Today, though, she threw open the door to the familiar room and stopped short. That Man sat at the table, and from the looks of things he’d been there awhile.
At her appearance, he looked up from the papers in his hand, over the round spectacles perched on his nose. “Good morning, my dear,” he said with a faint smile. “Mary, bring Mrs. St. James’s chocolate.”
The maid cast a nervous glance at Bianca, but nodded and whisked out of the room.
Bianca reminded herself to breathe deeply, because it did not matter to her what he did or said. She seated herself as far from him as possible. The table was sadly too small—far smaller than she remembered it.
“You rise early,” she remarked coolly when he continued to watch her with that small, knowing smile.
“Always have done.” He sipped his coffee. From the dishes in front of him, he’d already been served, and eaten, a healthy breakfast. She hadn’t heard a whisper of noise from his room, making her wonder with an unpleasant start if he’d been downstairs before she even woke. “How delightful that we have it in common.”
“Not so delightful,” she returned. “Papa blows the horn for the workers to begin at seven. Everyone in Marslip rises early.”
“Ah. Then I shall blend in seamlessly.”
“Like a polecat among the lambs.” She smiled at the irritated twitch of his brows, and spread fresh butter on a soft, plump roll. Mary brought in the small pot of chocolate, steaming gently, and set it before her. Bianca inhaled greedily. She lived for her morning chocolate.
Particularly today.
St. James had gone back to his reading. Bianca ate in silence, trying to savor her chocolate without looking at him. Instead of his usual finery, today he wore ordinary clothes: a dark blue coat over a gray waistcoat, dark brown breeches. It was ordinary cloth, too, linen and wool instead of satin and velvet. It ought to have made him more ordinary, and to her intense disgust, it did not.
His dark hair was neatly queued, though not as sleekly as yesterday; slightly tousled, as if he’d gathered his hair with one hand and tied it in a hurry. One loose strand curled just behind his ear. Bianca glared at it, both for being out of order and for being so mesmerizing.
As she poured out the last of her chocolate, he flipped a page of his document, and she caught sight of the writing on it. She set down the chocolate pot with a clink. “What are you reading?”
“The contract with Albert Brimley.”
Her mouth set. Mr. Brimley owned the warehouse in London where Papa shipped some of his finest wares. “Why?”
St. James glanced at her over his spectacles. “Someone ought to. Is it standard, this quota on breakage?”
“Some breakage is unavoidable, with the roads as they are, so yes, I presume it is the usual.”
“Presume,” he echoed under his breath. “The roads are terrible, but this contract allows Brimley to claim up to one fifth of every shipment arrives broken.”
A fifth? That sounded excessive. But Bianca was forced to admit, to herself if not to him, that she didn’t know if it were reasonable or not. She had never taken a great deal of interest in the particulars of any contract, only the choosing of the merchant they wished to deal with. Mr. Brimley, she felt, was an honorable man.
“Whatever made you read a contract?” she asked instead. Surely Maximilian St. James, London dandy, couldn’t possibly know more about shipping pottery and chinaware than she did.
“I’ve been reading them all,” he said, dropping the papers and removing his spectacles. “Are there any you wish me to read with particular attention?”
“No.” She gave a huff of astonished laughter. “Why would I?”
He smiled, his dark eyes fixed on her. “Why would you not?” Her smile faded at his pointed tone. “Perusia potteries are important to you, are they not?”
“Of course!”
“Then you ought to know what your contracts say.”
“I do, mostly—”
He cocked one brow. “And do you mostly make your wares high quality?”
She flushed. “Read them all, if you please. They’re already signed, though, and Papa won’t break his word. Those men are his friends as well as his partners.”
He smiled again. Damn the dimple, carving his cheek. “I never said he should break his word. Nothing I’ve seen is too dreadful.”
“Then why bother?” Bianca drank the last of her chocolate. “Are you well-versed in shipping contracts? I can’t imagine so.”
“I read law for a year,” he answered, to her immense surprise. “Not well-versed, but not ignorant.”
“Then you’re a solicitor?”
Finally his eyes dropped. He folded the spectacles into his waistcoat pocket. “No.”
Bianca wondered, but he said no more and she refused to show any interest in anything about him. The horn blew in the distance, and she plucked a roll from the basket on the table. “I wish you a pleasant day reading contracts,” she said, rising from the table and heading for the door. She said it to twit him; he would sit up here in the house reading while she did something actually important to the factory.
To her astonishment he also rose, gathering his papers with one hand as he drained his coffee cup with a flick of his wrist. “Shall we walk together?” He gave her another of his wicked smiles.
“There’s no need for you to go to the factory,” she said, but he was at the door, waiting for her with his arm offered.
She did not take it. Out the door she went, tucking the roll into her pocket for later. St. James followed without a word.
Chapter Nine
Around the hill and down the slope they went, in perfect silence. The sun was in the trees now, just barely, and the morning dew wet her skirts and petticoat as she walked. Bianca made a mental promise to ask Papa to widen this path, to spare her arriving damp to her knees.
