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“Ernest meets him tomorrow evening, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dalton replied.

Mrs. Dalton sighed and her hand went to her stomach.

“Are you quite alight?”

“Just my stomach, do not trouble yourself, Your Grace.”

“Oh,” Marina said. “I could help with that. I know just the right herbs.”

“Ah yes, I have heard from Cook that you have made good use of the stillrooms,” Mrs. Dalton said with a smile.

Marina smiled, already moving toward the door. “Well,” she remarked with a hint of mischief, “I am called the Christmas Witch for a reason.”

“You are, though I think it a most unkind name for a young lady.”

“Perhaps, but I truly do know herbs. I can help. What troubles you?”

The older woman sighed. “I have had some troubles of late. My stomach, you see. It pains me, and I have the most terrible bile at night when I attempt to sleep. His Grace has allowed me to purchase additional pillows so I might sit up higher, but it helps only a little.”

Marina nodded. “I know just the thing. I will make you a tincture, and a tea that will help you rest.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, that is most kind.”

“Of course. It is my pleasure. Watch over her, Mrs. Dalton,” Marina instructed gently. “I shall return shortly. I fancy a cup of tea.”

She smiled to herself as she left. She rather liked that her knowledge of herbs could still prove useful, even after becoming a duchess.

Sixteen

Ambrose’s carriage made its way through Griffin and Ludlow and arrived at Crestdale at six in the evening. The carriage stopped and he got out, directing Hendricks, the coachman, to park the carriage behind the cottage.

Ernest and the footmen would arrive momentarily, as had been arranged.

He had a list of the items Marina wanted in his pocket and did not expect the errand to take long.

He thought of her then, at the dinner table, alone again.

Although she did not seem to mind it.

He turned the corner and saw the sign he had seen on his first visit telling people to beware of the witch, the penmanship and spelling poor-indicating a child’s work. He grunted and dismounted.

“This nonsense won’t stand anymore,” he said as he ripped the sign out of the ground. He was carrying it back toward the horse when he saw it.

The cottage looked nothing like it had before. The first thing he noticed was the glasshouse. It was utterly smashed. There was not a single window left. He walked briskly toward it and peered inside. Dozens of flower pots had been knocked over and lay cracked on their sides. Shelves had been ripped down, causing more destruction.

A shelf of books, the same one she had rushed for when she first learned of his condition, was on the ground, the books scattered about.

He walked inside, glass crunching beneath his feet, and made his way into the cottage beyond. It too had been damaged. Cabinets had been opened and their contents thrown on the ground. More windows smashed, curtains ripped down.

He looked around. This was a disaster.

No, he wasn’t terribly surprised. He had been confronted with hate before. People tended to hate the things they did not understand, and he knew that people did not understand Marina any more than they understood him.

But the sheer scale of it shocked him nonetheless.

For the first time, he realized what his life would be like if he were not the Duke of Griffin. If he were merely a commoner, how would he be treated? Much like this, he was sure. Worse, perhaps.

He put the sign aside and bent down to pick up a book. Some of the pages had been bent.