Page 114

He paused.

“Lady Emma is one of our children now, too.”

Marina’s eyes filled.

For six years, she had lived beneath the weight of a story other people had invented about her.

The Christmas Witch.

The woman whose husband had died at the altar.

The woman children dared one another to approach.

Yet here they stood, offering her kindness when she needed it most.

Lady Beatrice took another step forward.

“Your Grace, there is something more I must say.”

Marina looked at her.

“I was cruel to you. I spread those dreadful rumours. I encouraged people to fear you.”

Her voice trembled.

“And I was responsible for what happened at your cottage. I sent the men who damaged your glasshouse.”

Marina went still. Beside her, Ambrose stiffened.

For a moment, she was no longer standing in the warm drawing room. She was back in her cottage, staring at shattered panes and ruined plants, wondering how anyone could hate her enough to destroy the one place where she had felt safe.

“You?” she whispered, though she had assumed as much it was still shocking to hear.

Lady Beatrice lowered her head.

“Yes.”

Marina could scarcely breathe.

“I cannot excuse it,” Lady Beatrice continued. “I was spiteful and foolish, and I am ashamed. You did nothing to deserve it.”

Ambrose’s hand closed firmly around Marina’s.

“You have admitted a serious wrong,” he said. “An apology does not erase the damage.”

“I know, Your Grace. I shall pay for the repairs. Whatever is needed.”

Marina looked at the woman who had made so many years of her life miserable.

There were a hundred things she might have said.

She might have spoken of the plants she had nurtured from seedlings, of the books ruined beyond saving, of the little glasshouse that had been her refuge when the rest of the world seemed determined to shut her out.

Instead, she drew a slow breath.

“The glasshouse will not be whole again until spring,” she said. “And some things cannot be replaced.”

Lady Beatrice bowed her head.