Читать книгу The Mistress And The Merchant - Juliet Landon - Страница 9

Chapter One

Sandrock Priory, Wiltshire—1560

Almost hidden by a creamy-white canopy of apple blossom, Aphra turned to take another look at the solid stone walls of Sandrock Priory as if to remind herself, yet again, that it belonged to her. Against a cloudless sky, she saw how the ivy clambered up towards the red roof tiles where patches of yellow lichen and pale fern fronds made a vivid palette of new spring colour after so many weeks of greyness, the same greyness that had surrounded her heart with tragedy. Now, at last, she was beginning to see ahead to a new and peaceful life at the converted priory in which, until two months ago, Dr Ben Spenney, her beloved uncle, had lived and worked as one of Europe’s leading apothecaries. That he had left the priory to her in his will was still a source of amazement and some concern, too, for the place was enormous and, had he not also left her his considerable fortune to go with it, she would never have been able to afford its upkeep.

Her sandalled feet shifted in the long damp grass, turning her towards the orchard where honeybees droned busily into the blossom before heading back to the hives. Everywhere she looked, new growth was unfurling through the warm soil, washing the neat garden plots with a richness that seemed to echo Aphra’s new status as a property-owning woman, the new mistress of Sandrock. Only thirty years ago, the priory would have responded to the sound of bells and Augustinian canons at prayer, its gardens given over to the growing of vegetables and fruit for the refectory tables. Since its enforced closure in 1536, the buildings had been stripped of all association with religion and converted into rooms for domestic use by Aphra’s grandfather, Sir Walter D’Arvall, whose illegitimate son, Dr Ben Spenney, had inherited it. Aphra had never called him ‘uncle’. Their friendship had always been closer than the usual uncle-to-niece—more like dear allies whose degree of kinship had allowed a certain familiarity. Although never discussed, their special bond was enjoyed by both of them and understood by their families.

During his years of ownership, Dr Ben had housed young medical students specialising in the use of herbs, a branch of medicine that in the last decade had become more highly respectable and reliable than ever. He had shared with them his wide knowledge of plants and their properties, and had helped them to complete their degrees. The University of Padua in Italy had sent him one of their best students to study here, though he could not have anticipated that young Master Leon of Padua would fall deeply in love with his beautiful niece, Mistress Aphra Betterton of nearby Reedacre Manor. Now, in just over a year, fate had stepped in to deprive Aphra of both Master Leon, whom she had loved, and Dr Ben, whom she had also loved, but differently.

Yet while fate had taken away with one hand, it had given something back with the other, demanding at the same time that she should move on into another phase of her life that would set her mind and body to work instead of wallowing in grief. It was a huge task for her to take on single-handed, albeit with a number of workers living on the estate and who knew more than she did about how Dr Ben had managed things. She would have little time left over at the end of each day to indulge in memories, even if they were too recent to have healed completely.

Swishing her old grey-blue skirts through the dew-laden grass, she looked across to where one end of the physic garden joined the orchard, where already men were tying, hoeing, digging and weeding, their brown backs bent to the earth. A splash of bright colour amongst the greenery made her frown and look harder, then smile as she recognised the distant figure of her father wearing his favourite suit of deep red velvet. As an assistant at the Royal Wardrobe in London, Sir George Betterton had access to all the latest fashions in colour and style, always dressing up for an occasion, even for visiting his daughter on a May morning. Behind him, however, stopping to look at the patches of new growth every now and then, was another man Aphra didn’t know. Nor, if she were quite truthful, did she want to, having come here to be alone without the need to make polite conversation to anyone except her family. This was an intrusion and her father ought to have known better.

Trying to suppress her irritation, she glanced down at the hem of her skirt, soaked with dew, grass stalks stuck between her toes, and her old white apron pocket bulging with warm eggs laid away by an independent hen. Aphra’s thick pale blonde hair lay loose upon her shoulders, shining like silk in the sunlight, sliding back down on to her face whenever she brushed it away. Her lips showed a dusting of white flour from the bread roll the baker had given her as she’d passed the kitchen. It was not the image she would have chosen to present to a stranger.

She had time to study him before she emerged from the low-hanging blossom, wondering why her father had needed to bring him here without warning. He was tall and powerfully built with long well-muscled legs encased in a dull gold hose that matched his paned breeches of a deeper tone, like his short doublet. Judging from his tanned skin, she thought he might be a man who travelled, his dark hair lying thickly upon his frilled collar at the back, kept in place by a brown-velvet cap. As he and her father drew nearer, she had an uneasy feeling that he knew of this place, for he looked around him as he walked, at the small arched windows, the massive walls, the regulated order of the estate, the wattle fences, the eel traps in the stream running alongside the building. She thought she saw him nodding, as if to confirm what he expected to see.

‘Good morning to you, my love,’ her father called. ‘Were you hiding?’

