About a Rogue EPB

by Linden, Caroline

  “As it should be!” exclaimed Papa. “It’s not good enough for Perusia!”

  “We can’t sell wares of such low quality,” added Bianca, horrified that he would suggest such a thing. “Are you mad? Perusia wares are the best, bar none! I wouldn’t put our mark on that piece for anything!”

  “Of course not,” said Max easily. To her further astonishment, he took the teapot from her, raised it up, and hurled it onto the flagstone floor. Both Bianca and her father jumped at the crash.

  “It’s not good enough to be sold as Perusia ware, but producing it costs Perusia the clay, the potter’s work hours, and now we’ve nothing to show for the expense. In fact, it will even cost us someone’s labor to sweep it up and take it out back to the rubbish pile. And tomorrow, that potter will come in and use more clay, and produce another teapot that’s still just shy of perfect, because he’s barely more than an apprentice, and we’ll incur more wasted clay, time, and money.”

  “Apprentices must learn,” objected Bianca. “The only way to learn is to do it. Have you some idea of how to train them without letting them touch clay until they are master artisans?”

  He grinned. “Not as of yet. I do have an idea, however, that may reduce the costs of their training.”

  Bianca glanced at her father, who still wore a scowl. Part of her wanted to remind Papa that she’d warned him Max knew nothing about their business, but—mindful of his valid points about breakage and straw—she asked, “Well, what is it?”

  “Instead of putting them to work on Perusia ware, we give them simpler tasks.” Max took a plain cylindrical teapot from the shelf. Its spout was straight, not curved, and its handle had no flourish. It was a simple piece, but Bianca knew it would be glazed and painted. The flat surface would better display the landscape scene it was destined to bear.

  “A teapot such as this, or even simpler, would be an ideal item for a novice potter.”

  Papa snorted. “We do that already, St. James! You didn’t think we gave them the difficult work straight off?”

  “I did not, but I’m thinking of a new level of simplicity. Perusia wares stand out by the beauty of their design and the brilliance of their glazes,” Max said, his gaze meeting Bianca’s for a heartbeat. “Delicate, exquisite design is the hallmark of Perusia. I want to create a new standard, still quality, but simpler in design, less expensive to produce, and sold for less.”

  “Cheap goods!” Papa’s face grew stormy. “Never, Mr. St. James. You’ll not put a Perusia mark on anything less than the finest—”

  “A new mark,” said Max quickly. “Not Perusia. That must remain the premier standard. But this mark will be one that ordinary attorneys and bank clerks and military officers can afford to buy for their tables.”

  “You mean to put the less experienced workers onto it,” said Bianca slowly. “To train until they are accomplished enough to make Perusia wares properly, but in the meantime producing items we can still sell.”

  Max turned the full brilliance of his smile on her. “Precisely.”

  “Ridiculous,” declared Papa. “Have you any idea how long it takes to train a good potter?”

  “Years,” acknowledged Max. “And most of what they make in the first year is smashed. Imagine if they spent that year instead making simple, ordinary items, turning plain bowls and teapots until they can do it to perfection. Then they will be ready to move on to curving spouts and frilled rims and pressed ware, and eventually to the Perusia workshops.”

  Papa folded his arms and said nothing. Bianca wet her lips. “It’s a good idea.” Her father glanced at her in amazement. “Worth trying, at least,” she added. “Don’t you think, Papa?”

  “I won’t sell low-quality ware,” he repeated. “I won’t damage the reputation of Perusia.”

  “Nothing shall interfere with sales of Perusia ware,” Max repeated. “I mean to create an entirely new line of dinnerware.” He glanced at Bianca. “And other items for customers of some means, who aspire to some level of taste and style, but cannot afford anything with the Perusia mark.”

  Papa was still scowling. “We’re already short of workers. If I knock men down a rank to make this new dinnerware, they’ll all leave for Mannox.”

