Aphra’s smile was sad, rather than happy. ‘I had wondered,’ she began.
‘What, dear?’ Venetia whispered. ‘You wondered if we minded? Not at all.’
‘No,’ said Paul. ‘Not out here in Wiltshire. London is where I work and, anyway, we can always come over for the hunting, can’t we?’
‘Of course you can. You’re always welcome, you know that. Are the boys away at school now? Is that why you didn’t bring them?’
‘They’re tutored at home. We have an Oxford graduate who comes in every day. Walter is almost a young man now and Marius is catching him up. Flora sometimes joins them at their lessons...’ he smiled indulgently ‘...and she’s already better than her twin at Latin, although for the life of me I don’t know why she’ll ever need it.’
‘That’s what my father used to say about me,’ said Aphra, ‘but without it I’d never have been able to understand some of Ben’s herbals.’
‘And without it, husband dear,’ said Venetia with a sideways look, ‘Flora would not have learned Italian as easily as she has. Would she?’
As if on cue, the luscious sounds of her language reached them through the open door, one voice distinctly high and enquiring, the other replying in the deep fruity timbre that was Signor Datini’s. At twelve years old, Flora appeared to be taking the chance to practise her skills on someone other than her mother and was just then telling her companion that Marius enjoyed mathematics which, to her, was a form of punishment. ‘No,’ she was saying, ‘we are not at all alike, but I love him even so. And Walter, but he’s so very grown up these days.’ She dipped a pretty curtsy to the three adults at the table, drawing in the fine cord tied to her greyhound’s collar, a tiny dainty creature, silken grey with folded satin ears. ‘Sit,’ she whispered. Placing herself at Aphra’s side, she snuggled close as her cousin’s arm went round her, leaning against her knee while her parents smiled and continued their conversation, regardless of her youth.
‘Can you tell me,’ Aphra said, ‘anything more about Ben’s last night with you?’
‘About his death, dear?’ Venetia said. ‘What is it you wish to know?’
‘Was it peaceful? He was alone, I understand.’
Santo had moved silently to the stool beside Paul from where he could see Aphra’s face. Her parents had already explained to him something of the bond between her and the favourite uncle and she, too, had earlier indicated her feelings for this remarkable man. Perhaps now he might learn more about the relationship.
‘Unfortunately, my dear,’ said Paul, ‘he was alone. We had all gone up for the night. We heard nothing. But I went to his room in the morning when he didn’t appear at breakfast and found him on the floor, still dressed. His bed had not been slept in, so I know he’d been there all night. He had fallen. Hit his head on the corner of the clothes chest. There was a pool of blood.’
‘A lot?’
‘A lot. There was a beaker on the table, half-empty. It looked as if he’d drunk from it and replaced it.’
‘Half emptied of what?’
‘A strange-smelling liquid. I thought it was probably a sleeping draught he’d prescribed for himself and perhaps had made it too strong. Maybe his heart had given way, after all. That’s how our father died. Heart failure. Simple as that. Very sudden. No pain, Aphie love.’
Aphra’s response was a mere nod of the head, for by now she held one hand across her forehead to hide the tears swimming in her lovely eyes. ‘Alone,’ she croaked. ‘So sad...so very sad.’
Turning in her cousin’s arms, Flora placed a kiss upon her cheek. ‘Don’t cry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure he didn’t suffer, Aphie.’
‘That’s just reminded me of something,’ Paul said, suddenly delving into the leather pouch hanging from his belt. ‘You asked me if he left anything. Well, amongst other things, there was this, pinned to the inside of his gown.’ Pulling out a very creased scrap of yellowed parchment, he smoothed it out on the table and passed it across to Aphra. ‘I don’t know what it’s about. He was to have given an important lecture at the Apothecaries’ Hall, you know. I wonder if it may have had to do with that.’
The three words written on it in an old-fashioned script made more sense to Aphra than to her uncle. ‘Meltizar. Jasper. Baltezar,’ she read. ‘Are they not the names of the three magi who travelled to Bethlehem to see the new Christ? Why would he need reminding of that, I wonder? What was the lecture to have been about? Did he say?’
