The Mistress And The Merchant

‘Would you allow me to look through Dr Ben’s records to see what he’s been ordering for his work? It could make a significant difference to costs.’

Aphra looked down at her pewter plate, realising that this was the first time she had wanted to eat everything on it. Yet she hesitated, knowing what this would mean. He would need to stay longer.

Santo saw her doubts. ‘We have to find that map, too, you know. You have to know exactly where your estate boundaries are. Did your father not go through that with you?’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Well, he might have done, I don’t remember. Those first few days here were a blur. There’s quite a lot to be done. Yes, I suppose we’d better take a look, but you see...’ Spreading her hands, she sighed and shook her head. Her hair was dressed loosely in a thick plait with wisps floating over her neck as if she cared nothing for how she looked in his company. She had not expected him to be here. As for the next day, and the one after that, she was sure he would make out a good case why she needed him around. ‘You see, I don’t want people, anyone, looking through my uncle’s things. It’s too soon. They’re too precious. Sacred, almost. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Of course I understand. But think. Dr Ben would not have wanted to make it easy for other landowners to take advantage of you, like Pearce, for instance. He left his estate to you, presumably, so that you could support yourself and not be reliant on a husband. That means you must know all about it. Nor need you do it alone. If the villagers think I’m a lawyer as well as a merchant, well then, let them. Many households have their own lawyer.’

‘Does yours, signor? In Italy?’

‘Indeed it does. A company lawyer for my father’s glassworks on Murano.’

‘And what about your work? Do you not have business in Padua to attend to?’

‘You asked me that before and I told you. I have managers, couriers and captains. They are in constant contact with me.’

It was dark by this time and, looking out of the window before answering him, she saw only their reflections in the glass, the cluster of candles casting a brilliant glow between them. She saw how he watched her and once again knew that this was not only about assisting her on the estate, but something else that required him to stay at Sandrock until his mission was completed. She wished she knew what it was. His eyes were dark, admiring and perceptive, and she knew that he found her attractive. She had learned to detect that look in men, though it made no difference to her unreceptiveness. Never again would she allow herself to fall in love. Never again would she be so generous, or so foolish. Perhaps she would allow him to stay for another day or two—after all, her heart was still hard and cold, and not for sharing.

‘Then I shall let you know tomorrow, signor. That will give me time to sleep on it. Now, will you try one of these desserts? Last year’s plums, I believe.’

* * *

The rooms allocated to Santo, opposite Aphra’s, were comfortable enough to encourage any visiting abbot to overstay his welcome, which he also had in mind to do. Reasonably sure of the lady’s decision and of his own ability to make himself indispensable, he had his two men, Enrico and Dante, arrange his belongings around the room while he stood to one side of the window to watch the lights being extinguished in the rooms across the garden. His brother had known this place well. His foolish brother. Now, however, it was becoming easier for Santo to understand what had possessed him to behave so badly, to give his heart when he had already pledged it. Their father had been adamant and Leon ought to have known better than to expect any flexibility. Certainly marriage to the niece of the famous Dr Spenney would have boosted his career, but not at any price.

Her anger was understandable, he thought, watching the two men place things exactly as he liked them. He supposed he would feel the same way about having a man’s company imposed upon him when all he’d wanted was to be alone. But that was not all, was it? His presence reminded her of Leon, the terrible bitterness of rejection and the foolishness she now felt after love had blinded her to common sense. No woman would be unaffected by that blow to her pride and to have him there, even as an aide, would keep those wounds open longer than need be.

The thought of finding an acceptable way to comfort her was not new to him. It had kept him awake for hours last night. But she had given him not the slightest indication that she might accept any comfort he could offer. Prickly, resentful and defensive, and certainly under no obligation to charm him, not even for the sake of courtesy. He would have to tread very carefully if he wished to stay long enough to find what he was looking for, for if he asked her outright, she would most certainly refuse to help. So would he, in the same circumstances.

