The Mistress And The Merchant

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 (#u29471aa0-b206-5d3a-aece-545ca2ec14fc)

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.’