Cathy laughed. Bianca smiled. They both knew she would never leave her workbench, where she experimented with glazes and minerals to improve Tate pottery, and Bianca’s setdowns of any local young men who sidled too close to her were legendary.
And they also both knew Cathy was desperately in love with Mr. Mayne the curate. Mayne hadn’t asked for her hand yet only because he was waiting for his waspish elderly grandmother to die and leave him her modest fortune.
Time, Bianca thought to herself. That was all they needed. She only had to stall Papa long enough for Cathy to realize what he was asking of her.
Chapter Three
This time Max rode to Marslip on a horse of his own, which allowed him to study the property at some leisure.
Samuel Tate came from a long line of potters, though none of them had had his business acumen. Under his hand the pottery factory had grown and prospered, and he’d built a small empire at the foot of Marslip Hill, rather grandly named Perusia. Tate produced very handsome dinnerware, with brilliant glazes and beautifully done etchings and ornamentation. Numerous wealthy and aristocratic families in Britain dined off Tate platters and plates. By a stroke of good fortune, Tate’s brother-in-law had been one of the engineers when the mania for canals swept the country, and so a branch canal ran near enough for Perusia wares to be shipped to Liverpool and London quickly and efficiently.
With quality wares and a reliable shipping method, Tate should have been the richest potter in the country. He was a clever man, and ambitious. Max had been impressed when they met at the home of a mutual acquaintance, Lord Sherwood.
But Tate had curious blind spots as well. Sherwood confided that the man had had difficulties collecting payment from some of those aristocratic patrons, even as the patrons exhibited their custom dinnerware with pride.
Max wasn’t surprised by that. He was surprised that Tate seemed to accept it, even as it cost him dearly. Max could see a dozen ways to improve the profitability of the business, and when he’d mentioned this—idly, almost absently—to Tate, the man seemed struck by the thought. It had led to an invitation to Perusia itself, which Max had accepted even though it lay in the wilds of Staffordshire.
He could see exactly how large and prosperous Perusia was. The factory occupied four long brick buildings, arranged in the shape of an E a short distance from the canal. The tall bottle-shaped kilns stood in a cluster at one end, smoke welling industriously from the chimneys. The workmen were neat and purposeful, and always hurrying about their business. A steady stream of barges came and went at the factory landing.
It was an opportunity, and Max was ever ready to seize an opportunity. He saw brilliant possibilities in a partnership: Tate managing the factory as he’d been doing, while Max assumed the chore of marketing and selling the wares, not just in London and Liverpool but across Europe and even into America.
Alas, at that dinner Max had sensed that Tate was less enamored of a partnership than he was. Everyone in the Perusia business appeared to be family—a cousin traveling to the warehouse in Liverpool, a nephew managing the books, the engineering brother-in-law. It had seemed yet another opportunity just out of his reach, another chance he would helplessly watch slip away, until the Duchess of Carlyle dropped the key into Max’s hand. She may not have intended for him to use it this way, but Max was quietly sure of two things.
First, that he would never be the Duke of Carlyle. Captain St. James had spent the entirety of their visit to Carlyle Castle ingratiating himself with the duchess. Over dinner he’d talked of taking a house near the castle, to better study the workings of the estate from Mr. Edwards, and of his hope to meet a respectable woman and settle down as soon as possible. The soldier virtually oozed earnest sincerity and dogged determination. It was almost amusing, really, how transparent his solicitude was. He all but kissed the duchess’s shoe, and practically begged her to choose a wife for him, all the better to please her.
But it worked; the duchess seemed more satisfied than amused at his fawning, and promised to introduce the captain to women she deemed eligible and appropriate. Max thought the duchess would have him married before the harvest was in, and securely under her thumb as well.
So the captain would be the next duke, but Max was still promised an income. He didn’t like the prospect of having to prove himself every year to get it, though, and he wanted no part of giving the duchess any sort of control over his behavior, even if he wasn’t quite the wastrel she clearly believed him to be.
That had been the germ of his plan. Tate required a keener, more ruthless eye; Max possessed that, but required an opportunity to put it to use. And by a most fortunate coincidence, Tate also had a beautiful unmarried daughter, who’d kept an excellent table and blushed very prettily at Max’s compliments during his visit to Perusia.
So secondly, Max meant to seize this chance to make his own marriage and secure his own fortune. With five hundred pounds—less the two hundred required to settle a few pressing debts and other expenses, get a horse, and refurbish his wardrobe a bit—and the promise of an income of fifteen hundred, plus a close kinship with the Carlyles, he was perfectly poised to sweep a lovely, sheltered country girl off her feet.
Particularly if that country girl had no brothers and a prosperous father who was already disposed to like him.
Max sensed this proposal would appeal to Tate. Not just a business partner but a son-in-law, who could care for the man’s family after he was gone. Not a fortune hunter, but a gentleman with an independent income, even if one dependent on a duchess’s whim. Not just a London gentleman but one with connections to a duke, elevating the man’s status now and his descendants later.
And Miss Tate was a beauty, petite and delicate. She came to his shoulder, with inky dark curls and wide blue eyes. Her voice was soft and musical, and she had presided over dinner with grace and a sweet, innocent charm.
Max couldn’t help smiling in anticipation as he dismounted in front of the handsome brick house. It was new, built less than a decade ago when Tate’s fortunes began to rise. Max had lived in too many old houses, with smoky chimneys and crumbling plaster and leaking roofs, to have any affection for them. He heartily approved of this snug new house, as well as the lovely, wealthy bride who would come with it.
Samuel Tate came out to meet him, a broad smile on his square face. “St. James! Welcome to Perusia.”
“It is my very great pleasure to be invited again.” He handed off the reins to the lad who came for his horse and swept off his tricorn hat as he bowed.
“Come in, come in! I’d begun to fear the rains would wash out the road and delay you.”
Max smiled. “Yes, the road was in bad shape. Perhaps I shall propose to Carlyle that he put up a bill to extend the turnpike to Marslip.”
Tate’s eyes brightened. “An excellent idea, sir! The other potters and I have asked for such a thing before, but I’m sure His Grace’s approval would be an immense aid.”
“No doubt,” agreed Max, still smiling. The current duke would probably ignore his request, but the soldier seemed a practical fellow, and Max suspected he was the sort to feel responsible for family. A skillful presentation and a little emotional pressure might bring him around.
He didn’t mean to be a parasite on Tate. Quite the opposite; Max intended to make Perusia the most successful pottery works in all of England—perhaps Europe.