“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.