Adele
The child was born in the early morning hours, just as the first rain of spring touched the manor's wide stone windows. A quiet cry, soft and unsure, cut through the silence like music—and with it, something inside Adele came alive.
She had feared this moment.
Not for the pain, but for what might follow. She'd wondered if she would feel nothing—if her heart, dulled by a loveless marriage and years of practiced restraint, would stay cold.
But the moment they placed her son in her arms, something broke open.
He was warm and red-cheeked and small—so impossibly small—and when his eyes opened, unfocused and fluttering, she exhaled for the first time in months.
He didn't know duty. Or legacy. Or what had been stolen from her.
He only knew her heartbeat. Her voice. Her arms.
He knew her.
And she—Adele, once porcelain and perfect and painfully quiet—fell in love so fiercely it frightened her.
Henry
He entered the chamber hours later, dressed in an immaculate waistcoat, his hair smoothed back with more care than usual.
When he saw the boy, a slow, triumphant smile formed on his lips.
"Our son," he said, like a king claiming a kingdom.
Adele looked up. Her eyes were tired, her body weak—but she gave a small nod, careful, composed.
"He's healthy," she said quietly.
Henry sat at the edge of the bed, leaned forward, and touched the baby's downy head. His hand trembled. Just slightly.
"A son," he repeated. "We've secured the line."
There was pride in his voice. A heavy, ancestral pride. But behind it—just faintly—was something more honest.
Relief. Awe.
Love, even.
But not the love she needed.
And certainly not the kind she could return.
The Days That Followed
Adele stayed mostly in the nursery. The baby, whom Henry had named Charles Lionel Ashbourne, with far too much pomp, was rarely out of her arms. The nurses understood: Lady Adele would not be a distant mother. Not like so many of the women at court.
With Charles, she laughed again. Not the soft, practiced laughter of polite society—but real, unguarded joy.
He changed her.
Made her brave.
When Henry visited, he would sometimes stand at the door and watch her, a strange wistfulness in his eyes. Once, he said quietly, "You've never looked at me the way you look at him."
Adele said nothing.
What could she say?
He wasn't cruel anymore. Not since the baby. He brought her books now, asked about her appetite, let her choose which dinners to attend and which to skip.
He was a good husband—on paper.
But love cannot be conjured by duty. And hearts cannot be commanded into affection.
Henry treated her like a rare painting—exquisite, untouchable, his to display.
But never truly his.
Late One Evening
She stood by the nursery window, cradling Charles, humming softly. The fire was low, casting golden shadows across the room.
She looked down at her son, at the way he curled instinctively against her chest, and whispered, "You're the best part of me."
She didn't hear Henry behind her, watching. Listening.
He said nothing. Just left quietly, a drink in hand.
And as he walked back to his study, he wondered:
Would he spend the rest of his life loving a woman who could never be his?