Then Frances hired four new footmen, tall brawny lads from Stoke. Bianca thought she must have been wanting to do that for years, and now saw a perfect justification. But it was genuinely moving how kind and supportive Frances was with Greta, and the footmen did set Max’s mind at ease.
As for herself . . . Bianca could not deny that her hurt was fading rapidly. The more Greta spoke about her ordeal, the more appalled everyone at Perusia was, but especially Bianca. She could see that every word was an arrow in Max’s chest; once he had physically hunched over as Greta described how Dr. Hawes sent his inmates running for hours over gravel in bare feet, driven onward by keepers with whips.
Bianca had wondered, what would she have done, had it been Cathy in such a place? If she had feared for her sister’s life, but been uncertain that anyone else would care about Cathy—or if they might even quietly wish her dead? Secrecy, lies, desperate midnight races across the county . . . yes, she thought she could have done all that and more, to save her sister from the nightmare Greta described.
She had been thinking of her sister a great deal lately. Not only was this the longest they had ever gone without speaking, it seemed as if so much had happened since Cathy’s elopement that Bianca thought she might burst from not having told her any of it. The long explanatory letter had been written and dispatched, but it was not the same; her sister was not there to respond, and question, and tease, and wag her finger in Bianca’s face before folding her into a comforting embrace. More than ever she needed a confidant, and this time Max would not do—because he was the topic she desperately wanted to talk about.
He called her his love every day; he made love to her at nights with a passionate tenderness that made her skin glow and her heart swell. He told her he was wrong, and that he was sorry beyond words that he hadn’t told her everything. She said she forgave him, and she did—she had.
She loved him.
But somehow those words never came out.
She asked herself why as she stood waiting for him after the horn blew, just inside the tall gates of Perusia. He had been closeted with Papa all today, presenting his plan for Fortuna ware. He had asked if she wanted to go with him, but Bianca had laughed and said no; she had already told her father she thought it was a brilliant idea, and all Max had to do was lay it out.
Even she had been startled by the breadth of his intentions and planning. Not only did he have a list of wares to produce, complete with sketches, he had sample price lists, proposed lists of shopkeepers who might carry it in Liverpool and Birmingham, and suggestions for how to advertise. He had a list of workers to divert to Fortuna and a plan for assigning and promoting workers in both Fortuna and Perusia.
And at the end, he proposed a small production of porcelain items, pretty and delicate, aimed at the boudoirs of ladies of less expansive means. Darling little pots for rouge, light simple dishes for powder—with matching brush handles—even chamber pots that served their purposes attractively, and with close-fitting lids.
Bianca knew the porcelain was for her. Papa had disdained paste, and without his approval she couldn’t work with it. But if Papa approved this plan, they would be making it, and she would get to experiment with it to her heart’s delight.
Bianca had been bowled over by how deeply Max had thought out everything. Papa, who was accustomed to approving a new idea or suggestion on the spot when presented with a sample of it, would be awestruck.
At last, Papa and Max emerged from the office, still deep in conversation. Bianca went up on her toes to see over the crowds of workers leaving for the day, and caught sight of her father’s beaming smile.
Her heart soared, and she clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from bursting out in delight. Papa was pleased. Max was smiling, too; Papa had approved and given his blessing. After so many weeks of discussion with Max, Bianca had almost come to think it already had been, but today she realized how anxious she—and Max, no doubt—had been about it.
They joined her and she couldn’t hold back anymore. “Did you support his ideas, Papa?” she demanded.
He chuckled. “How could I not? I’ve never seen a more complete plan for anything, including this factory. Of course I did. Only an idiot wouldn’t be willing to give it a go.”
Bianca laughed, already looking to her husband. “Congratulations,” she said softly.
He took her hand and kissed her wrist, his eyes twinkling. “At least half of it is due to you.”
“You’re too generous,” she replied.
“No, I’m too fortunate by half,” he said as they started toward home, Papa striding in the lead. “I told him which parts were your ideas.”
“Nothing is surer to invite his critical eye,” she said, but at the same time she blushed with pleasure.
