Page 42 of The Duchess Audition

“And… maybe some tea. Chamomile, if possible.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” The maid smiled. “Anything else?”

Marina shook her head. “No, thank you. And please, call me Marina. I do not like all of the formalities.”

The maid seemed surprised. “I don’t think His Grace would be too happy if I did that, but… perhaps when I am just with you.”

“Whatever is most comfortable,” Marina said, weary to her bones.

“Well then, I shall have water brought and a pot of tea.” The maid gave a decisive nod and left the room.

With a groan, Marina flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the gauzy canopy to the rafters above, where an old cobweb floated in an unknown breeze.

A bath would certainly wash away the journey from London, but she did not think there was any quantity of steaming hot water that could wash the thought of a ‘wedding night’ from her mind. Nor was chamomile powerful enough to soothe away the memory of Anthony almost touching her face.

Perhaps, in the end, he could not bear to find out how it felt.

Anthony had told no lies when he said he did not expect them to cross paths again anytime soon. The days went by at a slow plod as Marina did her best to settle into the new manor, with none of her books, none of her distractions, none of her work, none of her beloved plants, and the struggle of trying to reason with a rather difficult gardener who was not fond of change.

She ate breakfast alone, she ate luncheon alone, she ate dinner alone, to the point where she had started to ask for trays instead of bothering with the dining room.

Most of all, she missed home, and she missed the cheer of her uncle’s company.

“You must understand, Mr. Yarrow, that I have been promised a greenhouse,” she urged, on the day that marked a week since her wedding. “It is vital to my sanity.”

The gardener sniffed. “The greenhouse is no bother,” he replied. “It’s what you told me you want to grow. There’s nothing pretty.”

“I shall have you know that all plants have their beauty, Mr. Yarrow, but this greenhouse is not about prettiness; it is about purpose. I need you to acquire what I have asked for, regardless of how they might look.” It was the third day of her conflict with the gardener, and neither showed any sign of backing down.

“A garden is to be looked at, Your Grace,” he insisted. “These are some of the finest gardens in England. I’ve put years of effort into making them so.”

She expelled an exasperated sigh. “But no one is going to look in my greenhouse, Mr. Yarrow! It is for my personal use, to make my remedies.” She glanced at the swollen knuckles of his hands. “Why, I could make an ointment for your rheumatism in five minutes if I had what I needed. And your hands would feel twenty years younger in a fortnight.”

The gardener frowned, his lips pursing in confusion. “Did His Grace tell you about my rheumatism?”

“No, I can see it plain as day.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Are you a… herbalist, Your Grace?”

He said the word ‘herbalist’ as if he really meant ‘witch’.

“In essence, yes,” she replied without fear. “I make medicines. I study afflictions and figure out how to remedy them with nature’s bounty. The groundskeeper at Stadley suffered similarly to you; he has not had any aches and pains in his hands for some years now, thanks to my ointment.”

It was not inexpensive to make, and she would not be able to grow the main ingredient herself, for it hailed from the resin of a native Indian tree. But she had reserves at Stadley. If the gardener relented and acquired the list of plants she had asked for, she would not hesitate to request the resin from her uncle and make Mr. Yarrow an ointment.

“My hands wouldn’t hurt anymore?” he asked warily.

She nodded. “It is very efficacious.”

The gardener scratched his stubbled chin in thought, accidentally leaving a streak of soil on the side of his face. “Very well, Your Grace,” he said after what seemed like an eternity. “I’ll clear a greenhouse and get what you asked for.”

“Might I commandeer somewhere for a workshop, too?” she asked with a tense smile. “You see, I shall need somewhere to make my remedies.”

He pondered the question and tipped his head in a nod. “Aye, I can do that. There’s a potting shed you can use.” He paused. “If I do this, will you make me that ointment?”

“At once, Mr. Yarrow,” she promised, her heart lightening.

As soon as she had her work to distract her again, she was certain she would not feel so terribly lonely.