The Mistress and the Merchant

by Juliet Landon

  Hugging her woollen shawl around her shoulders, she gave in to those thoughts that had not been allowed an entry in the daylight. Now she understood how foolish she had been in accepting Leon’s plans for their future before any formal agreement was in place, yet at the time his passion had lost nothing by the irresponsibility of it. She had been cool, at first, while he had visited her ailing grandmother as she was nursing her. There had been more to concern her than the good looks and charming manner of the young man sent by Dr Ben from Sandrock and it was only when he accompanied her and her cousin Etta, now Lady Somerville, to London that she discovered how much they had in common and how easy he was to talk to.

  Gradually, over several weeks, their friendship had deepened and, in an unprepared moment of closeness, they had declared a love for each other that had crept up on them almost unawares. She had trusted him completely. In her happy eagerness, she had allowed him a few innocent intimacies as a natural expression of her generosity and, it had to be said, her curiosity, too. They had talked of a future together while riding high on waves of desire, which Aphra now realised must have been Leon’s way of securing both her interest and her loyalty. He would be back in the new year, he told her, to continue his work with Dr Ben, the details of how they would live being lost in a haze of sweet love-talk and affirmations of fidelity.

  At the time, it had not occurred to her to press him, a student, for more than vague promises and even now she could scarcely believe how easily she had been deceived. For his elder brother to say that he still loved her was nonsense when he had made legal promises to another woman. Perhaps Signor Datini had said it hoping to soothe her wounded pride but, if so, it had no such effect. She wanted no more to do with the Datinis.

  Of more pressing interest to her was to discover what she could about the manner of Ben’s sudden death and the question of his prepared will. A man did not usually make a will until he knew his days were limited. Only then did he decide who would make best use of his belongings. Did this mean that Ben had anticipated his own death? And if so, then why? From what cause? And why had he told no one?

  The moon had sailed on well past the window by the time Aphra found sleep at last.

  * * *

  Scarcely had she spooned the last of her porridge into her mouth when she was visited by the priest, Father Vickery, who had been a novice at Sandrock Priory with the late Dr Ben Spenney and whose long, lean frame signified a lifetime of austerity. His thick white eyebrows were almost hidden by a fringe of hair, the tonsure being a thing of the past. His voice, now several shades darker, was still musical.

  ‘Father,’ Aphra said, indicating a stool, ‘what a pleasant surprise. Will you be seated?’

  His grey woollen habit, now threadbare, could not hide bony knees poking into the fabric as he sat. ‘Good morning, Mistress Betterton. I would not disturb you at this hour except for a matter of some importance,’ he said, accepting with a smile the beaker of ale. ‘It concerns our steward, Master Fletcher.’

  ‘Ah,’ Aphra said. ‘What a coincidence. He’s at the top of my list of people to see today.’

  The priest was already shaking his head. ‘You’ll not be seeing him today nor any other day,’ he said. ‘I’ve just seen the back of him riding away on one of your horses, leading a packhorse behind him with all his possessions on it. And some of yours, too, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  Aphra stood up, frowning in anger. ‘How long ago was this, Father?’

  ‘Just a few moments ago. I called to him, but he clapped his heels to the horse’s belly and trotted away as fast as he could go. It was no good me running after him. Not with my knees.’

  ‘Indeed not, but somebody should. I could go after him myself, in fact.’

  ‘Nay, mistress. Best to let him go. We need a better man than him.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ Aphra said, peering through the window. ‘If he’s taken anything of mine, I want it back. And I want to know what he’s done with the household accounts. They’re private, Father.’ She headed for the door. ‘Perhaps you’d care to come with me? On horseback, of course.’

  Father Vickery winced as he rose to his feet and gulped down the rest of the ale. ‘Gladly,’ he said, stretching the truth a little.

