Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This season is already shaping up to be an interesting affair indeed. In lieu of her usual selection of a debutante, the Queen is teasing that she will have a more refined cut for her diamond this year. Mamas tending to lost causes rejoice! Betas thought placed on the shelf by the rigors of selecting an appropriate mate are flooding the couturiers in hopes of capturing Her Majesties discerning gaze. This author speculates that this could mean an announcement at tonight's palatial soiree.

These refurbished debutantes have a challenger in the form of a bygone sparkler: Dowager Lady Kilmartin. With the installation of a new Lady Kilmartin (sans Lord! Scottish scandal strikes again!) Miss Francesca Stirling finds herself in want of a husband. Those who know of her excellent settlement wonder why Miss Stirling is rushing to the marriage mart. Rumors say that she has found haven in her brother's home until she can acquire suitable apartments in the wake of an abrupt departure from Kilmartin House. Mate-minded gentlemen beware - this beta is reported to be a wallflower unafraid to unsheathe her thorns. We look forward to seeing who gets caught on her.

For Francesca, the most infuriating part of these events was the smell.

Generations of intricate courtship rituals had culminated in blushing demoiselles and their mamas artfully crafting perfumes that flatter their natural omega scents. Vanilla indicated that one was wealthy enough to have access to overseas goods along with a sweet nature. Sandalwood was to display a solid, more masculine energy, a smell for sturdy omegas. Her Majesty had preferred the scents of tropical flowers - these powerfully sunny and fresh odors remained quite popular. Each family had their own scent that they swore featured their aromas the best. They insisted it was the best way to lure an alpha to his perfect mate.

These smells were applied liberally to the less-charming betas of the ton as well. For if an omega was a succulent bouquet that needed appropriate wrapping, the sad, secondhand women of the ton needed any sensorial allure they could manufacture. The majority applied these oils liberally. Anything to wrest themselves from the marriage mart.

The wisteria wafted off of Francesca. It made her a little ill. But her mama had insisted - it was the best armor she could offer to her daughter.

She and John had agreed that they preferred to live without perfumes. Their house smelled of parchment and wood - a calming and neutral scent that had been her solace in her brief year of joy. She yearned for Kilmartin House; it's quiet certitude. She yearned to be anywhere but this clogged room. So loud that it screamed at her senses like an out of tune pianoforte being slammed on by a toddler.

Mister Calthorpe was the first to ask her to dance. The gentleman was an olfactory assault. His smell hounded her like a pack of hunting dogs - immediate attack of tobacco followed by black pepper and oh lord, a stink of second-hand alpha musk. Male betas could be particularly susceptible to the notion that if they purchased another alpha's sweat and blended it into their concoctions it encouraged their masculine aura. Judging by the consumptive look to this gentlemen, he fought hard for any male bravado he had. Francesca felt sorry for him even as her hackles rose.

She shouldn't be able to smell him as keenly as she did. Betas did not smell as well as omegas or alphas. This reprieve from a constant stream of information sounded enviable to Francesca. But no matter how she altered the doses of her herbal medicine, she could only suppress her alpha nature so much. She had been told by the apothecary that she was lucky to only experience the smelling aspects of being an alpha. Otherwise, she was very well repressed. The success of herbal treatment varied enormously from person to person. Francesca was able to live like a beta in society, her scent dulled to almost nothing. She did not shame her family name. She would ensure that her sisters found good matches, and prove that the women of her family procreated prolifically and produced lineages of male alphas and female omegas.

She locked her jaw and politely foisted off Mr. Calthorpe's request, pleading that she needed some fresh air. The night was perhaps too young for a foray to the garden, but she needed it. If she stayed near this man any longer, her alpha instincts would send her strange and territorial.

Navigating to the garden, she dodged glittering girls and enchanted men. She managed to duck the disapproving gaze of Violet, who was blessedly engrossed with managing both Hyacinth and Gregory. She was grateful her mama had little attention to spare, especially in her "being a widow does not mean that one's life is over" phase. She somehow thought this applied to Francesca.

Francesca gasped like she was coming up for air when she breached the double doors to the garden. There was a slight breeze which caressed her hot skin. She had a headache dawning on her. She hugged a damp stone statue nearby in a bid to sooth herself.

Once, she asked Anthony how he juggled his alpha instincts in public. She may as well have spoken to him in Gaelic for all the understanding that he showed her. He was for others to manage; his outbursts were passion and his needs understandable. He could cordon himself off during his ruts without fear of suspicion or condemnation. He was the perfect first son - an alpha guided by strong instincts and a gorgeous wife and children to show for it.