As always, when Bianca came over the crest of the ridge and saw Perusia laid out before her, pride and happiness swelled in her chest. It was no palace or ducal manor, and wouldn’t impress anyone expecting such grandeur. Instead it was an industrious little village, with the factory buildings bustling with workmen, the canal sparkling in the rising sun just beyond, dotted with bargemen delivering coal and readying other barges to receive crates of Perusia wares.
The courtyards of the factory were alive with activity as well, workers driving wheelbarrows of unfired pieces to the kilns, to the glazing and paint workshops, to the drying room. A thin trickle of people still hurried through the spinney of birch trees from the workers’ cottages and boarding rooms. Everything was neat, well kept, and prosperous, overseen from the top of the hill by Perusia Hall.
She must have made some sigh of contentment, for St. James stepped up beside her. “Are you tired from the walk?”
Bianca scoffed. “That little stroll! Of course not. If you are,” she hastened to add, “pray stop in at Perusia Hall for a while. Mrs. Hickson, the housekeeper, will see to your comfort.”
His mouth curved. “I shall bear it in mind.” And he stayed at her side as she strode down the hill.
At the gate to the factory, Bianca turned right, toward her workshop. It was in the southern arm, where the light was best, near the glazers and painters. To her surprise, St. James came with her.
“Papa’s office is that way,” she said, indicating the entrance to the central block. Papa liked to be in the middle of everything, and from there he could look down into the main workshop, where the pieces were made.
“I know,” was his calm reply.
Bianca stopped. “That is where you should go, sir. To the office, to read your contracts and discuss business with my father.”
“We did that yesterday,” he said. “I would like to see the rest of the factory. Would you guide me on a tour?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t time for that. If you enter there, you’ll find Ned’s office. Ned oversees the factory and will gladly show you around.” Her cousin would roll his eyes at
being sent on such a tedious chore when he had other, more important things to do, but Bianca sacrificed him without hesitation.
“Yes, he’s a capital fellow, but I would hate to tear him away from his duties first thing in the morning.” Squinting up at the offices, St. James suddenly smiled and made a small bow. Bianca looked up to see her father looking down at them. Papa lifted one hand, and she turned her back. She had not yet forgiven him for the scene in the sacristy.
Without another word she stalked to her workshop; she had work to do. She unlocked the door with the key she wore on a thin chain around her neck and let herself in.
Here she took a deep breath, feeling at home for the first time in a week. It smelled of wood spirits and enamel, with a faint whiff of turpentine, but it was her own space, just as she’d left it before she’d had to throw herself into the wedding diversions.
Then That Man stepped into the room behind her, and her moment of peace was extinguished like a snuffed candle. “Your workshop, I presume?”
“Obviously.” She took her thick work apron from the peg behind the door and tied it on. “I prefer to work in quiet.”
He smiled. “Of course. I shan’t disturb you.”
He was determined to cling to her. Very well; let him. He could watch her ignore him all day. With any luck at all he would expire of boredom within an hour and go away.
Instead he sat down in the chair next to her workbench and returned to his contracts. Bianca drew breath to protest, then silently let it out. She didn’t care. She would ignore him no matter where he sat.
And she tried. She truly, truly tried. She sat on her stool and spread open her notebooks, skimming her notes to remind herself what progress she’d made a few days ago. The ruby glaze was intractable, coming out too dark for her taste. She wanted it to be the color of ripe strawberries, not burgundy wine.
St. James turned a page. In the frosty silence it sounded loud. Bianca made an impatient noise low in her throat.
“Your pardon, my dear,” he murmured.
She tried to fix her attention on her formula. It was so close. Perhaps a little more potash? A bit less alum? She took down her mortar and pestle to grind another batch from the jars of minerals on the shelf above her head.
A tap at the door sounded, and Billy stuck his head inside. He was twelve, an apprentice in the firing workshop. “More samples for you, ma’am.”
Bianca abandoned the mortar. “Bring them right in! Has the red mellowed?”
Billy shrugged as he carried in the tray of tiles. “A bit.” They’d been fired three days ago and were only now cool enough to examine.
Bianca bent over the tray, scrutinizing each one. “This one looks good . . . This one is nearly orange, though. What happened? These all had the same sample applied.”
“Edge of the kiln, perhaps, ma’am.” Billy cleared his throat. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” said St. James pleasantly. “Billy, was it?”
“Yes, sir.” Billy looked at Bianca nervously. “Billy Tucker, sir. My da works in the throwing house.”
“I believe I made his acquaintance yesterday. Tall fellow with sandy hair?” asked That Man, as if he’d already met and memorized every person at Perusia.
Billy perked up. “Aye, sir! Quite tall. Mum says I’ll be tall like ’im . . .” His voice petered out as Bianca looked up from her samples. “Are these not right, then?”
“They’re very close,” she replied. “How is your da, Billy? Hands still sore?”
“No, ma’am, that salve you sent over helped that.”
She beamed, pleased. “Lovely! I hope that makes it a bit easier on your mother.” Mrs. Tucker had had a baby only a few months ago. If her husband’s hands had stiffened too much for him to work, they would have been without income.