‘Not from you, Father. Good day to you.’ She lingered in his embrace, smiling into his velvet doublet, wishing with all her heart that he’d come alone, or with her mother.

He took her hands, suddenly serious, apologetic, but unable to say so. ‘We have a guest,’ he said, rather unnecessarily, ‘and I ask that you receive him, love.’

Darting a glance over her father’s shoulder, she noted two very dark brown eyes regarding her with open admiration and again she felt that he was confirming what he already knew. ‘Father,’ she said, squeezing his hand, ‘this is not the time.’

‘I know, love. I know. But I think in this case, it might be best.’

She sighed, unable to hide her resentment, but unwilling to be more discourteous than that. ‘Then introduce your friend, if you must.’

Sir George’s concern was plain to see as he let go of one of Aphra’s hands. ‘This is Signor Datini,’ he said, ‘from Padua. Elder brother of...of Master Leon, my dear.’

The sharp pull away from his hand and her step backwards hardly surprised him, the wound to her heart being still so raw. ‘Father,’ she whispered, holding a hand flat to her chest, ‘how could you bring him here? Here, of all places, where I...’ Glaring at their guest, her beautiful grey dark-rimmed eyes sparking with anger, she could not trust herself to finish the sentence without discourtesy.

Showing a remarkable degree of understanding, Signor Datini stayed at a respectful distance, speaking to her in a deep voice quite unlike his brother’s light musical tenor. ‘Mistress Betterton,’ he said, ‘I hope that in time you will forgive my intrusion, even in the company of your father, but there are reasons why I had to see you in person.’ He doffed his cap, revealing a head of thick wavy hair.

‘Who sent you?’ Aphra asked sharply. ‘Did he?’

‘You refer to my brother. No indeed, mistress. My father sent me.’

Sir George had rarely heard this harsh tone from his daughter except when scolding a servant. ‘Aphra,’ he said, ‘there are things to be discussed.’

‘I’m sure you think so, Father, but I am well past caring. The time for explanations passed some time ago. Signor Datini’s journey has been wasted if all he wanted was to discuss his brother’s treachery. I am well rid of him. You may tell him so, from me.’

‘Please,’ said the elder brother, ‘please try to understand. We do not condone my brother’s deception. Our family is concerned for you.’

‘Very touching,’ Aphra retorted, ‘but I do not need their concern. Your brother and I were not betrothed, signor, so I have absolutely no claim to make and, even if I had, I would not. Your brother’s sudden change of mind is insulting enough without haggling over who said what to whom. So if you have come here to find out whether I intend to sue, you can assure your family that I am well rid of a man as fickle as that.’

A lesser man than Signor Santo Datini would have reeled from that salvo, but he was a hard-dealing merchant and the fury behind Mistress Betterton’s eyes was something worth seeing even though it was directed partly at him. He had, for one thing, come here to find out more about her and the effect his brother’s stupidity had had upon her future intentions, but it would not do to tell her so. Licking her wounds, the lady was clearly in no mood for platitudes. ‘I can understand how you feel,’ he said, committing that very same error, deserving her quick retort.

‘I doubt that very much,’ she said. ‘No one can.’ Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, brushed angrily away with the back of one hand. ‘There is no more to be said on this subject, Father.’

‘Not out here in the orchard, perhaps,’ Sir George agreed, ‘but I think we might offer Signor Datini some refreshment before we return. Shall we?’ Extending a hand, he indicated where their courtesies lay.

Assenting in silence, she led the way to the prior’s house that had been converted into a more comfortable collection of parlours, bedrooms, kitchens and service rooms where, in the last few weeks, Aphra had begun to place her personal stamp on the previously masculine interiors. Through cool stone-flagged passages she led the two men into a sunny parlour overlooking a beautifully manicured square plot that had once been the cloister garden. A servant poured wine for them, discreetly leaving them as soon as they were seated on cushioned benches. The white plastered walls reflected light from the greyish-green glass in the windows and on the windowsill stood a pewter jug filled with bluebells. A woman’s touch in a place built for men.

Aphra sat next to her father opposite Signor Datini, uncaring that her face was streaked with tears or her hair was sticking to her cheeks. For months, ever since Leon’s distressing letter, she had told herself that it would have been easier for her to bear if he’d been dead; the memory of his sweet deceitful words, his arms, his kisses flooded over her like a terrible ache and it seemed that, as the hostess, she would be obliged to speak of him to his brother whether she wished it or not.

‘He spoke of his family,’ she said. ‘You are Santo, I take it?’

‘I am indeed Santo, mistress. Leon told us about you, too.’

‘Really? Then why the sudden change of mind, I wonder? Did he get cold feet at the thought of marrying an English woman? If that was on his mind, signor, you may return to Padua with the good news that there is no betrothal nor any claim for the Datini family to concern itself with.’

‘Aphra! Stop! This will not do, my dear,’ her father said. ‘You cannot hold Signor Datini responsible for any of this. He was sent by his father.’

