‘No, of course not. I was impressed. Of course I was. Who wouldn’t be?’
‘So what happened?’
‘Look... Leo... I’ve done what you wanted. I’ve got your notes back. Now leave it!’
‘No, I won’t leave it! You got the notes, but you didn’t say how. Well, now we’re alone you can tell me. Tell me, Sant. Did you threaten her? Seduce her?’ He stopped and gasped, open-mouthed. ‘My God! You did! You did, didn’t you, you bastard! Did you think that was the only way to get what you wanted?’ He let out a roar, almost incoherent with rage. ‘She was mine!’ Grabbing at the two edges of his brother’s jerkin, he pulled at him, then with a mighty shove pushed him away, ready to swing a clumsy fist.
But Santo was faster and more powerful. To stop his brother’s rage, he swung first, landing a hard thud on Leon’s cheek that knocked him backwards over the low hedge and into a bed of spiky lavender. The sight of his younger brother lying in a bed of flattened lavender with a hand over his face, too distressed to retaliate, almost broke his heart.
How could he ever tell him how it had been at Sandrock, that he’d had no need to seduce this beautiful, tender, passionately angry woman, that she had offered herself without reservation, and that he had taken her gift as her farewell, neither of them able to predict their future, either together or apart. To give Leon the facts without any of the details would do neither of them any favours for, to his ears, it would sound quite out of character and loveless. And that word, love, was the one neither could be sure of in the other and Leon had lost out for good.
Stepping into the lavender behind Leon, Santo heaved him to his feet, almost lifting him on to the path. ‘Come on, Brother. This won’t do. Let me look.’ Tenderly, he pressed his handkerchief, meant only for show, on to Leon’s damaged face and held it there with his other hand behind his head.
‘My beret,’ Leon mumbled.
‘I’ll get it. Hold that. There, you’ll be all right.’
‘I shall not be all right. You bastard, Sant. You had no need to take her—’
‘Shut up! It wasn’t like that. It had nothing to do with the notes.’
‘But she let you have them. You didn’t tell her about Bianca and me?’
‘No. She didn’t want to discuss you. Wouldn’t hear your name.’
‘Thank you for that,’ Leon mumbled into the kerchief. ‘So why is she coming all this way, then? To see...oh...no! She cannot be! No...no!’ His eyes were darkly furious and wild. With one of them rapidly closing up, he glared at Santo.
‘No, it can’t be that,’ said Santo. ‘There’s not enough time elapsed since...’
‘Since what? Since you bedded her? How many times? Did you—’
‘Shut up, Leo! I’ve told you, it was not like that.’
‘So what was it like? I never took her that far. I had too much respect for her. You’ve always had it too easy, Sant. Did you promise her marriage, too?’
‘No. I didn’t promise her anything.’
‘Oh, well done!’
‘It was not well done, Leo. And please don’t tell Father about this.’
Leon examined the kerchief, then touched his eyelid gingerly. ‘I can’t go to class looking like this,’ he said. ‘As for not telling Father, it sounds as if neither of us will need to, if that’s the reason she’s coming.’
‘I don’t believe it is the reason. I don’t believe she’s coming to see either of us, actually.’
‘What? Why not? Why else would she come with all the rest of them to back her up?’
‘It’s more likely to do with Dr Ben. I think he’s the only reason she’d come all this way. Not for you. Not for me. But for Dr Ben Spenney, who left her the priory in his will.’
Leon stared at him through one eye, his other now completely closed and puffy. His red nose, his finely chiselled features and tanned skin turning blotchy after their ill usage added more disturbance to the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Santo had been shocked to see how the laughter had disappeared from them since his return to Italy. This impending visit would do nothing to ease the burden weighing on Leon’s heart and now he himself wished that Aphra had not taken this decision at this particular time to compound Leon’s troubles. It could not possibly help matters. What was more, he did not agree with Leon’s fears that he might have made her pregnant. It was much too soon to know that.
