Compromised by the Prince's Touch

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘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 s
poke, 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 comfor
t 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?