“Mr. St. James! Mr. St. James!” John, one of the young workers in the modeling workshop, was pursuing them. “I tried to catch you, sir, to see if you’d want to see the pots you told me and Bobby Jenkins to throw for you.”
Max hesitated. “Go on,” Bianca said, untangling her arm from his. She knew he’d been waiting to see those pots. John and Bobby were atop his list for workers to bring into Fortuna, and their ability to do what he asked was key to its success.
“Just a quick look,” he said, giving in. “I’ll see you at home?”
She nodded, and to her surprise he leaned down and kissed her, lightly, quickly, on the mouth. “Thank you, love,” he whispered, then turned and strode off with John trotting beside him.
“A hard worker, that one,” said Papa as she joined him on the path up the hill. “How long has he been at this Fortuna business?”
“I expect since he arrived at Perusia. Certainly he had a fully composed idea when we went to London.”
Papa grunted. “I knew I was right about him! Got Markham to pay in full, and by the end of this year Perusia wares will be serving a duke and two earls. He’s got a nerve, you can’t deny that.”
She laughed. “And you’ve not even mentioned his greatest contribution to Perusia.”
Papa brightened at this teasing mention of the redware cricket vase. “True, true! I give it a fond pat every morning and reflect with pleasure that Mannox does not have it. I mean to hold on to it, too, you know. St. James had better practice his batting before next year’s wakes.”
“He suggested we form a cricket club.”
“A fine idea,” exclaimed Papa. “There’s a fair prospect for a pitch below Frances’s terrace . . .”
They were still laughing when they reached Perusia Hall, where Hickson came out to meet them. “Miss Tate has returned home, sir,” he said, his face bright with eagerness. “Oh no—I do beg your pardon—Mr. and Mrs. Mayne!”
Bianca had already run past him into the house, darting down the corridor toward the sound of voices. At her entrance, Cathy and Mr. Mayne looked up from the tea tray in front of them.
“Bianca!” Cathy rose and opened her arms, and Bianca flew to her sister with a cry of delight. “Oh my dear, it’s been so long,” Cathy said, laughing and crying at the same time. “Let me look at you!”
Bianca stepped back, keeping her grip on Cathy’s hands. She knew what had caught her sister’s eyes. “Do you like my hair? Jennie learned it in London.”
“It’s beautiful.” Cathy smiled. “Jennie must be so pleased to be a lady’s maid at last! She and Ellen skirmished regularly . . .”
Bianca laughed. “Wait until you see the gowns I ordered in town! I declare the dressmakers there are so artful, they made even me look handsome.”
“Bee,” said Cathy with a helpless smile of reproach. “Of course you’re lovely!”
Bianca grinned. “And you look blissfully happy.”
“I am, Bee, I am.” Cathy did look blissful. There was a glow to her face that hadn’t been there before. For a moment the joy of seeing her sister again almost made Bianca shed a tear.
Cathy’s face went still, and she released Bianca. Bianca turned her head, even as she inst
inctively stepped aside.
Papa stood in the doorway, one hand on the jamb as if to hold himself up. Cathy’s chin trembled. She started forward, hands outstretched. “Papa,” she said in her soft pleading voice.
Their father broke. Two swift steps forward and he swept her into his arms, holding her tight. Cathy’s arms were around his neck, and Bianca guessed her sister was sobbing her apologies into his shoulder. Tactfully she went to greet Mr. Mayne, who had remained quietly to the side, and offered him her congratulations and welcome.
Of course Papa forgave Cathy instantly. After a few minutes they came to the table together, with Papa fumbling for his handkerchief as tears sparkled openly on Cathy’s cheeks. “And you must forgive Richard, Papa,” she said, reaching for her husband to come forward.
“Mayne,” said Papa gruffly, extending his hand. “I suppose there’s nothing for it but to welcome you to the family.”
Mr. Mayne’s face eased. “Thank you, sir. I am deeply sorry for the dismay and pain we caused here, but I love your daughter to distraction. I hope we have your blessing.”
