When It's Perfect (9 page)

Christine would never come home; she was gone forever. Each time Gwyneth allowed herself to contemplate the finality of that, she wanted

so badly to break down, to crumple into a mass of flesh and bone encased in bottled-up rage and battered by a flowing, tearful waterfall of uncontrolled grief. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Above all things, she had a responsibility to her family, her employees, her town folk to remain forevermore a countess and the distinguished mother of the present earl. She would always bear her grief with dignity and silent privacy. She had a life to live, if not for herself, then for her daughter’s memory and good name, which would need to be protected at all costs.

If he did nothing else, Marcus would understand that.

She had never expected him to come home. To say she had been shocked would be a complete understatement. With an honesty she kept only to herself, she was in some ways leery of his return. Her elder son might not be interested in estate matters as he should be, but the renters, miners and distinguished members of St. Austell all revered him. Marcus’s return could prove uncomfortable to George, whom she loved as deeply, but who had a more difficult time commanding respect, with his cheerful personality and tendency to enjoy himself a bit too much. He had only recently been able to bridge the gap between second son and distinguished land manager in the eyes of the miners. He fully deserved the distinction, too, and Gwyneth had been most proud of him. But all things considered, she wanted Marcus home for good. To her, his title demanded his presence, and ultimately, proved infinitely more important than his spending time digging up little nothings in the desert of an uncivilized land.

“Good morning, Mother.”

Gwyneth’s eyes popped open at the unexpected intrusion. As she turned to the door of her morning room, her gaze fell on her older son, standing tall with distinct bearing, clothed in mourning dress of charcoal gray that stood out dramatically against the lavender flower-patterned wallpaper behind him. He ordered black coffee from a waiting servant, who curtsied and remained staid of expression, as a servant should.

She sighed. “Really, Marcus, coffee?”

“What does it matter what I drink?” he grumbled, striding into the room. “Where’s George?”

“It’s a heathen beverage, and he’s still sleeping, I’m sure,” she replied to both questions at once, her lips curling up only slightly. Marcus had always been her grumpy child upon awakening.

“Still sleeping?” he shot back in disbelief.

“It’s only half past seven, dear.”

She could have sworn he grunted as he moved to her side.

“The boats are out early,” he remarked, studying the scattering of fishermen out for a day’s work on the water.

“As always,” she said, following his gaze as she took a sip of her tea.

“I do enjoy watching the bay in the early morning.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around him. “This room’s too purple.”

She sighed again, only this time so he could hear it. “It’s my room and I like lilacs. If you stayed home—”

“Don’t start, Mother. I’m not staying home, and you know that.” He looked down into her eyes and held her gaze. “I’ll be leaving as soon as I discover why Christine died, and what frightened her so much in the weeks before. It’s my duty as her brother.” He turned to stare out the window again. “After that I’ll be returning to my work in Egypt.”

Gwyneth bit her tongue to keep from arguing. On a rational level, she understood Marcus’s desire to see the world and work at something that intrigued him. But on an emotional level, she wanted him home. He belonged here, with his family, performing at least some of his duties as earl. She needed him; England needed him. But she didn’t know what to do to convince him to stay this time. It would take nothing short of a miracle, she was sure.

“I heard you saw the vicar yesterday,” she noted after another sip of cool tea. “How is Mrs. Coswell?”

Marcus straightened. “She’s very well, I suppose. They looked the same.”

Gwyneth placed her near-empty cup and saucer on a sideboard beside a glass vase of fresh lilacs. “Is it true you traveled with Miss Marsh?”

She thought she might have heard her son inhale sharply, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she crossed her arms over her stomach, keeping her focus on the barge making its way slowly from the bay to open water.

“She went with me at my request,” he answered forthrightly.

Gwyneth couldn’t decide if he was annoyed at her questioning, or just annoyed in general, as he often was early in the morning. But he was altogether defensive, and she didn’t like that at all.

“You know,” she dared to add after a thoughtful pause, “spending time with Miss Marsh alone could be a bit… unseemly.”