‘To check up on me? On our family? Well, tell your parents I can manage well enough without their help. As you see, I am well set up with my family nearby. What more could I want?’

Bitterness and anger from his daughter were too new for Sir George to be used to them, she being usually so quietly in control of herself and every situation. ‘Little mother hen’ he and Aphra’s mother called her, knowing how she would take to motherhood with enthusiasm one day, though not like this. The idea of having a family one day, they thought sadly, might have been one of the reasons she had been too hasty in accepting the first offer of marriage that had come her way, falling in love too easily with a young student who had not finished his training. Master Leon had not wanted a betrothal ceremony before he returned home last September to tell his parents, which ought to have rung warning bells in their minds, and did not, because he’d had Dr Ben’s approval.

‘Mistress Betterton,’ Santo said. ‘I am happy to see that you want for nothing, but I came to offer you our family’s protection, should you need it. I had no idea what to expect, though I knew about Sir George’s royal employment, of course. As for yourself, I am both surprised and relieved to see you living where my brother received tuition with Dr Spenney. Leon told me about Sandrock Priory. He was happy here but, as a student, he had no right to offer you something he didn’t have. That was wrong of him.’

His gentle tone did nothing to ease Aphra’s distress. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we spoke of marriage, but we made no vows, formal or otherwise. That exonerates the Datini family from all obligations, doesn’t it? Or is it me who is to blame? Is that what you think? That I seduced him?’

‘Aphra! Enough of this!’ her father said, sternly. ‘You are letting your tongue run away with you. Say nothing you might regret later.’

‘Father, I regret everything. Everything. Every word. Every deed. Every wasted emotion. And I regret that you have brought Signor Datini here to remind me of what I would rather forget. Why on earth did you think it could help?’ Pushing herself away from the table, she walked over to the huge stone fireplace where the surround was covered with the arms of previous priors, a mass of symbols understood even by any illegitimate incumbents. Dr Ben himself had been illegitimate and his brother Paul, too, with whom Ben had been staying when he died. Both sons had been generously included in their father’s will.

‘My family, mistress, wanted you to know of our support and sympathy,’ said Santo. ‘And Sir George and Lady Betterton, too. Leon is deeply ashamed of himself.’ His voice was rich with the lyrical tones of his own language.

‘Ashamed with another woman, you mean?’ she said, whirling round to face him, deliberately thinking the worst, tormenting herself. ‘Is that what you meant by offering me something he didn’t have? The freedom to marry?’

His slow blink turned his eyes away from her towards the light and she could not tell whether he was refusing to rise to her bait, or whether he wished to spare her more pain. She chose the more painful option, simply because she had become used, after Leon’s short letter, to thinking the worst of him. He had given her no reasons, nothing positive to cling to, only an abject apology in a rambling tortuous English that suggested he had not found it easy to write.

She held her face with a hand on each side as if to prevent it crumpling. Her father took her into his arms and held her, her long loose hair falling down his doublet like a veil. His eyes met those of their guest over the top of her head, accepting that Santo’s slight nod of the head meant that Aphra had guessed correctly and that it was time for them to leave.

* * *

Sir George’s country home, Reedacre Manor, was barely an hour’s horse ride away in the same county, and indeed it was fortunate that he and his wife were still there instead of at their London home near the Royal Wardrobe. Had not Signor Datini arrived there unexpectedly last evening, they would by now have been packing up for their move, for Aphra was settling into Sandrock now and physically in much better shape than a month ago. Peace of mind was what she required and Signor Datini’s arrival would not help matters.

The Italian rode easily on the big hunter from Sir George’s stable and both husband and wife had remarked on his graceful bearing and his exceeding good looks that made his brother seem more like a young lad than a fully matured man. He was, they decided, altogether more robust, and probably more reliable, too, after the way things had turned out. His deep voice and Italian inflections seemed to lend a certain gravity to his speech that differed completely from his younger brother’s slick boyish charm.

‘Your daughter is a very beautiful woman, Sir George,’ he said as they turned a bend of the leafy track. ‘I can see why my brother fell in love with her.’

‘She is, signor. She’s very lovable, too. You have not seen her at her best today. She’s usually the gentlest and sweetest creature. I’m afraid you saw the virago. I hope you’ll forgive her the incivility.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive, sir. She’s been through a lot recently. I did not know until you told me last night that your daughter was the new owner of Sandrock. How will she manage it on her own?’

‘It’s early days, signor, and we’re waiting to see. She’s good at managing things, but she’s young and we’re concerned that she has not yet acquired the authority that her uncle had at Sandrock. He knew the place well. He was brought up there. Aphra will have a lot to learn about managing an estate as large as that.’

‘Isn’t it going to be an expensive place to maintain?’

‘Oh, I expect so. But Dr Ben left her his fortune, too. She won’t have a problem with funds.’

