Bianca blinked. “What?” She’d always thought her parents had cared deeply for each other.
But before he could respond, Ned tapped on the door. “Beg pardon, Uncle Tate, but Mr. St. James requests you to join him in the drying room.”
“Aye, of course,” said Papa. Ned nodded and left.
Bianca looked at him inquiringly, but Papa shrugged. “I’ve no idea what he’s about. You’re . . . welcome to come along and see.”
She gave a stiff nod. It was a truce, and possibly the first time they had reached one without any shouting at all.
And what could Max want? Bianca had slowly got used to seeing him in every corner of the factory. He’d spent time with every single group of workmen, learning something of their trade. Not only was he there every day, in one office or workshop, he’d taken to speaking to all the workers, from the women painting scenes on custom platters to the gilders applying delicate gold leaf to teacup rims to the men hauling up clay from the barges. Not everyone welcomed his attention, but everyone admitted he was polite and displayed deep interest in each and every skill.
She knew he’d helped unload clay and inspect it. He’d even gone to the firing house, the blistering hot warren of rooms where the kilns were, and tried his hand at unloading the kiln.
Bianca knew all this because Amelia’s brother worked in the firing house and told her Max had dropped a piece. It was only a fruit bowl, but it shattered, and Max had amazed all the workmen by apologizing. Papa would never have done that.
That was all startling enough. But every day when she came down to dinner, he was waiting, no longer humble and ordinary in wool and linen but the elegant, sophisticated rogue again in velvet and lace, smiling at her with unwavering attention and interest.
He was provoking her curiosity to no end.
With her father at her heels, she went down the stairs and through the factory to the drying room. Here were endless shelves of newly sculpted wares, carefully set apart from each other so the clay could dry throughout. After this some pieces would be fired, then glazed and painted and fired again, while others would be fired and left as biscuit ware. The colored clays made very striking pieces unglazed.
Max stood at the far end of the room, examining a teapot. He looked up as they came in, and set it down. A warm smile crossed his face as his gaze flickered between them. “How good of you to come.”
“Well, well, such a mysterious invitation! Who could resist? What are you about, St. James?” Papa folded his arms and waited expectantly.
Max nodded. “As you know, I’ve applied myself to learning how Perusia operates, from the clay pits to the sales warehouses. A few points of interest have struck me. First, Perusia has conceded that a large percentage of all wares may be broken upon arrival at the warehouses. That is lost income.”
“The roads are to blame,” said Tate. “Bloody awful.”
“Yes,” Max replied, “but the canal is not. More wares are going via canal, yet the contract still allows Brimley to declare one fifth breakage. And he does, very nearly.”
“What!” Papa looked thunderstruck.
Max put up his hands. “I would like to see it for myself. I intend to pay a call in Mr. Brimley’s offices and inspect Perusia crates as they arrive.”
Papa frowned. “Brimley’s run our warehouse for years.”
“I only want to see if it’s true that twenty percent of wares arrive damaged. If they do, we must improve our packing, to reduce that much lost dinnerware. Don’t you agree?”
Still scowling, Papa nodded once.
“But if they don’t . . .” said Bianca, letting her voice trail off.
Her husband didn’t smile, but she sensed he was pleased she asked. “Then we should review our contract.”
“Brimley wouldn’t lie,” said Papa, recovering. “By all means inspect the deliveries.”
Max bowed in acknowledgement. Bianca turned away to study one of the vases on the shelf beside her, to conceal her astonishment. He’d been serious when he asked about straw and packing and that contract allowance. She’d thought he was trying to annoy her—and because she’d already been annoyed, she hadn’t paid proper attention to what he actually meant.
“Secondly,” Max went on, “I have a proposal.” He held out the teapot he’d been studying earlier, and Bianca took it. Now that it was in her hands, she noticed the spout was slightly off-kilter, and there was a nick in the handle. “This is from a young potter who’s still learning to attach handles and spouts. Normally it would be cast aside.”
“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.”