  “No one would be knocked down or take a reduction in wages. It would be a proving ground, of sorts, after finishing an apprenticeship. The income from the new line will be a gain, even without considering the losses it will avoid.” He paused expectantly. “Will you consider it?”

  “Yes,” said Bianca before her father could refuse. “Perhaps you could prepare a description of this new line, where you plan to sell it, as well as a list of the workers you would divert. There’s no harm at all in looking at that, is there, Papa?”

  Papa harrumphed. “I suppose I could read a plan. Nothing is settled,” he warned her, shaking his finger at her.

  “Of course not,” she retorted. “But only a fool wouldn’t consider a potential plan to create a new line with minimal disruption to the factory. You know how long it takes to train men on designs.”

  Papa grunted. “Only a fool, eh?” He shook his head and turned to go. “Write your plan, St. James,” he said over his shoulder. “And give it to Bianca. She’ll let me know if she approves.” He strode down the row, pausing now and then to scrutinize a piece on the shelves.

  That left Bianca alone with her husband.

  “Thank you,” he said, a smile playing about his mouth.

  “For listening to an idea to improve our business? I will always do that,” she said pertly. Then, somewhat reluctantly, she added, “It sounds very promising.”

  She had not expected that from him. He had only been in Marslip a month; how could he think of something she never had? With some chagrin, she told herself that was her answer. She had lived here her entire life, steeped in Papa’s philosophy and way of doing things. Perusia had prospered under it, so she had never spent much time considering doing something radically different.

  But Max had lived elsewhere and seen more of the world than she had; he had told her he wasn’t as simple as she thought he was. She supposed it had only been a matter of time before he surprised her like this. It was a just comeuppance, she told herself.

  At her compliment, he gave a brief bow. “I am delighted you agree.”

  “What made you think of it?” she asked.

  His gaze dropped to the shards of the teapot he’d smashed. “I despise waste.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “but some is inevitable—”

  “Do you know how many items are unfit for sale as Perusia work?” he interrupted. “It approaches one in ten some months. I commend your father’s devotion to quality, but the workshops are producing too much that is inferior.”

  “So you wish to create an extended apprenticeship.”

  “Something like it.” He was watching her closely. “Did you support the plan just to oppose your father?”

  Finally Bianca smiled, a bit ruefully. “Am I that contrary? No, I assure you, I would never support a bad idea. This one may not prove worthwhile, but it has enough to recommend it that I think Papa should consider it.” Her smile turned impish. “You must write a persuasive proposal if you want it to go further than this conversation, though.”

  He grinned. “I mean to, complete with a list of the shops in London that might sell such a line of dinnerware.” He paused. “Come with me.”

  Bianca blinked. “What? To—to London?”

  “Yes.” He appeared serious, to her amazement.

  “But I have work to do here,” she protested.

  “You’ve just perfected the scarlet glaze,” he pointed out. “The work of months, completed and found true in repeated trials. The glazers have got it down and can reliably reproduce it. Now we must display it to patrons so they can begin yearning for it on their own tables. Come with me to London to show it off.”

  Bianca bit her lip. What he said was true, and she had been spending less time in her workshop after the
long hours tinkering with the red glaze. And she’d never been to London.

  But it would mean going with him, her husband, who was still a stranger to her despite the gradual weakening of her antipathy. Here she had Amelia and Papa and Aunt Frances to distract her; here she was at home and he was the outsider, while in London it would be the opposite. He would be back among his elegant, arrogant friends, and she would be the common country wife he’d wed for her money.

  “I also hope to view several locations suitable for a Perusia showroom, and would very much like your opinion of the choices,” he added as she said nothing. “A setting to display Perusia wares to their very best, and an agent to collect orders. Bring the finest scarlet pieces and we can show them in private previews of our coming work.”

  “You want my opinion?” She shouldn’t let this tempt her, she shouldn’t, and yet . . .

