The Ashbourne Bride

Adele

The child entered the world in the early morning light, just as the first gentle rain of spring tapped against the manor's windows. A quiet, tentative cry shattered the silence, a melody that resonated deep within Adele, awakening something she had thought long buried.

She had dreaded this moment—not because of the pain, but for what it might bring. She had worried whether she would feel love, whether her heart, dulled by a lifeless marriage and years of emotional restraint, would remain cold and unyielding.

But when they placed her son in her arms, something shifted within her.

He was warm, rosy-cheeked, and so impossibly small. As his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and uncertain, she exhaled for the first time in months.

He held no knowledge of duty or legacy, nor did he understand the pieces of her that had been taken. 

He recognized only her heartbeat, her voice, her embrace.

He recognized her. 

And in that moment—Adele, once porcelain and polished, now transformed by this tiny being—fell in love with an intensity that both thrilled and terrified her.

Hours later, Henry entered the chamber, clad in a pristine waistcoat, his hair smoothed back with more care than usual. 

When he caught sight of the boy, a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. 

"Our son," he declared, as if claiming a kingdom. 

Adele looked up at him. Her eyes were weary, her body frail, yet she nodded with a composure that belied her exhaustion. 

"He's healthy," she remarked softly. 

Henry perched on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to touch the baby's head, his hand trembling just slightly.

"A son," he echoed. "We've secured the line." 

Pride rang in his voice, heavy with ancestral weight. But beneath that, there was something more genuine: relief, wonder, and a hint of love.

Yet it wasn't the love she sought, nor could she reciprocate it.

Adele spent most of her days in the nursery. The baby, whom Henry had named Charles Lionel Ashbourne—a name far too grand—was rarely out of her hold. The nurses were well aware: Lady Adele would not be one to stand at a distance like so many mothers at court.

With Charles, she found her laughter again—not the practiced chuckles of polite society but true, unguarded joy.

He transformed her.

Gave her courage.

When Henry visited, he often lingered at the doorway, a strange wistfulness in his gaze. One day, he spoke softly, "You've never looked at me the way you look at Jason."

Adele found herself silent. 

What could she possibly say?

He had ceased to be cruel—not since the baby arrived. He brought her books, inquired about her appetite, and allowed her to choose which social gatherings to attend or skip.

He was a good husband—on paper.

But love cannot be manufactured through obligation, and hearts cannot be commanded into affection.

Henry treated her like a rare artwork, exquisite and untouchable, meant for display.

But never truly his.

Late One Evening, she stood by the nursery window, cradling Charles and humming softly. The fire cast golden shadows across the room.

Gazing down at her son, feeling him instinctively curl against her chest, she whispered, "You're the best part of me."

Unbeknownst to her, Henry stood quietly behind her, listening and observing.

He said nothing—only slipped away, a drink in hand. 

As he walked back to his study, he pondered: would he spend his life loving a woman who could never truly be his?