by Stella Riley
‘Ah.’ His face creased and he waggled a gleeful finger. ‘So! Ze wind ’e is blowing zis way. I see it all! You find a young man.’
‘No. I do not find a young man.’
‘Si – si. Is natural. I congratulate ’im. ’Ow ’e is fortunate. But for me, is great pity. My ’eart, ’e is broken. And for you, Signorina, is also pity – maybe. Zese Englishmen are cold, you know? And for you, zis is waste. Maybe you look for nice Italian boy, no?’
‘No,’ said Kate, trying not to laugh. ‘Nor any boy at all, I thank you. I’m going to meet a young lady.’ And, seeing the plump face settle into lines of sympathetic disapproval, continued quickly, ‘Tell me – how is Toby progressing?’
‘Good,’ came the reply. ‘Gino say ’e think the signor will be surprised.’
‘That’s nice.’ She smiled blandly. ‘And when is the signor likely to return?’
Giacomo spread expressive hands.
‘’Oo can say? Maybe two weeks, maybe three. Every year ’e go and ’e come back but ’e don’t say when. Sometimes is short time, sometimes long.’
Kate filed this piece of information and tried to add to it.
‘No doubt he is visiting family?’
‘Is so,’ nodded Giacomo. And immediately changed the subject.
Walking thoughtfully down Cheapside a few minutes later, Kate reflected that – for a man who liked talking as much as Giacomo did – he could be remarkably unexpansive. It wasn’t the first time she had noticed it; it was, however, the first time she’d wondered why.
Kate met her new friend outside the Royal Exchange and found that her own lateness was not the only change to the morning’s plan. Mistress Venetia had brought her brother with her.
Kate wasn’t particularly surprised; and, catching the gleam in her maid’s eye, realised that Meg wasn’t either. The novelty of being sought after was one thing, she decided; but the expectations it raised in everyone else were quite another. She didn’t think she was ready for it. None of these thoughts were apparent though as she said lightly, ‘I’m sure we’ll find your advice invaluable, sir. But can you really have any interest in haberdashers and drapers?’
The grey eyes twinkled.
‘More, as I understand it, than you have.’
Meg turned a giggle into an unconvincing cough. Ignoring her, Kate said resignedly, ‘Francis has been telling tales.’
‘How did you guess?’ grinned Kit. And then, flicking a coin into Meg’s palm, ‘Go and buy yourself something pretty. And, if your mistress will permit us, we’ll see her safely home.’
Kate’s brows rose a little and then she decided that she could do without Meg following her about, jumping to conclusions. So she nodded her agreement, accompanied her friends into the colonnaded quadrangle of the Exchange and trod up the stairs to the hundred or so small shops that nestled above.
Mr Clifford followed the girls in and out of silk mercers and watched Kate stifling a yawn as Venetia debated the merits of various materials.
‘I’ll take the grey watered silk,’ said Venetia at length. ‘But you’re more difficult, Kate. I wonder if we shouldn’t try Bennett’s in Paternoster Row?’
‘Why?’ Kate gestured to the half-dozen shades of green spread on the trestle in front of her. ‘Any of these will do. Pick one.’
Venetia looked at her with mingled severity and frustration.
‘Kate. I’ll allow that clothes are not the only thing in life – but just occasionally one has to treat them as such. Like now. So will you please take an interest?’
‘I am. I’ve taken an interest in every one of the hundred or so bolts of cloth we’ve seen so far.’
‘And liked none of them,’ said Kit cheerfully. ‘Time I took a hand. Stand back, ladies, and let me see.’ Then, under the gaze of the bemused shop-keeper, he embarked on a lightning tour of the shelves, pausing every now and then as something caught his fancy.
Kate and Venetia watched with growing amusement as the trestle began to groan under the weight of his selection. Then, abandoning the shelves, he began unrolling great swathes of material and draping one after another about Kate, absorbing the effect of each one and progressing to the next with a speed that soon had her gasping with laughter. Finally, he brushed aside a tangled heap of silks and velvets as if they were of no account whatsoever and spread just three out for Kate’s inspection.
‘There. Take any or all of ’em.’