  “I would hesitate to take any premises without the advice of someone who knew Perusia intimately,” he said, a faint smile spreading over his face. “And I would far prefer your company to your father’s.”

  He was a cunning devil. Even so, Bianca couldn’t stop the flush of pleasure at his words, that her opinion was equated with that of her father’s. And she would like to see London. “Very well,” she said, smoothing her hands down her apron to ease their sudden dampness. “I’ll go.”

  His face lit up. “Brilliant!” His attention never wavered from her face. “Thank you.”

  And that thank you, more than anything else, made Bianca think she might end up liking her husband after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Max had invited Bianca to accompany him to London on impulse, but the moment he said it, he found himself tensing up in anticipation of her reply.

  It shouldn’t matter to him if she came with him or stayed in Marslip. He had a long list of things to do in town, after all, plenty to occupy his time. In fact, logically it would be easier if he went alone, and could take plain quarters and be out until all hours without any guilt that he was neglecting her.

  And yet, as she looked at him, her clear eyes bright with surprise, he all but held his breath hoping she would say yes.

  He hadn’t thought he would spend much time with his bride. He hadn’t thought he would mind finding other lovers. If he’d married Catherine, he never would have invited her to come to London, where he would almost surely cross paths with a former lover or flirt, and a wife would have been grossly inconvenient. But looking at Bianca, Max couldn’t quite recall what he’d found so thrilling about any other woman.

  He admired her intelligence; he’d known many intelligent women, though. He marveled at her boldness; he’d met bolder, brasher women, but none quite like her. He knew her resistance to him was a challenge, and he thrived on challenge, but this was the first time he felt the hovering weight of failure. Failing with her wouldn’t be something he could walk away from and begin anew elsewhere; she was his wife, ’til death divided them. And he wanted . . .

  Oh God how he wanted her. He wanted her to smile at him, laugh with him, curl up under his arm, run her hands through his hair and pull him to her, push him onto his back and straddle him. He wanted her mouth on him, soft and teasing, hungry and rough. He wanted her under him and twined around him and sleeping peacefully at his side, her head on his shoulder.

  Max had never expected that from any lover. It shook him how desperately he wanted this unexpected wife of his. Wanting anything that much was only a portent of how badly it would hurt when he didn’t get it. If he had any sense at all, he would hold back, never let her see how he felt, wait for her to come to him . . .

  Instead he watched every minute flicker of her eyelashes, the slightly deeper breath she took, the way she unclenched her hands and pressed them flat to her skirt. “Very well,” she said, her voice a shade throatier than usual, and he couldn’t hide his elation.

  Because he’d been planning this trip to London for a month, most of the arrangements had been made. Now that he would have his wife with him, though, he sent a flurry of new instructions ahead to his man in town. They needed better accommodations, a hired carriage, and a larger staff, particularly a cook. New possibilities opened before him as well; they might entertain, socialize, attend the theater. He was almost like a boy, eager to show off and please her, Max thought, shaking his head at his own behavior.

  The days until they left were filled with packing and planning. “What should I take?” Bianca asked him directly, throwing open the door between their rooms and facing him with her hands on her hips. “What will we do in London?”

  Max leaned against a bedpost. “What would you like to do?”

  “I’ve never been,” she exclaimed. “I’ve heard it’s beautifully elegant, and disgustingly filthy. You’ve lived there. What should I prepare for?”

  He smiled. “A bit of everything, I suppose.”

  Her mouth flattened in frustration. “You’re not very helpful.” She turned back into her room.

  “Right. Wait.” He crossed the room in three steps, putting his hand on the door before she could close it. “I’ve been preoccupied. I’m sorry.”

  “If we’re only to view shops and warehouses, I needn’t take any but ordinary clothes. But if we mean to go elsewhere, or to entertain, I ought to take some gowns. But which ones?” She frowned at the array of clothing spread out over every surface in the room. Jennie the maid stood sheepishly in the corner next to an empty waiting trunk.

