‘Indeed it is, my lord,’ said one merchant, soberly dressed in a calf-length gown with a bulging leather pouch hanging from his belt. ‘Lovely thing, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. Do you know when she docked?’
‘Three days ago. The Datini son was on board. Had a young woman with him. She was a lovely thing, too.’ Smiling at the memory, he blew a kiss from his fingertips.
‘Really?’ Nic said, smiling in reply. ‘His wife, was she?’
‘Oh, no, my lord. That one will not be marrying for a while yet. Too busy. No, I don’t know the lady, but noble, from the look of her. They went off straight to Padua, I believe. That’s where the Datini live in summer. Where do you and your daughter stay?’
Conspiratorially, Nic squeezed Flora’s hand. ‘With the Cappellos,’ he said.
As he slid his smile towards Flora, the merchant’s assumptions took flight. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘of course. This young lady has the looks of a Cappello, sì?’
‘Grazie, signor,’ Flora said, dimpling at him. ‘My mama’s looks.’
The smile was indulgent now. ‘Fortunate papa,’ the merchant said, winking.
Nodding to the men, Nic led Flora away, almost bumping into Aphra in the crowded square. ‘Three days ago,’ he said, ‘so he didn’t linger. Good timing.’
‘He’s here, then?’ she said, looking about her as if he might be somewhere in the crowd. ‘Here in Venice?’
Like a brother, he linked her arm through his as they watched Flora skip back to her mother. ‘In Padua,’ he said. ‘I shall send a message to them to tell them we’re here and wait to hear when they wish to receive us.’
‘And if they don’t want to?’ she whispered.
Trapping her arm tightly against him, he soothed her like a child. ‘Of course they’ll want to, Aphie. Why would they not? We shall be with you. Our business with them is perfectly legitimate. Remember?’
Our business. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling as they reached Flora, who was excitedly telling her mother, as far as she was able, what the merchant had said. Venetia’s expression was hard to read as it changed from a frown to a darting glance of concern at Nic, then to a rather forced smile at Flora’s probably mistaken Italian.
‘Quale?’ Venetia said.
‘What?’ Aphra said.
‘Nothing,’ Nic said. ‘Come on, let’s get a move on. I’m starving. Paul, get one of the men to hail a gondola for us, will you? And find out from Venetia where Ca’ Cappello is. Flora, my dear, I think you’ll have to carry little Grace now. She’s getting thoroughly confused.’
Venetia glanced down at the shivering little Italian greyhound. ‘She’s not the only one,’ she murmured.
* * *
Signora Angela and Signor Pietro Cappello were on the first floor of their beautiful old house overlooking the Grand Canal and so were afforded a good view of their unexpected guests’ arrival before the servants. Well, Angela was. ‘Do you know, Pietro,’ she said, ‘that looks remarkably like our Venetia down there.’
‘Oh, more than likely,’ said her elderly but remarkably sharp husband. ‘After all, she lives only a few hundred miles away.’ He continued to read his book through a very large magnifying glass made on a nearby island. He was used to his wife’s pronouncements by now. He owned a pair of leather-bound spectacles, too, made on the same island, but they had recently made a sore place on his nose.
But when his wife crossed the room to the reception hall, he recognised something in her purposeful step, lowered his book, then stood up to follow her, hearing the sound of voices from below. A female called, then an answering shriek from Angela, and before Pietro could register through bleary eyes who was who, figures surged up the grand staircase from the offices below into the clear glossy hall, its shining floor reflecting a sea of colour from their skirts.
Neither of the elderly couple, however, would admit to complete surprise. ‘We knew you’d come, one day,’ they said, hugging their daughter and her husband. Their joy at seeing Flora for the first time was very moving for all of them. ‘Such a beautiful child,’ they said, forgetting how a girl of thirteen was fast leaving childhood behind. ‘How old, now?’
‘Where are the boys?’
‘And Lady Somerville...how like Elizabeth!’
‘And Mistress Aphra...we’ve heard...’
‘My lord...welcome...and Sir George...’