He snorted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I like her.”

“Rubbish,” she shot back. “You don’t even know her.”

“I know her better than you think. ”

That reply left her speechless for a moment. Then, in what could only be described as horrible timing, his coffee arrived, its pungent odor filling the room at once.

Marcus turned from the window and walked to the tea table where a service had been set. “Lovely china,” he remarked, sounding a bit bored.

“Last year’s pattern,” she returned, though it wasn’t much of a pattern. A simple white with gold inlaid trim. Standard but elegant.

She lowered her trim form onto a chair and spread her skirts around her legs daintily. “About Miss Marsh—”

“Nothing unseemly has occurred, Mother. She is willing to help me, and I’ve asked her to stay. That’s all.”

Gwyneth watched him move to the settee and sit, unconcerned, apparently, that his jacket wrinkled behind him. He’d obviously lost his manners in Egypt as well, but she wouldn’t mention it now. There would be time for that later.

“Help you with what?” she asked hesitantly, though she was afraid she already knew the answer.

He reached for his cup, then leaned his heavy body against the settee back. “Help me to discover what happened to Christine the day she died.”

Gwyneth’s eyes widened negligibly. Her mouth went dry, though with all her good breeding, she managed not to show her shock.

“Marcus, I don’t think that’s wise.”

His brows rose. “Whyever not?”

“Because Miss Marsh is just an employee,” she stated, relaying the obvious. “She can’t possibly know what Christine’s thoughts and actions were before her accident.”

“God, would all of you quit calling her death an accident?” he fairly shouted. “She died, Mother, and had she been perfectly happy before that death, I could accept it. But she wasn’t. She sent me numerous notes in which she sounded frightened. Something was wrong, and Miss Marsh was the closest intimate to her at the time. If she can help me discover what scared my sister so much, then I will accept that help, no matter how unseemly that might look to those who think about that kind of thing regularly.”

Gwyneth sat absolutely still, watching her son’s face line with anger, knowing hers paled. Her fingers felt numb and she squeezed them together in her lap. “What matters is that you keep your wits about you.

I want to know the details of her fear as well, but we
must
be mindful of scandal. You cannot just expect answers from an employee. They lie—”

“Are you saying Miss Marsh has lied, Mother?”

She scoffed, her back molding rigidly to the chair. “Of course not.

She’s a lovely girl.”

“She’s not a girl,” he countered prosaically, sipping his coffee at last.

Gwyneth regarded her son, tipping her head to one side. “She is not of our class, Marcus. Getting involved with her in any way would be ruinous to our good name.”

“Oh, hell.” Marcus placed his cup and saucer on the tea table and stood abruptly, turning his back to her as he strode to the window again. “I’m not here for that.”

But he didn’t deny it, she noted.

Gwyneth watched the sunlight reflect off her son’s dark, shiny hair.

He had always been so handsome, so reserved. It made her irritable that he’d never married, but then, she couldn’t discuss it with him. He was simply not interested in marriage. At least, not now.

“What did you learn?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets again, but didn’t look at her.

“That she’s smart; she thinks before she speaks, which I find refreshing in a woman. She’s witty, I suppose, though too independent for my tastes. I also think she may know more than she’s admitting about Christine’s final days, but regardless of that, I still find her decent company.”

Gwyneth gaped at him, too dumbfounded to speak. She hadn’t been referring to Mary at all, but of what she and her son had learned from Vicar Coswell. Suddenly it occurred to her that Marcus was thinking far too much about the spinster, and yet in a moment of sheer enlightenment, she decided not to mention that to him. It would only make him think of her more, and Mary, as lovely as she was, wasn’t right for him as a marriageable prize. Maybe for George, as a second son, but not Marcus, the earl who’d inherited a large, wealthy estate.

She raised her chin a fraction. “Was she able to help you at all with your inquiries, then?”

He rubbed his forehead with the fingers of one hand. “I’m not sure.

