Crown of Ashes

The morning bells of Ashford Estate tolled across the gray sky, their hollow clang signaling the start of another day in a house that had never been a home to me. The servants bustled through the grand stone corridors, their arms laden with linens and silver trays, and though I bore the title of “Lady Carolyn Ashford,” none bothered to bow or greet me. They swept past me as if I were one of them—worse, perhaps, because I reminded them of something scandalous and shameful that even whispers dared not voice too loudly. “Out of the way, girl,” muttered one scullery maid, her elbow brushing roughly against mine as she passed. I held my tongue, lowering my gaze as I always did. What was the use of speaking? They would only laugh, call me pretender, bastard, mistake. My father had ensured I carried the name Ashford, but never its honor. He spun a story of charity—that I had been adopted into the household as a show of gratitude for the Ashfords’ good name and benevolence. Society had believed him, or at least pretended to. It was far easier to praise a nobleman’s kindness than to admit he had strayed from his vows and sired a child in another woman’s bed. My mother had been that woman. She died before I could even know her, though I often wondered if she would have loved me. In this estate, love was a thing I had never tasted. The heavy oak doors to the dining hall stood open, and I stepped inside with caution. The long table glittered with pewter plates and crystal goblets, already steaming with the morning’s feast. Roasted pheasant, soft bread, honeyed fruit—luxuries that the Ashfords claimed as their birthright. At the head of the table sat my father, Lord Gregory Ashford, his thick beard neatly combed, his silver ring glinting as he raised his goblet. Beside him, Lady Beatrice, his wife, draped in velvet the color of crushed wine, regarded me with her familiar sneer. She had perfected the art of disdain; even her silences stung. Across from her sat her children, my half-siblings. Eleanor, the jewel of the family, with hair like spun gold and eyes like summer skies, received the first smile of the morning from Father. “You look radiant today, my dear,” he told her, pressing a kiss to her hand. Eleanor basked in his praise, her lips curving into a smile that reminded me of the cruel little smirks she reserved only for me. Beside her sat Thomas, older by a year, who kept to himself as always. He stirred his porridge without eating, his expression unreadable. He never mocked me as Eleanor did, but he never defended me either. Silence was his shield, and I envied it. “Sit, Carolyn,” Father said without warmth, gesturing to the far end of the table—well away from the family. It was not an invitation; it was a command, the same as one might give to a hound waiting scraps. I obeyed, folding my hands in my lap as the servant set a plate before me. Not roasted pheasant or honeyed fruit, but a stale crust of bread and watered wine. I glanced toward Father, but his gaze was already fixed on Eleanor, who chattered about the Prince’s upcoming hunt and how she might catch his attention. “You are the envy of every maiden, Eleanor,” Lady Beatrice purred. “The Prince himself cannot ignore you forever.” Father chuckled, pride swelling in his chest. “Indeed. When the crown seeks a bride, it will not look further than Ashford blood. Eleanor will bring honor to this family, Beatrice. Perhaps even a crown.” My chest tightened. His words rang like a blade driven deeper into a wound I had carried all my life. He had never spoken of me with pride. My name was never tied to honor. I was a secret, a stain, repainted into charity. I forced myself to nibble the bread, though each bite turned to ash in my mouth. Eleanor leaned toward Father, lowering her voice just enough for me to hear. “It is a shame, is it not, that some wear our name yet lack our blood.” Her eyes flicked to me, blue and sharp. Father did not scold her. He did not defend me. He only sipped his wine, his silence an agreement more cutting than words. Lady Beatrice, however, smiled as though Eleanor’s remark had been the wittiest jest. “Hush, child. It is poor manners to mock the less fortunate.” She turned her gaze to me, her lips curving in false pity. “Carolyn should be grateful she is given shelter under this roof at all.” My throat burned, but I bowed my head. Gratitude. That was the price of my existence. After the meal, the family rose, Father offering his arm to Beatrice, Eleanor trailing behind like a radiant shadow, Thomas silent as ever. I remained at the table until the servants cleared the plates, one of them shoving the crust from my plate into a bucket for the hounds. My stomach growled, but I said nothing. “Fetch the laundry, Lady Carolyn,” the steward barked as though the title were a jest. “Her Ladyship insists the linens be scrubbed before noon.” I rose, my fingers tightening into fists at my sides. I was a Lady only in name, a servant in truth. Even the maids snickered as I carried the heavy basket of soiled cloth down the stone steps to the washroom. The stench of lye clung to my skin as I worked, my hands raw and red. Through the open courtyard window, I caught sight of Eleanor twirling in a gown of blue silk, her laughter ringing as Father watched proudly. Lady Beatrice clapped her hands in delight, already planning which noble guests might be invited to witness her daughter’s beauty. I paused, my heart twisting. How easily they adored her, how effortlessly she commanded affection. I was invisible, save for when they wished to remind me of my place. As the sun sank and the shadows stretched long across the estate, I returned to my chamber—or rather, the small garret tucked beneath the eaves, far removed from the richly furnished rooms of my siblings. The straw mattress scratched, the single candle sputtered. I sank onto the bed, pressing my sore hands against my skirts. A Lady, they called me. But a Lady was meant to be cherished, respected, honored. I was none of those things. I was a shadow of a secret, raised beneath the weight of shame. And yet, as I closed my eyes, a strange fire burned within me. Perhaps it was longing, perhaps resentment. I did not yet know it would one day become the blaze that would consume the Ashfords’ lies. For now, I was Carolyn, the bastard dressed in borrowed silks. But the day would come when they would remember my name.