When It's Perfect by Adele Ashworth

which rendered the deposits discovered in Cornwall and Devon so valuable.
    Yes, china clay was Gwyneth’s mainstay; china porcelain—in all its varied colors and beauty—her passion. No family in Cornall had finer displays of decorative and usable china. In her small corner of the world, the Renn name had power, and she relished it. Nothing would alter that, or jeopardize her family’s livelihood while she lived. She wanted Renn home, yes; he was the earl, the rightful heir. George, however, had the keen sense of business her late husband had possessed. But Marcus would never stay if he didn’t have something to do , and at this point she had no idea what that might be.
    Gwyneth forcibly relaxed her tight facial features, breathing deeply, closing her eyes to the bright sunshine as it lingered warmly on her skin.
    Marcus.
    She loved him more than she could ever say or express—as she supposed all mothers loved their children. It was a fact of bearing young, she believed, a feeling lacking coherent expression. She adored all her children, naturally, through each and every triumph and tragedy, and she hurt when they didn’t come home.
    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