* * *

It began to look as if Aphra’s faith in Master Fletcher, her steward, had paid off when, early next morning, she passed his cottage on her way to the kitchen gardens and heard him whistling. He came to the door as she drew near, presenting his new morning face, shaved and bright-eyed, his hair washed and combed. ‘Morning to you, mistress,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m about to take a look at the gardens over there. I’ve got three men and two lads on my payroll, but now there seems to be eight of them. We’ll be having half the lads in the village there, if we don’t watch out.’

‘Before you send them off, Master Fletcher, find out exactly who they’re related to, then see if the head gardener actually needs the extra help. It may be that he needs them, with things starting to grow.’

‘Right, mistress, I’ll do as you say. Then I’ll go and—’

‘Ah! There you are!’ Santo’s deep voice reached them from across the courtyard just as the steward turned to walk away. ‘Don’t go, Fletcher. You’re the one who’ll know exactly where the estate boundaries are. Yes? Good morning to you, mistress. Would you give me leave to take Master Fletcher and the bailiff off to ride round the Sandrock lands this morning? It’s a matter of some urgency, you’ll agree, if we’re to understand exactly what belongs to you.’

‘Well, I...’

‘Your lawyer is correct, mistress,’ Fletcher said, nodding in agreement. ‘I know a few bits changed hands with Dr Ben and I have the newest map that shows the changes. You really do need to know about it. I can take you round, sir. Shall I go and get it?’ He was half-inside the cottage before Aphra could think of an objection. So that was where the map was.

‘You were supposed to be leaving,’ she said, attempting some severity.

‘Yes, but I’ve been thinking...’

‘Of a reason why you should stay. Yes, I can see that. Have you broken your fast yet?’

‘In the kitchen, with the men,’ he said. ‘You could come with us?’

She caught the sunlight shining in his eyes and on white teeth. ‘No, I have other things to do. Go on, then. Get on with it, if it’s so important.’

‘One of us needs to know,’ he said, reasonably. ‘Four of us is better.’

Aphra turned away, speaking to herself so that he would hear and not be able to reply. ‘And what will it be tomorrow, I wonder? Something equally urgent?’ She did not see his smile, but felt his eyes on her as she walked over the uneven cobblestones, and she knew that her hips swung and that her hair shone silvery in the bright light. She had not exaggerated when she’d made her excuses not to ride out with him and the men, for there was indeed much for her to do that she had ignored in previous weeks while revelling in being her own mistress. Without quite knowing why, she experienced a new, different kind of energy and a realisation that the tasks of managing a large estate on a day like this were well within her capabilities and enticing, too. There was a spring in her step as she walked down to the high-walled kitchen garden where, after watching the men at their tasks, she decided that there was enough work for all eight of them.

But as the sunny morning wore on, her involvement with the gardens, the stillroom, the store rooms and dairy, the bee skeps and the brewhouse did not prevent her ears straining to catch the sound of Signor Datini’s return from his ride. Even while she gave instructions, spoke to Father Vickery and examined the church register for details of Dr Ben’s funeral, her thoughts refused to stay on track, teasing her with his next attempt to stay another day and the way she would allow it while giving the impression of irritation. Tonight, at supper, he would present her with some necessary task that only he, a man, could perform and she would argue and pretend to refuse, already feeling the disappointment if he should accept her decision. Was that why she had given him the comfortable visiting abbots’ house instead of a humble pallet in the students’ dormitory which had once been the infirmary? It was perfect for rows of beds and the basic necessities, but not exactly homely. Perhaps she was sending out the wrong kind of message.

In an attempt to refocus her thoughts, she returned to Dr Ben’s great library which she had earlier decided to make her own place of study, where his writings would have some influence on her. Botany was a complicated subject and, although every good housewife had some knowledge of plants and their medicinal properties, Dr Ben had taken it to new levels, specialising in particular qualities and remedies. She had not yet discovered what these remedies were for, though Leon had once mentioned that he and Ben were working on the same area and that on one occasion, Ben had given him access to his notes. A rare act of selflessness for a tutor to bestow on a pupil. Little wonder, then, that Ben had been so upset to hear from her, Aphra, that his best student would not be returning, after all. Did Leon have some of Ben’s notes with him? And had this bad news, together with her own distress, somehow contributed to his death in London, only two days later?

