‘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 g
ood 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.’
‘On the table, mistress? Not on the sideboard, as they’re required?’
‘No, they’re too precious to keep on rinsing them out at each drink. We’ll have them there, one for each person. That should give them something to talk about.’
‘Well...yes, mistress, if you say so. I hope they’ll be safe. There’s a set of eight. Best knives and spoons, too?’
‘Yes. Best pewter platters. Polish them up. I must be off.’ Running along the passageway, she came out into the bright light of the courtyard already heaving with horses and humans where arms opened wide to hug and swing her off her feet with smiles and the tang of cool cheeks. Aphra was suddenly overjoyed to see them all.
* * *
From his rooms on the south side of the monastic buildings, Santo heard the commotion and, for a moment or two, debated whether to appear along with the guests or wait until the greetings were over. No, he thought. The latter would look too contrived. So the courtyard was still filled with colour from rich garments, dyed plumes and plum-coloured liveries when he entered quietly through the side gate from where he was able to see Aphra’s family well before being noticed himself.
Appearing to fit in well with her description of them as a lively crowd and not at all pompous, Santo easily identified the one she called Uncle Paul, a well-made smiling man whose terracotta-velvet robe swung into sumptuous folds as he released his niece from a hug. As Santo had expected from one involved with the buying of fabrics for royalty, Paul D’Arvall wore the most fashionable clothes, fur-trimmed, silk-lined, leather-edged, gold-trimmed, as did his very elegant wife, the Italian daughter of Pietro Cappello. Clearly glad to see Aphra, the lady was slender and fair and, although no longer young, still beautiful. She held her daughter by the hand, a lovely child with her mother’s fair colouring and a smile for Aphra of genuine pleasure. A delicate pale grey Italian greyhound sat like a toy in the crook of Flora’s arm and Santo suspected that the dapple-grey pony had been chosen to match the dog, like Flora’s pale grey overskirt. Not pompous, then, but conscious of a collective image. And not one of them in the black of mourning.
The tall young man standing to one side, smiling at the noisy welcome, was the first one of the group to catch sight of Santo. This, he thought, would be Edwin, who would find it most difficult to understand what he was doing here, once he knew of his relationship to Master Leon of Padua. Unhurriedly, Santo strolled forward, looking Edwin directly in the eye as merchants did with each other, refusing to hide behind a smile. Removing his black-velvet cap, he held it to one side as he bowed, then replaced it. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I am Santo Datini. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Master Edwin Betterton, brother of Mistress Aphra?’
Edwin’s bow was immaculate. ‘You do, sir. Are you...?’
‘Staying here? For a short duration, to be of what service I can to Mistress Betterton, that’s all. Today, I sent my men to collect some precious merchandise from Southampton that Dr Spenney had ordered. They were likely to have been forgotten about, otherwise. I stayed two nights with your parents at Reedacre Manor before offering my services here. Sir George was kind enough to commend me to your sister.’ From the corner of his eye, Santo saw how conversation between the others had stopped to listen to him, how they scrutinised his clothes and demeanour, ready to pounce with their questions. He turned to them, bowing again. He had taken care with his dress. They would find no fault there.
‘To Reedacre Manor from...where?’ said Paul D’Arvall.
‘From Venice, sir. I am a merchant of that city. My galleys come into Southampton at this time of the year.’
From Aunt Venetia, there was a slight ripple of interest at the thought of galleys and merchandise. And Venice. ‘Your name again, sir?’ she said.
‘Santo Datini, signora.’
‘Then you will know of my family, the Cappellos,’ she said, smiling.
‘Just a minute,’ said Paul D’Arvall, glancing first at Aphra, who was biting her lip, and then at Santo. ‘Just a minute. Datini? Isn’t that...?’
Aphra moved forward with her head held high, not knowing how, at that moment, Santo’s admiration for her courage was almost too great to be contained behind his gentlemanly expression. ‘Yes, Uncle,’ she said. ‘It is. Signor Datini is the eldest son of that family and I have accepted his offer of assistance at my father’s suggestion. Already he has sorted out several of the problems that Dr Ben left.’ She glanced at her uncle’s frown before addressing the whole group in a tone of gentle authority. ‘So if I have no problem with the situation, no one else should have any, either. Now, shall we go inside and take some refreshment? The men will help your servants with the baggage. Come, Flora... Edwin. Shall we lead the way?’
Doubts and queries brushed aside like so many cobwebs, Aphra led them into the house and the sunny parlour where only a few days ago she had torn her father’s commendations into strips and where she now played the perfect hostess with enquiries into their busy lives. She was particularly pleased to welcome Edwin, threading her arm through his, convincing him within minutes that she was well on the way to recovering from her misfortunes.
Naturally, the guests wanted to know the nature of the problems that Dr Ben’s sudden demise had left her with, to which the mere mention of household accounts, apothecaries’ materials and acquisitive neighbours were enough to send the conversation flying off in all directions. Soon they were all in agreement that it would have been almost impossible for a young woman like her to deal with such problems alone, and although they watched carefully for the slightest sign of
attraction between Aphra and her handsome guest, they were unable to detect anything more than unaffected politeness on both sides.
* * *
Once the family had been shown to their rooms, Signor Datini and Aphra had time in which to congratulate themselves and each other for dealing with the situation so cleverly. She came from the light outside into the darkening passageway, almost bumping into him. ‘Oh...you!’ she said, taking a step back. ‘Don’t go. Supper will be served very soon, now.’ She would like to have said how distinguished he looked in the deep green suit of rich brocade with gold-edged slashes showing a creamy-white satin beneath. Small gold studs caught the light down the front of his doublet where gold threads created a discreet pattern of entwined leaves, his square chin supported by a creamy frill of Venice lace. The epitome of a wealthy merchant, she thought, and a far cry from his younger brother whose prospects would have been more modest without marriage into a wealthy family. Did that have something to do with his father’s insistence? she wondered. Was it all about comparative wealth?
The warm aroma of roasting meats wafted along the passageway. ‘I hope it won’t be too much of an ordeal for you,’ Santo said, softly. ‘You handled things expertly, mistress. Your aunt and uncle appear to have accepted my presence here, just as we hoped they would, but your brother had little to say. Will he see me as a problem, do you think?’
‘He’s very protective of me,’ she whispered, looking towards the doorway. ‘He and my cousin Etta warned me and I didn’t heed them. He was very angry about it all, so it may be that he’s venting some of his feelings on you. Don’t mind him if he asks some searching questions, signor.’
‘I shall do my best to satisfy him with the truth. I have nothing to hide,’ he said.
* * *
The Mistress and the Merchant Page 6