‘Indeed? They were close, I understand?’

‘How close, you mean?’ Sir George was well used to hearing unspoken questions.

‘Well...yes, sir. To be left all that in his will suggests...’

‘Something deeper than usual? No, you’re wrong, signor. Dr Ben was my wife’s half-brother. So is Paul, in London. Paul was left a splendid house by the river when Ben was left Sandrock. There’s never been any rivalry between them, but maybe Aphra was given Sandrock because he knew she’d need a place of her own one day. She and Ben were close friends with a shared interest in medicinal plants. He knew she would look after the gardens.’ The soft thud of horses’ hooves on the track changed to an occasional clink as the shoes hit a stone. ‘You keep away from those stones, my lad,’ Sir George told his gelding, watching the soft ears rotate in acknowledgement.

‘Mistress Betterton has suffered,’ said Santo. ‘I hoped my presence might have helped.’

‘Yes, it’s not been an easy time for her. Normally, my lady wife and I would go to see her again tomorrow, but perhaps you should go instead.’

‘You think she’d be pleased to see me, sir?’

‘Now that, signor, is not a question even I can answer and I’ve known her for twenty-three years. Give it a try, eh?’

‘Certainly, sir. I’d be happy to give it a try.’

Images of Mistress Aphra Betterton continued to percolate through the mind of Signor Datini as he rode in silence beside Sir George. Now he understood why his host had told him little of where and how she lived, obviously intending that he should be surprised by her new circumstances. Nor had he told him of his daughter’s beauty, although Leon had. Santo had thought at the time that his brother’s description was the usual exaggeration of a lover. Now he knew that it was not so and that no glowing description could have done justice to the damaged woman he’d met that morning, even wearing her oldest clothes, her hair undressed, and her lovely skin blotched with weeping.

She had not wanted him there: that was understandable. A virago, Sir George called her, yet he was as quick to excuse her as a lovable woman, adored by her family. This he could well imagine while at the same time thinking that his brother had been ten times a fool for leading her on so, a maiden, totally innocent, and too naïve to ask of him the things she ought to have known about. She was too good a creature to be treated so.

As they came within sight of Reedacre Manor, Santo looked forward to another evening with the Bettertons whose hospitality was faultless, especially towards one on whom they had little reason to look kindly. He had intended to make his way back to Italy once he had got what he came for, but she was angry and bitter, and progress would be slower than he’d anticipated. Perhaps he might be rather more welcome at Sandrock tomorrow than he had been today. Who could tell?

* * *

Aphra had not waved her father and his guest off that morning, for she had not been as reluctant as all that to see them go. Just when she was beginning to find calmer waters, those two had caused yet another storm she could well have done without. Having abandoned a perfectly good platter of bread, cheese and fruit because of her unresponsive taste-buds, she sought refuge in Ben’s extensive library where, until only recently, his students had studied and compiled their dissertations. For all she knew, Leon of Padua might have sat on the very stool she now used. Would there ever be a day in which she did not think of him and wonder why...why...why? Was his brother’s visit meant to find out about her family and her father’s royal appointment? Was it to find out more about her, to see if she meant to make demands on the Datini family, pretending a betrothal?

And what of the elder brother? Was there an air of curiosity about his visit? She had noticed, even through her distress, how he had looked around at her new home, no doubt thinking that Dr Ben must have thought highly of her indeed to bequeath her such an amazing place. He would wonder, of course, who she grieved for most, his deceitful brother or her uncle. Since his silent assent on the subject of another woman, Aphra was now bound to admit that Leon had damaged her love for him beyond repair by leaving her without an explanation. What she felt more than the pain of love was the dark, destructive pain of rejection. She had given him her love, sure of his devotion, certain of his return, ready to wait until he qualified. Her cousin Etta had warned her about men who did that kind of thing, but she had laughed when she ought to have listened.

* * *

On the morning after Signor Datini’s visit, Aphra climbed the stairs to an upper floor over the great cellarium, an immensely long room set with tables where, until recently, Dr Ben’s young students had learned about the important medicinal properties of plants. The sweet aroma of dried herbs still hung in the air, although all signs of study had now been removed, the tables cleared, the benches stacked away, the tools, glasses, weighing scales and books stored neatly in the cupboards that covered one wall. The other long wall had windows that looked out on to the square cloister gardens below, where a gardener pointed in Aphra’s direction to a man she knew, but would rather have avoided.

She waited for the thud of his feet on the stairs, for the cheery greeting that would be the start of an almost non-stop flow of inconsequential chatter that must, she thought, have contributed to his first wife’s early death after bearing only five children. That she herself was a prime candidate for the role of wife number two had been made clear after only their first meeting two weeks ago when he had introduced himself as ‘Sandrock’s most influential landowner’. She had not contradicted him by pointing out that the title ought by rights belong to her, though she was sure a man would have done.