The excited chatter flowed fast enough to sweep away, for a time, Aphra’s concerns about whether their visit to Padua would be as successful, or as appreciated, as this one.
* * *
Later on, after they had been shown to magnificent bedrooms, she had intended to ask Flora what the Italian merchant had said, but found that her father had already mentioned the Datini family to Pietro Cappello as they sat round the table. ‘Oh, yes,’ the old gentleman told them, putting down his glass of wine. ‘I was over at San Marco when the Datini galley came in. I didn’t realise the eldest son had been away until I saw him come ashore. I don’t have much to do with them, you see. They’re not in my line of business. Luxury goods, you know. I deal in silks.’
Having been taught to add something to the conversation, within the family, Flora put her social skills to the test. ‘We’re told that Signor Datini had a beautiful young lady with him, Grandfather. Did you see her? They said she was una bellezza,’ she said, using the exotic words with gusto. ‘Was she?’
Her mother sent an apologetic glance in Etta’s direction.
The hairs on Aphra’s head prickled as her heart thudded uncomfortably within her bodice. Her knife clattered on to her plate before she could lay a hand over it.
‘Now that,’ Pietro said, ‘is not something I am able to confirm or deny, Flora, my dear. My eyes do not see what they used to when I was younger. But if I were you, I would beware of accepting all that Italian merchants say. Anyway, you’re off to visit them at Padua, so you’ll be able to see for yourself, won’t you?’
The room was suddenly very quiet and it was Angela who sensed that there was something here not to be developed further. ‘Sir George,’ she said, ‘I understand you supply your young Queen with Venetian fabrics. What does she prefer, these days?’
But although the conversation resumed easily enough, Aphra felt physically sick at the thought of Santo and his beautiful companion within the intimate confines of a galley, day after day, week after week.
Chapter Eight
At any other time, the well-appointed bedroom lined with tapestries would have received all Aphra’s attention, but now she stood by the arched window where light reflected on her face from the water below. ‘I knew it, Ettie,’ she whispered through her fingers. ‘I knew there must be somebody. Why could he not have said?’
Placing herself on the cushioned window seat in front of her cousin, Etta tried her best to produce the alternative view. ‘Dearest, there could be any number of reasons why she was there. She may be his sister...’
‘He has no sister.’
‘...or a cousin, or just a friend.’
‘Hah! A young and beautiful friend.’
‘You cannot jump to conclusions like this, Aphie. He has shown his feelings for you. You should not doubt him, but give him a chance, love. I’m sure it’s all perfectly innocent.’
‘Has Nic sent a message?’
‘To Padua? Yes, but it’s quite a way, so the messenger won’t be back until dark. We may as well let Venetia show us round and let Tilda get on with your unpacking.’
‘Ettie, I think this has been a dreadful mistake.’
Etta stood to place her arms around Aphra, willing the situation to be better than it appeared. ‘Hush now,’ she said. ‘This is not like you. Try to concentrate on the other matter. That’s why your father and Uncle Paul have come, isn’t it? We don’t want them to get diverted with anything else at present. We have to find
out what we can about Ben.’
‘Yes, you’re right, love. One thing at a time. I’m strong, Ettie, and we’ve come through heartaches before, haven’t we?’
Etta held her by the shoulders to look into the grey eyes rimmed with black that gave so much away about her feelings that it was almost impossible for her to hide behind them, as others often could. ‘Aphie, this is not going to be a heartache. There’s a simple explanation. Santo is trustworthy. You must believe it.’ A gentle shake made Aphra look at her and smile, at last. ‘There, see? That’s better. Come on, let’s start enjoying ourselves. Where does this door lead, I wonder?’
* * *
It was not until bedtime that Aphra was given the chance to dwell on what she might encounter on the morrow. Although she had not expected to sleep well, the feather bed that neither rocked nor lurched, the complete silence beyond the window and the good food and wine of the meal brought sleep almost immediately.
Downstairs in the comfortable salon where only the last shouts of the gondoliers broke the silence, Venetia and Paul sat with their hosts, laughingly apologising for the invasion, but happy to be here, at last. As Pietro and Angela Cappello had suspected, however, the surprise visit had a hidden agenda which, out of politeness, they deserved to know.
