Together they walked down the hill to the factory, talking of London. Tate was intrigued by all the news from town, particularly of the enduring passion for antiquities from Rome and Athens. Max answered equably, deducing that the man was thinking of new items for his factories. And this was, after all, his expertise. Max spent his life among the most fashionable set, even if he couldn’t afford that life himself.
“Now, then,” said Tate, clasping his hands when they had reached his private office, overlooking the humming workshops below. “I suppose you’re anxious to hear my reply on the matter you wrote about to me.”
Max inclined his head. “I am.”
Samuel shifted in his seat. “You have the devil’s own timing, sir. That question had been on my mind lately.” He paused, his gaze assessing. “You’re not from Marslip, but you’ve got a clever head on your shoulders, and I admit I was struck by our conversations earlier about improving and spreading the reputation of our wares. But one thing concerns me greatly, and that is the depth of your interest.”
“In the business,” asked Max, “or in your daughter?”
“Both,” replied Samuel bluntly.
“Of course.” Max crossed one leg over the other. “I would call it sincere and fathoms deep, on both counts. I am deeply impressed by what you’ve built, sir. After our conversation at Lord Sherwood’s, I considered proposing a mere business arrangement, whereby I would manage showrooms in London and other cities, and split the profits from it. A fair and equitable partnership.
“But then I was invited to Perusia and met Miss Tate.” He leaned forward and rested one elbow on the table. “I sense that you are a man devoted to two things in life: this pottery works, and your family. It only made my admiration for you grow. We may not have been raised in similar circumstances, but I envy you both of those dear concerns.”
Tate harrumphed. “You’re cousin to a duke.”
Max opened his hands almost penitently. “We did not presume upon the St. Jameses of Carlyle Castle. My mother preferred I grow up not thinking too highly of myself, but to have humility and a sense of self-reliance. And it’s served me well,” he added in the same humble tone.
It was not a lie. He merely omitted that there had been no alternative, nor any desire to debase himself by begging them after that callously sent five pounds.
“But recently those relations have become more cordial,” he went on. “I spent several days at Carlyle Castle becoming acquainted with Her Grace the Duchess as well as my other St. James cousin. It may not be known widely, but His Grace’s brother recently fell ill and died, leaving the dukedom without a direct heir. My cousin is the heir presumptive, but until he marries and has a child of his own, I am his heir. It renewed my own sense of family, and made me appreciate your devotion all the more.”
“Admirable,” said Tate in approval.
“A man like you will want to see not just his fortune preserved, but also—and more importantly—his children cared for, with the fruits of that fortune.” He smiled a little. “I also confess Miss Tate’s beauty and gentle nature made a very striking impression upon me.”
Tate’s head was bobbing faintly in agreement. “’Tis a great honor you do her, sir.”
“The honor,” said Max gravely, “would be all mine, if you were to bless my suit.”
“Well.” Looking quite pleased, Tate smacked his hands down on his knees. “I must say you’ve persuaded me. Your ideas about a showroom are rather grand, but with a gentleman such as yourself in charge of it, I think we might pull it off and really make something of ourselves.” He paused, something flickering over his face. “Of course, you’ll have to win my daughter’s approval as well.”
Max smiled. “I wouldn’t wish it otherwise.”
Tate laughed. “You’ll have plenty of chance tonight at dinner! She presides over my household in her late mother’s place, you know. Every arrangement is done at her command, from the flowers to the table setting. I can’t think you’ll find anything lacking, sir, in her skills or in her person.”
“I have no doubt of it,” replied Max, who had already made his decision weeks ago.
Bianca dressed for dinner that night as she might for battle.
Papa had invited That Man to visit. He had arrived earlier and been installed in the front bedchamber before vanishing to the offices with Papa. She’d heard Jane marveling to Cook about how elegantly he dressed, how charming his manners were, and how incredibly handsome he was. They had already guessed downstairs that he was courting Miss Cathy—not merely because every unmarried man who came to the house wanted to court Miss Cathy, but also because Samuel was treating the fellow as if he were already one of the family.
And in that case, thought Bianca grimly as she clasped on Mama’s necklace of pearls, he would be treated as one . . . for better and for worse.
She went downstairs to the parlor. Aunt Frances was already there, looking just as irate as Bianca felt. To be fair, Aunt Frances always looked irate, but tonight Bianca was pleased to see it.
“The chimney in my sitting room is blocked,” was her greeting. “Tell Samuel to send a man over to clear it.” Papa had built Frances a home of her own when he built Perusia, declaring that he couldn’t throw her out but neither could he share a roof with her. Her Ivy Cottage was down the hill, away from the factory.
“Of course.” Bianca stooped to pet Trevor, the fat white bulldog who went everywhere with Frances. As usual, the animal growled low in his throat even as he submitted to her attention. Trevor acted very fierce but was virtually a lapdog, if treated the right way. Bianca scratched between his ears until his bandy little legs quivered and gave way, and Trevor collapsed onto his back and presented his belly for more scratching.
“Trevor,” said Frances sternly. “Get up! No cheese for you.”
Bianca quietly slipped the dog the small piece of cheese she’d concealed in her handkerchief for him. Trevor lapped it silently from her fingers as if in conspiracy to evade Frances’s temper. Having got what he wanted, the dog flipped over onto his feet and waddled off to examine the corner of the settee.
“Has Papa told you about our guest?” Bianca rose to her feet and fluffed her skirts. Papa had decreed they must look their best tonight and she had obeyed. She wore her newest gown, deep burgundy with lace flounces and velvet trim on the stomacher, and had even let her maid tame her hair into smooth curls.
Frances sniffed. “A gentleman, he says! Bosh. A good-for-nothing ne’er-do-well, with his eye on Samuel’s fortune.”
“Oh no, Aunt,” said Bianca somberly, even though she agreed with every word. “Papa likes him very much.”
Frances clucked. “More fool him.”
Cathy came in then. She looked glorious, radiant in a rose-pink brocade gown with silk ribbons, silver combs glinting in her dark hair. But her eyes were red and her mouth was a sad droop. “Good evening, Aunt,” she murmured.
Frances was not really their aunt; she was Samuel’s, the younger sister of his father. In her youth Frances had been considered a handsome girl, but her father’s ambition prevented her from marrying the prosperous farmer she’d fallen in love with. He insisted she wed the man who kept their business accounts, to shore up the fellow’s loyalty to the business. Frances dutifully married the bookkeeper and retaliated by making everyone around her miserable for the next forty years.