'Behave like a proper beta,' she chided herself. Quiet, gentle, inoffensive betas. She remembered the uproar when she had caught the Queen's eye - betas were rarely the ingenues of their seasons. Common as costume jewelry and good only for their family connections. But somehow she had been noticeable - not quite a diamond but a sparkler. A glimmer of something new. She had been terrified that the Queen had seen through her. But she supposed she was grateful that it had brought her to John.

John had been a wonder. He exemplified everything that she admired about betas and was - had been - frankly the best man she had ever met. He had been her rock. She imagined his arms wrapping around her now, but in a different garden on a different night. The memory felt cooler. The harder she grasped at it the more it slipped away from her. She pressed away from the clammy stone, fearing that it's texture might dilute the dwindling embers of the John in her mind.

"I wish you were here," she whispered, her heart clamping.

Francesca steeled herself. 'Shoulders back, Bridgerton proud,' her internal Daphne mustered. Her sister always delivered such militantly clear advice with a tiny smile. Another paragon of the Bridgerton name - a diamond, an omega, a duchess. She and her siblings waded in enormous shoes set down by the eldest man and woman of their generation.

She wheeled back into the party, and accepted a dance from an acquaintance of Anthony's - a Mister Xi who worked as an attorney of law and was also recently widowed. He was a very handsome man, genial and well-read. He had not attempted to berate her nostrils with stink. They shared a polite quadrille. She would not mind if he called on her again, she noted, but she did not feel any particular stirring of interest for him. She reminded herself that she didn't need to find a replacement for John at the third major event of the season.

Two more dances passed with two other partners - neither suitable. The second, a Lord Waithe of some minor barony, was particularly aggravating. He returned from fetching her a lemonade after their cotillion, he had been a marvelous dancer. He pressed the drink in her hand and she offered her compliments to him on his footwork. He beamed and declared, "You know, John always marveled that I was a better dancer than he." Icy anger pierced her. Francesca's mouth pursed, which was a better response than tossing her lemonade over the man's coiffed hair. She did not bother with the formality of kindly tapering the conversation. She claimed she spotted Colin and Penelope and departed straight away.

"Francesca, dear," her mother's tone halted her aimless escape. She was folded into an arm-in-arm stroll with her mama. Violet Bridgerton had positively bloomed in her latter dowager years. She wore a purple gown that heightened her sprightly energy - to Francesca's eye she out-did many of the young women here. Her mother was so radiant that she wondered if Violet was the 'refined cut' that the Queen sought this season. Next to her, Francesca felt like a flower left in the parlor for too long. She had struggled pulling herself together for the marriage mart, even with the assistance of her top-notch ladies maid, Miriam. Acceptable, she had deemed herself in the mirror before heading to the carriage in an uninspired updo and a dove gray gown.

"Enjoying the party?" Violet asked softly, nodding politely at their peers as they navigated the ballroom.

Francesca dredged up her prettiest and most practiced smile, the one that had convinced her tutor to bestow upon her the title angelic. "Of course, mama," she hummed. Her mother heard the falsity and gave her a benevolent look. Violet was annoyingly keen when it came to her children.

"My darling, you know that you don't need to force yourself -" Francesca shook her head and patted her mother's arm. This argument had been revisited thrice in the week ensuing her announcement to re-enter the marriage mart. Violet wrapped her daughter in kind words about how long she took mourning Francesca's father. She felt quite strongly that Francesca was not obligated to hurry. She had the financial means to live quite well as a widow, whether she lodged freely at Kilmartin House or no.

Francesca fidgeted at that. She had... stretched the truth when she announced Kilmartin House was not an option for her after two years of residence. Lady Kilmartin was exceptionally generous and had reached out immediately upon receiving her title. Francesca was welcome to stay there as long as she needed. However, Lady Kilmartin would need to join her while she dealt with Parliament business and her cousin's estate.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Queen's footman summoned their attention to a resplendent central dais where the queen and her court sat. "Her Majesty will address you all now."