‘Ah, Mistress Betterton,’ he cried from the top step. ‘Hiding away, eh?’

‘Good morn, Master Pearce,’ she said. ‘No, I have no need to hide on my own property.’ It was with a fleeting sense of disappointment that she greeted him, for he was nowhere near as good-looking as Leon’s elder brother, who had also rattled her usual good nature. ‘Do come in,’ she added, wondering if he would hear the sarcasm.

Master Richard Pearce was, however, a talking man, not a listening one, and he smiled at the pseudo-welcome. ‘Thankee, my dear lady,’ he said, striding forward ready to claim a kiss, this time, it being the custom for ladies to offer lips instead of cheeks.

But Aphra had not allowed it before, custom or not, nor would she allow it this time, so took a step backwards round a corner of the table. She didn’t like being called his dear lady, either, already resenting the hour to be squandered in this man’s presence while sharing with him the revered space that had been Ben’s.

‘Thought I’d look in on you,’ he said, looking around him as he lifted his cap, assessing the potential of a room this size while removing a roll of parchment from beneath his arm, ‘and get you to sign this, if you’d be so kind.’ Laying the roll upon the table, he pulled it out, looking for something to weight each corner. Seeing nothing suitable to hand, he walked over to the wall, removed four precious books from the shelf and slammed them down as if they were bricks instead of leather-bound herbals, written and illustrated by hand two centuries ago.

It was during this insolent performance that Aphra saw, from the corner of one eye, the brown-velvet cap of Signor Datini rising slowly and quietly up the staircase until the whole of him stood just inside the room, shadowed by the wall. Immediately understanding the unwelcome presence of Master Pearce and Aphra’s impotent anger, he made no attempt to be seen by the self-important visitor, placing a finger to his lips to indicate his complicity. Having only a moment before wished that her neighbour had been Leon’s brother, however inconvenient his appearance, Aphra could not help but feel a certain relief that he was here, after all. ‘My signature?’ she said, craning her neck to see what the document was. ‘I would have to read it first.’

‘Oh, no need for that,’ said Master Pearce, sweeping his hand across the map. ‘Simply a formality, that’s all.’ Jabbing a finger at each part of the map as he spoke, he rattled off various points known to her. ‘Here’s you at the priory and this is the boundary of your land in Sandrock, see? All round here, from the old shire oak, to the stream where it crosses on to my land, to the east field over here, to the west...’

‘One moment, Master Pearce,’ Aphra said. ‘There is my mill. On my side of the stream. I believe the boundary is well beyond that, not as it’s shown here.’

Master Pearce straightened to his full height and smiled patronisingly at Aphra. He was well dressed in a matching doublet and hose of sober charcoal-grey brocade that flattered a figure tending towards corpulence, his narrow ruff supporting several chins and ruddy cheeks bulging beneath a thick thatch of greying hair. Thirty years ago he would have been called handsome, though now his nose was red and fleshy, his eyes hooded by deep folds of loose skin. ‘This is the newest version,’ he said, still smiling. ‘There was a dispute last year... Dr Spenney and I agreed...it seemed sensible to make some adjustments, my dear.’

‘Sensible to whom?’ A deep voice spoke from the shadows.

Master Pearce was quick on his feet, swivelling round in complete surprise, his grey eyes bulging with alarm and annoyance. ‘What? Who are you, sir?’

Aphra had been prepared for the intrusion. ‘Allow me to make the introductions, Master Pearce. This is Signor Datini, a guest of my parents.’

Signor Datini moved forward into the room with an admirable nonchalance. Caps were lifted and brief bows exchanged, Master Pearce being quick to ask the first question. ‘Your profession, signor?’ he said, looking him up and down as he tried to guess.

‘I am a merchant,’ said Santo Datini. ‘My home is in Italy, sir.’

Fractionally, Aphra’s eyes widened, quickly hiding her astonishment before the elder visitor winkled out of the Italian more in half a minute than she had bothered to find out in an hour. ‘So,’ continued Master Pearce with some hope in his voice, ‘you will not be conversant with English law.’

‘I am indeed fully conversant with English property law,’ Santo said, ‘or I would not be of much use as a merchant, would I? In Italy, the English system of justice is much admired and all merchants must understand how it works or quickly run foul of it.’

‘I see,’ said Master Pearce, looking from one to the other with a frown. ‘And you are here to assist Mistress Betterton, then?’

‘I have been asked to assist Mistress Betterton in certain matters,’ he said, smoothly. ‘I would certainly need to take a close look at any changes to the extent of land belonging by ancient right to her and to witnessing any signatures.’

He sounded, she thought, exactly as a lawyer would sound. Rigidly formal. And if she had not already heard him speak, she would think this was how he would always be, in professional mode, utterly convincing. Was he speaking the truth? Leon had said nothing of this to her. Or had he, when she was not listening? What was more, she knew, as did Signor Datini, that Master Pearce was not speaking the truth when he appeared to be claiming that Sandrock Mill was his. The miller might have tried to short-change her over his rent, but she knew he would not have paid her at all if this man had been his landlord instead of her.

