The Mistress And The Merchant. Juliet Landon

said Santo. ‘I hoped my presence might have helped.’

      ‘Yes, it’s not been an easy time for her. Normally, my lady wife and I would go to see her again tomorrow, but perhaps you should go instead.’

      ‘You think she’d be pleased to see me, sir?’

      ‘Now that, signor, is not a question even I can answer and I’ve known her for twenty-three years. Give it a try, eh?’

      ‘Certainly, sir. I’d be happy to give it a try.’

      Images of Mistress Aphra Betterton continued to percolate through the mind of Signor Datini as he rode in silence beside Sir George. Now he understood why his host had told him little of where and how she lived, obviously intending that he should be surprised by her new circumstances. Nor had he told him of his daughter’s beauty, although Leon had. Santo had thought at the time that his brother’s description was the usual exaggeration of a lover. Now he knew that it was not so and that no glowing description could have done justice to the damaged woman he’d met that morning, even wearing her oldest clothes, her hair undressed, and her lovely skin blotched with weeping.

      She had not wanted him there: that was understandable. A virago, Sir George called her, yet he was as quick to excuse her as a lovable woman, adored by her family. This he could well imagine while at the same time thinking that his brother had been ten times a fool for leading her on so, a maiden, totally innocent, and too naïve to ask of him the things she ought to have known about. She was too good a creature to be treated so.

      As they came within sight of Reedacre Manor, Santo looked forward to another evening with the Bettertons whose hospitality was faultless, especially towards one on whom they had little reason to look kindly. He had intended to make his way back to Italy once he had got what he came for, but she was angry and bitter, and progress would be slower than he’d anticipated. Perhaps he might be rather more welcome at Sandrock tomorrow than he had been today. Who could tell?

      * * *

      Aphra had not waved her father and his guest off that morning, for she had not been as reluctant as all that to see them go. Just when she was beginning to find calmer waters, those two had caused yet another storm she could well have done without. Having abandoned a perfectly good platter of bread, cheese and fruit because of her unresponsive taste-buds, she sought refuge in Ben’s extensive library where, until only recently, his students had studied and compiled their dissertations. For all she knew, Leon of Padua might have sat on the very stool she now used. Would there ever be a day in which she did not think of him and wonder why...why...why? Was his brother’s visit meant to find out about her family and her father’s royal appointment? Was it to find out more about her, to see if she meant to make demands on the Datini family, pretending a betrothal?

      And what of the elder brother? Was there an air of curiosity about his visit? She had noticed, even through her distress, how he had looked around at her new home, no doubt thinking that Dr Ben must have thought highly of her indeed to bequeath her such an amazing place. He would wonder, of course, who she grieved for most, his deceitful brother or her uncle. Since his silent assent on the subject of another woman, Aphra was now bound to admit that Leon had damaged her love for him beyond repair by leaving her without an explanation. What she felt more than the pain of love was the dark, destructive pain of rejection. She had given him her love, sure of his devotion, certain of his return, ready to wait until he qualified. Her cousin Etta had warned her about men who did that kind of thing, but she had laughed when she ought to have listened.

      * * *

      On the morning after Signor Datini’s visit, Aphra climbed the stairs to an upper floor over the great cellarium, an immensely long room set with tables where, until recently, Dr Ben’s young students had learned about the important medicinal properties of plants. The sweet aroma of dried herbs still hung in the air, although all signs of study had now been removed, the tables cleared, the benches stacked away, the tools, glasses, weighing scales and books stored neatly in the cupboards that covered one wall. The other long wall had windows that looked out on to the square cloister gardens below, where a gardener pointed in Aphra’s direction to a man she knew, but would rather have avoided.

      She waited for the thud of his feet on the stairs, for the cheery greeting that would be the start of an almost non-stop flow of inconsequential chatter that must, she thought, have contributed to his first wife’s early death after bearing only five children. That she herself was a prime candidate for the role of wife number two had been made clear after only their first meeting two weeks ago when he had introduced himself as ‘Sandrock’s most influential landowner’. She had not contradicted him by pointing out that the title ought by rights belong to her, though she was sure a man would have done.

      ‘Ah, Mistress Betterton,’ he cried from the top step. ‘Hiding away, eh?’

      ‘Good morn, Master Pearce,’ she said. ‘No, I have no need to hide on my own property.’ It was with a fleeting sense of disappointment that she greeted him, for he was nowhere near as good-looking as Leon’s elder brother, who had also rattled her usual good nature. ‘Do come in,’ she added, wondering if he would hear the sarcasm.

      Master Richard Pearce was, however, a talking man, not a listening one, and he smiled at the pseudo-welcome. ‘Thankee, my dear lady,’ he said, striding forward ready to claim a kiss, this time, it being the custom for ladies to offer lips instead of cheeks.

      But Aphra had not allowed it before, custom or not, nor would she allow it this time, so took a step backwards round a corner of the table. She didn’t like being called his dear lady, either, already resenting the hour to be squandered in this man’s presence while sharing with him the revered space that had been Ben’s.

      ‘Thought I’d look in on you,’ he said, looking around him as he lifted his cap, assessing the potential of a room this size while removing a roll of parchment from beneath his arm, ‘and get you to sign this, if you’d be so kind.’ Laying the roll upon the table, he pulled it out, looking for something to weight each corner. Seeing nothing suitable to hand, he walked over to the wall, removed four precious books from the shelf and slammed them down as if they were bricks instead of leather-bound herbals, written and illustrated by hand two centuries ago.

      It was during this insolent performance that Aphra saw, from the corner of one eye, the brown-velvet cap of Signor Datini rising slowly and quietly up the staircase until the whole of him stood just inside the room, shadowed by the wall. Immediately understanding the unwelcome presence of Master Pearce and Aphra’s impotent anger, he made no attempt to be seen by the self-important visitor, placing a finger to his lips to indicate his complicity. Having only a moment before wished that her neighbour had been Leon’s brother, however inconvenient his appearance, Aphra could not help but feel a certain relief that he was here, after all. ‘My signature?’ she said, craning her neck to see what the document was. ‘I would have to read it first.’

      ‘Oh, no need for that,’ said Master Pearce, sweeping his hand across the map. ‘Simply a formality, that’s all.’ Jabbing a finger at each part of the map as he spoke, he rattled off various points known to her. ‘Here’s you at the priory and this is the boundary of your land in Sandrock, see? All round here, from the old shire oak, to the stream where it crosses on to my land, to the east field over here, to the west...’

      ‘One moment, Master Pearce,’ Aphra said. ‘There is my mill. On my side of the stream. I believe the boundary is well beyond that, not as it’s shown here.’

      Master Pearce straightened to his full height and smiled patronisingly at Aphra. He was well dressed in a matching doublet and hose of sober charcoal-grey brocade that flattered a figure tending towards corpulence, his narrow ruff supporting several chins and ruddy cheeks bulging beneath a thick thatch of greying hair. Thirty years ago he would have been called handsome, though now his nose was red and fleshy, his eyes hooded by deep folds of loose skin. ‘This is the newest version,’ he said, still smiling. ‘There was a dispute last year... Dr Spenney and I agreed...it seemed sensible to make some adjustments, my dear.’

      ‘Sensible to whom?’ A deep voice spoke from the shadows.

      Master