… I love him madly. Madly! Truly, I would die without him.
—from the Countess ofKilmartin to her sister Eloise Bridgerton, one week after Francesco’s wedding
“I declare, Francesca, you are the healthiest expectant mother I have ever laid eyes upon.”
Francesca smiled at her mother-in-law, who had just entered the garden of the St. James’s mansion they now shared. Overnight, it seemed, Kilmartin House had become a household of women. First Janet had taken up residence, and then Helen, Michael’s mother. It was a house full of Stirling females, or at least those who had acquired the name in marriage.
And it all felt so different.
It was strange. She would have thought that she’d sense John’s presence, feel him in the air, see him in the surroundings they’d shared for two years. But instead, he was simply gone, and the influx of women had changed the tone of the house entirely. Francesca supposed that was a good thing; she needed the support of women right now.
But it was odd, living among women. There were more flowers now—vases everywhere, it seemed. And there was no longer any lingering smell of John’s cheroot, or the sandalwood soap he’d favored.
Kilmartin House now smelled of lavender and rose-water, and every whiff of it broke Francesca’s heart.
Even Michael had been strangely distant. Oh, he came to call—several times a week, if one cared to count, which Francesca had to admit she did. But he wasn’t there, not in the way he had been before John’s death. He wasn’t the same, and she supposed she ought not to castigate him for that, even if only in her mind.
He was hurting, too.
She knew that. She reminded herself of it when she saw him, and his eyes were distant. She reminded herself of it when she didn’t know what to say to him, and when he didn’t tease her.
And she reminded herself of it when they sat together in the drawing room and had nothing to say.
She’d lost John, and now it seemed she’d lost Michael, too. And even with two mother hens fussing over her— three, if she counted her own, who came to call every single day—she was so lonely.
And sad.
No one had ever told her how sad she’d be. Who would have thought to tell her? And even if someone had, even if her mother, who had also been widowed young, had explained the pain, how could she have understood?
It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood. And oh, how Francesca wished she didn’t belong to this melancholy club.
And where was Michael? Why couldn’t he comfort her? Why didn’t he realize how very much she needed him? Him, not his mother. Not anyone’s mother.
She needed Michael, the one person who had known John the way she had, the only person who had loved him as fully. Michael was her one link to the husband she had lost, and she hated him for staying away.
Even when he was here at Kilmartin House, in the same dashed room as her, it wasn’t the same. They didn’t joke, and they didn’t tease. They just sat
there and looked sad and grief stricken, and when they spoke, there was an awkwardness that had never been there before.
Couldn’t anything remain as it was before John had died? It had never occurred to her that her friendship with Michael might be killed off as well.
“How are you feeling, dear?”
Francesca looked up at Janet, belatedly realizing that her mother-in-law had asked her a question. Several, probably, and she’d forgotten to answer, lost in her own thoughts. She did that a lot lately.
“Fine,” she said. “No different than I ever have done.”
Janet shook her head in wonder. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Francesca shrugged. “If it weren’t for the loss of my courses, I’d never know anything was different.”
And it was true. She wasn’t sick, she wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t anything. A trifle more tired than usual, she supposed, but that could be the grief as well. Her mother told her that she’d been tired for a year after her father had died.
Of course her mother had had eight children to look after. Francesca just had herself, with a small army of servants treating her like an invalid queen.
“You’re very fortunate,” Janet said, sitting down on the chair opposite Francesca’s. “When I was carrying John, I
was sick every single morning. And most afternoons as well.“
Francesca nodded and smiled. Janet had told this to her before, several times. John’s death had turned his mother into a magpie, constantly chattering on, trying to fill the silence that was Francesca’s grief. Francesca adored her for it, for trying, but she suspected the only thing that would assuage her pain was time.
“I’m so pleased you’re carrying,” Janet said, leaning forward and impulsively squeezing Francesca’s hand. “It makes it all a bit more bearable. Or I suppose a bit less unbearable,” she added, not really smiling, but looking like she was trying to.
Francesca just nodded, afraid that speaking would loosen the tears in her eyes.
“I’d always wanted more children,” Janet confessed. “But it wasn’t to be. And when John died, I—Well, let’s just say that no grandchild shall ever be loved more than the one you’re carrying.” She stopped, pretending to dab her handkerchief against her nose but really aiming for her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. It’s a piece of him. That’s all that matters.”
“I know,” Francesca said softly, placing her hand on her belly. She wished there was some sign of the baby within. She knew it was too soon to feel movement; she wasn’t even three months along, by her carefully calculated estimation. But all her dresses still fit perfectly, and her food still tasted just as it always had, and she simply wasn’t experiencing any of the quirks and illnesses that other women had told her about.
