Now, however, she knew that her imagination had been nowhere near the real thing, for whatever she suspected about his motives, it would be hard, even impossible, to refuse this kind of attention whenever he was inclined to offer it. Without enquiring too closely into her reasons for her temporary surrender, she took her fill of his lips, giving back kiss for kiss as much as she was able, tasting the moisture of his skin and caring not when her breathless protest sounded totally at odds with her response. ‘No...no, signor. This will not do,’ she breathed against his chin. ‘This will cause all kinds of complications. There will be talk. It cannot go on. We have investigations to make. Nothing must hinder that.’
His arms slackened and his kiss to her forehead was, she thought, meant to appease her. ‘Nothing will hinder that,’ he said. ‘We’ll begin today. But now I shall escort you back to your room to catch up on some sleep. Shall you lock the notes away first?’
‘You’ll not take them, will you?’
‘Not without first escorting you to Padua, madonna.’
‘Tch! Foolish man. What did you come up here for?’
‘For my cap.’
‘What, fully dressed? At this time of night?’
His voice caressed her. ‘How else would you have me? At this time of night.’
She felt a blush rising into her cheeks as she found the key to the cupboard.
* * *
Why did he have an answer to everything? she asked herself, closing the door of her room quietly. She glanced across to Tilda’s sleeping form, almost envying the maid her untroubled dreams, so different from her own disturbed thoughts. Kicking off her leather slippers, she lay upon her bed and wrapped the thick woollen coverlet around herself, fending off the chill of the dawn walk from her workroom, but sure that Santo’s instructions to catch up on her sleep had fallen on deaf ears. How could she sleep, after that? Why had she allowed it to happen when every ounce of her abundant common sense chided her for her stupidity?
For all her daydreams, for all her longings and the stirrings of her heart, she had not meant for any of them to be realised in this way, or for her needs to be made so glaringly obvious. Yes, she had known him to be more experienced than she at recognising the signs, though she had not intended for her earlier plea to be interpreted in quite that way, or so soon. But would it have been worse, or better, to let him go? Would she have been happier for his departure, just to prove to him that she was not loving too easily, which was what she had accused herself of? After suffering what she had believed to be a broken heart, why had she found it so easy to desire a man like him? What guilt would she now endure for the shallow love she had declared for his brother? What game was her heart playing to swing her from the heights to the depths and back again in the space of a few months?
Wanton. Inconstant. Indecisive. These were words that flitted through her mind alongside the warnings of future torments when Santo would reveal, as he was bound to do, that his desire for her came second to his need to reclaim his brother’s research. That, of course, was what it was all about. Their desire for each other on a physical level might be genuine enough, but when he achieved his goal, there would be nothing to prevent him from doing exactly as his brother had done. One day soon, she would wake up and he would be gone with the notes and all the declarations of trust, honour and interest in Ben’s death gone with him. Well, at least in that he was not able to deceive her, but whether the pain of men’s deceit grew less with advance warnings she was unable to speculate.
The sensible thing to do would be to put a stop to this new development now, before it was too late. But before the echo of that advice had died away, the memory of his embrace and the thrill of his mouth on hers claimed all her thoughts, just as they had then. It was already too late. Whatever the consequences, she wanted more, not less of him.
Her eyelids drooped against the growing light as she recalled his attempt to steal another kiss before they parted in the dim passageway and the effort it had taken for her to pretend a coolness she did not feel. She had held him away with a feeble protest that had provoked only a grin from him that gleamed, even in the dark. Sleepily, she held the back of her hand to her lips to breathe in his lingering scent, for that was where his goodnight kiss had been deposited, its softness sending a weakness flooding towards her heart. Out of habit, she waited for thoughts of Leon to lull her to sleep, but they would not come, their place taken by the far more powerful ones of his brother.
‘How else would you have me? At this time of night?’ he had mocked, making her squirm inside the comfort of her blanket. They had both known the answer to that.
* * *
The short walk across to his rooms in the visiting abbots’ house was not far enough to cool Santo’s ardour. Taking Aphra as far as the staircase in her own dwelling had been a tantalising step she could hardly be expected to recognise, for her naivety was one of her most attractive features, all the more so for her attempts to seem otherwise. He could see how this same innocence was what had appealed so strongly to Leon, making him appear more worldly than he was. Why else would the simpleton have believed he could wriggle out of a betrothal in Italy that had taken their father almost two years to negotiate?
And yet, he could sympathise, for Mistress Aphra Betterton would turn any man’s head and his brother would have stood no chance against the kind of desire she was able to generate without the slightest effort. He had seen it for himself. Pretence was not her forte. On the contrary, she had snapped and scolded and tried several times to send him away, even while contradicting herself, too angry and confused to think it out. He would like to have followed her upstairs to her room, where he was sure she would not sleep for some time.