  His willingness, however, was not put to the test for, as they walked into the cobbled courtyard together, the multiple clatter of hooves reached them from the arched gatehouse where a party of riders appeared led by Signor Datini. Behind him, flanked by two mounted men, rode Master Fletcher with hands bound behind him, followed by two packhorses led by a groom. Looking back on this incident, Aphra could never find adequate words to describe her emotions, especially when her expectations of seeing both Signor Datini and Master Fletcher ever again were nil. Not on that day or any other. Fortunately, it was Father Vickery who found suitable words of welcome, even though he and Santo had not met, until now.

  ‘Well...well,’ he said. ‘Welcome back, Master Fletcher. Word gets round rather quickly in a village of this size, doesn’t it? Well caught, sir,’ he called to Santo. ‘You see what a difference your presence can make? More difference than Ben’s, I’d say,’ he added under his breath. ‘So this is your Italian lawyer, mistress?’ he said to Aphra.

  ‘He’s not...’ Aphra stopped herself. If word of an Italian lawyer had leaked out with the help of Richard Pearce, then why bother to refute it if this was what good it might do? So instead of arguing with him about being here when she’d sent him packing only yesterday, she introduced him to the priest as if everything the latter had said was true.

  ‘You’ll be staying with us for a while, signor?’ said Father Vickery.

  ‘Until Mistress Betterton has no more use for me, Father,’ Santo said as if his invitation had never been in doubt. ‘I took the liberty of changing the direction of our friend here, until we’d had a chance to check on what he’s removed. He insists that everything here belongs to him, but I believe he didn’t include the horses. They are yours, mistress?’ His eyes twinkled mischievously as he saw how she tried to hide her embarrassment and he knew she was not finding the situation easy to accept.

  ‘Master Fletcher knows they are. I am sorry to find he’s a thief, as well as an inefficient steward, but I did not expect him to leave without any kind of explanation. Did you take my ledgers with you?’ she asked him.

  Stumbling down from the saddle, Fletcher stood uneasily with bound hands and the beginning of an angry bruise on his cheek, his expression loaded with guilt. ‘No, mistress,’ he said. ‘I left them in the cottage there.’ His nod indicated the neat little house built into the corner of the courtyard where the stewards of Sandrock had always combined home and office. Stewards were usually educated men with a good grasp of accounting and management skills, though Master Fletcher and his new employer had met only a few times, briefly, and now Aphra blamed herself for not attending to that side of things before it had come to this.

  ‘He’d better be locked in the cellar until we can notify the magistrate,’ Santo said, looking around him. ‘Is that the door, over there?’

  ‘No, wait!’ Aphra said. ‘Master Fletcher and I need to talk about this first. Untie him, take the horses back to the stable and unpack those bags.’

  ‘One of them is mine,’ Santo reminded her.

  ‘I know that, signor. Have it unpacked. Bring Master Fletcher into the house, if you will. You are welcome to come, too, Father. You know the steward’s duties as well as I do. And have the ledgers brought in here. We need to see what’s been going on.’

  ‘Nay, mistress...please!’ Fletcher pleaded, rubbing his wrists. ‘You’ll not like what you see. Give me time...’

  Aphra turned away to the house. ‘I shall not like anything at all until I’ve seen them, shall I? At least I’m giving you the chance to explain yourself instead of running away from the problem. Come in here. Sit down. Have you eaten today?�
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  ‘By the smell of him,’ Santo said, ‘he’s already helped himself to your wine. You’re surely not going to feed him, mistress?’ Protectively, he placed himself between her and the steward.

  ‘When he’s answered some of my questions, yes. A half-starved steward will be no good to me, will he? Is there not a Mistress Fletcher somewhere?’

  Fletcher passed a hand over his eyes, pulling his features downwards in one heavy sweep. He was not an unhandsome man, though he was unkempt and showing signs of strain brought on by some deep unhappiness. ‘No,’ he whispered, glancing at the priest. ‘Father Vickery knows...she...’ His voice broke as his features screwed up in pain.

  ‘Last year,’ said the priest, quietly. ‘Died in childbirth. She and the babe. Their first. Only been married two years. Buried here, in the churchyard.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ Aphra said. ‘Accept my sympathies, Master Fletcher. I take it that’s when you forgot to keep the accounts, is it? Since then?’