‘Is that so?’ said Master Pearce, already removing the books from the corners of the map. ‘Well then, perhaps we should leave this for another occasion. These things can get incredibly complicated, can’t they?’ He let the roll spring back into his hands.

‘And I shall have to unearth the priory’s map, shan’t I, to be sure of getting it right?’ Aphra said.

‘Excellent,’ said Santo, smiling his satisfied merchant’s smile. ‘That should leave us in no doubt about who owns what. Don’t you agree, Master Pearce?’

‘Indeed. Now, if you will excuse me, mistress, I must attend to my duties.’ He bowed, curtly, pausing on the top step to look directly at the Italian. ‘Have you really come all the way from Italy, signor, to assist Mistress Betterton?’

There was only the merest fraction of a delay in Santo’s answer. ‘Wouldn’t you?’ he said.

If there had been any doubt in the elder man’s mind about the Italian’s expectations here at Sandrock, they were dispelled by that reply. He turned, disappearing an inch at a time.

Aphra smoothed a hand over the tooled leather bindings of the nearest book as if to comfort it. ‘He’s been here almost every day since I arrived. I don’t like him,’ she whispered. ‘I wish he would stay away.’

‘And would you have signed?’

She shook her head. ‘Probably not. But he would have stayed and talked till kingdom come to convince me.’ She smiled at Santo’s shout of laughter.

‘Your idiomatic English,’ he said. ‘I shall never get used to it.’

‘But your knowledge of English law?’ she said, quietly. ‘Was that a bluff?’

‘Bluff?’ he said, twitching his eyebrows.

‘Pretence,’ she replied.

‘Ah...bluff. Yes, a little. But I’d wager I know more about English property law than he does.’

‘Or his lawyer?’

‘Argh! He’ll not have a lawyer. He’d have to pay him, wouldn’t he?’

‘So shall I, signor, for your professional assistance and I cannot afford you. You may as well go home.’

He tilted his head this way and that to catch her eye, without success, and he could tell that she was in no mood for a confrontation, just as she had not wanted to deal with Master Pearce’s claims. He chose to ignore the command. ‘May I sit?’ he said, purposely distancing himself from that man’s appallingly bad manners.

‘Please do,’ she said, seating herself on the other side of the table. ‘Are you really a merchant, signor? Or was that a pretence, too?’

‘I am indeed, mistress. Did my brother not tell you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking at the table between them. ‘I don’t remember what he told me. I’m trying not to remember. I don’t want to remember.’ Her voice shook.

‘No, I can understand that. But be assured that what I tell you will always be the truth.’

‘Forgive me, signor,’ she said, ‘if I regard that with scepticism. My belief in men’s words is at a low ebb. Your brother lied to me and so might you be doing for all I know. Since then, I’ve learnt to believe very little and to trust no man.’

‘Then listen to me, madonna, if you will. As a newcomer to land ownership and to the sharp practices of others, like him, for example, you may find yourself in need of a man like me who can speak with some authority. A man who has your interests at heart and for no ulterior motive.’

‘That sounds too good to be true, signor, but I’ve already said I cannot afford you.’

‘I’m not looking for payment, only for your friendship, since I cannot be of any help to you unless we are friends, at least.’

‘At least? What does that mean, exactly?’

Saints alive, he thought, she’s as prickly as a holly bush.

‘Trust,’ he said. ‘I suppose it means you must trust me. After your experience, you find that difficult. But if you could perhaps try to see things from my point of view, my offer of help is to make up, in part, for my brother’s failings. It’s something I want to do for you, to help you through your grief, to make these first few months less difficult. It will cost you nothing, except perhaps a meal now and then.’

By the time he had finished explaining to her, her hands were covering her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs, and soft mewing sounds were sifting through her fingers, dripping with tears. He sat in silence without moving, knowing that this would not be the last time she would weep for her losses. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her safe against the world, to shield her from more harm, to heal the wounds caused by his brother whose foolishness he could understand but never condone. And then there was this charismatic man called Ben. Had she come up here to this room to find comfort in his workplace? How close had they been?

The weeping was brought under control soon enough, followed by a whispered apology. He was quick to put her mind at rest. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. With her knuckles she wiped the tears from her face and pushed a strand of damp hair away into the thick plait that hung down her back, revealing the fine bones, the high cheeks and delicate ears, the delicious tilt of the nose and well-defined mouth, the graceful sweep of her throat and neck. Yesterday’s faded old clothes had been replaced by a plain bodice and skirt of dull rose pink over a white chemise, the lacy top of which could just be seen at the neckline. Santo thought of all the women who had wept in his presence, but could recall not one as exquisitely lovely as Aphra Betterton. ‘Do you know where we might look for a map of Sandrock?’ he said. ‘If we both knew exactly where the priory land lies and who rents it, we shall have the advantage of Master Pearce. Do you agree?’ For a moment, he thought she might insist on going it alone, that pride might get in the way of common sense, which would be a pity.