‘About sleeplessness and pain relief,’ he said. He’d been researching that for some time, as well as heart problems. There was this, too. He may have worn it to ward off evil smells. I really don’t know. It was hanging round his neck, so I removed it.’ Dangling from Paul’s hand was a small leather pouch on a thong. ‘You take it, Aphie,’ he said.
She weighed it briefly in her hand, then held it close to her bodice, leaving the observant Santo Datini in little doubt that her love for Dr Ben Spenney would not easily be replaced by that of anyone else. With those two still in her heart, what chance would another man have? he wondered.
Chapter Four
Santo Datini would have been insensitive indeed not to have been a little daunted by this touching show of affection by Mistress Betterton for Dr Ben, in whose former home she now lived and saw his imprint in everything it contained. Her uncle Paul, he mused, had brought the tragedy back to her in stark reality, even down to the manner of his death, when it had been Santo’s hope that time itself would relieve her of the worst of these memories. Uncle Paul’s visit had done him no favours, so far. He was not a man to give up easily, but for the life of him he could not see how to get what he had come for when he had no idea where to look in a place this size, nor could he see how to make any progress in Mistress Betterton’s esteem against that kind of opposition. Fortunately, he would not be asked which of the two was more important to him.
As Aphra had warned him, her brother lost no time that morning in questioning him about his presence there, which apparently Edwin found more difficult to accept than his uncle. Hoping he might discover, with Aphra, what the small pouch contained that had hung around Dr Ben’s neck, Santo followed her until he was intercepted by Edwin and asked if he could spare him a moment or two. He had little choice but to agree. Returning to the now-empty parlour, they stood by the window like two wary fencers, though Santo was too old a hand at the interrogation game to be unnerved by a young man of Edwin’s years.
Edwin began. ‘I wonder if you could remind me who it was who sent you here and in what capacity? I am concerned for her, you see.’
‘I will remind you most willingly, Master Betterton,’ Santo said, gravely. ‘Your concern does you justice. I was sent here by my father to make contact with your sister, to make sure she has the comfort and support she needs after my brother’s unfortunate misunderstanding with—’
‘Misunderstanding? Is that what you call it?’ Edwin blustered.
‘If you would allow me to finish? Thank you. I was about to say with my father about the nature of his contract. He, my brother, had mistakenly thought it could be terminated, if both parties agreed.’
‘What contract? Your brother and my sister were not—’
‘I am speaking of the lady to whom my brother was betrothed, sir.’
Edwin’s eyes opened wide, unblinking, his words halted by the shock.
‘I see you are surprised,’ Santo said. ‘So was your sister. She didn’t know, either.’
‘Then he had no business speaking to her. Did he?’
‘He was, and still is, in love with her, Master Betterton. When you have known love of that sort, you will perhaps start to understand how it affects a man’s judgement. But that is not to excuse him. We are an honourable family and my father refused to allow it. At the same time, he felt that matters could not be left like that when a young woman of good family had been deceived, so
he requested me to make contact with your sister and to offer our sincere apologies for the damage Leon has done. Since I arrived, I have discovered that your uncle, Dr Ben, has been taken from you, but by now the news will have reached my brother, too. Your uncle’s fame has spread all over Europe. A terrible loss.’
‘So you came all the way from Venice to see...’
‘I came on one of my galleys, as I told you yesterday. I do business in Southampton.’
‘How convenient for you that we are not so very far from there, sir.’
‘It would have made not the slightest difference if Wiltshire had been at the other end of your island, Master Betterton. I would still have come.’
Edwin’s attempts at aggression being less than successful, he paused before finding a more courteous tone. ‘And now, sir?’
‘And now, as I explained, I am doing what I can to be helpful, with your parents’ full knowledge and approval. There have been several small problems where I’ve been able to assist her. On a place of this size, a man’s authority can make things happen faster.’
‘And how long do you intend to stay?’
‘Until your sister decides she no longer needs my help. Not a moment longer.’
Edwin looked away, resting his behind on the stone windowsill. ‘She has suffered,’ he said, quietly. ‘I care for her.’