Kate looked. A supple, pale mint satin; glowing jade silk, shot with silver-grey; and a watered taffeta of the purest amber. Her eyes wandered consideringly from one to the other and then returned to Mr Clifford’s face. She said, ‘I don’t know whether I’m impressed or alarmed. Venetia?’
‘Both – but who cares? He’s right. They’re all perfect for you.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Kate. ‘That’s what I thought. So I suppose it behoves me to have them all.’
‘Extravagant girl.’ Kit shook his head reprovingly but his eyes teased her. ‘What is your mother going to say?’
‘Hallelujah?’ suggested Kate. And, with a sudden grin, ‘After which I imagine she’ll probably fall on your neck.’
* * *
In the event, Dorothy did neither and, although she made the Cliffords welcome and expressed pleasure over Kate’s purchases, her manner was uncharacteristically distracted. Unable, for the time being, to ask what was wrong, Kate waited until her friends took their leave and then said bluntly, ‘Something’s happened. What?’
Dorothy’s hands lay loose in her lap and she leaned her head back against the chair, closing her eyes. Finally she said tonelessly, ‘It rather appears that Eden is going to marry Celia Langley.’
Kate sat down with a bump.
‘Oh God,’ she said bitterly. ‘How can he be so stupid? Is it definite?’
‘Not yet – but it will be. Your father and Lord Wroxton have spent all the morning negotiating.’
‘Then it can still be stopped, can’t it? All Father has to do is be difficult.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Dorothy, opening her eyes, ‘it’s not that simple. You see, Eden’s already spoken to Celia and Gervase is treating it as a formal proposal. Besides which … Eden says he loves her. So for his sake, it seems we’ll have to put a brave face on it and welcome her into the family. All of us, Kate – including you. I know you don’t like her – but you’ll treat her as another sister and I as another daughter. And then, if she ever causes him a moment’s disillusionment or misery, I shall personally wring her exquisite neck.’
There was a long silence. Then, with artificial brightness, Kate said, ‘Well, I suppose it might have been worse. He could have picked a tight-lipped Puritan or a vulgar widow. And at least Amy will be pleased.’
* * *
May became June.
Formal contracts of betrothal were drawn up between Eden Maxwell and Celia Margaret Langley; Cardinal Richelieu released the Elector Palatine from prison; and the Barbary pirates carried off some sixty Cornish men and women from Penzance.
The King, meanwhile, continued to weaken the Channel guard in favour of preparing to make a second war on the Scots and arrested several gentlemen who refused to raise levies for the army. Of those levies already raised, many began to refuse orders from officers they deemed to be Papist and, in Dorset, a Catholic lieutenant was stoned to death by his recruits. Wild-fire rumours spread amongst troops assembled at the ports that they were destined, not for Scotland, but for slavery in Barbados – thus causing most of them to vanish overnight.
There were riots in Uttoxeter, Warwick, Oxford and Cambridge and, north of the border, the Estates declared that their government should henceforth be independent of both England and the King. His Majesty, however, remained calm and undismayed. He went hunting at Oatlands and worried less about the cauldron of discontent around him than about the Queen’s approaching confinement.
‘You’ll fight, of course?’ said Francis idly to Eden one afternoon towards the end of the month.
‘Fight?’ asked Eden vaguely.
‘The Scots, you bufflehead! Everything’s in good shape and the campaigning season is already with us – so all we’re waiting for is the arrival of the royal infant and then His Majesty will march north.’ Francis had been spending a good deal of time with Sir John Suckling and his small but splendidly equipped troop and was consequently beginning to see the projected war as a glorious excuse for panoply instead of the tedious and untidy business it had always seemed at Angers. ‘I daresay you’d get a lieutenancy at the very least.’
‘Possibly,’ came the placid reply. ‘But I shan’t go.’
‘What?’ Francis’s attention left the pair of buxom City wives he’d been ogling through the tavern window. ‘Not go? Oh – of course. I forgot. The wedding’s set for September, isn’t it? And damned inconvenient it’s likely to be. What’s the rush? You could quite easily put it off until the turn of the year.’
