Page 35 of About a Rogue
“What school?”
“For the children.” He paused, his mouth puckered up. “Bianca set it up in the old workshop after we built these new premises.” With that, Tate stalked out of the room, arms folded. Max had divined by now that indicated some displeasure or reluctance on Tate’s part—most likely due to the mention of Bianca. He followed his father-in-law.
“I take it Mannox has no schools.”
Tate snorted. “Mannox has filthy factories and poor methods. Ah well—everyone learns that once they’ve worked for him for a few months.”
“Yes,” said Max smoothly, “but those months of their labor are then lost to Perusia. I wonder how we might persuade workers to want to stay.”
“That would be ideal,” acknowledged Tate. “I’ve done my best, sir. When I built Perusia, we had to relocate a good way away from the old works, and there weren’t enough rooms available. A man won’t work for me if he can’t house his family, so we built the village.” He waved one hand at the neat rows of cottages and houses visible beyond the copse. “Mannox ain’t got that,” he added with a smug air.
“Bianca, though, insisted it wasn’t enough and she made a school for the little ones.” Tate shrugged. “I suppose it helps.”
“Aren’t the workers’ children set to become apprentices?” Max was surprised. Not only would it ensure the child a good job when he was older, it was good for the pottery works to have a new generation of workmen being trained at all times.
“Aye, many of them do.” Tate beamed again. “Men are proud to work for Perusia, sir—proud! I pay good wages, have a doctor in once a month, and charge only a pittance rate for the cottages. But Bianca—” He stopped and looked away. “She’s got rarefied ideas,” was all he said, a moment later.
“I see,” murmured Max, wondering what they were. He already knew his wife had a romantic streak, from the way she had conspired to help her sister elope. Did she have an egalitarian one as well?
Tate waved it aside. “It’s her project, none of mine. And if it persuades a few fellows to come back, all the better! What’s the harm in letting her have her little passions, eh?” He winked at Max. “Good advice for any husband, if you ask me! Keeps a wife happy, and out of your way to boot.”
It was so at odds with Bianca, this vision of her as an idle woman needing something harmless and feminine to keep her occupied, that Max couldn’t repress an amazed glance at his companion. Tate nodded, eyebrows raised encouragingly as he waited for Max to agree with him.
Ah. Tatewantedhis daughter to be more idle and more feminine, caring for the children even if she took too enlightened a view of that endeavor. Bianca, however, wanted to be useful. How had she described her work?A close study of mineral properties, some chemistry intuition, and extensive trials,she’d said. She cared about her glazes, and that made him think she also cared about this school.
So in reply to Tate’s comment, he merely smiled and dipped his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “One thing I’ve not seen. Where are the smaller items produced?” he asked instead, remembering Bianca’s little plum pot. “My wife has some charming pieces on her dressing table.”
Tate flicked one hand. “Those bits of paste,” he scoffed. “Frippery.”
“Oh?” Max had seen many an elegant lady’s dressing table, with little silver pots full of pomade and powders. Fripperies they might be, but they were in demand. “More than that, I think.”
Tate rolled his eyes. “Bianca wanted to experiment with the porcelain. There’s no harm in it, but earthenware is more lasting. Stronger, too.” He strode back into the workshop, pausing now and then to examine a piece. At one bench he paused, taking down a vase and turning it from side to side. Having kept pace, Max scrutinized the piece, too, searching for the flaw that had put a frown on Tate’s face. He couldn’t find it, but expected it would be pointed out soon.
Then, to his astonishment, the older man flung down the vase with a violent crash. “Who made that?” he roared. “Craddock!” A stout fellow with ginger hair rushed over. “Who is responsible for this?” Tate demanded, waving one hand at the remnants of the vase, lying in shards on the floor.
“Martin, Mr. Tate,” said Craddock uneasily.
Tate threw up his hands. “It’s not good enough for Perusia! Does he need to be sent back to making plates? Don’t let that happen again.”
“Right, sir. Never.” Craddock ducked his head and gestured for a boy with a broom to come sweep up the mess.
Tate stepped over the broken vase and strode onward.
Max regarded the shattered vase. Its faults had been small, imperceptible to any casual observer, but Tate had spotted them, and destroyed the vase in consequence.
It seemed a waste of clay, of labor, of potential income. The smooth handle of the jug was intact, a sinuous curve of biscuit. It had been fired once, but was still devoid of Bianca’s glossy glazes. It looked as perfect as the rest of them to him. Tate had higher standards, and that was entirely admirable. But smashing a vase that looked perfectly fine to the unskilled eye—that is, to the vast majority of the population—rankled. Max, who had long had too little of everything, despised waste.
With a lingering glance at the boy crouching over his broom, the rows of bowed heads in the silent workshop, and the shelves of otherwise indistinguishable vases, Max went after Tate.
Chapter Thirteen
Bianca would never have admitted it to herself, let alone to anyone else, but she was coming to like her husband.
She didn’t understand him, and she still thought there must be more to his decision to marry her than she knew. But every day that went by seemed to bring evidence of some endearing thing about him, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep him at a distance.
His response to Cathy’s letter was the most surprising, but far from the only sign that she might have been slightly wrong about him. There was the way he waited for her at the factory gate every day, and seemed to sense from her mood whether he should speak to her or be silent. The faultless manners he always displayed, to everyone from Bianca herself down to the lowest scullery maid. That he never lost his temper with her, not once, since that stern warning in the sacristy. Since Bianca had been guilty, at times, of trying to provoke him into an argument, this last impressed her immensely.
It was obvious that Max was not merely the shallow, fortune-seeking rogue she had labeled him, and trying to divine his true intentions was driving her mad.