‘I can see that,’ Santo said, answering both statements.
‘It was the manner of it as much as anything else. Just a brief letter. No explanation. Did he not know what damage he was doing?’
Santo saw the young man’s fists clench and knew what was going through his mind at that moment. Nevertheless, he found it interesting that Edwin believed as much damage had been done by the terrible abruptness of Leon’s rejection as by the termination of Aphra’s dreams. She herself had said something very similar to him. The suddenness, she had said. Or had he misunderstood? As an outsider, how was he to know? Perhaps, he thought, it was time to ask some questions of the lady’s protective brother. ‘I understand,’ he said, ‘that Mistress Betterton and your uncle Ben were very fond of each other and that it was this affection that led him to leave Sandrock to her.’
The question appeared to raise Edwin’s hackles yet again, for his hard stare at Santo was loaded with suspicion. ‘They were fond of each other, sir,’ he said, ‘but if you think—’
‘I don’t think anything,’ Santo said, deliberately cutting the retort in half, ‘except that Dr Ben was particularly fortunate in having someone to hold dear the work he was doing here. He must have known she would wish to continue with some of it and treat it with respect.’
‘Well, you’re probably right there,’ Edwin said, grudgingly. ‘But it was not only that they shared the same interest in plant medicine when the rest of us didn’t. They had a very...well...special relationship. None of us spoke of it. It was not discussed. We just accepted it. It was quite innocent, but special.’
‘Yes, I see. So that is why your sister is as much distressed about his death as she is about my brother’s deception.’
‘Perhaps more so,’ Edwin said.
‘You think so?’
‘Well, she and Ben had known each other far longer, hadn’t they? And although there seems to be a reason why she and your brother could not marry, there’s no valid explanation yet for Ben’s death, is there? Not yet, anyway.’
‘The authorities have accepted it as a heart problem. You have doubts?’
‘Every death is a heart problem, isn’t it? I simply find it difficult to understand why a man of his age who appeared to be in the best of health should fall down dead, quite suddenly, just before an important lecture.’
‘You were at your uncle Paul’s house when Dr Ben stayed overnight?’
‘I lodge with my uncle and aunt, yes. I went up to bed before them, but he looked well enough at supper. They stayed up late to talk.’
‘Was he concerned about the lecture he was to deliver?’
‘Concerned? Not Ben. He could lecture the hind leg off a donkey.’
‘A...donkey’s...hind...leg? That’s another one for my list.’
At last Edwin smiled.
Santo was quick to take advantage. ‘You have three young cousins, I believe. Do you get on well with them?’
‘Well enough. The boys are at their lessons while I’m at work, so we don’t get much time together.’
‘At school? St Paul’s, is it, or Westminster?’
‘They have a tutor. Marius has days when he gets overtired, so they take their lessons at home.’
‘Indeed? So that’s how Flora learns. She’s very bright.’
Edwin shrugged off the idea. Flora was a girl and too young to be of interest. He pushed himself away from the sill, making it clear that that line of questioning was concluded. ‘My uncle’s death came at a bad time for Aphra,’ he said, ‘just after your brother’s letter.’
‘Would there have been a good time?’
‘Not for her. She adored him.’
Santo had half-prepared himself to hear such an opinion from Aphra’s brother, but even so, the bald statement came as yet another discouragement to any aspirations a man might have harboured about the lovely Aphra warming to him, one day. ‘My brother thought highly of him, too,’ he said. ‘He’ll be sorely missed.’
‘Did he?’ said Edwin. ‘So he’ll be shocked to hear the news, I take it. Just think, all this might have been his if he’d played his cards right.’
Frowning at the implication, Santo thought it was time to conclude the conversation. ‘I shall never get used to the English turn of phrase,’ he said. ‘Leon was not playing a card game when he fell in love with your sister, Master Betterton. I hope you manage your love life better than he has, but you can take my word for it that he is suffering for his mishandling of affairs. I bid you good day.’ There was no reason, he thought, why he should not have the last word on the subject. Leon had certainly taken a wrong turn in the direction of his love, but there was not the slightest doubt that it was Aphra he’d wanted. Nor could he possibly have known that Dr Ben’s will would be executed in Aphra’s favour, or that his life would come to such an abrupt end at the height of his career.
