The Mistress and the Merchant

by Juliet Landon

  ‘Still so bitter,’ he whispered, tipping his head to see into her watery eyes. ‘You think I cannot understand, but I do, Aphra. It’s happened too fast for you. Too soon. I should not have let it happen, but it did.’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ she said. ‘Nothing. Now, I must go and prepare and so must you. Leave the key on my work bench when you’ve removed the notes, if you please.’

  ‘Aphra.’

  ‘Supper in half an hour,’ she said, pulling herself out of his grasp. ‘We shall expect Enrico and Dante, too.’ She had thought to evade him, to stop this distressing talk that so carefully avoided any mention of love, as if what had happened between them had not quite reached that lofty pinnacle of emotion. But she refused to be seen as the pleading one again, nor would she offer to forget about her concern for her deceased uncle who had no one but her willing to investigate his tragedy. Santo had agreed to help her in this, but now his presence was being seen as scandalous and he was being obliged to spare her good name, offering her nothing in place of his absence except the vague possibility that he might return, one day. She had already experienced the disappearance of hope. She would not cling to it a second time. ‘Let me go, signor,’ she said, trying to shake off the hand beneath her arm. ‘Please...let me go!’

  ‘No,’ he said, harshly. ‘Not without this.’ His mouth covered hers to stifle her cry of anger, shocking her with the force and passion of his kiss.

  Pulled once more against him, she felt his rock-hard arm across her back and his grasp under her head, extinguishing her anger in an instant and transforming it into the blinding passion of love. So close were the two emotions that, for a few moments, she fought him with flailing arms that soon tired and wrapped his head in an embrace, her hand burying into the thick dark waves, sending shivers of stark desire down to melt her knees. She knew it was meant to provoke some kind of commitment from her, to remind her, if she needed it, of what she would be missing. ‘You are asking too much of me, signor,’ she murmured against his lips as they lifted from hers. ‘Neither of us can see where this will lead. Too many things are in the way. Don’t ask me for more than I can give, other than what you came for. Make that do.’

  ‘For now, Aphra. But if I return, I shall expect more from you than words.’

  If he returned? The doubt seared her heart and provoked a whirlwind of questions without a hope of answers. When? Why? How long? More than words? What more? Was this simply a repetition of his brother’s empty promises? And if it was, would she be able to bear it? Again?

  * * *

  Supper that evening was an ordeal alleviated mostly with Etta’s help, the beloved cousin who had herself experienced an emotional tangle and who knew what Aphra was suffering. On the surface, the two protagonists gave every sign of having accepted the situation calmly, sensibly and without an excess of regret while, inside, both hearts bled with new wounds no apothecary had a cure for, though some claimed otherwise. During the meal, Aphra’s discipline helped her to play the part of the smiling gracious hostess, betraying none of the awareness that this would be the last time she would entertain the three Italians at her table and the emptiness she would have to bear, after this. While Etta’s husband enquired about Santo’s merchanting ventures, they heard about his flourishing business in the spice and luxury goods trade and the mutual friends they had in the Mercers’ Guild.

  For once, Santo seemed not to mind talking about himself, as if it might give Aphra some comfort to know more of his earlier years in Venice about which she had purposely refrained from asking so as not to betray her growing interest. He told them how, at thirteen years old, being headstrong and at odds with his father’s strictness, he had stowed away on a merchant galley, but had been returned to Venice by the unsympathetic captain. From then on, his father had employed a man to tutor him in the arts of navigation by land and sea. Asked about missing family life while travelling far and wide, it was Enrico and Dante whose gentle teasing implied that their employer, being a man of the world, had been looking to find a woman of intelligence as well as beauty. They had meant it, of course, as a compliment, not seeing the significance of the smiles exchanged between the English merchant and his wife. Santo could hardly avoid any mention of his brother Leon, though it became obvious to them all that the two were close, despite their different temperaments.