‘We didn’t want to discuss it over our meal,’ Venetia said. ‘We’ve had over five weeks to talk about the whys and wherefores, and although Aphra is keen to know what Dr Ben was up to, it’s Paul who really needs to know more about his brother. This business has really begun to concern him, since they told us what they’d found.’
‘Your brother,’ said Angela, taking her husband’s knobbly hand in hers, ‘came to stay with us some years ago, didn’t he? He’s the one who dashed in and out as if we were an inn for travellers. We saw very little of him, really.’
‘Very clever man,’ said Pietro, nodding sagely. ‘What’s the problem?’
So in the soft evening light that washed pink ripples over the wooden shutters, they sat together to hear the story that neither of Venetia’s parents had known, about Aphra’s connection with the younger Datini, Dr Ben’s death, Santo Datini’s visit, their own visit to Sandrock, the lecture notes and what they had discovered that was puzzling them.
The death of Dr Ben saddened them, prompting Pietro to recall how, on one rare evening of conversation just before Ben’s departure, they had shown him a set of Murano drinking glasses because he had been telling them how he was making a collection of rare objects. ‘He told us it was a pastime of his,’ said Angela, ‘and how he regretted he’d not had time to visit Murano. His ship was to depart the next day.’
‘Yes, we thought that was a sad omission,’ said Pietro, ‘so on the spur of the moment, we gave our set to him. He protested, of course, but he accepted them.’
‘He was overjoyed,’ said Angela. ‘Shed tears of gratitude, I remember, as if his life depended on owning them. We were glad to have parted with them to such a brilliant man. I’m so sorry he’s gone.’
‘So he didn’t pay you for them?’ said Venetia.
‘Oh, no, dear. Certainly not. They’d been given to us as a wedding present by Pietro’s old aunt, so we hadn’t paid for them either. We rarely used them. Didn’t care for them much. Too ostentatious. Nor did we bother to replace them. Not at our time of life. We had them packed up in wool and they went off with his luggage.’
‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘only a few weeks ago, Venetia and I drank from them at Sandrock Priory.’
‘The same set? Are you sure?’ said Pietro.
‘Positive. Santo Datini was there, too. He said they’d come from his father’s glass factory on Murano. Told us how they were made, but no one knew how they’d got to Sandrock.’
‘The world is getting smaller these days,’ Pietro said, wistfully. ‘We knew he was your brother-in-law, Venetia dear, which is why we were happy to receive him, but not for a moment did we think the glasses would be so significant to his collection. What did you call this obsession with the number three, Paul?’
‘The Ritual of Three, Aphra called it,’ Paul replied. ‘Don’t ask me what it’s all about. We shall be hoping for some answers tomorrow, if the Datini family will co-operate with us.’
‘I shall see you travel safely, then,’ said Pietro, smiling, ‘and in some style.’
* * *
Word had come, said Pietro Cappello on the next morning, that Signor Datini would be happy to see them. Happy, that is, in the polite sense, for the wording of the letter had a slightly defensive ring to it. Signor Datini could not guess the reason for their visit unless, perhaps, it was to clarify the situation after his younger son’s previous unfortunate relationship with Sir George’s daughter. If this was so, he would be happy to explain the matter further.
‘I would have thought,’ said Sir George as they sat at breakfast, ‘that Santo had already made our feelings known about that. It is not something we need to discuss further. Now, my child,’ he said to Aphra in his fatherly tone, ‘will you have a little of this, whatever it is?’
‘It’s butter, Father,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
The restful night had helped to calm her nerves, as had her first warm bath for weeks. Tilda had made ready one of her most attractive dresses, pale gold brocade with long slashed sleeves that showed the white linen undergown at elbow, arm and frilled wrist. Over this she wore a long sleeveless gown of pink velvet that hung straight to the floor, a more comfortable style, she thought, than the profusion of bones and wires she was used to. Her hair had been parted in the centre, then coiled up to fit snugly to her head at the sides and back, Tilda having been instructed by Angela’s maid. Her only adornment was a pair of long gold and topaz earrings that set off the honeyed tones of her skin. Subconsciously, she hoped to make a good impression on the Datini parents by her sophisticated appearance whilst at the same time showing Santo something other than the working dress he had seen so often.