Queen Charlotte rose, bedecked in a silver and gold gown. Her towering hair was laced with diamonds, her wrists and stomacher similarly bejeweled. The lords and ladies sank respectfully around her, a menagerie of flowers bending towards their sun. The Queen's gaze scanned the crowd and her lips curled into a mischievous smile when she found the person she sought. "Loyal subjects," she crowed to the crowd before her. "We are, as always, seeking new heights for the gems in our treasury. We have sought some new excitement for this season - a gem honed by time. We believe she deserves to be appraised again." Whispers flitted through the crowd like frantic butterflies.

Violet squeezed Francesca's arm - knowingly, she wondered? While her mother did not have direct line to the queen's ear as she had when Lady Danbury had regularly joined the season, Violet collected information with the best gossipmongers. Perhaps she had a sense of which gem her Majesty was selecting. She dreaded this. When you were in the spotlight, your flaws were magnified as glaringly as your embellishments. She had been a gentler girl with less grief around her neck in her first season. She had been able to hide her defects behind her natural shyness. She feared that being placed center stage again would ruin her. Or worse, ruin those associated with her.

"Your Queen presents to you this seasons sparkling diamond - a rarity from England's wilder parts - Lady of Kilmartin, Michaela Stirling." The Queen extended her hand and Michaela Stirling slipped through the crowd and laughed with her Majesty on the dais.

Francesca's stomach plummeted. The candles in the room seemed to dim, paltry lights that they were to the glorious refraction of Michaela. The woman had dressed in magenta, the gown almost glimmering more pointedly than her lively eyes. Her cheeks shimmered in the warm light, rich brown skin dappled with a pretty rouge. Her full lips were painted the same color as her garnet necklace. Of course she would be this season's diamond, she made Charlotte's own diadem appear as cheap as glass paste.

This presentation made Francesca want to flee more than ever.

At one point, she had thought that she and Michaela were becoming close. She had been the only solace following John's death, the only person who had gotten Francesca to untangle herself. Francesca had felt like they had seen each other in grief. When Michaela had fled in the middle of the night, she realized that she had misinterpreted polite kindness for true companionship. They had not seen each other for two years, sending only genial missives. Within the day of Michaela's announcement that she would be returning to her London home, Francesca had prepared the estate for Michaela's return and decamped to Bridgerton House.

"Come along," Violet murmured, shooting a thin lipped glare at Michaela. "You look pale as milk, let us get you some more refreshment."

Francesca was navigated through the partygoers. She felt apart from herself. Michaela was here. And her mother was announcing her distaste, because Francesca was a coward. She was handed a fresh lemonade by her mother and herded into a secluded parlor by a footman at Violet's request. She settled Francesca and assured her she would be back. A country dance in the Scottish style was being stirred in the ballroom, likely as part of the celebration of Michaela's new title. Francesca thought of the reassuring pressure of Michaela's hand on her waist - firm as they whirled around each other at John's wake. She felt woozy.

She pressed her hand to her forehead and allowed herself to collapse back into the chaise. Perhaps she needed something stiffer than lemonade to get her through tonight. She could bribe the footman to bring her some liquid courage. Francesca weighed her options and glanced around for a pianoforte. Perhaps she could soothe her mood by other means?

Mercifully, there was one in the room. She seated herself and allowed her hands to lead the way. Mozart spun out of her fingers with ease. She barely appreciated the music, she just required the rote movements. A forceful Beethoven, and a soft folk song, it didn't matter as long as she didn't spiral into her own thoughts. Perhaps Violet was right and it wasn't time yet. Francesca was certain she could retreat from society again, whether Whistledown had announced her intentions or not.

A door clicked open and shut again and Francesca tore her hands away from the instrument, ashamed to have resorted to childish action to cope with her stress. "Sorry," she apologized immediately as her eyes locked onto Michaela, back pressed to the door, an apology about bothering you overlapping with Francesca's.

Their eyes locked for the first time since Michaela had returned to London. Francesca felt her body churn in anxiety and braced herself for Michaela's smell. It hit her open mouth - woodsy, scotch-like in it's smokey sweetness and intoxicating effect and bracing like the highlands she came from. Her back straightened. She had forgotten how complex it was, like John's but only in the way a sea cliff's edge is like a terrace.

The worst of it is that Michaela used no artifice to achieve this effect. She just called to Francesca's senses. A siren on the rocks and Francesca a hapless, idiot sailor who didn't understand why she found doom so compelling.

"I was - ah - just -" Francesca hunted for words while her mind churned. Michaela made her thoughts run wild. She could gather either her tongue or her mind but never marry the two in action while they shared a room with Michaela.