‘I don’t think Celia would like that,’ responded Eden. For a moment or two he contemplated telling Francis that, wedding or no wedding, he had no intention of fighting the Scots; then decided against it. ‘You think this war is actually going to happen, then?’
‘Well, considering that the Court and the Council have talked of nothing else for the last year or more --’
‘Yes. That’s just it. They’ve talked. But what else have they done? You can’t go to war merely on words, you know.’ He stopped, his gaze held, as Francis’s had been, by something on the other side of the glass. ‘Well, well. Toby will be pleased.’
Francis looked and then turned indifferently back to his wine.
‘So, I imagine, will the King. After all, what’s the point of forcing a loan from the richest merchants in the City without Crook-back Luke?’
Returning home a little later, Eden met Kate on the stairs. They’d had little to say to one another since his betrothal, each tacitly avoiding the potential confrontation. But now Eden said briefly, ‘Del Santi’s back.’
‘I know. Toby is currently busy haranguing Father.’
‘More fool him, then. It’s a crazy scheme at best – so I don’t see Father giving his consent to it.’
‘Why not?’ asked Kate astringently as she started to move on downwards. ‘It’s like murder. After the first time, it doesn’t seem so difficult.’
* * *
For two whole days, Kate kept away from Cheapside. Then, on the third morning, her curiosity got the better of her and, taking Meg with her, she accompanied Toby on his daily pilgrimage.
‘Has he decided yet whether or not he’ll take you?’ she asked.
‘No. I’ve hardly seen him,’ came the gruff reply. ‘He’s scarcely ever there and, when he’s in, he stays out of the workshop. I suppose he’s fussing round his stupid sister.’
‘What?’ Kate stared at him. ‘His sister?’
‘Yes.’ Toby looked irritably back at her. ‘He brought her back with him from Genoa – or so Gino says. I haven’t seen her. I think she’s sulking or something. At any rate, she does a lot of shouting and slamming doors when Mr Santi’s about.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so surprised. I told you about it, didn’t I?’
‘No. You didn’t.’
‘Oh. Well, perhaps it was Tab I told.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not important, anyway. All I want is for Mr Santi to say he’ll accept my indentures – because until he does that, Father won’t talk to him about it. And I’m fed up with waiting.’
‘You still want it that much, then?’
‘Yes. More, I think.’
He said nothing more and, busy with her own thoughts, Kate did not ask him to. She had wanted to see Luciano del Santi again because she was curious about the mysterious annual visits he apparently paid to Genoa. But the notion of his possessing a sister who had the temerity to shout at him was even better. She hoped she would be privileged to see it.
She was. Giacomo let them in with rather less than his usual bonhomie and looked at Kate and Meg as if he didn’t know what to do with them – while, clearly audible from above, came a flood of shrilly impassioned Italian, spasmodically punctuated by the sound of breaking glass. Kate thought of the expensive vessels in which, on her first visit, she’d been offered wine and smiled sympathetically at Giacomo.
‘A small domestic crisis, perhaps?’
‘Si,’ he said. And then, wincing at a particularly violent crash, ‘No. Is Signorina Gianetta. She scream, she shout, she break everysing in ze ’ouse. And what she not break in ze salon, ’er maid Maria break in ze kitchen. Is enough! I go mad!’
‘So long as she doesn’t break anything in the workshop,’ said Toby, single-mindedly. And he stalked off to check the matter out.
Kate was left looking at a decidedly frayed Giacomo. She knew it wasn’t fair to aggravate matters by staying but she couldn’t resist it. She said delicately, ‘No doubt the signorina is worn down by the journey and feeling a trifle homesick. Perhaps a visitor might help?’
Giacomo ran his hands through his hair and didn’t even pretend to be deceived.
‘You want to see ’er? You go ahead. The signor ’e will not like it but maybe you don’t care. Is up to you. Me, I am finish! The signor say she not ’it anyone if they stand still – but I don’t know is true.’
‘I’ll remember that you warned me,’ grinned Kate. ‘But I think Meg had better stay here with you.’ And she headed for the stairs.