He would also have liked to return to the workroom to take a look at those notes after she had indicated that they were, as he suspected, all Leon’s work, the research he now needed so urgently in Padua. It began to look, he thought, as if some drastic decision must be taken if she delayed things much longer. The greatest stumbling block, however, was the spectre of Dr Ben for whom Aphra cared enough to hold on to the precious notebooks until the real reason for his untimely death was explained more satisfactorily. He had promised not to steal them, although that course might have benefitted Leon. But brotherly love could not be stretched as far as that. Nor was he willing to lose the ground he had just gained.
Quietly, he let himself into the dim hall of his lodgings, smiling as Dante’s muffled snores penetrated the decorated plasterwork ceiling. He thought that if Dr Ben had been a married man with a family to make a claim on his funds, he might have found it less easy to finance his obsession, whatever it was. Those expensive rarities in his possession certainly seemed to indicate a very personal quest so private that not one of his close relatives appeared to know anything of it.
Chapter Six
‘Ben...dear Ben,’ she whispered, touching the new grass on the mound covering the burial. ‘What was it you kept to yourself all these years? Why did you not share it with anyone?’ Holding her hand still, she waited, then stood upright, lifting her skirts to skim the mossy pathway. A robin flew ahead of her to perch on another gravestone, its eyes like two bright beads, its orange-red breast contrasting with the pale greens lit by the early Sunday sun. The church bell tolled for the first service of the day and, in the distance, couples and families moved in respectable sober dress towards the great west door while one figure stood apart, waiting for her to reach him. Such an innocent gesture, she thought, but ill advised before so many inquisitive stares from villagers who had not had time to know her well.
With a nod of greeting to Santo, her smiles and good mornings were for those she met in the porch, though it was obvious even then that their sidelong glances at her handsome escort and scarce a smile for her was an indication of their assumptions. Her attempts to ask after their children and aged parents were met with a noticeable coolness and, from h
er position at the front of the congregation, the whispers, nodding heads and stares could be felt, so different from last Sunday’s kindly regard. Aphra was left in no doubt that her virtue was already being questioned as much as her imprudence.
* * *
After the service, she took him to task. ‘You must know how people gossip when they have little else to think about,’ she whispered to him as they turned towards the door of the prior’s house. ‘In a village as small as this, everyone knows everyone else’s business. One cannot move without it being common knowledge before breakfast, signor. I told you how it would be.’
Santo opened the door for her, allowing her to pass through, then following her down the passage into the parlour. ‘So I must not attend church, mistress? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m talking about you being here. Being seen together. You saw their faces.’
‘Yes, I saw. Master Pearce kept his distance, too, I noticed. Is that usual?’
‘Not at all. He looked as disapproving as the rest of them today. He usually makes some flattering remark. I’m not sure whether I prefer that or the scowl.’ She could not help but smile at the dilemma as she tried to hold Santo off, who was clearly intending to take her in his arms. But the moment was interrupted by servants carrying trays of bread, cheese and bacon, boiled eggs, oatcakes, a slab of butter and jugs of ale, setting them on the table, but hesitating over the next task.
‘Begging your pardon, mistress.’ One of the men glanced at Santo.
Briskly, Aphra had moved away. ‘Yes, set it out, if you please. We’re ready to eat.’ They were joined almost immediately by Father Vickery, Dante and Enrico, by Aphra’s maid Tilda, the steward, the bailiff and the young churchwarden, so no more was said about the unsettling disapproval of the church congregation. Not until later, when Father Vickery lingered, requesting a private word with Aphra. The subject of his concern was no surprise to her. ‘Don’t beat about the bush, Father,’ she said as the weary priest peered into his empty beaker. ‘Here, hold it up. You’ll need some more of this. Or would you prefer something stronger, perhaps?’
‘Oh, no, my dear, thank you. This will do nicely. A very good meal. Your uncle laid a good table, too, but...’
‘But he would not have approved of this arrangement. Is that what you’d like to say, though only a few days ago you were in favour of it?’
His white hair caught the sun like a halo, etching deep lines upon his face. He took a sip from his beaker, watching it touch the tabletop before he answered. ‘I was, wasn’t I? But it was inevitable and I think I must have failed to see that, in my eagerness for you to have some help here. In retrospect, I suppose a chaperon...an older lady...might have been more appropriate.’
‘Inevitable, Father? What do you refer to?’
Sadly, he looked at her from beneath his bushy white eyebrows. ‘That you...well...that both of you would form an attachment...an emotional attachment. And that is not something your parents gave much thought to, either, otherwise...’
‘Otherwise they would not have consented to Signor Datini’s presence here. Yes, I can see you’re concerned about that, but when there are other men living here, like yourself, on the priory precincts, the men who came to breakfast, then how can one more be a problem? And how can you have come to the conclusion...?’
She was stopped by Father Vickery’s long bony hand preventing any kind of excuse. ‘Aphra,’ he whispered, leaning across the table. ‘Listen to me, my dear. I was up at dawn this morning. I went into the church. Then when I’d finished my business there, I wandered into the garden.’ He pointed to the window. ‘It was the cloister garden when I was here with my brothers. We would go there to be alone.’
‘The garden,’ she murmured. ‘Between my workroom and here. At dawn.’