She was certainly helpful in her questioning, and of course she and Claudette had things to say to each other, some of which went beyond my understanding as a man. I expect to see her this morning and we’ll discuss it then, to share our combined thoughts.” He pressed his lips together. “One can only hope she doesn’t sleep till noon.”

Mary tended to be an early riser, Gwyneth knew, so she would no doubt be here for tea soon. But she didn’t think to offer that information

to Marcus.

“What do you know of her?” he asked softly.

“Of Miss Marsh?” She knew that was what he meant, yet questioned him anyway.

“Yes. What of her family? Why didn’t she marry?”

Gwyneth straightened her palms down her crêpe skirt, hating the color, which made her look ghastly. “I have no idea why she didn’t marry, as it’s none of my business.”

“But you had to have asked when you hired her,” he returned quickly.

“Actually, I didn’t ask. I knew her mother when Mary was a child. We were fairly close friends. Miss Marsh’s father is Sir Harold, the dinosaur sculptor for Richard Owen. I believe Mary has spent the last few years tending to him as a good daughter should.”

She had to throw that in.

Marcus cocked his head, gazing at her from across the room.

Gwyneth looked at him innocently, which made him almost smile.

Almost.

“He must be very proud,” he drawled.

Gwyneth held her ground, eyes opened wide. “I’m sure that he is.

She’s a marvelous seamstress and organizer. Christine’s trousseau is lovely, and nearly complete.”

She watched his smile fade at the mention of his sister. It made her heart ache, too, for all of them, but she didn’t let it show. “Miss Marsh is competent, Renn, and intelligent, but I think she knows very little of the happenings that go on behind closed doors in this house or any other. If she does stay here for a time, I should take what she offers with caution.

Don’t dig into pasts that mean nothing to your future.”

His expression clouded as his eyes narrowed. “An odd choice of words, Mother.” He dropped his voice to a cool whisper. “That’s nearly exactly what Christine warned me about in her last letter, the one I received in Cairo just days before I decided to come home to help her.”

Gwyneth’s palms began to itch, her corset poked uncomfortably into her ribs. “I’m sure it means nothing.”

“It meant something to her, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

That profound announcement made her bones go cold. With aching joints, she stood to meet her son eye to eye.

She murmured, “The town and mines survive in St. Austell because of our good name, Renn. I can’t stop you from delving into things that are best left alone, but I beg you, as your mother and the countess of

this good land, to think carefully before you act, whether that pertains to Christine
or
Miss Marsh. Digging up the past in the search for truth could bring widespread scandal to this town. Christine is dead, and there is nothing you can do to change that.”

It was a dire warning, given in love, and she hoped to God he’d consider it. At least he didn’t respond rashly, but then, Marcus had never been rash in his life.

A boat horn echoed in the distance, and suddenly Gwyneth wanted to get away from the ugliness of the conversation and her thoughts.

Straightening her sleeves, she said swiftly, “I’d like to freshen up before breakfast. Please keep me informed of your doings, my dear son.”

Before he could reply, she strolled quickly from her morning room.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

9 September 1854

…Mother has been on edge lately. Something happened at the
mine last week that she refuses to discuss with me, although she
did discuss it with Exeter. I wish my upcoming marriage to
Baudwin wasn’t so necessary to maintain family peace. It seems
I’m only at the center of attention when it’s convenient for
bloodlines and estates. Is this how you feel about marriage,
Marcus? It’s no wonder you never settled down. I hope you will
one day be fortunate enough to marry for love
…

M
ary sat on a stone bench built for two, situated high on a cliff overlooking the rocky coastline where it met the sea, just a few hundred yards below the front of Baybridge House. The wind had picked up to carry the cool breeze off the water, but the day had grown warm and the frequent gusts felt marvelous against her skin.

She’d been sitting here since breakfast, contemplating her thoughts of the recent days, considering her options. She could very well leave, and everyone on the Renn estate knew it, including her employer. But she hesitated to do so. She wanted to help the earl’s family out of kindness, respect—without giving away too much that could hurt Christine’s brother beyond repair.