She paused for a second outside the door, listening. Pandemonium reigned. Kate took the time to think up a suitable opening line and to marvel, briefly, at the power of the signorina’s lungs. Then she knocked gently and went in.
The effect was cataclysmic. Small, dark and dramatic, Gianetta del Santi paused on the backswing, clutching a vase of chased silver and her fierce cascade of words ceased as if cut by a knife. On the far side of the room, her brother stood with folded arms amidst the shambles of his parlour and regarded their visitor with less than his usual impassivity.
Kate opened her mouth to deliver her prepared speech and found herself forestalled.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Luciano del Santi. ‘Who let you in?’
‘Giacomo. He says he’s going mad.’
‘Clearly.’
Kate raised her brows and let her gaze wander over the litter of fallen missiles on the floor between them. She said, ‘I wanted to talk to you about Toby. I can’t help having come at a bad time.’
‘When else do you come? Why else do you come?’
‘Well, be reasonable,’ she grinned. ‘Why else would I?’
The dark-haired tempest set the vase abruptly back on the table and faced her brother, arms akimbo. She was younger than Kate had expected and, when not scowling, probably extremely pretty. But the most noticeable thing about her was the flamboyance of her crimson silk gown and the fact that she was quite simply loaded with jewels. Pearls, dislodged by her fury, slithered snake-like from the glossy black hair while others warred with the profusion of chains around her neck and the massive ruby brooch in the lace at her breast. An indiscriminate array of sapphire and emerald bracelets encircled both wrists and an ornate crucifix set with amethysts swung from a jewelled girdle at her waist. Kate blinked, lost in awed fascination.
‘Who is she?’ demanded the glittering vision, in Italian that even Kate could understand. ‘What does she want?’
‘Her name is Katharine Maxwell and I imagine she wants to know why you’re behaving like a candidate for the mad-house,’ replied Luciano del Santi coolly in English. Then, to Kate, ‘And this – as I’m sure you know – is my charming little sister, Gianetta del Santi.’
‘Falcieri!’ spat the girl, stamping her foot. ‘Falcieri!’
Kate searched her limited vocabulary and, failing to come up with a translation, decided that it was probably a curse. Certainly, the signorina made it sound like one – and her brother’s swift, razor-edged, ‘No!’ seemed to confirm it. He added something in infuriatingly unintelligible Itali
an and then, switching back to English, said, ‘And unless you want to spend your life speaking only to myself, Giacomo or Gino, I suggest you start remembering your English.’
Gianetta’s reply was to sweep the silver vase violently from the table and utter a single word filled with loathing and refusal. Then she sailed across the room, brushed Kate unceremoniously aside and went out slamming the door behind her.
Kate met Luciano del Santi’s eyes and felt suddenly uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. Mother’s always saying it’s time I learned a little diplomacy. But I didn’t realise things were quite so difficult. I only hope I haven’t made them worse.’
He gave the slightest of shrugs and crossed to the hearth, splinters of broken glass crunching beneath his feet.
‘No. You couldn’t.’
His tone was flat and held an almost imperceptible note of bitterness.
Kate said slowly, ‘Is she always like that?’
‘Now and with me – yes.’
‘Why?’
He gave a short, unmusical laugh.
‘Because she doesn’t want to be here. Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Then why did you bring her?’
‘Christ!’ Control finally cracking, he kicked a cushion savagely back towards the settle whence it had come. ‘All right. I brought her back with me because I thought it was time she remembered who she is and stopped languishing over a boy who – however charming – is soft, weak-willed and her first cousin twice over. Satisfied? Or would you like me to turn out my pockets whilst supplying a complete family history?’
Kate flushed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you said. It’s becoming monotonous.’
‘I just thought I might be able to help.’
‘Well you can’t,’ came the uncompromising reply. ‘And neither can I imagine why you should want to.’
His voice, though still slightly abrasive, had lost the razor edge of a minute ago and it was this that emboldened Kate to say irritably, ‘Must you be so prickly? Why shouldn’t I want to help?’
He considered her in silence for a few moments and then said, ‘Do you really need me to tell you that? Or have you forgotten that you invited yourself into this room for no better reason than that you hoped for a little free entertainment?’