Etta had chosen a similar style in blue, while Aunt Venetia’s blonde maturity was enhanced by a silken grey-violet, but now all three had left off those stiff black-velvet hoods that hid their hair. Showing off their enviable fairness, they attracted more than the usual attention as they were taken along the Grand Canal and across to the mainland in Signor Cappello’s impressively fine gondola worked by two uniformed gondoliers. From this point, the River Brenta had been converted into a canal that continued all the way to Padua, a distance of some twenty-two miles through summer landscapes, under bridges and past the fine villas of wealthy Venetians. Heads turned this way and that as Aunt Venetia pointed out the sights, the gardens, the towns and palaces with their elegant boats.
Sir George kindly took Aphra’s hand upon his lap, sensing her anxiety. ‘If Master Leon is at home,’ he said for her ears only, ‘don’t let it concern you, love. And don’t let your hurt show. What’s done is done. We’ll not find out what we need to know about Ben and his necromancy unless we can talk as friends.’
‘Is that what you believe, Father? That Ben was practising magic?’
‘This Elixir of Life theory,’ he said, ‘sounds likely, but how well your findings tie in with magic, only Leon will be able to pass an opinion. After his experience with Ben, he’ll soon be in line for some teaching post at the university, I don’t doubt.’
‘You may well be right, Father,’ she said. She had purposely not told him that Santo had been sent to collect his brother’s research notes, but Nic had unwittingly parted with the information while they were at sea, causing Sir George to show a certain indignation that he and Lady Betterton had been misled about the reason for Santo’s visit, which they had thought was merely to enquire about Aphra’s welfare. Fortunately, Nic had been able to see both sides, pointing out to Sir George that neither Santo nor Leon had known about Dr Ben’s death when he set out for England, so had not expected his niece to be at Sandrock, making the success
of his visit so much more complicated. He could quite see, of course, why Leon would need his notes rather urgently, for such a bright scholar would have great ambitions. He could also see how the Datini family might, even now, be assuming that this visit was more to do with Aphra and Leon than with Dr Ben. Sir George and Lady Betterton’s occasional attendances at court had, however, kept their diplomatic skills well exercised, though Sir George knew that his daughter would need all her courage, too.
* * *
At this time of the morning, the perfect geometry of the gardens at the Villa Datini was empty of all except the two brothers who strolled along the gravel pathways, stopping and starting, deep in discussion. Or was it an argument? ‘I’ve told you,’ the elder brother was saying, ‘I know no more than you do, Leo. This is a complete surprise to me, too.’
Leon pulled his long dark gown away from the low-growing edge of the plot. His dress marked him as a student, as did the high collar and small round beret capping his dark hair, though none of the usual epithets flung at ‘scruffy students’ ever applied to him. ‘Did Mistress Betterton give you no indication that she might come? None at all?’ he said.
‘No. None at all. But it looks to me as if the cousin and her husband who arrived just before I left may have persuaded her to follow it up.’ It was a slip of the tongue that he instantly regretted.
‘Follow what up?’
Santo’s dark eyes narrowed, searching the extensive garden for a reason. Leon had stopped, challenging him to explain what he would rather not. ‘Your decision,’ Santo said, lamely, knowing Leon’s keen mind was unlikely to be fooled by that.
‘Wait a moment,’ Leon said, laying his long fingers over Santo’s sleeve. ‘There’s something here you’re not telling me, isn’t there? You’ve been home three days, Sant, and in that time all you’ve said about her is that she’s now living at the priory, hoping to continue growing the herbs. Not once have you mentioned her state of mind, her beauty, her gentle character...nothing! Were you so unimpressed by such a lovely creature, or is it that you’re hiding something from me? From us all?’
The Mistress and the Merchant Page 17
