Читать книгу The Mistress And The Merchant - Juliet Landon - Страница 11

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?’

‘I thought I’d explained that to you.’

‘You tried, but I’m afraid I never found your explanation very plausible. My credibility has suffered, you see, along with other faculties.’

‘Then I shall have to do more to convince you, mistress. Let’s get this dreaded visit out of the way first, shall we? After that, you might find my help so useful to you that you no longer wish to send me packing. Is that how it’s said in English?’

Aphra’s deep breath was an attempt to maintain some seriousness, suspecting that he might be trying to sweet-talk her out of her enquiries into his business, which he had never answered to her satisfaction. Clearly, he did not intend to. For the moment, however, she would accept his help, for the idea of playing lone hostess to her relatives did not appeal to her at all. One at a time would have been more than enough.

* * *

Later, when Santo had returned to his rooms, such thoughts began to shame her. She and Edwin had always got on well together, even after he had left home to work as Uncle Paul’s assistant instead of his father’s. A year younger than herself, he had been a great comfort to her during those bleak winter months when everything had seemed black and despairing. They had not seen each other since then, when they had been too full of grief to speak of anything much except their loss of Dr Ben and Master Leon’s betrayal. Now she had the chance to thank him for his brotherly concern, not resent this interruption to her peace but put on her best face to show how well she was recovering, how capable her management. She would feast them each day, bring out all the best tableware that had not seen the light of day since Ben left and send them back with praise on their lips instead of pity for her.

* * *

So, on the following day, she recruited women from the village to help the house servants prepare rooms for the guests, feeling a certain satisfaction that so many people could be accommodated without the slightest problem in a place as large as this. Soon the rooms were transformed from echoing spaces into cosy chambers with sweet-smelling rushes on the floor and polished panelling, colourful bed curtains and coverlets, new beeswax candles and gleaming windowpanes. Inspecting the food stores, she found the shelves bending under boxes of last year’s fruits, preserves, pickles and honey. The grain bins were full, the cold stores filling up with rabbits and pigeons, capons and eggs, wild boar, sides of bacon and racks of fish from the monks’ fish pond. The dairy, cold and spotlessly clean, clanked and thudded to the sound of the butter churn, the skimming of cream, the soft clack of wooden butter pats and clogs on the white stone floor, while muslin bags of whey and curds dripped from hooks to make sage-flavoured soft cheeses. The aroma of baking bread and fruit cakes wafted through open doors, the sound of crashing pans and whistling kitchen boys telling Aphra that, by suppertime, she would set before her guests as fine a meal as any in London and probably fresher.

Recalling how Ben had had a fondness for good wine, she had a selection brought up from the cellar to add to her own brew of best March beer and was relieved to see that the stock was not as depleted as she feared. She had been drinking only Ben’s home-grown fruit wines made from elderflower and cowslip, cherry and blackberry, but for her guests she found casks of malmsey from Crete, claret from Gascony, sack from Spain and white wines from the Rhineland. With the ale and beer, there would be plenty to choose from.

As she suspected, the huge oaken dresser in the dining parlour, which she had not bothered to look into until now, revealed an astonishing collection of glass and silverware which she assumed Ben had kept for special occasions. As she received each piece from the young man whose head had almost disappeared inside the cupboard, she murmured in astonishment at the design, workmanship and probable value, for only at the court of Queen Elizabeth had she seen anything like this hoard. A few of the most astonishing vessels were mounted in silver gilt, made of materials she recognised. ‘Surely,’ she said to the young man, ‘this one is made of rock crystal. But what’s this one? It looks like half of a giant’s egg.’

‘Half an ostrich egg, mistress,’ her helper said. ‘Polished. The lid is mother-of-pearl. And this one, see, is half a polished coconut with silver mounts. And this one is a nautilus shell. See how it spirals? The other one is beryl, and here is serpentine marble. That’s quite heavy.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Aphra queried.

‘Doctor Ben told me, mistress. He trusted me to treat them with care. Rare materials are antidotes against poison, you see. In his business he had to use every method known to guard against mistakes. He knew how accidents can happen, even when you know what you’re doing. So he collected precious things from all over the world.’

‘Yes, so I see.’ The impact of his explanation did not reveal its full meaning to her as she peered into the darkness of the cupboard. ‘Are those drinking glasses?’ she said. ‘If so, we should be using them.’

The young man brought them out, one by one, catching the glint of light on the patterned surfaces, engraved, gold-tinted, intricate, astounding. Not even at the royal court had she seen glasses like these. But the unmistakable clamour of arrivals in the courtyard, the yelping of dogs and shouts of greeting put an end to her viewing of the tableware. ‘Put them on the table,’ she said, briskly. ‘We’ll use them all.’