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strain of Christine’s unimaginable death had put a pallor to her skin that Mary had never seen before. Gwyneth had been unconsolable for the first few days following the discovery of her only daughter’s lifeless body, taking regular heavy doses of laudanum at her physician’s recommendation.
    This week had been better as she’d attempted to regain her dignity to some degree, and of course, hearing that her eldest son was returning seemed to put her spirits back in order. But she still looked pale, the lines and shadows on her face more pronounced even as she’d dressed to look her best. The shock had taken its toll on all of them, Mary supposed, and things at Baybridge House would never again be as they

    were.
    Tonight the countess had chosen a traditionally formal gown, and Mary suspected it was because of her eldest son’s first dinner at home in years. She wore a tight-fitting, long-sleeved, high-necked dress in black taffeta that still managed to show off her youthful figure, though she’d pulled her hair tightly into a conservative bun at her nape. She wore no jewelry, save for a pair of jet earrings made expressly for mourning. She seemed nervous as well, sipping sherry with a jerking wrist, which surprised Mary most of all. Gwyneth had never, in her presence, been nervous about anything. Tonight certainly promised to be an occasion to remember.
    “Ah, Miss Marsh,” George said abruptly when he noticed her walking toward them. “Join us for a sherry, won’t you? My good brother will be down momentarily. I did tell him eight, but of course he’s rather tired from the long journey.”
    “Good evening, Mr. Longfellow, Lady Renn,” she replied with just the proper tone of congeniality to fit the solemn mood, taking particular note of George’s rapid tongue and forced good mood.
    “Mary, darling, have a sherry,” Gwyneth offered rather informally, as if she hadn’t heard her son. “When Renn arrives, we shall eat.”
    She’d said that pointedly, though without looking at her, and Mary realized the lady was more than nervous, she was agitated. They all were.
    Without acknowledgment, a footman moved up beside her, dutifully holding a silver tray on which sat four crystal sherry glasses all full of the sweet red wine. Mary selected one of them and took a sip as the footman stepped back. It was delicious, naturally.
    “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving us soon,” George remarked, fairly reading her mind.
    Mary hesitated. “I’m not sure there’s anything more I can do here, and I imagine my father is anxious for my return.” That was probably a lie, but she followed it with, “In his last letter he implied that the Widow Brickwell is not taking care of his needs as she should.”
    George snickered, but squelched it with the sudden stern look his mother gave him.
    “We shall miss you, Mary,” the countess said succinctly, looking at her at last through eyes as clear as sharply cut glass. “You’ve been a tremendous help to our family during this trying time.”
    Mary nodded once, holding the lady’s gaze, knowing that was honestly felt. “Thank you, Lady Renn. I shall miss Cornwall. I’ve grown fond of it these last few weeks.”

    “Have you?”
    Mary didn’t know if that was a direct and simple question, or one of the countess’s attempts at taking control by demanding an explanation when she knew there wasn’t one. At this point Mary didn’t care.
    “I have, actually. I shall miss the ocean breezes and fresh air, the quiet of village life, sunrise over the seashore—”
    “Surprising you could see the sun with all this blasted rain,” George cut in, raising his glass to his lips as they twisted in disgust. He took a short sip. “It’s been a devil of a spring this year, mostly mud and clouds.”
    “George.” His mother’s grave voice reprimanded him gently, even as her thin shoulders grew noticeably rigid beneath her formal attire.
    Mary had seen that reaction