  Fascinated, Santo watched as she took control of the situation, sending for porridge, bread, cheese and milk for the man who had just tried to make off with her belongings from the cottage after cheating his way through years of work poorly supervised by her predecessor, Dr Ben. No wonder the thought of an Italian lawyer on the premises had been the last straw. He thought what a remarkable woman she was, more concerned for the man’s genuine distress than for her own inconvenience. He watched the man begin to eat, his table manners perfectly acceptable, although the absence of a wife had clearly had an effect on his personal hygiene. Santo drew Aphra away to one side, leaving the priest and the steward to talk. ‘What do you intend?’ he said. ‘To keep him on? It’s a risk, you know. As your new Italian lawyer, I ought to advise you against it. He was taking your property.’

  ‘As my new Italian lawyer,’ she said with a sideways glare, ‘you lack compassion, signor. As a merchant, you could oblige me by justifying your decision to ignore my request to go away and by going through the accounts with him and Father Vickery. He knows what ought to be included in them, so between the three of you, you should be able to come up with some results. If he has nothing to look forward to, he has no reason to co-operate, does he? If we put him back...’

  ‘You’re going to give him another chance?’

  ‘Of course I am. It’s obviously the loss of his wife and child that’s caused the problem and, anyway, where am I going to get another steward who knows as much about the place as he does? They don’t come two-a-penny, you know.’

  The handsome face widened into a smile, making her heart flutter. ‘I like that. Two for a penny. That means, not easy to find. Yes?’

  ‘Yes. Unlike some Italian merchants who cannot take no for an answer.’

  The smile stayed. ‘I did not think you really meant it, mistress.’

  ‘I did really mean it,’ she growled, returning to the table. ‘But now you’re here, you may as well make yourself useful.’

  * * *

  So for the rest of that morning and well into the afternoon, Santo and Father Vickery sat with the steward with the ledgers spread out before them while they ate, drank good ale and tried to rectify the housekeeping mess. After seeing a similar kind of disorder in the steward’s cottage, Aphra got three women from the village to scrub the place out, to wash the stale bedlinen and clothes, and to replace them with some that had been used by Dr Ben’s students. The few items of furniture were polished and supplemented by others, the little cot removed, food placed in the kitchen, oil in the lamps, firewood in the hearth, and a widow found to housekeep and cook for him who needed just this kind of employment to put money into her purse. Aphra’s money.

  To his credit, Father Vickery offered to double-check the accounts with Fletcher before submitting them to Aphra each week, which they all understood to be both a help and a safeguard against any back-sliding. Unintentional the deceptions might have been, but Aphra could not afford to turn a blind eye to mismanagement, as Dr Ben had apparently been doing.

  * * *

  ‘I think,’ said Santo, sitting down to supper in Aphra’s comfortable parlour, ‘your uncle was more interested in his medicinal studies than in household management.’

  ‘And I,’ said Aphra, arranging her skirts as she sat opposite him, ‘failed to deal with that side of things as soon as I came to live here. Have we lost a lot?’

  He liked the sound of the ‘we’ in her question. ‘That’s difficult to tell now,’ he replied, ‘but the purchases and sales have not all been recorded properly so it’s quite likely that your uncle has been cheated over the year. That will have to stop. Perhaps it’s a good thing that word is getting round about your lawyer being here to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘That,’ said Aphra, primly, eyeing the dishes being placed on the table, ‘is something I must discuss with you. As you say, word is getting around, and that’s what I don’t want. That’s why you should go back to Italy, signor.’

  ‘But now you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘I have not changed my mind. I would not want you to return to Reedacre Manor in the dark, but you cannot stay more than one night. You and your men can use the rooms across there.’ She pointed through the window to the stone-built dwelling across on the other side of the square garden. ‘It was once the visiting abbots’ house. Plenty of space on both floors. I’ve given a man the task of looking after your needs. And tomorrow, you must leave Sandrock and return to my parents’ house. Your help today is appreciated, but now I shall manage on my own.’