  Aphra was studying the deep wrinkles of a walnut on her plate and would have asked questions of her own. But words seemed to fly past only half-heard, the food tasted of nothing on her palate and the colourful table was merely a blur of shapes. Time dragged on into space, into an echo chamber of sound, into the darkness and beckoning emptiness of years without him. Then she could no longer deny that love, real love, had rushed upon her in all its splendid fury to taunt and hurt her and to tell her that, if she had not already discovered it for herself, she was one of those women for whom love was never a simple act of falling, but more like an anguish and a suffering, and long cold spells of wintery yearning. Sadly, love only offered the balm of time to remedy the situation. Which nobody ever accepted.

  When the talk eventually turned to the need for Santo to return to Padua, Enrico and Dante made their excuses to go and continue the packing, leaving the four of them to say yet again what had already been decided, as if to give it a last seal of approval. Aphra’s reputation, they agreed, was of paramount importance in a village of this size and, since she was in effect ‘Lord of the Manor’, she could not afford to ignore damaging gossip, even if Nic and Etta were to remain there for a few weeks. Weeks, she had said? Yes, why not weeks, until the gossip died down? Their concern for her almost brought tears to her eyes.

  They had entirely understood, in a way Aphra had refused to, how essential it was to claim his brother’s valuable research and return it without delay. For Leon to justify his year of study with Dr Ben and to continue his future profession, he must have access to everything he had learned, of which the two books of notes represented his latest findings. With that argument weighted against her, Aphra was relieved to have already reached that decision, even if not for exactly the same reasons. To wish to hurt him, she told herself, was a perfectly natural reaction and it was not out of pity for Leon she had relented, but for love of his brother. That, too, was a perfectly natural reaction, even though he was not aware of it.

  Fortunately for Santo’s powers of imaginative truth-stretching, Nic withheld the one question on the tip of his tongue about why Santo had not said what he had come for at the beginning instead of putting it about that he was Aphra’s lawyer employed to help. However, Nic suspected the answer to this when he heard how close Aphra had come to shooing him off the estate at their first emotional meeting, for although an air of fragility surrounded her, Nic knew at first hand of her courage and the quality of her affection. As for the Italian’s offer of help to unravel the strange and unsettling facts surrounding Ben’s sudden demise and his mysterious studies, both Nic and Etta assured them that they would do everything necessary to get to the bottom of it. Knowing Dr Ben better than Santo did, they would be well placed to see things he might miss.

  If more reasons had been needed why Santo must leave without delay, it came in the form of an exhausted messenger who clattered into the courtyard on a sweat-lathered horse as darkness fell. Suspecting something amiss, Nic offered to go and find out, returning with one of Santo’s own sailors sent by the captain of the galley still waiting at Southampton. Santo leapt to his feet. ‘What is it, man?’ he said. ‘Bad news?’

  The news poured out in a rush of Venetian dialect that only Santo and Nic could follow. ‘Captain wants to know what your orders are, signor,’ he said, accepting a glass of brandy from Nic. ‘It’s the pilgrims. They’ve been waiting on the dockside now for three days and nights, and it’s costing them money just to eat. They’ll take another galley if we wait any longer, then we shall be half-empty and...’

  ‘Yes...yes. I can see the p
roblem,’ Santo said, imagining the loss of revenue.

  ‘Pilgrims?’ said Aphra. ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘Yes, we usually fill up with them on the return journey at this time of year. We take them as far as Spain, then another batch from there to Venice. Some stop there and others go on to Jerusalem. They pay well for the passage.’ He turned to her, seeking her acceptance as if it mattered to him. ‘I cannot keep them waiting any longer without...’

  ‘No, of course not. You must be away at first light. I’ll have some food prepared for your man and a bed for the night.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m afraid I must ask to borrow one of your men to bring back the horses from Southampton.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, Aphra,’ said Nic. ‘You stay here with Etta.’

  So, she thought, this was how they must part, with only a kiss to her knuckles and a look from him that held so many unspoken thoughts and, from her, a movement of her lips that tried, and failed, to say goodbye. Had it really all been said? He had got what he’d come for and more besides, and yet again she was left to pine over what more she would like to have given, but could not. She had raised no objection when Nic assumed control, but had been drawn into Etta’s embrace, struggling to manage yet another grief that had taken her emotions by storm and left her helpless in its wake.