Up in the library, she looked through his meticulously written recipe books and then found, in neatly labelled ivory boxes, the powdered pigments he and his students had used to illustrate certain plants, a skill they needed in the accurate compilation of herbals. There were fine brushes there, too, stacks of prepared paper and stiff vellum, and some of his drawings, exquisitely detailed, labelled and described. It was as if, she thought, he was showing her how to go about observing and recording the plants, some of which he had brought back from his foreign travels, pressed flat between the pages. So it was here, amongst Ben’s painting materials, his boxes and pots of vermilion, green and blue byse, verdigris, yellow orpiment, lampe black and white lead, that the painful memories of betrayal and loss were replaced by the gentler ones left by a beloved uncle for exactly that purpose. Amongst the notes and sketches, she felt his presence next to her, pointing a finger to show her what to see and how to portray it.

* * *

As the light began to move away, Santo’s quiet step upon the stairs did nothing to disturb her, though he saw in one glance how the art materials spread across the table had brought to her a peace which he himself had not. This was something he had not foreseen when he had agreed upon this mission, that not only did he have his brother’s latent presence to deal with, but also that of her uncle, who had thought so highly of her that he had left her everything he owned.

He sat on the stool opposite her and waited to be noticed, half-amused by the lack of any greeting. Finally, her silver point lifted from the paper on which delicate lines had appeared as fine as a spider’s web, filling him with admiration. ‘So, you’ve returned,’ she said, unwelcoming, unsmiling.

She was priceless, he thought, with her emotions still all over the place. He smiled at her, resting his arms on the table and hunching his great shoulders. ‘Indeed I have,’ he said. ‘So now we can deal with Master Pearce and his claims. You see, that was a good enough reason for me to stay, don’t you think? Apart from the other reason, of course.’

‘Which you are about to remind me of, naturally,’ she said, laying down the pencil.

‘Naturally. I promised to assist you with estate matters. I owe you that, at least.’

‘You don’t owe me anything, signor,’ she said, looking beyond him, arching her back against the strain of bending. Her white coif lay on the table where she had been resting her elbow on it, squashing it flat. ‘Was the map useful to you?’

He brought the roll of parchment forward and waited as she found weights to hold its corners. ‘“The Priory of Sandrock and its Estates,”’ he read, ‘“at its Acquisition by Sir Walter D’Arvall in the Year of Our Lord 1540, with Revisions made in 1559.” That’s only last year,’ he added.

His hands smoothed over the fields and woodlands to show her how some boundaries had been moved. The fields and grand house of Master Pearce were given some attention, too, though Santo suspected that Aphra’s attention lay elsewhere.

He was correct. ‘If you leave this with me,’ she said, tonelessly, ‘I can memorise it by suppertime.’ She looked up at him, surprising him with a shadow of guilt in her eyes, like those of a child caught with its mind wandering off the subject. Her long fair hair, freed from the linen coif, had fallen over her face as they had pored over the map, her eyes meeting his through a veil of pale gold that she seemed in no hurry to rearrange.

In the fading light, he found it difficult to be certain of the message sent from beneath drowsy lids, but her uninterest, together with her parted lips, her seductively tousled hair and her fragility combined to knock him off course in the same way, he supposed, his brother had been when he’d offered her his entire world. Was this how Leon had seen her before they’d made love, or after? Had she looked at him like this, driving him mad with desire? Did she know how she looked? He would swear she did not, having consistently shown him her coldest demeanour and, anyway, she was not the kind of woman to care overmuch about the effect she had on men. It was one of her attractions. Her naturalness. Her artlessness. A woman completely without guile.

‘Madonna?’ he said, gently.

She blinked, breaking the spell with a sudden surge of activity, brushing her hair back with an impatient gesture, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming. ‘Yes? What?’ she said. ‘I should be clearing this away.’ Closing the notebooks and covering the paints, her methodical hands gave no hint of the confusion in her mind and the wanton thoughts that had sneaked across the map as his hands had smoothed and stroked, tenderly caressing the parchment to the musical murmurs of his deep velvety voice. Some distant ache around her heart made her frown and turn away quickly before he saw something she did not know how to explain, not even to herself.