Placing an arm around Leon’s shoulders, he drew him along the path towards the vine-covered allée where a wooden bench ran through the centre to the far end. ‘Come and sit a while,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you why I think so.’ But whatever it was that Santo wished to reveal, if only to clarify his own thoughts, was not said after all, for as soon as Leon sat, his body and his head fell forward into his hands. ‘Don’t,’ Santo whispered. ‘Oh...don’t...please!’ His hand stroked tenderly over his brother’s back, feeling the shaking sobs while the deep muffled roars of despair mingled with the mocking laughter of tinkling water in a nearby fountain.
* * *
None of the occupants of the large gondola had quite appreciated how long the journey to Padua might take, nor had the elder Cappello remembered to warn them. The gondoliers expected to rest. Stops were required for refreshment. There were delays through the waterside towns of Oriago and Dolo, as well as sightseers at the huge villas that lined the canal. And so, by the time they had reached the outskirts of the university town and the last of the grand mansions, Villa Datini, it was well into the afternoon with some voiced concerns about a return in daylight.
Sir George was not one of them. ‘There will be plenty of places to stay in Padua,’ he said, ‘if the Datini family don’t offer us hospitality.’
The villa could be seen from the stone steps leading up to an imposing arch from which steps led to a veranda overlooking a perfect pattern of plots. Vases, statues, fountains and seats punctuated the design beyond which the main building was set against a background of colonnades, bushes, trees and hills that brought the countryside right to the edge of the garden. A wide stream of water rushed along one side to fall like a fold of satin into the canal, while on the other side stood a raised summerhouse with open sides from which a couple descended to greet them, unsmiling, but eager.
To Flora’s disappointment, they spoke in perfect English, introducing themselves as Lorenzo and Juna Datini, parents of Santo and Leon whose good looks could now be understood more easily in the light of this handsome pair. Stately, broad-shouldered and square-jawed with a head of thick white hair, Lorenzo Datini would be the exact model, Aphra thought, for his eldest son, whereas Leon favoured his mother’s light frame and gentle features. Like Aunt Venetia, Juna Datini wore her years graciously, her silvered dark hair drawn back into a net of gold, her brocade gown the colour of new grass. Looking into her eyes was like looking into Leon’s before he and Aphra had parted, though now they held a reserve and some caution.
As the senior member of the party, Sir George performed the introductions, beginning with Baron and Lady Somerville, whose titles usually lent some gravitas to any performance. Aunt Venetia saw no harm in pointing out the Cappello connection, a family of whom they were aware, and her husband, Paul D’Arvall, who was the elder brother of the late Dr Ben Spenney, their younger son’s tutor and mentor in England. This caused a long studied perusal as if to find something in Paul of the brother they’d heard so much about.
Finally, it was Aphra’s turn to be scrutinised, an ordeal for which she had been preparing all the weeks of her voyage, for now the Datini parents would be able to see, at last, the woman they had forbidden their son to return to. And although she had now accepted the reasons for this, there was still a tender wound on the surface of her heart that resented the enforcement that had affected her so deeply at the time. So it disturbed her very little if they still believed she had not recovered from it, though it would have helped her to know if Santo had t
old them anything about the relationship he and she had formed. On the other hand, she had told herself repeatedly, if he had said nothing about this, that would surely indicate that the woman who had travelled with him was already one of the family and not to be informed of Santo’s romantic capers while on his brother’s business.
As if she had needed the advice, Sir George had suggested to her that it would be best to allow the Datini elders to bring up the subject of Dr Ben in their own time, which would be the perfect opening, he said, for her to say why they had requested a meeting. Since this would have to include Leon, Aphra hoped that, by the time he appeared, his parents might have warmed to her by a few degrees, or at least lowered the guarded looks they gave her as she rose from her curtsy.
Their heads bowed in response. ‘Mistress Betterton,’ they said.
‘Signor. Signora. Thank you for receiving us.’ She felt their eyes picking over every detail of her dress and silently thanked Aunt Venetia and Etta for their guidance.