"You do not need to stop playing on my account, Francesca," Michaela offered, relaxing into a casual posture and settling on a tête-à-tête with her back to Francesca. She tossed an arm cavalierly over the middle section of the twisting seat. "I needed a reprieve from the circus."

"It is not often that you are out-performed," Francesca couldn't help but to tease.

She worried briefly that she should not be so familiar with a woman who she had barely spoken to in years. Like John, Michaela felt so immediately familiar to Francesca even as she set her on edge. Thankfully, Michaela chortled ruefully. "Her Majesty certainly knows how to commandeer one into position." Francesca could not see Michaela's face, but she was struck by the bitterness she felt from the other woman.

"It is challenging, is it not?" Francesca drifted from the pianoforte to the other open seat on the tête-à-tête. She turned her head to study Michaela's pinned curls. "Did she warn you?"

The dark ringlets bounced negatively. "I met with her Majesty upon my arrival in London, to thank her and express my honor for my ancestral title. She was surprised to discover that I was an unattached omega. She insisted I come to her soiree. I rather suspect she finds this fol-de-rol amusing."

Francesca squirmed sympathetically. "I hated my time as the Queens sparkler too." They sat in silence.

Hesitantly, Francesca dropped her hand onto Michaela's. She was surprised how her palm fizzed at this contact, even through their gloves. Michaela's gaze snapped to Francesca's, and Francesca was startled to process how close they were. Michaela's face dominated her gaze and she seemed so terribly exposed. This was not the brash, easy woman who charmed those around her with tales of Scotland. Her eyes implored Francesca to have wisdom for her, her lips slightly parted in an unhappy moue. Francesca felt her heart pound like it hadn't since John had delivered her the sheet music, and recoiled from the touch.

The women collected themselves, adjusting their costumes. "It ends quickly," Francesca counseled. "I know that you... dislike courting. Press yourself to the wallpaper and sooner or later they lose interest."

"I do not think I can fade into the background like you," Michaela declared, surging from her seat. Francesca studied the woman as she paced, with her vibrant clothes and her undeniable presence. So unlike any omega that Francesca had been taught to expect - much like her Majesty in that sense. No doubt another reason Michaela had caught the Queen's attention.

"Then do not attend social functions for a while. The ton ignores recluses."

Michaela smirked at Francesca knowingly. Francesca swallowed the knot in her throat. "I fear this will also not do. I need to establish the Stirling name anew - John's absence has lead our business partners to forget us. I must connect with our friends. And I do not dislike these parties as much as I dislike -" she stopped herself but Francesca understood.

"The men of the ton are utterly overbearing."

"You are not an omega. You have no idea. I have worked for years to avoid this very situation. John - John understood and he protected me." Francesca wished she could dab away the frustrated expression on Michaela's face. She could not erase their society as easily. She knew well from Daphne and Eloise that the pressures on omegas were enormous - marry immediately and Do Not be caught unaware by an alpha with designs upon your womb. Her lips pressed together with the realization that she was a terrible threat to Michaela, repressed or no, an omega could be ruined by being too close with an alpha unchaperoned. She did not know why this had not bothered her sooner.

'You are functionally a beta,' she insisted to herself. 'Nothing of any serious concern to Michaela. Just a widow to her cousin and nothing more.'

Francesca wandered thoughtfully to the pianoforte and teased the keys with a snippet of a reel she had learned from John during their first winter together. Michaela hummed along with her, voice mingling delightfully with the instrument. When Francesca and John had started courting in earnest, sharing music in the parlor and attending concerts, the onslaught of men had calmed to a trickle. John had been Michaela's bulwark against the world as well, she remembered how he had chastised her for attempting to set a gentleman on Michaela.

"What if we found you a suitor?" Francesca pondered aloud.

"And who would you have take my heart?" Michaela rejoined pointedly, resting on the pianoforte's lid. In spite of her defensive tone, she set her chin on her hands as though she were considering Francesca's gambit.

Francesca did not like to admit how much the idea of someone courting Michaela sparked a ferocious defensiveness. She resisted the unsettling urge to growl. She needed to up her dosage on her herbals - perhaps she was near to a rut. This would account for the acuity of her senses and her tempestuous emotions. She was unsettled and protective of a member of John's family. Of her family.

"Perhaps not a real suitor." Francesca's words were measured, both so her tone would not betray her and because she was drafting her scheme. Her fingers flew across the keys as her mind worked through the problem. "Daphne told me that when she and Simon were courting, they did it to increase interest in Daphne and decrease interest in the Duke. So we do not want to invent someone too desirable or nearby so we do not draw too much attention to you."