“Aye, aye,” muttered Papa, swiping at his eyes. “But here—you must be wondering how Bianca is! And you’ll want to meet her husband again, too. I hope you’re not upset about that, Cathy, with your sister marrying the fellow.”
Cathy bit her lip. Mayne looked downward. Bianca realized with a jolt of dismay that her long letter, explaining everything, couldn’t have reached her sister. It had been sent to Wolverhampton only yesterday. She cursed herself for a coward, putting it off so long. “Max should be right behind us,” she said in the silence. “He was delayed at the pottery, seeing to some new wares.”
Cathy moved to the edge of the settee. “Bianca . . . I have been in agony since Papa’s letter. My dear, when you agreed to help me, I never—I didn’t dream—oh, I am so sorry!”
“Bosh,” she said uneasily. “There’s nothing to apologize for! I’m not sorry I helped you elope . . .”
“But look at the price you paid!” cried Cathy. “Coerced into marrying that conniving, fortune-hunting rake!” Bianca blinked. Papa scowled and opened his mouth, and Cathy turned on him wrathfully. “You knew he was, Papa, when he first turned up! When he wanted me, your main argument in his favor was his connection to the Duke of Carlyle. He had no fortune, no profession, nothing to recommend him but that one connection!”
Papa stirred uncomfortably. “Well . . . Come now, Cathy . . .”
“And in exchange for that you sold your daughter into marriage to a man she didn’t know, who didn’t even want her!” Cathy was in full roar now, hands waving and eyes flashing.
Bianca lowered her voice. “Cathy, let me explain—things are different now—”
“Yes, so I understand. Ellen was telling me all about it, how his aunt is a raving madwoman and he brought her here, provoking the poor woman’s husband to come and threaten Aunt Frances and Bianca both!”
Bianca cursed Ellen’s wagging tongue. “That is not the full story—”
“Bianca.” Cathy seized her hands again. “It does not matter. As soon as Papa told me what happened, I went to Richard. He’s a man of the church, and he knew precisely what questions to ask. Tell her, Richard. Tell her how she can be free of this man.”
Bianca’s mouth fell open in shock. “Cathy . . .”
Richard Mayne sat forward. He was a tall, rangy fellow, quiet and reserved. His shaggy brown hair fell over his forehead like a boy’s, but he had a calm, quiet way of speaking that commanded attention. “It’s not a legal marriage.”
Now Bianca was quite literally speechless.
“What?” barked Papa.
“It’s not a legal marriage between Bianca and Maximilian St. James,” repeated Mayne. “I explained as much as we knew to my superior, Mr. Williams in Wolverhampton, and he concurs. The license was issued to St. James and Cathy.” He couldn’t stop a fond glance at his wife. “The fact that he wed Bianca instead means there was no valid license, and of course there were no banns called, since it happened on the spur of the moment.”
Bianca’s heart felt like a silent boom inside her chest. Good God. She’d never thought of that. She could barely speak, her lips and throat had gone so dry. She pulled free of her sister’s grip. “But since then—Cathy, we were married in church. Everyone came to the wedding breakfast. We have lived as man and wife . . .”
In every way. Her skin flushed at the memory of how intimate she and Max had become.
Was it all false? Were they not really married?
Richard was still speaking. “It is an obstacle, but not an insurmountable one. A claim of fraud will do, and Mr. Filpot will testify that he was asked to wed St. James to Cathy, not to Bianca. I daresay the license will show signs of being altered as well.”
“But Cathy bolted,” protested Papa. “And Bianca agreed to it!”
“That does not matter,” replied Richard somberly. “The lack of a proper license invalidates the marriage.”
No. She did not want her marriage invalidated. Bianca shook her head, her thoughts flying too rapidly. “No— Wait— Are you certain? Can that be true?”
“By Church law it is,” said Cathy, seizing her hand again. “Oh, Bee, I remember how you scorned him! I remember how you portrayed marriage to him—how I must subjugate my desires to his own, suffer his temper and indulge his vanities, from now until the day I died! I know you would never wish that for yourself, you who swore marriage was not for you! None of the kind, amiable gentlemen who asked to court you pleased you, and then you were coerced into marriage with a man who is everything you despise!”