She’d have been happy to have been casting up her accounts each morning, if only so that she could imagine the baby was waving its hand with a cheerful, “I’m here!”
“Have you seen Michael recently?” Janet asked.
“Not since Monday,” Francesca said. “He doesn’t come to call very often anymore.”
“He misses John,” Janet said softly.
“So do I,” Francesca replied, and she was horrified by the sharp edge to her voice.
“It must be very difficult for him,” Janet mused.
Francesca just stared at her, her lips parting with surprise.
“I do not mean to say it is not difficult for you, too,” Janet said quickly, “but think of the tenuousness of his position. He won’t know if he’s to be the earl for six more months.”
“There is nothing I can do about that.”
“No, of course not,” Janet assured her, “but it does put him in awkward straits. I’ve heard more than one matron say that they simply can’t consider him as a potential suitor for their daughters until and unless you give birth to a girl. It’s one thing to marry the Earl of Kilmartin. It’s quite another when it’s his impoverished cousin. And no one knows which he will be.”
“Michael isn’t impoverished,” Francesca said peevishly, “and besides, he would never marry while in mourning for John.”
“No, I suppose not, but I do hope he starts looking,” Janet said. “I do so want him to be happy. And of course if he is to be the earl, he shall have to beget an heir. Otherwise the title shall go to that awful Debenham side of the family.” Janet shuddered at the thought.
“Michael will do what he must,” Francesca said, although she wasn’t so sure. It was difficult to imagine him marrying. It had always been difficult
—Michael wasn’t the sort to stay true to any woman for very long—but now it just seemed strange. For years, she had had John, and Michael had been their companion. Could she bear it if he married, and then she was the third wheel? Was her heart big enough to be happy for him while she was alone?
She rubbed her eyes. She felt very tired, and in truth a bit weak. A good sign, she supposed; she’d heard that pregnant women were supposed to be more tired than she usually was. She looked over at Janet. “I think I shall go upstairs and take a nap.”
“An excellent idea,” Janet said approvingly. “You need your rest.”
Francesca nodded and stood, then grabbed the arm of the chair to steady herself when she swayed. “I don’t know what is wrong with me,” she said, attempting a wobbly smile. “I feel very unsteady. I—”
Janet’s gasp cut her off.
“Janet?” Francesca looked at her mother-in-law with concern. She’d gone quite pale, and one shaking hand rose to meet her lips.
“What is it?” Francesca asked, and then she realized that Janet wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at her chair.
With slowly dawning horror, Francesca looked down, forcing herself to look at the seat she’d just vacated.
There, in the middle of the cushion, was a small patch of red. Blood.
Life would have been easier, Michael thought wryly, if he’d been given to drink. If ever there was a time to overindulge, to drown one’s sorrows in the bottle, this was it.
But no, he’d been cursed with a robust constitution and a marvelous ability to hold his liquor with dignity and flair. Which meant that if he wanted to reach any sort of mind-numbing oblivion, he’d have to down the entire bottle of whisky sitting on his desk, and maybe even then some.
He looked out the window. It wasn’t yet dark. Even he, dissolute rake that he tried to be, couldn’t bring himself to drink an entire bottle of whisky before the sun went down.
Michael tapped his fingers against his desk, wishing he knew what to do with himself. John had been dead for six weeks now, but he was still living in his modest apartments in the Albany. He couldn’t quite bring himself to take up residence in Kilmartin House. It was the residence of the earl, and that wouldn’t be him for at least another six months.
Or maybe not ever.
According to Lord Winston, whose lectures Michael had eventually been forced to tolerate, the title would go into abeyance until Francesca delivered. And if she gave birth to a boy, Michael would remain in the same position he’d always been in—cousin to the earl.
But it wasn’t Michael’s peculiar situation that was keeping him away. He’d have been reticent to move into Kilmartin House even if Francesca hadn’t been pregnant. She was still there.
She was still there, and she was still the Countess of Kilmartin, and even if he was the earl, with no questions attached to the title, she wouldn’t be his countess, and he just didn’t know if he could take the irony of it.
He’d thought that his grief might finally overtake his longing for her, that he might finally be with her and not want her, but no, his breath still caught every time she walked into the room, and his body tightened when she brushed past him, and his heart still ached with the pain of loving her.
Except now it was all wrapped in an extra layer of guilt—as if he hadn’t had enough of that while John was alive. She was in pain, and she was grieving, and he ought to be comforting her, not lusting after her. Good God, John wasn’t even cold in his grave. What kind of monster would lust after his wife?
His pregnant wife.
He was already stepping into John’s shoes in so many ways. He would not complete the betrayal by taking his place with Francesca as well.
