Adele
It had taken Adele some time to understand Leopold.
Of the three Ashbourne brothers, he had always been the most elusive — not because he was distant, like Jason, or cold, like Henry — but because he lived so entirely in his mind.
Leopold Ashbourne was a man of logic, of rules and rituals. Tall, lean, always impeccably groomed. His spectacles perched with military precision on the bridge of his nose, and his words were measured like weights in a jeweler's hand. He had studied at Oxford — classics and mathematics — and even now, years later, he spoke as though his every thought were composed in Latin before translated to English.
Adele had once believed he disliked her. He barely spoke during her courtship with Henry. At their wedding, he offered no congratulations, only a soft nod and a watchful gaze that lingered a second too long.
But after Charles was born, something shifted.
A Growing Bond
Leopold began visiting weekly, always under the guise of bringing "reading material appropriate for a child's future governess."
But Adele knew. He came to see her.
Their conversations were dry on the surface — literature, politics, poetry — but there was warmth underneath. A kind of carefulness that felt like protection.
He never flirted. Never touched her. Never dared anything improper.
But when she laughed — really laughed — he always looked up like he was surprised by the sound, and quietly pleased he had caused it.
Subtle Inquiries
She never asked about Jason directly.
Instead:
"Did you hear of that artist's gallery in Marseille?"
"Is it true some painters prefer seclusion to commissions?"
"Would Jason… have gone somewhere warm?"
Leopold's answers were always brief.
"Perhaps."
"I wouldn't know."
"He left no address."
But Adele knew better.
He knew more than he would ever tell.
And part of her suspected it wasn't loyalty to Jason that kept him silent — it was something else. Something tangled in the past between the brothers that she hadn't yet uncovered.
The Dowager Countess
Lady Ashbourne — Henry's mother — had become more present since Charles's birth. At first Adele thought it was pride. But one afternoon, in the rose conservatory, she realized otherwise.
"Charles is… joy," the Dowager said, her needlework idle in her lap.
Adele looked up. "You sound surprised."
"I am." Her voice was soft. "Joy hasn't lived in this house in some time."
A pause.
"I was in love once," she confessed, eyes fixed on the garden beyond the glass. "Before your father-in-law. Before duty."
Adele sat still.
She'd suspected — the way the woman sometimes stared at old portraits with too much sadness, or how she never corrected the Lord when he spoke poorly of Jason.
"But you married him," Adele said gently.
Lady Ashbourne didn't answer. She simply continued stitching, and the thread shook ever so slightly in her hands.
Leopold Again
That evening, Leopold stayed for dinner.
He offered Charles a tiny silver rattle — absurdly elegant and wholly impractical — and spent the evening discussing the decline of romanticism in French poetry.
At one point, Henry, half-amused, clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Leopold, for God's sake, she's just had a child, not defended a thesis."
Leopold had smiled, small and strained.
"Forgive me. I just find Lady Adele's mind… refreshingly uncommon."
And Adele, startled by the compliment, met his eyes.
They lingered — just for a moment.
It was the first time she wondered if he, too, carried a hidden affection.