Like many family businesses, it had been the desire of each generation of Tates to see his sons join him and take over the works eventually. For three generations it had happened just that way. But the current owner, Samuel Tate, had no sons, only two daughters. And although he loved them both dearly, never had he wished for sons more than on this day, in the middle of this blistering argument with not just one but both daughters at once.
“Papa!” Bianca was in a full-fledged fury. “You’ve gone mad!”
“Not a bit,” he returned. “It’s a brilliant idea and will be the making of us.”
“The making of you,” she flung back. “Not Cathy! You’re trying to ruin her life!”
They both turned toward the elder sister, who had sat mute and morose through the entire argument. At their regard, tears obligingly welled up in her big blue eyes. One streaked down her pink cheek as if trailed by the brush of an artist. “No, Bee,” she protested, her voice raspy from tears. “That’s too far . . .”
Bianca was having none of it. “Ruin,” she repeated forcefully. “Break her heart and overrule her will!”
Their father made a face and waved one hand. “Spare me the dramatics. It’s an excellent match! She said herself it wouldn’t be anything like ruin.”
Bianca’s fingers itched to throw something at him, and a compotier stood obligingly nearby, waiting on the corner of the table for approval. Unfortunately it was one of the new ones, shaped like a hollowed-out strawberry leaf with curling vines forming the handles and charming little clusters of berries nestled around the base. It had been made by their best modeler, a truly beautiful piece—so she reluctantly refrained. “Cathy should not have to say anything. She should have been the one who came to you about her marriage, not the other way around.”
“Now, Bee,” Samuel said, putting his hands out diplomatically. “Would you have me throw aside a great opportunity for either one of you? St. James is a gentleman—what’s more, he’s a gentleman who’s heir to a duke.” He shook an admonishing finger. “Your sister, a duchess! And you want me to sit quietly by and tell him no, without even considering it?”
Bianca folded her arms. “So you’re only considering it? And Cathy shall decide, freely and absolutely?”
His gaze veered away. “I shall counsel her, of course . . .”
“You’ve already made up your mind!” She paced the room, her skirts swinging and threatening the safety of a row of egg cups on the lower shelf, before abruptly stopping in front of her sister. “Cathy, do you want to marry Mr. St. James?” she asked, as evenly and calmly as she could manage.
The tears pooled again. “It—it is a very eligible match,” said Cathy hesitantly. “And a great honor to be asked . . .”
“And do you wish to be his wife, to live at his side and bear his children, to subjugate your desires to his own, to suffer his temper and indulge his vanities, from now until the day you die?” prompted Bianca.
“And you accuse me of influencing her!” exclaimed their father, erupting from his seat.
Another tear rolled down Cathy’s face. “Bianca . . .”
“Do you?” Bianca repeated.
Her sister’s eyes darted to their father, now glowering from his side of the room. “I—I don’t wish to disappoint Papa . . .”
“See?” Samuel stalked over and took Cathy’s hand. “Catherine, my dear, I want your happiness—as well as your security and comfort, and a man like St. James can amply provide both.”
“Not with any money of his own,” put in Bianca.
“He’s a cousin of the Duke of Carlyle,” continued Samuel, his attention fixed on his elder daughter. “Imagine that! You would move in the finest circles, with duchesses and countesses—perhaps even princesses. Why, one outbreak of smallpox and you might become a duchess yourself.”
“Perhaps you can ask the vicar to add that to the marriage service,” Bianca added snidely. “Blessed Lord, may it please you to smite the following persons with smallpox . . .”
Samuel’s ears were red. He resolutely kept his back to her. “And he’s a handsome fellow, isn’t he? All the girls could hardly stop speaking of him when he came to dinner last month.”
“Perhaps he’ll have one of them,” muttered Bianca. “Or more likely, all of them. He has a dissolute air about him . . .”
“Young and clever, handsome and eligible,” finished Samuel in a growl, shooting a furious glance at his younger daughter, who only shrugged. “If you’d brought him to me, I would have given my blessing at once. Does it really matter who introduced him to you?”
“Does it really matter who shares his bed and belongs to him?” Bianca tapped her chin as if in thought.
“Enough!” roared Samuel, his patience gone at last. “That’s enough from you!”
“And from you!” she blazed back. “Mama would be appalled!”
That charge vibrated in the air. Cathy sucked in a frightened gasp. Samuel snatched off his wig and threw it on his desk, looking as though he were choking on a curse. “Enough,” he snarled. “Enough!” He stalked around the desk and put his hands on his hips, the sign he was done speaking to them, and they were expected to go.
Still sniffling, Cathy rushed to the door. There she paused, clutching her apron, her flawless cheeks mottled red and her eyes waterlogged. “Bianca,” she said softly. “Come, Bee.”
Bianca struggled, but there was no choice. Something must get through to her father about the barbarity of his actions. No—there was nothing else—it must be done. The compotier struck the wall with a satisfying, expensive crash. Ignoring both her pang of regret at destroying the piece and her father’s bellow of outrage, she stormed from the room, catching her sister’s hand and pulling her along, down the stairs out of the shop, and up the hill to their home.
“How dare he!” she seethed, slamming her way into the sitting room and sending Jane, the young maid, scuttling out with a yelp of panic. “He must have been struck by some horrible malady—perhaps stood too near the kilns and melted his brain—”
“You know he didn’t.” Cathy, still gasping for breath after the furious charge up the hill, staggered to the settee and sank down. “An advantageous marriage is not an unreasonable thing for a father to suggest . . .”
“Don’t ever say that!” Hands jammed on her hips, Bianca leaned over her wilting sister. “He proposed to sell you like a suckling pig in the market, without so much as asking your opinion!”
“Now, Bianca.” Cathy shook her head in reproach. “That’s not the way it was.”
“Why are you defending this?” Bianca was honestly amazed. “I thought you didn’t care for Mr. St. James at all.”
The man who had lobbed his grapeshot shell of a marriage proposal into their happy family was not entirely a stranger to them. Maximilian St. James had met their father in London at a philosophical meeting, during a dinner at the home of one of Papa’s business associates. Samuel had come home impressed with the fellow, praising his intelligence and manners.