  ‘But you may recall,’ Santo said, ‘that Sir George and Lady Betterton have now left Reedacre Manor for London. When we said farewell this morning, they were of the opinion that my help here would be a good thing for you.’

  ‘They would. It’s a big place.’

  ‘And you really do not need a man’s help?’ he said, persuasively.

  ‘Not the help of a man like you.’

  ‘A man like me?’

  ‘The brother of the man who deceived me,’ she said. ‘Did you think I’d welcome you with open arms, signor? My memory is not so short as all that.’

  ‘I believe that’s what the English call “tarring everyone with the same brush”, isn’t it? I am not to be confused with my brother, mistress. He was guilty of a gross misjudgement. I am a merchant and I’ve learnt not to do that. Laws are there to be kept. If I were untrustworthy, no one would do business with me. My family’s good name would suffer, which is why my father insisted on Leon keeping his word.’

  ‘I’m glad he did so,’ Aphra said, daintily picking up a rabbit’s roasted foreleg and deciding which bit to nibble. ‘I would not want a husband who breaks promises so easily.’ She pushed a dish towards him. ‘This is sage and onion stuffing,’ she said. ‘It goes well with rabbit. I did not mean to tar you with the same brush as your brother, Signor Datini. I am sure you are honourable in all your dealings. But I made a decision to be alone here, after what’s happened, to give me time to reflect and to carry on some of the work my uncle began with his plants. I intend to supply London doctors with the raw material, as he did. They don’t all grow the plants they use in medicines, you know, nor do they buy them from just anyone. Only from growers they can trust.’

  ‘That’s an excellent line to pursue, mistress. You have the gardens and the men to tend them, and your uncle’s research, too. One cannot allow years to elapse before picking up where he left off. They’re not all perennials, are they?’

  Not looking at him, Aphra continued to nibble at the meat. ‘What do you know about perennials?’ she said. ‘Was that a shot in the dark?’

  That smile again, diverting her thoughts, fractionally. ‘Another one,’ he said. ‘A shot in the dark. No, I know that perennials seed themselves and multiply each year, and that others are known as biennials, appearing for only two years, and that others must be re-sown every year. Annuals. M
y brother told me that.’

  ‘He was Dr Ben’s most talented student.’

  ‘Was he? I didn’t know that. He didn’t say. But I know he was trying to establish a system for naming plants that everyone would understand. He found all the various names very confusing, to say the least.’

  ‘It can be dangerous, too. Mistakes have been made because of wrong identification.’

  ‘Which is why apothecaries and doctors trusted your uncle and a good reason why you should follow in his footsteps, mistress. And if you could manage to keep the apothecary’s foreign imports separate from your household accounts, Fletcher would be able to give you a clearer picture of exactly what materials you’re buying and for how much. You also need records of what herbs you’re exporting, too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Aphra said, pausing in her eating. ‘That the medicinal plants are mixed up with supplies of sugar loaves and spices? And barley?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I cannot believe that your household needs bulk supplies of alkanet and juniper berries and senna, does it? All that ought to be in a separate book kept only for the apothecary department, or the stillroom, or wherever you prepare it. Some are very expensive items. I import some of them myself.’

  Wide-eyed, Aphra studied his face and knew he was not making this up. ‘I didn’t know that. You’re right, Dr Ben was perhaps not as concerned about balancing the books as he was about obtaining the very best ingredients. We have to do something about this, immediately.’

  ‘Would you allow me to look through Dr Ben’s records to see what he’s been ordering for his work? It could make a significant difference to costs.’

  Aphra looked down at her pewter plate, realising that this was the first time she had wanted to eat everything on it. Yet she hesitated, knowing what this would mean. He would need to stay longer.

  Santo saw her doubts. ‘We have to find that map, too, you know. You have to know exactly where your estate boundaries are. Did your father not go through that with you?’