Indicating the elevated summerhouse, Signora Datini led them up the stone staircase into the open room where, above them, a richly painted ceiling showed a hunting scene. In the centre of the room was a table covered with white linen and an array of cold foods, the covers of which were being whisked off by servants as they entered. Seated in strict order of precedence, Aphra found herself placed between her father and Etta, midway between her hosts at each end, and for some time as the sumptuous meal got under way, the conversation concerned their voyage, their well-being and the Cappello connection. All very neutral in content.
Flora yawned and was nudged by her mother until Signora Juna noticed Grace, and was instantly taken by her. From then on, Flora was given the chance to try out more Italian words and it was she who unwittingly became the catalyst that kept the innocuous conversation flowing, feeding their hosts with information, including the fact that her Cousin Aphra was now the new mistress of Sandrock Priory, once owned by their dear departed Dr Ben. At which Venetia laid a hand on Flora’s arm with, ‘That’s enough now, Flora. Eat your peach.’
Signor Lorenzo was the first to recover from the surprise. ‘We were not aware that you are now the new owner of the priory, Mistress Betterton,’ he said. ‘We assumed you simply lived there. Of course, we heard of the sad death of your uncle...your brother,’ he said, turning to Paul. ‘Please accept our condolences. He was much revered here by the university scholars and tutors. A great loss.’
‘Indeed, signor. He is a great loss to us, too,’ Paul replied.
‘May I ask the circumstances, sir? Or is it too painful still?’
Paul dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. ‘My brother was staying with our family in London at the time,’ he said. ‘It came as a shock to us.’
Glancing round the table, Signora Juna took advantage of the lull. ‘Shall we adjourn into the house?’ she said to her husband. ‘We can sit there in comfort without being plagued by midges all evening. That’s one of the pests we have to endure when we live so close to the water.’ She smiled at her guests and led the way, taking Flora by the hand and speaking to her in Italian, slowly, to her delight.
A double outside stairway reached over the ground-floor offices up to the grand salon, shining and glittering with glass, cool marble floors, brass chandeliers and painted wood, tapestries and swags of velvet, tiles and marble busts of ancient Greeks and Romans, small tables and cushioned cross-legged chairs and stout chests. Aphra compared this elegant luxury with her own medieval priory, its small rooms and little windows of green glass, and wondered if Santo and Leon had been amused by the difference. Even their gardens were spotlessly clean and clipped.
Signor Datini was intent on resuming the earlier topic of conversation while Aphra wondered at what stage the brothers might appear and why they had not done so already. ‘You say your brother’s death came as a shock, Master Paul. By which you mean it was unexpected?’
‘Totally unexpected,’ Paul said, taking an upright wooden chair next to Venetia.
‘Perhaps,’ said Nic, ‘this might be a good time to explain to Signor and Signora Datini that Dr Ben is the purpose of our visit.’ He spoke with quiet authority.
Lowering his head a little, rather like a doubting magistrate, Lorenzo Datini peered at his lordship, then at Paul, then at Sir George, all of whom stared respectfully back at him while taking note of his frown. ‘The purpose?’ he said. ‘I had assumed that Mistress Betterton had come to take issue with our youngest son, or perhaps to seek some recompense for...well...’ Whether he meant it or not, his eyes flickered over her torso, as if he had missed something.
‘Signor Datini,’ said Aphra, interrupting him, ‘I can see that your eldest son has not yet talked with you about his visit to Sandrock. If he had, I am sure you would have known by now that there is nothing further from my mind at the moment than taking issue with anyone in your family, not for any reason at all, nor would I have wished to trouble you with a request for some help in the matter of my beloved uncle’s untimely death if there had been any other way for us to discover what went wrong during his stay in London.’ It was a very long sentence after her previous silence, so she made it last, speaking slowly and clearly.
