She smiled widely. “For your sake, I hope so,” she said. “For I certainly shan’t.”
She marched off, leaving him to follow in her wake, his blood running hot and his thoughts very happily occupied imagining how it would be when he finally won her over.
Chapter Eleven
For the next fortnight and more, things went as they had done that first day.
No matter how early Bianca rose, That Man was always at the table before her. In aggravation she told Jennie to wake her earlier, and earlier, and even when she staggered downstairs, yawning in the predawn darkness, he would be waiting and rise, fully dressed and not looking tired at all, from his seat at the breakfast table to wish her a good morning.
In disgust Bianca gave it up. He could win this battle; she was going to sleep.
There were plenty of other battles to fight, of course. During those breakfasts, he always had a book or a pamphlet or a contract in his hand. Once she spied schematic drawings of a kiln and some device she didn’t recognize, annotated in writing she didn’t recognize. Bianca knew her father’s handwriting, as well as Mick’s and George’s, who were the heads of the firing house crew. Since she would have chewed off her hand before asking That Man to explain, she was reduced to asking Billy what was being built by the kilns. Twelve-year-old boys, alas, were not reliable spies; he did not know, and she was forced to swallow her curiosity.
And her husband persisted in walking to and from the factory with her. Some days they walked in silence, unless Bianca was forced to offer her thanks for some gallantry of his, like pitching a fallen branch from the path. Other days they sniped and sparred the whole way to Perusia’s gate. One day Amelia, meeting her in the courtyard after That Man had left her, commented that she looked unusually well that morning. “You have the look of victory about you,” teased her friend. “Flushed and bright-eyed. What problem have you solved?”
Bianca forced a smile and made up something innocuous, but seethed inside to think that there was no true reason other than her conversation with Max. He’d provoked her into speaking to him and then almost made her laugh. She would have to be more on guard with him.
And, perhaps, with herself. Holding her grudges was beginning to wear on her.
She still was not speaking to her father. A few times she had caught him watching her at the factory, when she came down to inspect some newly fired wares glazed in her now-perfected scarlet. To her joy, they glowed like June strawberries, bright glossy ruby-red without any purple or orange undertone. It was exactly as she’d wanted it.
Normally she would have borne the scarlet-glazed dishes off to her father’s office, to share her triumph with him. He’d raved when she showed him the delicate green glaze that had occupied her for several months, and which now graced many a tea set in the very fashionable Chinese style. He’d declared she was cleverer than half the factory put together, and more determined than all of them. Bianca had basked in his enthusiastic approval.
This time she was reduced to hearing from other people that Papa was pleased with the scarlet glaze. It took the shine off her triumph, particularly when That Man was one of the people telling her how splendid it was.
“It’s unmatched,” he said as they walked home one evening. “As red as the blood of the martyrs.”
She couldn’t stop a small smile. “Thank you.” And then, because of the rage she’d felt at his earlier slighting of her work, “Now perhaps you understand why I go to the workshop every day.”
“I certainly see the benefit to Perusia,” he said, smiling in that way he had that made Bianca—very much against her wishes—want to smile back. “It was a surprise to me that you would be so driven in pursuit of glazing formulae.”
She stopped. “Why was it such a surprise to you?”
He also stopped, and faced her. Bianca had to give him that—when she spoke to him, he turned his full attention on her. Many men did not. “Most ladies of my acquaintance are not given to such serious occupations.”
London ladies, she thought with an edge of irritation. Women who did not need to work or do anything practical. “Here, they are,” she replied. “Over one quarter of the workers at Perusia are women.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, “and some of them are highly skilled artisans. But they work for the income, which you do not need.”
Bianca put her hands on her hips. “No? That suggests my work has no impact on Perusia, that the orders would be streaming in even if we couldn’t produce teacups that look like they’re carved from jade.” She shook her head. “Any potter can produce a double-handled vase or a competent teapot. There are dozens of factories producing wares virtually identical to ours. It’s a cutthroat business, you know—”
“I do,” he murmured.
“—where everyone copies any competitor’s popular designs, and Perusia must stand apart. We do that with the delicacy of our decoration, from uniquely colorful glazes to the detailed paintings to the whimsical little touches other manufacturers don’t spend the time to create. Papa has always taken great pains to hire the best artists and to train our workers to his exacting standards, and that is why we succeed. The glazing is only a part, but an important one, as it is often the first aspect of a piece to catch someone’s eye. My glazes, sir, are unique to Perusia. So if I went home and sat in the parlor all day,” she finished with a pointed finger for emphasis, “it might well decrease our income. Which we do need, to support not just our workers but our family.” She arched one brow at him. “Even you.”
Throughout her speech his demeanor had gone from sober seriousness to open appreciation. Now he laughed, and swept a deep bow. “Pax, madam! I intended no offense. Only . . .” He tilted his head, his face still relaxed in amusement. “You have been a great surprise to me. Daily I am astonished anew.”
“That is no surprise to me,” she told him. “I suspected all along you had no acquaintance of clever, ambitious women.”
“Ah, now, that’s where you’re wrong.” He kept pace with her as she started walking again. “London women have their own ambitions, and there’s no shortage of cleverness and cunning among them.”
“Oh? Then what do they pursue?” Bianca had seen fashionable magazines from London. She’d read their descriptions of needlework and playing the harpsichord and dancing. It all sounded rather useless to her.
“Influence,” he said after a moment. “Whether it be in leading the fashions or influencing the government.”
“Women must find power where we can, I suppose.”
He gazed at her for a moment. “You have far more within your reach than you think.”
Bianca scoffed. “You mean as a wife, or as a daughter. Thank you, no. I prefer to make my own mark.”
His forehead wrinkled ruefully. “I had no doubt of that.”
“I admire you for acknowledging it.” Although she tried to conceal it from him, Bianca was somewhat amazed. Even her father, who did value her contributions to Perusia and gave her credit for them, confidently expected that she would give it all up to be a wife and mother.
At this, her husband smiled his slow, simmering rake’s smile. “Perhaps I’m not what you thought I was.”