What word would you use?”
“Dull? Repetitive?”
Francesca lifted her chin, her soft mouth tightening in annoyance. “Well, I enjoy them and so does John.”
“Then I am happy for you both. But I will be outside with your sister chasing down horses if you change your mind.”
She got all the way to the front door before she heard someone call her name. She turned to see Francesca behind her. “You’re coming with us, then?”
“No. But I was with the horses a few days ago and … are Butterscotch and Pudding two of the ones that are missing?”
Michaela raised her eyebrows, curious. “They are.”
“I know the stable hands mostly feed the horses carrots as treats, but Butterscotch and Pudding prefer apples. If you need to get them to come to you … I thought knowing that might help.”
“It very well might. Thank you.”
Francesca smiled, small but pleased. “You’re welcome.”
A few hours later, Michaela returned, mud caked on her hems and beaming with pride at a job well done. She and Eloise parted at the stairs, Eloise going to change for dinner while Michaela went to the parlor. Francesca was still bent over her puzzle, now nearly completed.
“I wanted to thank you.”
Francesca jumped and made a sort of yipping sound, her hand going to her chest, her eyes wide. “Michaela! You startled me!”
“Apologies,” she said, unable to keep herself from laughing at the expression on her cousin-in-law’s face. “I thought we’d made so much noise coming in you’d have heard us.”
“Perhaps you did. I get caught up in things and forget the rest of the world.”
“Well, I will let you get back to it. I just wanted to thank you for your advice. We were only able to get Pudding to come with us thanks to the apple I brought along.”
“Oh. That is - did you find all the horses?”
“We did.”
“Good,” Francesca said, brightening with relief.
“And you? Did you get the peace you wished for?”
“I did. Come look."
Michaela went to examine Francesca’s progress. The jigsaw was a painting of a garden trellis, beautiful orange and pink and purple and white blossoms spilling down in a cascade. “It is a beautiful picture. But the highlands are beautiful, too.”
“And I have seen them quite a few times and I will see them quite a few more. It’s not a crime to want a little variety.”
Michaela couldn’t help but smile at Francesca’s clear frustration. It was adorable how her cheeks turned pink and her nose scrunched up. “I suppose not. And you are right, the picture really is lovely.”
“Thank you. I think you would like my puzzles, if you gave them a chance,” Francesca said, looking shyly over her shoulder, big eyes peering up at Michaela.
And Michaela suddenly felt something, something stirring in her chest and stomach and heating her up like the first cup of tea in the morning. Something she hadn’t felt since she had parted ways with Miss Stewart.
She cleared her throat. “I must get cleaned up for dinner. Perhaps some other time.”
Then she fled, willing herself to forget what she’d felt. It was just a vulnerable moment. She was lonely. It was nothing.
It was nothing.
She left for Edinburgh the next day and did not return for a fortnight.
*
Francesca did not answer her letters and was still in possession of Kilmartin House, so Michaela had to stay in her aunt’s London apartment, which was small and cramped and smelled overwhelming of roses. It didn’t matter. Michaela could be comfortable anywhere. It was never the lodgings or the sounds or smells that made her comfortable or uncomfortable somewhere; it was the people. Home had been a thousand places, but really, home had been her family. Home had been John. Without him, she felt adrift in a way she never had before.
For three weeks she went to Kilmartin House every single day. The housekeeper let her in, went off for a minute, then came back and told Michaela that Francesca was gone for the day or otherwise occupied - preparing for a luncheon or entertaining family or working through her correspondence. Once, she was apparently sick due to bad shrimp from the previous night's dinner, though Michaela could swear she heard someone playing pianoforte through an open window as she took her leave. Michaela was persistent, but even she knew when she was getting the brush off, and she didn’t want to force Francesca to forgive her.
So, on the twenty-second day, she brought a small gift wrapped box to Kilmartin House and left it with the housekeeper, along with a message. That she hoped that Francesca would hear her out but that no matter what, Michaela would be there when she needed her.
Then she went home and tried not to cry, her fingers moving restlessly in pattern they'd memorized over the last several months.
*
“I have never heard so much about barley in my life,” Francesca whispered, or at least attempted to whisper. It was actually quite loud in the near silence of the house. “How can anyone care about barley so much?”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, for every single thing that exists in this world, there is someone who has a passion for it. I suppose for barley, that’s Lord Taylor.”
She sighed loud and dramatic, leaning harder onto Michaela’s arm. They were walking down the hallway to Francesca and John's room, Francesca requiring some assistance remaining upright. “But he’s boring. Does he not realize how boring he is?”
“I think him not noticing our drinking game suggests he is quite oblivious.”
“Am I boring?”
Michaela came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the hallway, steadying Francesca as she swayed dangerously at the sudden halt of forward momentum. “Why would you say that?”
“I like watching the stars in silence. And puzzles. And the pianoforte, which isn’t so boring, but it is a bit formal. My siblings are so loud and clever and entertaining, and I am … not.” Francesca pouted out her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes at Michaela. “You think I am boring.”
“I do not think you are boring. I don’t!” Michaela protested when Francesca looked utterly unconvinced. “I am chaos. I do not always appreciate calm and peace as I should. But that doesn’t mean it is unimportant. And it certainly doesn’t make you boring.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Never. Passive aggressive and perhaps a bit neurotic -“
“Wait, that’s worse.“
“No, it isn’t. It is all part of what makes you so compelling.”
“I am compelling?”