But as Santo left the parlour that morning, he could not help wondering what Master Edwin Betterton hoped to achieve by his unmistakably hostile attitude towards him. It was one thing to be protective of his sister, but surely there was nothing to be gained by discounting the help Santo had been to her, so far, or by pointing out her affection for Dr Ben, of which he was already aware. Could it be Edwin’s clumsy way of warning him off, perhaps? Or was his concern as much for Sandrock Priory and its large estate as for his sister? Was that the meaning behind his coarse remark about Leon not playing his cards right? he wondered. If so, it was clear that the young man himself had never suffered the complexities of being desperately in love with the wrong person, as poor Leon was doing.
* * *
It had rained heavily during the night and continued after breakfast with a vengeance, thundering down on the rooftops and bouncing high before running into the gutters and overflowing the rainwater barrels, flooding the ditches and pouring across the cobbled courtyard like a river, gushing into the drains built by the monks with typical thoroughness. As the downpour ended with a rainbow and a brilliant burst of sunshine, the wagon from Southampton arrived. Squelching with every step, the four men and horses waded through the water, squinting through hair and forelocks that shone like rooks’ wings. Men and boys from the stables rushed out to meet them, unhitching the unhappy horses while Aphra, Uncle Paul, Edwin and Santo came to welcome the men and to organise the comforts of dry clothing and food. The contents were well protected under layers of canvas, but Aphra’s concern was that some of the dry goods might have become damp on the journey. So, with Edwin and two gardeners and the two women from the stillro
om, Aphra attended to the unloading of the precious wares that had travelled from every part of the known world to reach Sandrock Priory.
Checking each sack, barrel and box on her damp list, she became so totally immersed in the task that when the burly miller strode into the courtyard, she was chasing after a box of cloves which were on their way to the storeroom instead of the stillroom. One of the lads thought she’d said clover. Master Miller’s red face indicated that he was very unhappy. Paul D’Arvall had met him once before. ‘Morning, Master Miller,’ he said. ‘Plenty of water power for you today, eh?’
The scowl deepened. ‘That’s the trouble,’ the miller said. ‘There I was, thinking my wheel would have all the power it needs, but no! Nowt but a blasted trickle.’
Santo joined Paul to listen, as did Fletcher, the steward. The miller took some time to come to the point, but the gist of his complaint was that, in the night, someone had dammed up the leat that directed water from the river into his millpond without which his mill wheel had lost power instead of gaining it after all the rain. Unless the level of the millpond was kept up, the wheel would grind to a halt. ‘And that’s no laughing matter,’ Master Miller said, though no one was laughing.
‘We’d better go and take a look,’ Paul D’Arvall said. ‘Come on, man. Show us what they did.’
‘Pearce’s men, I reckon,’ said the miller, leading the way out of the courtyard. As they went across the field, he told them how Master Pearce had been to see him two days ago about sharing his job with one of Pearce’s own men. ‘And why would I want to do that,’ he asked them, ‘when I’ve been milling since I was a lad? I’ll tell you why.’ Which he did, in a roundabout way, sure that this was Pearce’s revenge for his polite refusal to oblige. ‘He gets one of his men in my mill and then he bumps me off,’ he said, waving a fist in the direction of the village.
‘But he couldn’t replace you without Mistress Betterton’s agreement, Master Miller,’ said Santo. Master Miller was sure Pearce could get what he wanted, one way or the other. And so they investigated, then went on to visit Master Richard Pearce in his grand house at the far end of the village: the miller, the steward, the mill-owner’s lawyer and her uncle, who was known to her Majesty the Queen and not averse to boasting of it. This was a formidable group of men against whom not even Master Pearce could hold his own when he knew himself to be the culprit, although his excuse was that it was all a regrettable mistake on the part of his men who had been told to clear the ditches, not to build dams. Very sad, he agreed. He would remedy it immediately.
The Mistress and the Merchant Page 8