Her eyes rested on his face, then on his hands and back again to his eyes to find that essential element of honesty. ‘But there will be questions,’ she said. ‘Village gossip. That man will already be telling all he meets about Mistress Betterton’s Italian assistant.’ This was a conversation she preferred not to have. Ignoring her parents’ advice to wait, she had come to Sandrock alone to take advantage of the seclusion where the only decisions to be taken concerned the running of the household and gardens and the direction Ben would have wanted her to take in recording his plant collection. Relatives she had aplenty. Relationships she did not want. Especially not from the same quarter as the previous one and its disastrous consequence. And after their short and decisive meeting yesterday, why had this man returned to offer help when she had already made it clear what she felt about that?

Yet look how efficiently he had dealt with the problem of Master Pearce. How comforting it had been to have the Italian merchant there to speak with a man’s authority and without the condescending argument that would surely have followed if she had tackled the man on her own. She knew about merchants. Her cousin Etta was married to one. Hard-dealing, worldly, tough and knowledgeable, and difficult to shake off when they saw something they wanted. So what did the man want? Her trust in men had fallen to rock-bottom since Leon’s departure and his inexplicable change of heart. Now, the appearance of his elder brother, capable, handsome and more mature than he, threatened to disturb the cocoon of pain she had built around herself. With that in place, she could keep everyone out and fuel her reasons not to trust, not to make herself accessible, not to welcome any man’s company for whatever reason. Now it looked as if she was being manoeuvred into accepting him as an assistant, which she knew she needed, right here where they would be obliged to meet on most days. What madness was that?

She sighed, thinking of the effort she would have to make.

‘Madonna,’ he said, gently.

‘What?’ Her head was turned away, trying to avoid seeing him.

‘I understand your problem.’

‘How can you possibly understand?’ she replied. Pushing herself away from the table, she walked to the window to the medley of greens seen through panes of rippling glass. ‘I wanted to be here on my own and now look what’s happened after only a couple of weeks. Anyone would think I’d had no experience of handling estate matters when in fact I’ve assisted my mother for years while Father was away in London. I was sure Sandrock would be the same, that there’d be nothing here I’d not know how to deal with, and now all this nonsense of my neighbour wanting my mill, a dishonest steward and probably much more, for all I know.’

‘Your steward is dishonest?’

‘Oh...’ She shrugged. ‘He’s hiding the accounts from me. I’m assuming...’

‘I’d soon deal with that problem, mistress.’

‘Needing help was never part of my plan. You were not part of my plan either, signor. You are the brother of the man whose deception has cast a blight on my life.’ Aphra was not usually given to dramatics, but now she turned from the window to face him with her arms thrown out wide as if to demonstrate the enormity of her folly.

‘Then try looking at it another way, mistress, if you will.’

‘I don’t want to look at it another way. There isn’t another way.’

‘There is,’ he said, struggling to hide his smile. ‘You simply think of me as your assistant instead of...’

‘You see?’ she yelped. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Try to forget you are his brother. That’s what you were about to say, isn’t it? As if I could. As if I have not tried and tried to put him out of my thoughts. He was here, in this room, and Ben, too. I see them walking through the doors, in the gardens, the library, the church. They are everywhere and I thought that my being here would help me to lose them at my own pace. Slowly. It was the suddenness,’ she whispered, ‘that was so unfair.’

He nodded in sympathy. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but, you know, in my experience it sometimes happens that what one thinks of at first as a hindrance...’

‘Like you.’

‘...like me, can become quite the opposite if you give it a chance. This situation was not planned by either of us. I thought you’d be living with your parents, not managing this great place on your own. You didn’t know I’d be sent to England to offer some help to the woman my brother loves, but what a folly it would be to refuse that help rather than to make use of it.’

Aphra didn’t move, didn’t want to be persuaded by words that made complete sense. ‘There is something in what you say, signor, except for your brother’s love. That was false, wasn’t it?’

‘No, it was not false,’ he said. ‘Leon has not stopped loving you.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘Because he’s told me so.’

She stared at him, only half-believing, then came back to sit facing him at the table. ‘Let me understand this,’ she said. ‘Yesterday when my father was here, you implied that he was already married when he was here in England.’

‘I said he was not free. He was in fact betrothed when he spoke of marriage to you, mistress, which he had no right to do. A betrothal is binding, as you know.’

‘Then why could he not have said this in his letter? It was garbled. It gave me no indication...’ she spread her hands, helplessly ‘...no facts at all.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You know? How do you know?’

‘I helped him to write it. He was terribly upset. He asked me to help him.’

‘So it was a family decision, was it? I see.’