“And spirited. Do not forget spirited.”
Francesca giggled, her whole face lighting up. “You truly think that of me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hmm, I like that. Spirited and compelling.” Francesca smiled at Michaela. “Just like you.”
“So I’m not chaotic?”
“Of course you are chaotic. That’s part of what makes you compelling.”
Michaela laughed. “Touché. Here is your room.”
“Ah, my room and my bed. At last. I do not think I can get undressed by myself. Will you help?”
She inhaled sharply, ignoring the pull of interest in her stomach. She had gotten used to her attraction to Francesca, had learned to ignore it quite well, but moments like this did not help. Fortunately, Francesca's lady's maid appeared out of the darkness of her room, reaching for her mistress. "I think she will help you tonight. I will see you in the morning."
"Good night, Michaela," Francesca said with a wide smile before being escorted into her room.
"Good night, my friend." That was enough for Michaela. It was more than she could have hoped for, in fact, genuinely enjoying the company of her cousin's wife. Feeling welcome in their home. John had been wrong. There was no need for a great love. Michaela was happy with her life just as it was.
*
Three days later, Francesca called on Michaela.
In truth, it was something more like an invasion that a proper visit. She came barreling into the apartment, leaving Michaela’s poor housekeeper in her dust. She held up the puzzle piece like a gauntlet. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I stole something from you. I thought it was time I returned it.
“This. This is why you came back?”
“Yes.”
“A puzzle piece.”
“Yes.”
“You said you would stay and then you left. You left me to mourn John alone and I did not hear from you for months. I had to deal with the question of succession and what happens to John’s title and estate, I almost lost Kilmartin House.”
“I heard. My aunt and uncle and I did everything we could, we wrote to the House of Lords and -”
“My family were here for me as much as they could be, especially Eloise, but half my siblings are married and have their own homes and lives, and Gregory and Hyacinth are still so young, and it was supposed to be you. You understood.” Francesca took a shaky, wet breath, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “How could you leave me to grieve alone?”
Michaela took a shaky breath, her own eyes filling no matter how much she tried to blink the tears away. “I thought that I could stay when I said it. But I could not remain in the house where John died, especially not when I …”
“Not when you what?”
This was the worst part. Not ever being able to be fully honest with the people she cared for. Before, she had John; now she had no one. But Francesca deserved as much of the truth as she could give.
“There are things about me, things that I used to talk about with John,” she said, throat tight and painful. “Parts of myself that I shared with very few people. I feel so alone without him, and I thought that perhaps I could share those parts of myself with you in some way. But I realized that I was not ready and it felt like I was dishonoring John by even trying, and I had to leave. I cannot apologize for that because I still believe that leaving was necessary. The way that I left, however, so quickly and without speaking to you, was deeply unkind and cowardly and I have been ashamed of myself even since.”
“I do not understand,” Francesca said, her brows drawn together. “What do you mean? What could you possibly dishonor John by sharing with me?”
“It is difficult to explain. But I can try to find a way, someday, if you’ll give me the chance.”
Francesca worried her lip, searching Michaela’s face. “I do not know if I can.”
Michaela nodded, her chest tight. “I understand. I can leave London if it is easier -“
“No, I don't want you to leave,” Francesca cut her off, her volume rising again. “Why is your answer always leaving, Michaela?”
“If I cannot explain myself, I don’t know what else I can do to make things better.”
“Neither do I, but I know that leaving me behind again isn’t the answer!”
“Fine, then I won’t!”
“Fine!”
They were both breathing hard, eyes locked together, and Michaela couldn’t help but let her gaze drop down to Francesca’s full mouth, parted slightly as she panted in her distress.
Then Michaela turned away, catching her breath and regaining her composure.
When she turned back, Francesca still looked frustrated, but her expression had softened. “There is one thing you could help me with.”
“Anything.”
***
The puzzle looked just like it had the day Michaela had left. It was on the same table, still nearly complete with only the single piece missing.
“I couldn’t put it away,” Francesca said with a small shrug. “I wanted to remember that the last moments I spent with him were happy ones.”
“Me, too. That’s why I took the last piece. But I think it’s time I put it where it belongs.”
Michaela slipped the piece into place. And then frowned.
Francesca tipped her head to the side, confused. “It does not fit.”
“I see that.”
“Are you sure it is the same piece?”
“Am I - yes, of course it is the same piece.” Realization struck, and Michaela took a sharp breath through her nose. “I wore it down.”
“Sorry, you what?”
“Every time I thought of John, or of you, of how I left, I would take the piece out and fidget with it, trace the edges with my finger, over and over. I must’ve worn it down.”
Francesca looked at the piece, of the space between the other pieces, and the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, the hint of a smile. “That is quite a feat in only half a year. You must have thought about us often.”
“I thought of you constantly," Michaela corrected, because it was true.
“I think that I will have it framed.”
Michaela frowned. “Really? Even though the last piece doesn’t fit?”
“Yes. Life is a lot more complicated than I expected. I thought I knew the right way to do everything to have a happy, proper life, and it has not worked out that way. But that does not mean it has all been bad. I think I will like the reminder.”
“You will have a gap in your jigsaw collection.”
Francesca rolled her eyes but she smiled, too. “I will find something to fill the space.”
“Perhaps I can help you find a new jigsaw to replace it.”
Francesca nodded, eyes shining. “Perhaps you can.”
This time, when Francesca took her hand, Michaela didn’t pull away. This time she held on tight.