‘Yes, at dawn, Aphra. I was not spying, but I could not help seeing that you appeared to be in your nightgown. With Signor Datini.’
The picture was clear in her mind as she closed her eyes with a deep sigh. ‘Father, do you wish me to explain what happened last night, just to put your mind at rest?’
‘My dear,’ he said, stretching out his hand to take hers, ‘it is not my mind that needs putting at rest. If you tell me that nothing happened, then I am bound to believe you. But others are not so charitable or trusting, and already there has been talk in the village about the good-looking Italian and what exactly his role is here.’
‘But, Father, you know that...’
‘Yes, I know. But others cannot be hoodwinked for ever into believing he is your lawyer. Master Pearce for one does not believe it. Nor do those who saw your relatives leave so soon after rooms had been scrubbed and beds refurbished and food brought in for a week and more. Any young woman of your beauty, Aphra, must be seen to be living her life with immaculate virtue. Your reputation can be so easily compromised, my dear. To those out there,’ he said, tipping his head towards the door, ‘it may have looked as if your guests left in a hurry because they didn’t like what they saw here.’
‘Father! It’s Pearce, isn’t it? Spreading any scandal he can invent.’
‘Not entirely. He has voiced concerns...’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sure he has.’
‘But so have others. Some of them just now after the morning service. Of course I told them not to spread malicious gossip and I scolded them for such tittle-tattle. But now I believe the situation must be looked at again, my dear, when it’s clear that you and Signor Datini have developed feelings for each other. You have, haven’t you?’
‘Father,’ Aphra said, laying her other hand on top of his, ‘I did not intend for this to happen. Quite the opposite. I know how I feel, but I cannot speak for him. I don’t know how he feels about me except what men often feel about women. All I am certain of is that he came here to retrieve his brother’s research and take it back to Italy. And now I expect you will tell me to let him have it and go home.’
‘And you are not willing to do this because...?’
‘Because,’ she said, releasing his hand, ‘I seem to be making a habit of losing everything I hold dear. Held dear,’ she corrected herself. ‘I have fallen in love, Father. To part with him would...would...’ Pressing her palms against the black, boned bodice, she gasped at the pain of yet another heartbreak. ‘Don’t judge me harshly. I believed I loved his brother, but this is quite different. He is all I desire.’
Father Vickery shook his head. ‘Sometimes, my dear, all we desire comes at a heavy price, but a woman in your position cannot afford to pay with her reputation. Once lost, you would never regain it. Your parents would agree with me.’
There was nothing else she could say to that, having seen the problem from the start, her fears realised, and whether it was Master Pearce’s doing or not, the gossip had begun to damage her good character and Signor Datini’s honour. Going with Father Vickery to the door, she was desperately sorry that he had seen her and Santo together as they had walked back to her dwelling and just as sorry that an explanation of the situation would have sounded too incredulously simple to be believed.
Changing her Sunday shoes for her garden sandals, she headed for the open space of the large plot where herbs grew in abundance around the stillroom. Feathery fronds of fennel swayed against fluffy coriander, poppies, stocky borage and several varieties of southernwood, some safer than others. The scent on her fingers as she pinched the leaves reminded her how useful it was to repel flying insects and also how any student of herbs must take care to know both its harmful properties as well as its beneficial ones, and how to tell the varieties apart. Any careless mistake in identification could prove fatal.
But now her concern was being overshadowed by what had happened last night, by her personal admission of her feelings for Santo Datini and by his overwhelming expressions of desire for her. She had not evaded the truth by telling the priest that she did not know exactly
what Santo felt for her, apart from desire, but nor would she risk hearing Santo’s avoidance of the issue, for if she had learnt anything at all from her relationship with his brother, it was that a too-generous heart had its dangers. The main problem was, of course, that her body had its own treacherous agenda.
Twisting a head of the daisy-like feverfew between her fingers, she watched the leisurely approach of the one who filled her dreams, preparing herself for the explanation she knew he would request, for he had been in the courtyard with his men as Father Vickery had left. ‘Madonna,’ he said, softly. ‘The priest is concerned?’
‘Yes, and so am I,’ she said. ‘And so should you be.’
‘I am,’ he said. ‘May I ask what he said? He has advice to offer?’
‘That we must put a stop to the gossip, before it’s too late.’
‘Too late for what?’
‘For your honour to survive. For my reputation. I would like to be able to say I care nothing for that, but I do. I must continue to live here.’
‘So he doesn’t think the gossip will die away?’
‘Not if Master Pearce has anything to do with it. Besides, Father Vickery was in the garden at dawn this morning when you escorted me back to my house. He saw. And me in my nightgown.’ She glanced up at his shocked face and was quick to reassure him. ‘No more than that. But I can imagine how it looked to him.’
‘Did you explain?’
‘No. There was little point, really.’
‘What, little point in telling him I didn’t seduce you? So you want him to...’
‘It doesn’t matter, does it? The damage is done, whatever he or anybody thinks. I can see no way round this. The village is talking.’
The Mistress and the Merchant Page 12