  Rocking her, Etta thought that talking might help. ‘Did he make demands on you, dearest?’ she whispered, pushing back wisps of hair from Aphra’s cheek. ‘Was it all a bit too soon...too much...too fast? Men are always in such a hurry for an answer. But he couldn’t stay, love. You must see that.’

  ‘I do see that.’ Aphra said, trying to hold herself together. ‘I do. I do. But I don’t know if he’ll ever return, Ettie.’

  ‘Did he not say?’ Etta said, holding her away with a frown.

  ‘I would not offer him any hope. He thinks it’s because of Ben.’

  ‘Ben? How could he think that?’

  ‘I suppose he could hardly think otherwise when I’ve talked of little else since he came. I think you’re the only one who understands how it is with me, when my heart is telling me one thing and my conscience another. I feel I owe it to Ben’s memory to find out the real cause of his death and I have no idea how long that might take, Ettie. So how can I invite Santo to return to me while he believes my heart belongs to a deceased uncle, of all things? No man would be encouraged by that, would he?’

  ‘He doesn’t think your heart still belongs to Leon, then?’

  Shaking her head, Aphra looked down at their entwined hands. ‘Whoever said that love remains constant no matter what, was wrong,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t. Why should it? The grief I felt at Leon’s behaviour was based on anger, Ettie. Santo has made me see that. I would not cross the oceans for a man such as that.’

  ‘But you would for Santo?’

  ‘Yes, when I’ve solved Ben’s mystery, I would. But not before.’

  ‘Then how will Santo ever know that, dearest?’

  The clasp of hands parted for Aphra to cover her face, moaning with the conflict. ‘I don’t know. Unless I give him something to hope for, I shall lose him.’

  ‘Aphie,’ Etta whispered, taking her cousin’s wrists, ‘Ben would not have wanted this. We all know of his special affection for you, but he was the dearest and most understanding of men. I doubt if he would have regarded Leon’s actions in the same light as you do. He liked and trusted him. He could not have been more pleased by what happened between you and Leon, and I’m sure he would be saying to you now, if he were still alive, that Leon must have had very good reasons for what he did. He must be very torn between his love for you and keeping his name as an honourable man. Who would trust him after going back on his word to marry the woman he was betrothed to? His future would be ruined, Aphie.’

  ‘I know... I know...but—’

  ‘But listen,’ Etta said, cutting off the direction of Aphra’s protest. ‘Ben would want you to move on, love, not to waste precious time in delving into matters that will wait. Of all things, he would want your happiness. And if you’ve found a man who can give you that happiness, then hold on to him, whatever it takes.’

  ‘Ettie, I don’t know that Santo loves me. He’s never spoken of love.’

  Etta sighed, shaking her head. ‘Have you not seen his eyes when he looks at you? Have you not seen them glowing with love for you?’

  ‘I’ve seen them darken with desire,’ Aphra said, smiling modestly.

  ‘Tch! Innocent!’ Etta said. ‘He’s an elder son, remember. He’s not going to declare his love for you until he knows he’s on sure ground, unlike his younger brother who did just the opposite. Neither of you is sure of the other, at the moment. So if you want him to take some hope with him when he leaves, it’s up to you to give him some. One or two words would be enough, dearest. Even if you were to see him off at dawn. Wish him Godspeed? A token, perhaps?’

  Aphra nodded, bending her bright head to kiss Etta’s knuckles. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right. A token. I think I can manage that.’

  * * *

  The large complex of priory buildings was quiet and in total darkness except for the faint glow of a single candle in the visiting abbots’ house where Santo was preparing for his last night at Sandrock. Aphra had seen it from her own windows and now, as she rounded the corner and entered the spacious fragrant area where the scent of freshly dug soil mingled with that of pungent rosemary, the flickering light lured her on. No plan had formed in her mind. No words, either of explanation or hope. No picture of what she might find. No expectation of welcome, surprise or rebuff. All she knew was that the choking farewell she had attempted after supper would not do. Even if it had been enough for him, it was not enough for her. She must see him, one more time.