Michaela's eyes lit up with mischief. "A Scottish rogue, perhaps?"

"We do not want to damage your reputation, either," Francesca observed, "You do need to operate in society to conduct your business."

"Not a rogue then... a Scotsman and a friend of the family. Attachment formed before I arrived."

"Yes! That's good. Perhaps a mister rather than a lord, so that people do not go hunting for him..."

"Mister Ellington," Michaela added. "He works as a merchant and so often must travel for months on end, no matter how I beg him to stay."

"And he will not formalize the attachment until his fortunes are sure enough! He should probably be an alpha, to make his claim stronger." Francesca feels herself getting excited. Things are starting to fall into place. "We could send you flowers -"

"We?" Michaela asked, eyebrow arching.

Francesca flushed, the question leading to a halt in her instrumentation. "That is... if you desire an accomplice. I am sure you are more than capable on your own."

Michaela's gaze weighed Francesca. Her mouth quirked as though debating internally. "No, I rather think we'll need two parties to support this endeavor. And two people talking about Mr. Ellington, gentleman alpha from Scotland will make the story more plausible to the ton."

"What shall be his first name?" Francesca wondered.

"Frances," Michaela announced confidently. "In your honor, as the hatcher of this plot." Francesca delighted being in Michaela's inner circle. It was an unexpected gift. She felt warmth spreading through her, an ease she had not felt for a long time. "You know, this charade might be easier to conduct if you were at Kilmartin House with me. We could get our stories straight. Plot next moves." Michaela delivered this statement breezily, leaning forward on the pianoforte.

Francesca's mouth went dry, shocked by how artfully Michaela's gown featured her bust and clavicles. It was like when one saw a beautiful portrait at a gallery. They were overwhelming on an epic scale.

"I -" Francesca gathered her senses. "I disagree," she insisted, clearing her throat and wrenching her eyes from the stunning woman. "If we are to craft a suitor for the outside world, we'll need someone outside the house who can operate out of the view of the ton. And besides, I am on my own journey through the marriage mart and could only be a burden to you."

"You could never be a burden, Francesca." There was something in Michaela's tone that Francesca could not identify. Her eyes wandered back to Lady Kilmartin, who looked quite serious. "Regardless, as co-conspirators we will need to arrange regular rendezvous." Francesca's stomach flipped. Nerves tingled along with unmistakable excitement. Perhaps she could even become Michaela's friend this way. They had not been able to connect the last time, perhaps now was her chance. It was a way to have a piece of John with her again.

"Of course." Did she sound too eager? Alas, that was all too likely.

"Perfect." An easy grin spread across Michaela's face, and she bounced away from her perch. "Then it is settled - we shall have tea tomorrow to discern next steps and rebuff any gentlemen callers from tonight. I shall make sure to talk nonstop about Frances for the rest of the night - how we reconnected today after years apart. Do make sure to send me flowers, tomorrow. Big, elaborate ones." Her expression was mockingly stern and Fran laughed.

"Anything for you, dearest." The endearment slipped out thoughtlessly, like they were an intimate couple rather than two budding friends. Francesca felt a brief worry that she overstepped. Michaela winked at her, which wreaked havoc on Francesca.

"I look forward to it." And with that, Michaela slipped from the room.

Francesca felt a giddy sort of airiness. Had she really concocted this silly scheme with Michaela? Would it even work? Did she care if it meant getting closer to Michaela? Could she allow herself the possibility of Michaela slipping away like a thief in the night again? It was all too much to consider at once. She needed to figure out how to send Michaela flowers without it seeming they came from her. Benedict would have helped her, but he was quite pregnant and sequestered in the countryside with his wife. It was a tragedy that the ton was so awkward around male omegas. Perhaps Footman John would be willing to assist - he often supported Hyacinth's hare-brained schemes and she was certain he would happily embrace extra income in anticipation of his wedding to Hazel.

Violet returned to find her daughter at the pianoforte. Oddly, Francesca's fingers lay idle, like Violet beheld a painting of her daughter but not the real thing. Francesca looked so flushed that Violet encouraged her to retire early. "You still seem overwrought. Retreat may be best, my dear."

Francesca allowed herself to packed into the carriage and whisked home. All the while her mind worked through the events of the night over and over again.