Then she took advantage of their rapt attention to continue. ‘Unfortunately, there is only one person who may be able to help us, who may possibly know more than we do about the research Dr Ben was working on when he met his death. It was generally believed that he was investigating the problems of insomnia and pain relief. Indeed, this is what he was going to lecture on at the Apothecaries’ Hall the next day, but I have found cause to believe that his research was veering in very strange directions which none of us can find an explanation for. The notes he was apparently going to use were those your son left behind for that very purpose. Yes, they were good enough for Dr Ben to use for his lecture. Master Leon’s own notes. Naturally, he wished to have them back to continue his studies and obtain his final degree, and this I agreed to. What we now need to know is whether your son can tell us anything about Dr Ben’s research that might put our concerns to rest, one way or the other. We are not convinced, you see, that Dr Ben’s so-called heart problem was the cause of his death.’
‘So called?’ said Signor Datini. ‘Whose diagnosis was this?’
‘It was his own,’ said Paul. ‘As a medical man, he recognised the symptoms. The officials decided there was no need for an inquest, since my brother had informed me of his suspicions. He even discussed his will with me. It was only later when my niece began to examine his belongings at Sandrock that she began to suspect that the talk of a heart problem might be a cover for something more sinister. Especially as my brother had never spoken about his heart to anyone but me. We wondered if he might have mentioned it to your son when he was in England, since they had become close friends and colleagues, but we have no way of knowing this unless we are allowed to ask him, here, in Padua.’
If there was a note of censure in Paul’s last remark, the Datini parents did not take the bait. But now another Datini had joined the group, appearing silently from the shadows to lean on a marble pillar, his arms folded across his wide chest, his eyes gliding over the company, recognising them, stooping down to fondle Grace’s silky ears. She sniffed at his feet and trotted back to sleepy Flora.
His father glanced at him. ‘Join us,’ he said. ‘You know our guests, do you?’
Santo stepped forward into the room, his grey-velvet tunic catching the last pink rays of light from the sky. ‘Signor Padre. Signora Madre,’ he said, bowing respectfully to his parents. ‘Honoured guests. Welcome to Padua.’
‘Your mother and I have already done that, Santo. Where were you?’
Santo chose to ignore the reprimand. ‘My brother sends his regrets,’ he said. ‘He is not well, but will join you tomorrow. Do you stay in Padua overnight, Sir George?’
‘We shall find somewhere to stay ne
arby,’ Sir George said. ‘Our business is with Master Leon, so with your permission, signor, we shall hope to see him tomorrow.’
‘Then you must stay here with us,’ Santo’s mother said to Venetia. ‘Mistress Flora is almost asleep. It would be such a pity to disturb her. Follow me, signora. I have rooms always ready for guests.’
If Santo had been away from home when they arrived, Aphra thought, there would presumably have been an explanation for not coming immediately to greet her, to smile an assurance that all was well, that she had done the right thing in coming. But he had been here and decided not to join them, which was as clear an indication as she could ever need that he was not as eager to see her as she had been to see him.
A cold numbing fear swept across her heart, making her arms prickle, making the soft subdued colours of evening swirl madly before her, shapeless, like a grey fog. She felt sick. She wanted to run to him and beat at his chest, to make him take her in his arms and to soothe away those terrible memories of rejection she knew so well. Now they were with her again and, this time, she did not think she would recover, for this man had become part of her, once, and she was his for all time.
The arrangements to accommodate them, so kindly meant, passed over her head as she heard Santo’s father ask him where Leon was in a simple Italian she could understand. ‘I put him to bed,’ Santo replied.
‘Has he eaten?’
‘Just a little.’
‘And Bianca?’
‘Margaretta is with her. She’ll stay.’
Aphra pretended not to hear, but looked away, refusing to catch Santo’s eyes. So, this Margaretta. Was she the woman he’d brought back home on his galley? Would she be obliged to meet her? Had he made love to her, too? Had he held her under him and shown her those same visions of ecstasy he’d shown her, just once? Had those hands caressed and explored this woman, since that night at Sandrock? Did it mean so little to him, then? Had those endearments been learned by rote, used for years in other brief encounters? How she wished she had not come here, forcing herself into this ridiculous situation where she had to pretend that Ben’s tragedy was more important to her than seeing Santo again, hearing his voice, tasting his kisses.
The Mistress and the Merchant Page 18
