Greta leapt up. “Silas?”
“Er ist gegangen,” he replied, then again, “He’s gone.”
“Gut,” she said. “Good!”
Max laughed, relief and joy.
“Good for him, you mean,” remarked Frances, sipping her port.
“And I hope he knows it,” added Bianca. “Would you really have shot him, Aunt?”
“Of course I would have!” The older woman frowned at her. “I looked forward to it, if you must know.”
“Right,” murmured Max. He picked up the pistols. “I’ll take care of these.”
“They aren’t loaded,” said Bianca.
“The first one is,” retorted Frances. “I haven’t loaded a pistol in years! It took too long to do both.”
Bianca laughed. “Well, I am sure Papa will be relieved that we didn’t shoot indoors, and aren’t going to burn the carpet. He would have to buy a new one, which he would complain of to no end.”
“He could hardly choose an uglier one,” murmured Frances with a sniff. “I shall have to hope someone spills a decanter of wine on it, I suppose.” Greta broke into peals of laughter.
Max stood in silent amazement, a pistol in each hand, watching the three of them. He had feared they would revile him for bringing a madwoman into their family. Instead there sat Greta beside them, supported even to the point of violence, and her venomous husband was the one chased off the property. “You are the most remarkable women I’ve ever met,” he said, humbled.
“Yes,” said Frances serenely. “I trust you won’t forget it again.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The furor over Croach had barely died down two days later.
Papa, ranting about dangerous villains, instituted a patrol of armed watchmen around all the grounds of Perusia, including Poplar House and the village. He upbraided the servants as well, including a despairing Mr. Hickson, who had been lured outside and kept there by Mr. Croach’s madhouse conspirators. Aunt Frances told him off for that, but Papa didn’t relent until Greta appealed to him for understanding.
Bianca thought her father was developing a soft spot for Greta. As her health recovered and her English improved, Greta was a very striking woman. Bianca caught Papa sneaking looks at her during dinner.
Aunt Frances had overruled Max’s protests and decreed that Greta would stay with her. “Everyone is at the potteries all day except me,” she said. “She would be desperately lonely at Poplar House. Why shouldn’t she take my second-best bedchamber? If that horrid Croach comes sniffing around again, she’ll be out of sight at Ivy Cottage.”
Then Frances hired four new footmen, tall brawny lads from Stoke. Bianca thought she must have been wanting to do that for years, and now saw a perfect justification. But it was genuinely moving how kind and supportive Frances was with Greta, and the footmen did set Max’s mind at ease.
As for herself... Bianca could not deny that her hurt was fading rapidly. The more Greta spoke about her ordeal, the more appalled everyone at Perusia was, but especially Bianca. She could see that every word was an arrow in Max’s chest; once he had physically hunched over as Greta described how Dr. Hawes sent his inmates running for hours over gravel in bare feet, driven onward by keepers with whips.
Bianca had wondered, what would she have done, had it been Cathy in such a place? If she had feared for her sister’s life, but been uncertain that anyone else would care about Cathy—or if they might even quietly wish her dead? Secrecy, lies, desperate midnight races across the county... yes, she thought she could have done all that and more, to save her sister from the nightmare Greta described.
She had been thinking of her sister a great deal lately. Not only was this the longest they had ever gone without speaking, it seemed as if so much had happened since Cathy’s elopement that Bianca thought she might burst from not having told her any of it. The long explanatory letter had been written and dispatched, but it was not the same; her sister was not there to respond, and question, and tease, and wag her finger in Bianca’s face before folding her into a comforting embrace. More than ever she needed a confidant, and this time Max would not do—because he was the topic she desperately wanted to talk about.
He called her his love every day; he made love to her at nights with a passionate tenderness that made her skin glow and her heart swell. He told her he was wrong, and that he was sorry beyond words that he hadn’t told her everything. She said she forgave him, and she did—she had.
She loved him.
But somehow those words never came out.
She asked herself why as she stood waiting for him after the horn blew, just inside the tall gates of Perusia. He had been closeted with Papa all today, presenting his plan for Fortuna ware. He had asked if she wanted to go with him, but Bianca had laughed and said no; she had already told her father she thought it was a brilliant idea, and all Max had to do was lay it out.
Even she had been startled by the breadth of his intentions and planning. Not only did he have a list of wares to produce, complete with sketches, he had sample price lists, proposed lists of shopkeepers who might carry it in Liverpool and Birmingham, and suggestions for how to advertise. He had a list of workers to divert to Fortuna and a plan for assigning and promoting workers in both Fortuna and Perusia.
And at the end, he proposed a small production of porcelain items, pretty and delicate, aimed at the boudoirs of ladies of less expansive means. Darling little pots for rouge, light simple dishes for powder—with matching brush handles—even chamber pots that served their purposes attractively, and with close-fitting lids.
Bianca knew the porcelain was for her. Papa had disdained paste, and without his approval she couldn’t work with it. But if Papa approved this plan, theywouldbe making it, and she would get to experiment with it to her heart’s delight.
