“I’m sure,” William muttered. Henry considered demanding to know whatthatwas meant to mean but decided against it.
Chapter Two
Eleanor leaned back in her seat, inspecting her work. Something was missing, and she couldn’t quite say what it was. Her desk was littered with rejected sketches, even a few that looked perfect, but weren’tright, somehow.
The design was a teacup and saucer set, but it had to stand out among the countless other tea sets. It had to bedifferent, something to make buyers look again, something modern but not irrelevant, something that wasmorethan a teacup and saucer. Something to make people look a little closer at Fairfax Porcelain Manufacturing.
Her father insisted that they needed a cash infusion, and that was probably right, but if Eleanor could create some truly unique designs, they might not need another partner so badly. It might buy them time, at the very least.
Ink smudged her fingers and palms, and when Eleanor brushed a twisted lock of auburn hair back from her forehead, she was obliged to use her wrist rather than her hand or risk a smear of black on her face. She’d learned that the hard way.
The teacup’s design was too plain. The twisted handle and dipped rim were an interesting shape, but it needed something more. A pattern, then.
She tapped her fingers on the desk, pursing her lips. Something floral would be the obvious choice. Nothing too adventurous, or her father wouldn’t let her design go further than her sketchbook, so she’d better walk the line carefully.
Flowers. Roses, then. Yellow roses.
Unbidden, her gaze lifted to the huge portrait dominating one side of the room. The brass plaque on the bottom of the portrait read:Mrs. Anne Fairfax, loving Wife and Mother.
The ache in Eleanor’s chest was something she was well used to. It had been six years since the death of her mother, and sixteen was entirely too young to lose one’s mother.
In the portrait, a round-faced, pretty woman smiled down at the occupants of the room, with auburn hair and green eyes tomatch Eleanor’s. In one white hand she held a bunch of yellow roses, their green leaves and stems standing out brightly.
They were her favorite flowers.
Eleanor worked quickly, sketching out half-blown roses, using blotches of color to indicate yellow, furling petals and vibrant green leaves.
Yes, yes. That’s right. That’s what it needs to look like.
She leaned back again, allowing herself one quick smile of satisfaction.
On cue, the door to her office rattled, and Mr. Fairfax himself stepped in.
Charles Fairfax had worked hard to become accepted in Society, despite his unfortunate attraction totradeandbusiness. They would never move in thehighestcircles in the land, but Eleanor was more than content with the level they had reached.
Charles was a man of middling height, growing thinner in his old age. Not that hewasold, unless fifty was considered ancient, and he had had gray hair and matching gray eyebrows for as long as Eleanor could remember, along with tiny pince-nez glasses perching on the edge of his hooked nose. He smiled fondly at his daughter when he entered.
“Still working, my dear? It’s half past five! We’re to be at Louisa’s home at seven, you know. She likes punctuality around mealtimes.”
“Yes, I recall,” Eleanor said, chuckling. “I’ve been working on this, Papa. What do you think?”
She handed over the sketch, and Charles eyed it for a long moment. She could imagine him creating the final product in his mind, imagining what sheen they would give it, what finish, how the matching milk-jugs and teapots would look, what kind of sugar bowl would match it…
“Very good,” he said at last, and Eleanor breathed out a breath she hadn’t quite realized she was holding.
“You like it?”
“It’s very pretty, my dear.”
“Pretty?” Eleanor faltered. “I… I thought we might make it. The design, I mean. For our new tea-sets.”
“We may well do that, my dear, we may well do it. Your mother would be proud of how artistic you are. You inherit all yourcreativity from her, you know. Now, we must be going. Get your things, and we’ll change quickly before we go to your sister’s.”
Eleanor bit her lip. She thought briefly about arguing her corner but decided against it. Her father’s mind was already in the warm, comfortable drawing room of Louisa’s pretty home, smelling of good food and sweet flowers, with his grandchildren sitting at his feet. The office and Eleanor were already forgotten.
Smothering a sigh, Eleanor swept her shawl around her shoulders.
“Of course, Papa.”