Chapter Three

After that fleeting moment in the library when the hypnotic sweep of Signor Datini’s hands over the map had caused her body to respond with an uncontrollable ache for their comfort, Aphra was determined that he must go. She had seen his expression and knew from experience with his brother how easily a man’s thoughts could be diverted into dangerous channels. Her own, too. After all that had happened, it seemed inconceivable that she could experience the stirrings of her heart again, so soon. Yet there was nothing to be gained by pretending it hadn’t happened. He must go. Now, before such feelings assailed her again.

But Santo arrived at the supper table well prepared for the dismissal he knew would come and, before she could launch into all the reasons why he ought to return to Italy, his own excuses came with such conviction that she was obliged to take them seriously. He had noticed, in the ledgers, not only how the supplies needed for the kitchen were being mixed up with those for Dr Ben’s apothecary’s business, but that imports ordered last year had not yet been collected from the warehouses in Southampton and, if they were left any longer, would either deteriorate or disappear altogether. The situation must be remedied, urgently. He showed her the ledgers.

‘These goods have been paid for, have they?’ Aphra said, laying down her knife.

‘According to our records, yes. Sums amounting to hundreds of pounds.’

‘Hundreds? Are you serious? Whatever for?’

‘Valuable ingredients, mistress. Precious stones and seed pearls. Sandalwood, root ginger and musk. Gum arabic and theriac from Venice. I import this kind of thing myself. It cannot be left there indefinitely. Besides which, Dr Ben’s recipes will be needing them.’

‘What...precious gems? Pearls? What on earth did he do with those?’

‘I have no idea, mistress. But that’s no reason not to collect what he ordered, is it? They’ve been paid for, so they should be here. You can always sell what you don’t want. I could do that easily enough, through my contacts.’

‘Who would I send to Southampton? Anybody?’

‘Someone dependable and honest, with your authorisation in their pockets. I could send Enrico and Dante first thing tomorrow, if you wish. They know their way round the warehouses, and the customs house, too.’

Aphra picked up her knife and handed it to him. ‘Would you mind cutting me a slice of the pork, please?’

Santo took it from her, trying not to betray the victory he felt. ‘Certainly, mistress. You are agreed, then, that they should go without delay?’

The pork slice, transparently thin, crumpled on to her platter. The ambiguous nod of her head was taken for both agreement and thanks. She could not waste time in arguments when there was precious cargo to be identified, signed for and conveyed safely to Sandrock. He was right. Such rare and expensive commodities were too valuable to leave uncollected. So Aphra’s decision to send him away was delayed once more. Instead of fuming over the change of plan, she felt it best to accept, for the time being, the unorthodox situation of having her ex-lover’s brother on site to handle the complexities of an apothecary’s trade, amongst other tasks that appeared, suddenly, to require immediate attention.

* * *

Before the end of their meal, however, an additional complication arrived in the form of a message just received from a breathless rider to say that Dr Ben’s elder brother Paul would arrive on the morrow, bringing with him his lady wife, their daughter and Aphra’s brother Edwin. Those four were the bare bones of the party, for Uncle Paul and Aunt Venetia never moved far these days without a retinue of servants, packhorses and grooms, assorted maids for this and that, and hounds. Always the hounds. Uncle Paul, and Edwin, too, liked to hunt and Aphra had no illusions whatever that the first visitors to her new tenancy had come as much for the hunting as to offer her some comfort. As she read the message, she wondered if they realised how much she preferred to be on her own at this time, taking each day at her own pace. Already that preference had been compromised and now she would be obliged to introduce Signor Datini to them when she would rather not. ‘Damn!’ she muttered, laying the paper to one side.

‘Bad news, mistress?’

She sighed. ‘No. I like them. But...’

‘But what? Who?’

‘Uncle Paul is coming for a few days. He’s a buyer for the Royal Wardrobe. My brother Edwin works as his assistant. Aunt Venetia is always very well dressed, as you might imagine. And Flora.’

