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EPILOGUE

THREE MONTHS LATER…

Awarm breeze wafted the edges of a white linen tablecloth as late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves of one of Stadley’s great oaks. Across the long table, a banquet had been arranged, the mouthwatering aroma of wild garlic, fragrant rosemary, fried onions, and perfumed sage filling the terrace.

The end of summer usually did not warrant a celebration, but Marina had decided to hone her hosting talents—or lack thereof—to mark a most auspicious occasion.

“I cannot believe you invited him,” Anthony teased as he came up behind Marina, who was in the midst of lighting some candles that she had made herself, rich with lavender and lemon oil.

She leaned back against him, smiling. “Who, my love?”

“My rival.” He bent his head to kiss her shoulder, his gaze directed at the man on the other side of the terrace, talking with Octavia.

Marina chuckled. “Poor Leonard. He did not do anything wrong, and yet he will never be allowed to forget his part in your foolishness.”

“It has been good to have him here,” Anthony said, turning more serious. “Although, I am sure he is glad to be returning to Edinburgh at last.”

“I am sorry to see him go, but I am not sorry we have no further use for him,” she remarked with a smile of her own. “However, he has been warned rather sternly that if I hear a whisper of my medicine in any of his papers, I shall unleash my wrath upon him.”

Anthony gently swayed with her. “You will have time to write your paper now.”

“I have been thinking I might change my name when I send it for scrutiny,” she told him, closing her eyes, enjoying the moment. “Martin Drew, scholar of herbalism. They might not steal it or dismiss it if they think I am a man.”

He shook his head. “I will go with you when you present it as yourself. You cannot change who you are, when it is who you are that has created miracles.”

“Perhaps I shall not present my work to the Royal College at all,” she mused aloud. “I could write a book about common medicines for anyone to read, anyone to make. And keep my expensive, miracle tincture to myself. Not that it is mine, really. I would be taking credit for hundreds, if not thousands, of years of experimenting and refining.”

After all, she would have been lost without the poorly translated book from China, and lost without the help of her herb merchant who knew how to improve the translation. Centuries of healers before her were responsible for her success, and though she had tweaked the recipe and added some ingredients of her own, she would have felt disingenuous if she claimed it was all her work.

“All I care about is that my uncle is better,” she concluded with a nod, finding him across the terrace in a lawn chair, chattering animatedly to Harriet, who sat in a chair beside him.

There had been many moments where her tireless care had seemed hopeless. One week, Bernard had worsened considerably, the tincture making him desperately unwell, and she had almost said her goodbyes. But then he had recovered from the effects of the potent medicine and, slowly but surely, had begun to recover from his liver affliction too.

Three months later, it would have been impossible to tell that he had ever been so sick, knocking at death’s door. His liver would never fully heal, she knew that without Leonard having to tell her, but it was being carefully managed, granting him more time. A lot more, or so she hoped.

And now that he was better, he did not have to take quite so much of the medicine, meaning that Marina did not have to worry about the cost.

“You never have to worry about that,” Anthony had insisted one night, as they lay together in their marital bedchamber. “I have more than enough to buy what he needs for the next fifty years.”

“But what of William’s inheritance?” she had asked.

Anthony had just laughed. “Remind me to show you all of my accounts tomorrow. I have no doubt it will put your mind at ease.”

It had. In truth, she had been shocked. But spending so many years living independently, learning how to rely on others remained a struggle she was trying to overcome.

At that moment, Harriet and Bernard erupted into raucous laughter. The sight brought a fresh smile to Marina’s lips, for while she had helped her uncle to heal with herbs and plants, Harriet had stepped in to provide medicine for the soul, spending countless hours at his bedside chattering away, making him laugh, sharing stories of the old days, scolding him occasionally that he had to get better or else.

“Dinner is served!” Marina announced, lamenting Anthony’s loosened grip as he stepped away.

Octavia and Leonard ambled over, still in mid-conversation, followed by William and Malcolm who had been playing some manner of game at the edge of the terrace. Meanwhile, Harriet clumsily helped Bernard to his feet, the two of them shuffling over, still laughing about whatever joke they had shared.

It was the perfect list of guests, and the perfect afternoon for a celebration.

“This looks delicious, Marina,” Octavia said approvingly, once everyone was seated.

Harriet nodded enthusiastically. “I knew we would make a fine duchess out of you, my dear, though I am rather glad you do it all your own way.”

“My fault, I am afraid,” Bernard quipped, the two of them falling into laughter again. “Then again, who knew that I was raising my own physician? No offense to you, Doctor Stanforth.”