Max turned the full brilliance of his smile on her. “Precisely.”
“Ridiculous,” declared Papa. “Have you any idea how long it takes to train a good potter?”
“Years,” acknowledged Max. “And most of what they make in the first year is smashed. Imagine if they spent that year instead making simple, ordinary items, turning plain bowls and teapots until they can do it to perfection. Then they will be ready to move on to curving spouts and frilled rims and pressed ware, and eventually to the Perusia workshops.”
Papa folded his arms and said nothing. Bianca wet her lips. “It’s a good idea.” Her father glanced at her in amazement. “Worth trying, at least,” she added. “Don’t you think, Papa?”
“I won’t sell low-quality ware,” he repeated. “I won’t damage the reputation of Perusia.”
“Nothing shall interfere with sales of Perusia ware,” Max repeated. “I mean to create an entirely new line of dinnerware.” He glanced at Bianca. “And other items for customers of some means, who aspire to some level of taste and style, but cannot afford anything with the Perusia mark.”
Papa was still scowling. “We’re already short of workers. If I knock men down a rank to make this new dinnerware, they’ll all leave for Mannox.”
“No one would be knocked down or take a reduction in wages. It would be a proving ground, of sorts, after finishing an apprenticeship. The income from the new line will be a gain, even without considering the losses it will avoid.” He paused expectantly. “Will you consider it?”
“Yes,” said Bianca before her father could refuse. “Perhaps you could prepare a description of this new line, where you plan to sell it, as well as a list of the workers you would divert. There’s no harm at all in looking at that, is there, Papa?”
Papa harrumphed. “I suppose I could read a plan. Nothing is settled,” he warned her, shaking his finger at her.
“Of course not,” she retorted. “But only a fool wouldn’t consider a potential plan to create a new line with minimal disruption to the factory. You know how long it takes to train men on designs.”
Papa grunted. “Only a fool, eh?” He shook his head and turned to go. “Write your plan, St. James,” he said over his shoulder. “And give it to Bianca. She’ll let me know if she approves.” He strode down the row, pausing now and then to scrutinize a piece on the shelves.
That left Bianca alone with her husband.
“Thank you,” he said, a smile playing about his mouth.
“For listening to an idea to improve our business? I will always do that,” she said pertly. Then, somewhat reluctantly, she added, “It sounds very promising.”
She had not expected that from him. He had only been in Marslip a month; how could he think of something she never had? With some chagrin, she told herselfthatwas her answer. She had lived here her entire life, steeped in Papa’s philosophy and way of doing things. Perusia had prospered under it, so she had never spent much time considering doing something radically different.
But Max had lived elsewhere and seen more of the world than she had; he had told her he wasn’t as simple as she thought he was. She supposed it had only been a matter of time before he surprised her like this. It was a just comeuppance, she told herself.
At her compliment, he gave a brief bow. “I am delighted you agree.”
“What made you think of it?” she asked.
His gaze dropped to the shards of the teapot he’d smashed. “I despise waste.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but some is inevitable—”
“Do you know how many items are unfit for sale as Perusia work?” he interrupted. “It approaches one in ten some months. I commend your father’s devotion to quality, but the workshops are producing too much that is inferior.”
“So you wish to create an extended apprenticeship.”
“Something like it.” He was watching her closely. “Did you support the plan just to oppose your father?”
Finally Bianca smiled, a bit ruefully. “Am I that contrary? No, I assure you, I would never support a bad idea. This one may not prove worthwhile, but it has enough to recommend it that I think Papa should consider it.” Her smile turned impish. “You must write a persuasive proposal if you want it to go further than this conversation, though.”
He grinned. “I mean to, complete with a list of the shops in London that might sell such a line of dinnerware.” He paused. “Come with me.”
Bianca blinked. “What? To—to London?”
“Yes.” He appeared serious, to her amazement.
“But I have work to do here,” she protested.
“You’ve just perfected the scarlet glaze,” he pointed out. “The work of months, completed and found true in repeated trials. The glazers have got it down and can reliably reproduce it. Now we must display it to patrons so they can begin yearning for it on their own tables. Come with me to London to show it off.”