‘Their daughter?’

‘She’s twelve. She has a twin brother called Marius and an older brother, Walter. I’m surprised they won’t be coming, too.’ Her eyes swept up and down the long polished table, imagining how it would look loaded with food each day and how much notice she had been given to prepare it. The kitchen staff were competent, but food needed to be either caught or made. ‘I suppose I shall have to take this kind of thing in my stride. Heaven knows I’ve had enough practice at it.’ Glaring at him from beneath her fine brows, she allowed her resentment to show, though Santo could see that there was something she was not sure how to express without incivility. ‘You wouldn’t like to...er...?’ Hiding her eyes with one hand, she tried to rephrase the question in her mind.

‘Wouldn’t like to what?’ he said, leaning forward. ‘To disappear while they’re here? Is that what you’re about to say?’

Guiltily, she nodded. ‘Yes. If you could just—’

‘No, madonna. That would not do. Nor can you pretend to them that I’m your lawyer. They are family. They will find out who I am soon enough, but you are mistaken if you think you owe them an explanation.’

Her head came up, defiantly. ‘Oh, yes, of course you’re right, signor. I simply say that you are the brother of the man who deceived me and that for some inexplicable reason I have offered you my hospitality instead of showing you the door. Now, what’s wrong with that as an explanation? Poor little Aphra. Desperate for a man. Any man. The first one who comes knocking. What an idiot, they’ll say.’ With fists clenched upon the table, she sat back and waited for him to speak, half-expecting him to find reasons, arguments, excuses, comforting words, justifications. But he said nothing and after a moment or two of silence she realised that he was about to agree with her, that the situation both of them accepted and understood would not be seen so charitably by others. Her parents had met Santo and seen how his presence might help her, but she could hardly expect the same kind of perception from relatives to whom he was a complete, and presumably unwelcome, stranger. Particularly Uncle Paul, who would get hold of the wrong end of the stick, so to speak, for although he was Dr Ben’s elder brother, he had little of Ben’s deep understanding of the foibles of human nature.

‘You could pretend to be my lawyer, as you’ve done so far,’ she said with a lift of her brows.

‘Not to relatives I couldn’t. I prefer to be honest unless there’s a very good reason to stretch the truth, as I have been doing.’

‘And if that doesn’t work, you lie.’ Her sarcasm was delivered more like a compliment.

‘No. But nor do I believe either of us owes anyone an explanation when it is none of their business. If that is truly too much for you to bear, then it would be best for me to leave first thing tomorrow to save you any embarrassment. If that is what you wish, I shall respect your decision. You have only to say.’

One fist unclenched to smooth a crease from her table napkin while her mind spun and asked questions she hardly dared to answer, so preposterous were they. ‘What about the seed pearls and gems?’ she whispered. ‘And the theriac?’

‘That depends on how much you want them. Do you?’

‘Want them? I certainly do. Hundreds of pounds?’

‘Well then, we’d better collect them.’

‘But what about...you know...explanations?’

‘Keep it simple. I am Santo Datini, merchant of Venice trading in glass and exotic spices, rare products from the East Indies, Persia, Egypt and wines from Cyprus. My ships come into Southampton every springtime.’

‘Is that how you got here, signor?’

‘It is indeed. It is also how my brother came to England and returned home. You mentioned that your aunt’s name is Venetia. So she’s not English?’

‘Italian. Her father was a silk merchant. Pietro Cappello. That’s how she met Uncle Paul, trading in silks for the Wardrobe.’ She saw how Santo was nodding, a bemused expression in his eyes as he followed her words. ‘You know him?’

‘Every Venetian merchant knows the Cappellos. A very wealthy and powerful family. Your uncle made a good match there.’

‘So is it likely that my aunt will know your family, too?’

‘It’s possible. Her father will, but he’s an old man now.’

‘I see. So you suggest we give them no more explanation than that.’

‘If they want to know more, they’ll ask. When they know I’m a Datini, they’ll make the connection, I expect. But it’s really none of their business, is it?’

‘But what if they ask you what your business is here at Sandrock? What exactly is your business here, signor?’