‘No, you do not see,’ he said, countering her rising anger with his voice. ‘But there is nothing positive to be gained by delving further into the matter. He is now married at my father’s insistence. Leon’s problem is loving too easily.’

‘Well, thank you for that!’ she said coldly, getting to her feet with a very noisy scraping of the stool on the floor. Her eyes blazed at him, the colour of gunmetal. ‘He loved too easily. How inconvenient for the Datini family. And how many other gullible, love-starved women did he speak of marriage to? Was this a habit of his, this loving too easily? How many other letters did you help him to write, to avoid the unpleasant truth?’ Her voice grew harsh as it rose in anger, her sarcasm wilder, hitting out in all directions.

Santo knew better than to attempt an answer to such questions, knowing that if he waited, she would hear the echo of her tirade and begin to calm down.

Simmering, she crossed her arms over her breast. ‘Loving too easily,’ she muttered. ‘Yes...well, that might be said about me, too. Perhaps we both mistook the signs. I certainly did, but then, what do I know about it? I thought love was like that. Straightforward. Uncomplicated. What a fool I was. Are you and your brother alike in this loving too easily, signor? You have a wife and family in Padua, I suppose?’

‘I am neither married nor betrothed, mistress. Not yet. But when I spoke of my brother loving too easily, I did not mean to imply that he was indiscriminate. I meant that, by nature, his passion for goodness and beauty is highly developed. He feels things deeply, in here.’ He laid a fist upon his chest. ‘And he appeared to believe that he might be released from his obligations if he explained matters to those concerned. But my father is a man to whom honour and loyalty is everything, and he refused to allow it. Leon has been obliged to keep his promises. It’s the law. Our family name carries considerable weight in Venice, you see.’

‘So, a prestigious marriage, then. Arranged, was it? Or a love match? No—’ she lifted a hand ‘—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I wish her well of him, whoever she is. What a pity he lacks that prized honour and loyalty.’

‘As I said, mistress, he was distraught not to be able to follow his heart. He blames himself for what’s happened and begs you will forgive him.’

‘Then when you return, signor, just remind him of the love he has lost, will you? And tell him how I’m being courted by a wealthy old landowner who has his eye on my very large estate, too. And since that is my only value now, I might even work my way through a succession of noble old husbands who can add to my material wealth, until I—’

‘Stop!’ Santo said, emphatically. ‘This bitterness will not help matters.’

‘Then what will?’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘Give me leave to assist you, even if only for a few months while we sort out some issues, like the accounts and estate management, for example. If you haven’t yet seen the map of Sandrock, you presumably have not examined your property yet, have you? And you’ve already encountered some inconsistencies? Well, I can keep nuisances like old Pearce out of the way, if that’s what you want. I know from Leon that Dr Ben was more interested in his work than in being the owner of an estate like this. I would not get under your feet, mistress,’ he added, gently. ‘I shall keep out of your way. And although I cannot rescue the love you lost to my brother, at least I can pour oil on troubled waters, if you would allow it?’

Aphra did not reply immediately, but when she did, it was with a question about him. ‘What about your own work at home?’

‘I have some very capable managers and I have couriers to keep me informed. I have ships that come into Southampton and London, neither of which are too far from here, are they?’

‘What about the gossip?’

‘There are other male employees who live on the priory precincts, surely?’

‘There are. The bailiff. The churchwarden. The priest and the steward.’

‘Then perhaps I could be allocated a room, somewhere? I brought two men and a groom with me, all of them discreet and trustworthy, and English-speaking.’

‘Your baggage, signor?’

‘Is with your parents at Reedacre. Should I go and collect it, and tell them of our arrangement?’

Taking her face between her hands, she closed her eyes, whispering to herself, ‘What am I doing? What on earth am I doing?’

With one lithe movement of his body, Santo came to her, standing close. ‘It’s time to move on,’ he said. ‘Share the burden with me. That’s why I was sent.’

She nodded, eyes still closed, sighing again as questions filtered through her mind.

That is not why you were sent. Not all the way from Venice for my sake. I’ll not believe the Datinis care so much. So what is it you came for?

‘I’ll find you some rooms,’ she said, turning away, feeling the warmth of his body follow her.

Share the burden with me, he had said. It was what her father had offered, too, when she had moved into Ben’s old home, but she had assured him of her ability to manage, having had years of experience helping at home while he was in London. Had she shown any signs of being unsure, she knew he would have insisted on having his own managers here each day, an imposition she was anxious to avoid when her only desire was to be alone with her wounds, healing them in her own time. Spending so much of his time at the Royal Wardrobe, Sir George had little enough to spare in keeping her safe from the intrusions of neighbours. Master Pearce would never have challenged her ownership of the mill had she not been so vulnerable. And now she knew her parents would not hesitate to approve of the arrangement to allow Signor Datini to stay. But how approving would the villagers of Sandrock be?