And so he stayed away. Not completely; that would have been too obvious, and besides, he couldn’t do that, not with his mother and John’s in residence at Kilmartin House. Plus, everyone was looking to him to manage the affairs of the earl, even though the title wasn’t potentially to be his for another six months.
He did it, though. He didn’t mind the details, didn’t care that he was spending several hours per day looking after a fortune that might go to another. It was the least he could do for John.
And for Francesca. He couldn’t bring himself to be a friend to her, not the way he ought, but he could make sure that her financial affairs were in order.
But he knew she didn’t understand. She often came to visit him while he was working in John’s study at Kilmartin House, poring over reports from various land stewards and solicitors. And he could tell that she was looking for their old camaraderie, but he just couldn’t do it.
Call him weak, call him shallow. But he just couldn’t be her friend. Not just yet, anyway.
“Mr. Stirling?”
Michael looked up. His valet was at the door, accompanied by a footman dressed in the unmistakable green and gold livery of Kilmartin House.
“A message for you,” the footman said. “From your mother.”
Michael held out his hand as the footman crossed the room, wondering what it was this time. His mother summoned him to Kilmartin House every other day, it seemed.
“She said it was urgent,” the footman added as he placed the envelope in Michael’s hand.
Urgent, eh? That was new. Michael glanced up at the footman and valet, his steady gaze a clear dismissal, and then, once the room had been emptied, slid his letter-opener under the flap.
Come quickly, was all it said. Francesco has lost the baby.
Michael nearly killed himself rushing to Kilmartin House, racing on horseback at a breakneck pace, ignoring the shouts from the angry pedestrians he’d nearly decapitated in his haste.
But now that he was here, standing in the hall, he had no idea what to do with himself.
Miscarriage? It seemed such a womanly thing. What was he meant to do? It was a tragedy, and he felt horrible for Francesca, but what did they think he could say? Why did they want him here?
And then it hit him. He was the earl now. It was done. Slowly but surely, he was assuming John’s life, filling every corner of the world that had once belonged to his cousin.
“Oh, Michael,” his mother said, rushing into the hall. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He embraced her, his arms awkwardly coming around her. And he said something utterly meaningless like, “Such a tragedy,” but mostly he just stood there, feeling foolish and out of place.
“How is she?” he finally asked, once his mother stepped back. “In shock,” she replied. “She’s been crying.”
He swallowed, wanting desperately to loosen his cravat. “Well, that’s to be expected,” he said. “I—I—”
“She can’t seem to stop,” Helen interrupted. “Crying?” Michael asked.
Helen nodded. “I don’t know what to do.”
Michael measured his breaths. Even. Slow. In and out.
“Michael?” His mother was looking up to him for a response. Maybe for guidance.
As if he would know what to do.
“Her mother came by,” Helen said, when it became apparent that Michael was not going to speak. “She wants Francesca to go back to Bridgerton House.”
“Does Francesca want to?”
Helen shrugged sadly. “I don’t think she knows. It’s all such a shock.”
“Yes,” Michael said, swallowing again. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to get out.
“The doctor said we’re not to move her for several days, in any case,” Helen added.
He nodded.
“Naturally, we called for you.”
Naturally? There was nothing natural about it. He’d never felt so out of place, so completely at a loss for words or action.
“You’re Kilmartin now,” his mother said quietly.
He nodded again. Just once. It was as much of an acknowledgment as he could muster.
“I must say I—” Helen stopped, her lips pursing in an odd, jerky manner. “Well, a mother wants the world for her children, but I didn’t—I never would have—”
“Don’t say it,” Michael said hoarsely. He wasn’t ready for anyone to say this was a good thing. And by God, if anyone offered his congratulations…
Well, he wouldn’t be responsible for the violence. “She asked for you,” his mother said.
“Francesca?” he asked, his eyes flying open with surprise. Helen nodded. “She said she wanted you.”
“I can’t,” he said.
“You have to.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head, panic making his movements too quick. “I can’t go in there.”
“You can’t abandon her,” his mother said. “She was never mine to abandon.”
“Michael!” Helen gasped. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Mother,” he said, desperately trying to redirect the conversation, “she needs a woman. What can I do?”
“You can be her friend,” Helen said softly, and he felt eight again, scolded for a thoughtless transgression.
“No,” he said, and his voice horrified him. He sounded like a wounded animal, pained and confused. But there was one thing he knew for certain. He couldn’t see her. Not now. Not yet.
“Michael,” his mother said.
“No,” he said again. “I will… Tomorrow, I’ll…” And he strode for the door with nothing more than a “Give her my best.”
And then he fled, coward that he was.