Bianca squirmed at having her own angry words turned back at her. “Cathy, don’t . . .”
“Coerced!” blustered Papa indignantly. “Hardly that!”
“Papa. I know you, and I know Bianca,” said Cathy with a severe look. “You told her Perusia would be lost to her, didn’t you—Perusia, the only thing she’s ever truly loved.”
Bianca jerked in astonishment. That was not true. Good heavens, is that what her sister thought?
But Cathy rolled on in a passion. “You were angry, Papa, and you made her angry, and she agreed to it in a fury—I know you both, please don’t argue,” she said, flinging up her hand as both opened their mouths to do just that. “And in that fit of anger, neither of you willing to back down and lose face, Bianca was wed to a stranger whose main interest is Perusia. Papa, don’t you see it?” She swiveled to Bianca as their father turned red in the face. “And Bee—I know you did it for me. I never wanted you to pay such a price! No, I never would have gone if I’d thought this would happen! I would have stayed, and refused to speak in the church.” Tears welled in her eyes for a moment. “But don’t worry. We will make it right for you. Richard has spoken to everyone, and they are all united in their opinions. The marriage is invalid, and can be wiped away as if it never existed.”
In the sudden, frozen silence after this speech, Bianca’s reeling senses still caught the sound of a quiet footstep. Then another and another, retreating from the door, and with a sinking heart she knew that it was Max, and that he had heard.
She wrenched free of her sister’s grip. “You’re wrong, Cathy, all wrong,” she managed to say, and then she was running after her husband, her heart like lead in her chest.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Max climbed the hill with a spring in his step. John and Bobby had produced a run of teapots that were precisely what he wanted: simple, clean, and perfect. By now he knew what flaws would catch Tate’s eye, and he had satisfied himself there were none. Tate had been impressed by his plans today, but had warned that he still needed proof the workers could produce wares of high enough quality to put his name on them. Only if Max could demonstrate that the less experienced workers could produce wares of high enough quality would Samuel approve.
John’s and Bobby’s pots meant Fortuna wares would get a start.
Hickson met him at the door and informed him that M
r. Tate and Mrs. St. James were in the parlor, with Mr. and Mrs. Mayne. “Ah,” said Max in pleasure. He knew Bianca had missed her sister, and everyone had been expecting them any day now. He headed toward the parlor, where the door had been left open.
“. . . not a legal marriage,” said a man’s voice.
Max paused.
“What?” exclaimed Tate.
“It’s not a legal marriage between Bianca and Maximilian St. James,” repeated the unknown fellow.
Max’s feet rooted to the floor as the man—presumably Catherine Tate’s curate—explained the fault in the license, the requirements of the law, the grounds for invalidating Max’s marriage.
He couldn’t find a flaw in the fellow’s argument. But even worse, he didn’t hear Bianca protesting that it was valid, that she didn’t give a damn about the license, that she wanted to be wed to him now, no matter what she’d thought and said weeks ago.
You damned fool, he thought to himself. He’d been cynically amused at the time about Tate bribing the visiting vicar to amend the license; he hadn’t realized it would be the trap door to release Bianca from her vows.
There—that was it, his fevered brain thought. Tate bribed the vicar, making both of them complicit in any wrongdoing. Surely neither would want to stir up trouble now . . .
But still he listened for Bianca’s outburst, and heard nothing but confused questions from her, testing the argument.
Slowly he backed away, not wanting to hear any more but unable to close his ears to it. I remember how you scorned him . . . a man who is everything you despise . . . Perusia, the only thing you’ve ever truly loved . . . The marriage is invalid, and can be wiped away as if it never existed.
Finally he turned and slipped out the garden door. He was halfway home before the full impact hit him.
Poplar House, standing before him with its welcoming blue door, wasn’t home; it wasn’t his. The marriage contract had been signed after the wedding, properly amended with Bianca’s name in the right places. But if Samuel Tate meant to invalidate the marriage itself, the contract—complete with possession of Poplar House and his stake in Perusia—would be next.
About a Rogue EPB Page 28
