Bianca, thinking him nothing more than another idle gentleman taking advantage of Lord Sherwood’s famed hospitality, had paid little attention. There was far too much for her to tend to at home to expend much care on any idle gentleman—for St. James was clearly a gentleman, not a working man. Despite Samuel’s obvious infatuation, he made no mention of anything useful that the man did, unlike Lord Sherwood, who had founded a practical school for artisans, or Mr. Hopkins, who crafted the most beautiful clocks when he wasn’t reading Diderot’s Encyclopédie.
Then Samuel invited the man to Staffordshire, to their home. Dinner parties fell under Cathy’s purview: which tablecloths to use, how to arrange the silver to best reflect the flowers and candles, whether the goose should be dressed with watercress or stuffed with sage and bread. She had their mother’s flair for style and entertaining.
That time Bianca did take note of Mr. St. James. It was hard not to, as he arrived like a peacock strutting into the midst of a bevy of plain, sober grouse. Tall and lean, he wore his dark hair unpowdered and long, not caring that it curled around his shoulders like a Boucher Madonna’s. The embroidery on his burgundy velvet coat sparkled in the candlelight, and his sharp London wit set him aside from the earnest scientists and philosophers who filled the table.
Still, her feeling then had not been negative. Despite being so attractive, he was obviously well-read and, as Papa had said, intelligent. If he were pottery, though, he would have been a tureen: handsome and expensively made, drawing every eye around the table, but hollow, and good for nothing more than holding the humble soup. Bianca expected he’d got his fill of philosophy and commoners, and wouldn’t be back.
Instead he reared his head mere months later—just yesterday in fact, proposing to marry Cathy, with whom he’d barely exchanged an hour’s conversation.
“He’s a very eligible gentleman,” Cathy replied to her demand. “He is cousin to a duke, you know.”
“Which makes him nothing,” Bianca retorted. “It has given him pretensions, though . . .”
Cathy flushed. “But he’s not from Marslip, he’s from London. To be singled out by a gentleman is an honor, and you know that a connection to the Duke of Carlyle would mean so much to Papa.”
“I don’t know what great benefit Papa hopes to reap from being able to say he dines with the distant cousin of a duke. There must be a thousand such people in Britain.”
For the first time her sister frowned at her, returning somewhat to her usual poise. “You’re being deliberately obstinate.”
Bianca’s lips parted. She sank down to the floor and grasped her sister’s hand. “Oh Cathy—you’re considering this mad proposal, aren’t you? Why? Was I wrong about Mr. Mayne?”
A minute shudder rippled through her sister at that name. “I find—” Cathy stopped and cleared her throat. “I find that if I don’t think of him, Papa’s plan is very . . . sensible.”
Sensible. Not exciting, or thrilling, or even desirable. It would please Papa, and Cathy, ever anxious to do that, would throw aside the man she did love for one she did not. Bianca’s temper began to smolder anew.
“All right. Perhaps it is,” she said quietly, watching her sister’s face. “I suppose you’d be married here, in the church at Marslip. Shall you have Mr. Mayne read the banns, do you think, or will Papa insist on a license?” Cathy said nothing but her chin trembled. “In that case we could have the wedding here, in this room. I’m sure Mr. Mayne won’t mind, and it would be more convenient for Aunt Frances. After that, I suppose Mr. St. James will prefer to live in London.”
The color drained from Cathy’s cheeks.
Bianca went on. “It’s such a long way away. I do hope you’ll come visit at times—it won’t be the same without you. How shall I know which tablecloths to use, or whether Mr. Mayne should sit beside Mrs. Arlington or Mr. Soames, when you’re not here to—”
“Stop!” Cathy shot off the settee and flung herself against the wall in the corner. Her shoulders shook. “Stop, Bee!”
“I’m not doing anything,” she pointed out. And then she waited.
Unlike Bianca, Cathy hadn’t inherited their father’s iron will; she had more of their mother’s desire to please, especially to please Samuel. Papa had overwhelmed her this time, like a sudden hurricane blowing in and flattening her to the ground before she knew what was happening.
But Cathy was Samuel’s daughter, too, and once she recovered from the shock of her father’s suggestion and realized what it would mean, she would pick herself up and discover her spine.
And she did. After a few minutes of silent sobbing against the wall, Cathy straightened, dabbed her eyes dry, and hesitantly turned back to face Bianca. “You think I’m a terrible coward, don’t you?”
She shook her head.
Cathy went to the window and drew aside the curtain. The pottery works lay down the hill, smoke puffing industriously from the kiln chimneys. “Papa thinks it’s a good match,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But he can’t want me to move so far from Marslip . . .”
Bianca said nothing.
“London is a massive city,” Cathy went on, her voice growing stronger and more despairing at the same time. “And so far! I might not see you or Papa again for years!”
Bianca pinched a loose thread from the hem of her apron and bided her time.
“And Mr. Mayne—” Cathy stopped. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the curtain.
After a fraught minute of silence, Bianca stirred. “I suppose it would be a great surprise to him.”
Her sister made a noise like a sob. “It would.”
“I always thought he was so fond of you,” Bianca went on carefully. “And you of him.”
Silence.
Bianca climbed to her feet. “Only you know what you want, Cathy. You’re right—Mr. St. James is very eligible, and perhaps he will inveigle Carlyle to buy a large and expensive dinner service from Papa. He might exhibit it, like Mr. Wedgwood did—the Duke’s Service! Papa would like that very much, I grant you, and it wouldn’t be bad for our factory, either, for the world to see our work on a noble table. So Papa would be pleased as anything, and you would have a charming, intelligent gentleman for your husband.” Cathy seemed turned to marble, she was so still. The devil inside Bianca prodded her to add, “And he is devilishly handsome. Rather puts the Marslip lads to shame, in fact, even Mr. Mayne—”
Cathy turned on her in a swirl of skirts. “Don’t,” she growled. “Don’t say it!”
Bianca relented. She could tell her arrow had hit its mark; it wanted only time to do its work. “I won’t,” she promised, squeezing her sister’s hands. “It is your decision, after all—your life, your marriage, and your heart. I will support you and help you, no matter what you decide, so long as it is what you want.”
Pale and somber, Cathy nodded. “Thank you, Bianca.”
She kissed her sister’s cheek. “Of course! Now I should get back to work. That red glaze isn’t quite as bright as I would like it to be, and it has an appalling tendency to blister if it’s not applied just perfectly.” She made a face. “Since no handsome strangers have seen fit to ride up and offer to marry me and sweep me away from glazes and pots and Marslip!”