  Treading quietly so as not to creak the stairs, she was taken aback when, halfway up, the door at the top opened for her as if he had seen her coming. Santo’s large figure, lit dimly from behind, moved aside for her to enter, his hand beneath her elbow to ease her over the lip of the door frame, no word passing between them, no smile of satisfaction from him. She was thankful for that.

  His hand slid down her arm to lead her nearer to the candle before he leaned over to blow out the flame, plunging her immediately into the intimate warmth of the darkness and the close comforting safety of his arms, telling her that this was what he, too, had wanted. She knew that his smoothing hands over her back would be able to feel, through the soft silk velvet of her night robe, how her body trembled. Then, she felt him gather the long thick tresses of her hair into his hand and hold it up on top of her head, felt the kisses to her neck, then her throat, and it did not occur to her once, neither then nor later, that this was a risk they ought not to be taking.

  Linking her arms around his neck, she hung on as her feet left the floor, her body swung up close to his and carried to his bed. Still mouth to mouth, they rolled on to sheets and furs, feather pillows and soft wool blankets, floating on bedding that offered no resistance or hindrance as they disrobed each other in an accommodating tangle of fabrics. Aphra was as eager and enquiring as he, only faintly registering in her mind exactly where their roaming hands might lead as the touch of his upon her skin claimed every fibre of her senses. But it was the warm exciting weight of his body over hers that made her moan with the rapture that anticipates possession. Those moments of thrilling helplessness, of being brought to that point of desire, were quite new to her, making her catch at his hand with a gasp that Santo apparently recognised as inexperience.

  He slowed, waiting for her to catch up. ‘Do you want me to stop?’ he whispered. ‘It’s not too late, beloved. I shall not take more than you are willing to give.’

  ‘I want to give you something to take with you. Something special.’

  ‘As much as this? Are you sure?’

  Moving her hips against him, she savoured the closenes
s and the tantalising warmth of his skin, his hardness pressing her for an answer, his hand capturing her breast. ‘Yes, I am sure. I want to give you this, Santo, before you go. Show me what to do.’

  His kisses were soft and gentle upon her face, giving her yet another chance to change her mind, to assess the risk, to see where this might lead. But his skilful lovemaking had already taken her beyond that point and when he whispered, ‘Lift your legs...enclose me...yes...like that’, she willingly drew him into her with little more than a gasp at the momentary pain before the sweetness of the sensation. Entering a new world of intimately shared delights more exquisite than anything she could have imagined, Aphra knew in her heart that there must be some mysterious reason why she had saved this gift for him alone and that she had been granted these last few hours in which to bestow it, whatever the consequences. Then all thoughts deserted her as the magnificent lover of one night took her through each exciting phase, teaching her to appreciate the experience with every one of her senses, rewarding her with the caresses of his body, making her realise, vaguely, that he was giving to her no less than she was giving to him.

  Thrilled by her receptiveness and the subtle signs that her pleasure was soon to reach its climax, Santo’s vigorous surge of energy raced through them both in a whirlwind of passion, bringing them quickly to an earth-shattering finale that held them, weightless, for those few last seconds of matchless bliss.

  Calling his name while mewing with delighted surprise, Aphra was cradled in his arms, seeking no words to add to the experience. If she wondered, just once, what difference her gift would make to their unspecified relationship, no answer presented itself, not even when Santo murmured the most bewitching endearments, praising her surpassing beauty and her natural ability to give pleasure. He would treasure her gift, he said, for all time.

  For all time? She fell asleep before the words could be examined for an exact meaning but, waking later to find herself in close contact with his body, she realised she must be the one to make a move. Stealthily, so as not to wake him, she extricated herself from the warm comfort, found her clothes and kid slippers and pulled them on without making a sound. As a last memento of their night together, she took Santo’s brown-velvet cap that lay on the small table ready for his journey. He would surely have another, she told herself before tiptoeing to his side of the bed to place a light kiss upon his brow, insubstantial enough to be absorbed into his dreams.