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sound could be heard upstairs, though she knew the servants below were abuzz with excitement and gossip at the earl’s return. The family, of course, would be gathering in the formal dining room for this remarkable occasion, and Mary wanted to be early, so as to remain as unobtrusive as possible.
    At least that was her hope.
    It wasn’t to be. As she neared the entrance, she heard the low voices of George and Gwyneth, the earl’s vivacious younger brother and his mother, the countess, as well as the clinking of dishes and silver as obedient hired help set places with family china. By all accounts the Earl of Renn had yet to appear, which to her seemed promising in some small measure. Centered in that thought, Mary pulled her shoulders back and glided gracefully into the dining room to make her presence known.
    As always, elegance surrounded her, and once again she noted how everything at Baybridge House was in perfect order and of the utmost in quality and style. The Countess of Renn would never dream of eating on last year’s china and table linens. But then as the widow of one of England’s wealthiest owners of a productive china clay mine, she would be accountable for a luxurious table. And everybody in Cornwall knew the Countess and late Earl of Renn were of the most refined and respected members of the local peerage. For the first time since her arrival, Mary had to wonder if that distinction had anything to do with Marcus Longfellow’s departure to Africa years ago, if he was the wandering bachelor sort. But then, such speculation was none of her concern, and she would likely never know.
    Mary first stepped around the long maple wood table, now set with fine white china atop lacy burgundy linens, then made her way toward the tall east windows where the countess and George stood talking in hushed voices as they gazed out to the southeastern shore of the Bay of

    Austell. Naturally, they were both dressed for mourning, somber faces and all, and Mary noted again how strikingly similar the two of them appeared standing side by side. Clearly mother and son.
    George, rather short for a man, possessed rich, clever brown eyes that beheld another’s to the point of obsession when he was engaged in conversation. At first Mary had found that boldness intimidating, until she’d grown to know George, finding him to be an intelligent, charming, and quite humorous individual. His reddish blond hair curled ever so slightly over his forehead and down to his side whiskers, and Mary imagined he had a horrendous time keeping it tidy, thick as it was.
    Although stunned to the point of confusion and clearly distraught these last two weeks over the death of his sister, at a glance George seemed more himself tonight. He stood confidently straight, his overall composure returned, his taut features more relaxed than they’d been in days. He wore black formal evening attire and looked every bit the distinguished and respected gentleman he was at the age of twenty-eight.
    For her part, Gwyneth overpowered her son. She overpowered them all, actually, though she stood not quite five and a half feet in height, shorter than George, and even Mary, by two or three inches. An old acquaintance of Mary’s mother, Gwyneth had been raised near Regent’s Park, then married better than Elizabeth Marsh and thus enjoyed the luxury of living the life of a well-to-do countess, even if it meant leaving London at an impressionable age to endure the slow pace of the country and the industrial town of St. Austell.
    But that hadn’t seemed to matter. For as long as Mary had known her, Gwyneth had carried herself like a queen while on her estate, although exhibiting a certain gentleness, or more correctly, a certain graciousness seldom observed in a lady of so bold a personality.
    She’d been a beauty in her youth, and was still, at the age of fifty-four, a lovely woman, with vivid blue eyes and the same strawberry blond hair she’d given her son. But the