  Max glanced at Bianca from the corner of his eye. Her lower lip was between her teeth and there was a thin line between her brows. So accustomed to seeing her bold and confident, he realized with some surprise that she was completely thrown by this.

  He drew breath to offer encouragement and platitudes, and then changed his mind. “Those dresses.” He pointed. “And these. A good cloak and your favorite bonnets. Sturdy shoes and dancing slippers. We’ll buy the rest in town.”

  Her patent relief dissolved into surprise at the last. “The rest? I have plenty of clothes. Why would we—?”

  “As you said, I have experience of London.” He winked. “You’ll want more.”

  “I won’t need more,” she muttered as he went back to his own packing.

  Max paused in the doorway and looked back at her. “Let it be my wedding present to you, my dear. You shall choose everything, of course, but I would like to indulge you this once.”

  And he had the pleasure of seeing her eyes grow wide and her mouth fall open before he bowed and closed the door.

  Bianca recovered from the indecision of packing for London. After what Max said, she reasoned, it didn’t make much difference what she took, so she told Jennie to pack her usual garments, including her burgundy gown and the gown she’d worn to her wedding. Two gowns ought to be enough, no matter what Max thought.

  Matthew was to drive them the five miles into Stoke on Trent, where they would hire a carriage to London. Bianca wondered at this extravagance, but Max said it would be economical, since they were three, with Jennie, and all the baggage. Max had sent his manservant, a fellow named Lawrence, ahead several days ago to await them in town.

  Papa came to wish them well. He and Max had been closeted for days, discussing Important Matters, as Bianca referred to them in her mind—much too important to mention in front of her. She and her father had made peace, but they still had not reached the equable give-and-take they had had before . . .

  Before Max.

  Bianca watched from her window as Max directed Matthew how to tie the trunks onto the cart. Jennie was milling around uselessly, excited beyond measure at getting to see London. Ellen from Perusia Hall had gone into a sulk when she learned Jennie, five years younger than she, would accompany Bianca, even though she had never been Bianca’s maid. Ellen had been Cathy’s maid, and since Cathy’s departure she’d become prickly about her position.

  Max said something to Jennie, who nodded and spun around toward the house, almost treading on a passing goose as she did.
The goose flew up with a great honking, Jennie cowered and shrieked, and Max laughed.

  Bianca leaned nearer her window, staring. It was rare she had the chance of seeing him without him knowing she watched. He was still a puzzle to her, this man who did menial tasks himself but who dressed in satins and lace for dinner. He read contracts and quizzed the workmen, but reminded her that he owned a quarter of the factory.

  And he looked at her with such a range of expressions she couldn’t begin to sort out what he thought.

  As if feeling her scrutiny, his head tilted back and he looked directly at her window. Could he see her? Bianca tensed, but didn’t move.

  He swept off his tricorn hat and made an elaborate bow. When he stood upright, he was grinning broadly at her. Awkwardly Bianca raised her hand, finding to her surprise she was smiling in spite of herself.

  Blushing, she let the curtain fall and took a large step backward. Good heavens. What had got into her?

  Out of breath and flustered, Jennie burst into the room. “Oh, ma’am, are you ready? Mr. St. James says all is prepared and they only wait for you.”

  “Yes.” She busied herself pulling on her gloves and fussing with the cuffs. “Have you taken down everything?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Jennie was almost dancing.

  “Then let’s go.” Bianca closed the window and secured the latch.

  She came out into the courtyard, where the wagon was waiting with the baggage. Jennie scrambled up onto the seat beside Matthew, waving at the servants who were not going. Ellen lifted a hand morosely, but Mary swung her arm, and Timmy from the stables waved his hat at her. With a jolt Matthew started the horses, lurching down the rutted lane.

  Bianca turned to her husband, brow furrowed. “I thought we were to ride with Matthew as well.”