Billy nodded. “Aye, ma’am.”
“These ones are good. The rest are rubbish.” Bianca picked up the chosen tiles and flipped them to see what she’d marked on the reverse, to be sure she used the right formula. Billy took the tray and left, closing the door behind him.
She made notes in silence for a few moments, until her neck prickled. That Man was watching her. “What?” she snapped.
“How do you formulate the glazes?”
“With a close study of mineral properties, some chemistry intuition, and extensive trials,” she replied without looking up.
“Very impressive,” was all he said in reply. She stole a peek from the corner of one eye to see him holding one of her tiles. He caught her watching and laid it down. “Brilliantly impressive.”
Bianca went back to her work, reminding herself to hate him. He hadn’t the first idea what she did. Calling it impressive was empty flattery from him.
When she glanced at him again, he was once more absorbed in the contracts, turning the pages silently.
“It would surely be more comfortable to read in my father’s office,” she couldn’t stop herself from murmuring.
“Not so,” he replied. “The din from the workshops is disturbing.”
“You might ask him to close the casements.” Papa liked to be able to survey the entire workshop from his office, but even he acknowledged it could be loud, with the lathes and potters’ wheels. There were casement windows to dim the noise.
“I am quite comfortable here,” said St. James. “Though I do treasure your tender concern for my comfort.”
“Should I not?” She consulted her notes and added a gram of soda to her mixture. “As your wife, I insist you retire to a more refined space, befitting a gentleman who once read law.” She bit off the word wife with emphasis.
“My dear, I would not be parted from you, not even by a regiment of workmen hammering away,” was his silky reply.
She imagined chasing him from the room with a pair of fire tongs, the sturdy tool that lifted items from the kiln. It cheered her enough to carry on, but not enough to allow her to forget he was there.
And that was what Bianca really craved. This man had already taken up too much of her attention, and now he was spoiling her concentration simply by sitting there, his legs elegantly crossed and those spectacles on his nose again. How did a man look more appealing with eyeglasses, instead of like a nearsighted quiz?
Even worse, she could see his leg from the corner of her eye. He had very shapely calves. Bianca wasn’t above noticing a finely muscled leg on a man, but before it had always been passing curiosity and nothing more. There had never been the remotest chance she would do more than look.
But this man . . . The world expected her to go to bed with this man.
She had tried not to look at his legs the night before—nor at any part of him—but he seemed determined to draw her eye. Even in his plain, sober clothing, wearing spectacles and reading a dust-dry contract. Obviously he knew he was a handsome man. Bianca was wildly annoyed that she had to know it, too.
She made a valiant effort, but it was too much. Within the hour she gave it up, threw down her pestle, and jumped off her stool. “Very well, I shall lead you on a tour. After that I expect to have this workshop to myself.”
He removed his spectacles and studied her. “Do I unsettle you?”
“I prefer to work in privacy.” She stressed the last word. “You unsettle me as much as anyone being in the room would. There is a reason my workshop is in this wing, quiet and removed. Shall we?”
“Of course.” He stowed his eyeglasses and tucked the contracts under his arm, then followed her out the door. “A strong lock,” he observed as she put in the key.
“Very strong. What I work on would be quite valuable to a rival.” She tucked the key back into her bodice, flushing as his gaze followed, and lingered on her bosom. “This way,” she said brusquely, tugging up her fichu as soon as she’d turned her back to him.
Outside in the southern courtyard, she turned to him. “Do you know how pottery wares are produced?”
He smiled at the blunt question. “In broad strokes.”
/> Bianca shook her head in disgust. “The way I know how to play the harp! In other words, not at all. This way.”
She led him first to the clay house, with its sloping ramps to the canal and the road, to allow barrows and wagons to be drawn up to the door. “Here is the first step,” she said, striding through and pointing as she went. “The clay is brought in to be inspected and weighed. It must be clean and pure or the wares produced from it will be rubbish. Charles there is responsible for making sure it is so.” She nodded to her distant cousin, who was watching her and St. James with undisguised interest.
Bianca’s face heated. Today she deeply regretted how enmeshed her family was in the pottery works. They had all been invited to the wedding festivities the day before, and all had seen her, instead of Cathy, emerge from the church on St. James’s arm. She knew what they must all be thinking: Bianca the outspoken spinster had somehow ended up with her sister’s intended husband! Poor fool, she supposed they were thinking when they looked at St. James himself, the man who’d almost won the sweet, lovely Cathy and instead had got her.
She hoped Amelia was busily spreading word that Cathy had run off with her true love, and that Bianca had acted only out of concern for the future of the pottery works, making a marriage for purely business reasons. If there was one thing Bianca couldn’t bear, it was people staring at her. And while her marriage might be a scandal, there was nothing interesting about it.
“From here the clay is brought to be mixed.” She led the way through a doorway and down a wide ramp. “Different pottery requires different mixtures of clays, precisely measured.”
About a Rogue EPB Page 9
