Chapter 2 - The Shadows of Ashkcom
The silence in the master bedchamber hung so heavy that Edward could hear the crackle of the hearth fire and the delicate, rhythmic breathing of the newborn infant wrapped in linen.
Edward took an involuntary step back toward the open doorway, his gloved fingers still pressed against his heavy wool coat. Inside his breast pocket, the crisp legal documents—signed by his solicitors in London, drawn up to dissolve the union between Lord Edward Ashford and Lady Charlotte Ashford—felt like a brand against his skin.
"Three times," Edward echoed, his voice gravelly and unfamiliar to his own ears. "You wrote to me three times?"
Charlotte did not flinch. Though her skin was translucent from the grueling hours of labor, her dark eyes held an icy, impenetrable dignity. She reached down with trembling fingers and gently stroked the faint dark peach fuzz atop the infant's tiny head.
"The first letter was when the doctor confirmed the child," Charlotte said softly, her tone lacking any bid for sympathy. "I wrote it in winter. I asked if you intended to return to claim your heir, or if I should raise the child as a widow in all but name. I burnt it before the ink was dry."
Edward felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. "And the second?"
"The second was when I felt him kick for the first time," Charlotte continued, looking up at him with a shadow of a bitter smile. "I believed, in my foolishness, that a father deserved to know his lineage was continuing. But then I remembered your face on the morning you left. You looked at me as if I were a prison sentence imposed by your father's deathbed guilt. So I threw the second letter into the grate."
"And the third?" Edward pushed, stepping closer to the bed despite himself, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the small, red-faced child sleeping peacefully beside his wife.
"The third," Charlotte whispered, her voice finally quivering with a sharp edge of grief, "was written two weeks ago, when the fever took hold and the physician warned me that neither I nor the baby might survive the birth. I wrote to tell you where to bury me. But my pride returned before the messenger left the courtyard. I tore it to pieces."
Edward swallowed hard, feeling an unaccustomed rush of guilt wash over him. For three years, he had lived in a comfortable, quiet townhouse in London, immersing himself in international trade, parliamentary debates, and a detached bachelor existence. He had convinced himself that Charlotte was content with the generous allowance he provided, living a peaceful, independent life in the country estate. He had told himself that ending the marriage officially was an act of generosity—allowing her to marry a man who might actually love her.
He had never imagined this.
"Why did you not send for me today?" Edward demanded softly. "Margaret's apron is soaked in blood, Charlotte. The hallway smells of death. You could have died here, alone!"
"I was not alone," Charlotte retorted, her dark eyes flashing with sudden heat. "I had Margaret. I had the household that actually cares for Ashkcom Hall. You chose to abandon this estate three years ago, Edward. You forfeited your right to be concerned about what happens within these walls."
Before Edward could answer, a soft knock sounded at the door frame. Margaret stood there, her hands washed clean, though her eyes remained grim and guarded.
"My lord," Margaret said stiffly, addressing Edward without the customary curtsy. "There is a carriage turning into the grand driveway. It bears the crest of the Marquess of Hargrove."
Charlotte’s pale face lost whatever tiny speck of color it possessed. Her hand reflexively gathered the white linen bundle closer to her chest.
"Lord Hargrove?" Edward frowned, turning to Margaret. "Julian Hargrove? What business does my cousin have at Ashkcom Hall at this hour?"
Margaret looked directly at Charlotte before answering Edward. "His lordship has been visiting the estate quite frequently over the past six months, my lord. Ever since rumors began to circulate that the mistress was... indisposed."
Edward turned back to Charlotte, a sudden, dark suspicion rearing its head in his mind. Julian Hargrove was his paternal cousin—a cunning, ambitious nobleman who had long coveted the Ashford title, the vast estates, and the seat in Parliament. Since Edward had no legitimate children, Julian was currently first in line to inherit everything should Edward die without an heir.
A son changed everything. A legitimate male heir smashed Julian Hargrove's ambitions into dust.
"Did you invite him here?" Edward asked Charlotte, his voice dropping into a dangerous, protective register he hadn't known he possessed.
"Of course not," Charlotte spat back, clutching her child tightly. "Julian has been prowling around Ashkcom like a vulture for months. He offered to 'assist' in managing the tenant farms while you were away in London. He came here last month, demanding to know why I had withdrawn from society, asking uncomfortable questions about my health."
The sound of iron carriage wheels crunching heavily over the gravel driveway echoed through the open bedroom window.
Edward stared at his wife—a woman he barely knew, yet who had just handed him a son—and then looked down at his own coat pocket where the divorce papers rested. If Julian discovered the child before Edward established his paternity and registered the birth, Julian’s legal team would tear Charlotte’s reputation to shreds, claiming the child was illegitimate, born of an abandoned wife while her husband was absent in London.
In the eyes of high society and the law, an abandoned wife’s child was vulnerable.
Edward reached slowly into his coat pocket. He pulled out the crisp, neatly folded legal documents bearing his signature and the wax seal of his London solicitors.
Charlotte watched him, her lips pressed into a thin, defensive line. "Are those the papers?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chin. "Are you going to serve them to me now, while I lie in my blood?"
Edward looked at the papers. Then, without taking his eyes off Charlotte, he stepped over to the blazing fireplace.
He tossed the documents into the red heart of the coals.
The paper curled, blackened, and burst into bright orange flames, turning to ash in seconds.
Charlotte gasped softly, staring at the hearth in disbelief.
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"Whatever we are to each other, Charlotte," Edward said, his voice cold and resolute as he straightened his cravat, "you are the Lady of Ashkcom, and that boy is an Ashford. No one will question his name. Not Julian, and not the world."
He turned on his heel and strode toward the bedchamber door to meet his cousin below.
