But he couldn’t hold back the curses, and his hands trembled as he ground his palms against his temples. “God damn it,” he whispered in the still room.
A noise outside the door made him tense, until the sound of a maid’s footsteps pattered past, accompanied by some off-key humming.
Max exhaled. His head bowed heavily. Eyes closed, he slid one hand into the pocket in his coattail and retrieved the letter. Mary had handed it to him after Bianca had carried off her sister’s letter to the parlor. Max had smiled and thanked Mary and swiftly hidden it in his pocket. Not quickly enough to avoid seeing the direction on the front, in the spidery familiar handwriting that always gave him nightmares, but he hoped he’d done it smoothly enough that the maid wouldn’t pay the letter any mind.
For a moment he debated burning it without reading. Never had one of these letters brought good news; at best they taunted and mocked him, at worst they made him contemplate murder. The world would certainly be better without the man who sent them, and Max had entertained many a fantasy about showing him out of it.
Still, after a moment, hating himself, Max broke the seal. There was always a slim chance . . .
But no.
Money, he thought grimly as he read the short message. It always came down to money. For the last year penury had been Max’s shield, but now it seemed news of his marriage had found its way into the ear of this poisonous viper, who never missed a chance to feed off anyone who came near him. Max had hoped Staffordshire would be far enough away to avoid notice, but the viper had found him, and decided he was ripe enough to attack again.
Another noise made Max start. The muffled sound of Bianca’s voice drifted through the door. She would be changing for dinner.
He stared at that door for a long while. By now he could tell her mood from the timbre of her voice, and tonight she was happy. The letter from her sister must have contained very comforting news. Jennie’s voice answered, and then the two of them laughed. Bianca had such a warm, vibrant laugh.
Max inhaled. He’d forgotten to breathe, listening to her voice, light and lilting with carefree delight. She still held him at arm’s length, but her manner was thawing, slowly but steadily. He had encouraged that warmth at every turn, keeping his calm even when she provoked him and making good-humored replies to any smart comments from her. Today, just minutes ago in the parlor, she had looked at him with wondering, almost dazed eyes, her mouth gone soft, and he’d felt a surge of elation. Things were turning his way.
And he wasn’t about to let anything interfere.
His gaze dropped to the letter. The viper preferred to bleed his victims from afar; not once had he approached Max directly. Perhaps he sensed it was better for his health that way. Max had promised to kill him the next time they met, after all.
With steady hands he struck the flint and lit the lamp, then touched the corner of the paper to the flame, and watched it burn until the heat singed his hands and he let it crumble into ash in the grate.
Chapter Twelve
Max was learning far more about pottery and ceramics than he had ever expected to know. Even though he had vowed to apply himself and learn it all, it interested him more than he had anticipated.
Tate had created an impressive system in his factories, where he trained workmen in a limited number of skills until they excelled at them. Not only did it speed production, it led to a uniformity in the quality of the wares they produced.
Tate was inordinately proud of this. “Each one as fine as the last!” he told Max, gesturing to long shelves filled with vases on one visit to the workshop. “A man does better when he’s allowed to develop one skill to the best of his ability, rather than having to learn the entire process.”
Max surveyed the line of double-handled vases. It was indeed remarkable that each one had been crafted individually. He couldn’t have told any one of them from the other. “That must have required an immense amount of training.”
Tate waved one hand. “Some didn’t take to it in the beginning, but I can pay higher wages to a man with more skill, can’t I? Everyone likes to be paid more.” His mouth twitched in irritation. “And I’ve got to, or bloody Mannox across the river will poach them from me. Ten men last year alone, Mr. St. James, he stole from under my nose! Well, I won back eight of them, and that will teach Henry Mannox to think he can hire my men away and pick their brains for my designs and formulae. His wares are inferior quality in every aspect, and everyone knows it.”
Max raised his brows. “How did you win the workmen back?” If the answer was higher wages again, he foresaw a problem; every workman in here would go work for Mannox for a few months, then allow himself to be “won” back by Tate, for an increase in his wages. A man might change factories twice a year, playing the owners against each other.
His father-in-law harrumphed. “Mannox treats his men like dogs. Most of them recognized it and came back. And . . .” He hesitated. “Six of them wanted the school.”
“What school?”
“For the children.” He paused, his mouth puckered up. “Bianca set it up in the old workshop after we built these new premises.” With that, Tate stalked out of the room, arms folded. Max had divined by now that indicated some displeasure or reluctance on Tate’s part—most likely due to the mention of Bianca. He followed his father-in-law.
“I take it Mannox has no schools.”
Tate snorted. “Mannox has filthy factories and poor methods. Ah well—everyone learns that once they’ve worked for him for a few months.”
“Yes,” said Max smoothly, “but those months of their labor are then lost to Perusia. I wonder how we might persuade workers to want to stay.”
“That would be ideal,” acknowledged Tate. “I’ve done my best, sir. When I built Perusia, we had to relocate a good way away from the old works, and there weren’t enough rooms available. A man won’t work for me if he can’t house his family, so we built the village.” He waved one hand at the neat rows of cottages and houses visible beyond the copse. “Mannox ain’t got that,” he added with a smug air.
“Bianca, though, insisted it wasn’t enough and she made a school for the little ones.” Tate shrugged. “I suppose it helps.”
“Aren’t the workers’ children set to become apprentices?” Max was surprised. Not only would it ensure the child a good job when he was older, it was good for the pottery works to have a new generation of workmen being trained at all times.
“Aye, many of them do.” Tate beamed again. “Men are proud to work for Perusia, sir—proud! I pay good wages, have a doctor in once a month, and charge only a pittance rate for the cottages. But Bianca—” He stopped and looked away. “She’s got rarefied ideas,” was all he said, a moment later.
“I see,” murmured Max, wondering what they were. He already knew his wife had a romantic streak, from the way she had conspired to help her sister elope. Did she have an egalitarian one as well?
Tate waved it aside. “It’s her project, none of mine. And if it persuades a few fellows to come back, all the better! What’s the harm in letting her have her little passions, eh?” He winked at Max. “Good advice for any husband, if you ask me! Keeps a wife happy, and out of your way to boot.”