Aphra was glad to have taken such pains over their first meal together, the table covered with white linen, finest napkins, pewter polished like silver, Ben’s best ivory-handled knives and the sparkling glasses Aphra had discovered, now set upon the table instead of waiting on the sideboard, as was more usual. At once, even before the cushioned benches were occupied, the exclamations of wonder could hardly be suppressed, for they all knew that this had recently belonged to Ben and passed on intact to Aphra. Now they saw, however, that Ben’s taste in expensive tableware showed a side of him kept hidden until Aphra’s tenancy.
The food soon covered the table in a symmetry of colour and size, entirely of Aphra’s devising, and while pies were shared, fish and wood pigeons portioned, the conversation was more in muted sounds of approval than of questions that needed lengthy answers. But as glasses were filled with wine, the sounds of wonder changed to whispers of amazement at the flashing colours rippling through the intricate convolutions of the glass where, on the stem of each one, three elaborate projections like lace wings widened to touch the underside of the bowl. Each bowl and foot was covered with engraved patterns of scrolling leaves, casting the reflections downwards on to the tinted knobs and coils below.
‘Hold it with both hands,’ Venetia warned her daughter. To Aphra, she smiled. ‘I think I know where these were made, my dear. Pure Venetian, are they not?’ Like Santo’s, her voice still held the hint of Italian colour, the rolling ‘r’ and the full vowel sounds.
‘I really don’t know, Aunt. This is the first time I’ve used them.’
‘Oh, but Murano glass is unmistakable, is it not, signor?’
Santo agreed, turning his magnificent glass round slowly to catch the lights on the many facets. ‘This is indeed from Murano,’ he said. ‘It’s known as a winged-stem glass and the decoration on each wing is called “threading”. The engraving on the bowl and foot is done with a diamond.’
‘By hand?’ said Aphra.
‘By hand, mistress. Only the most skilled craftsmen can work to this standard.’
‘You seem to know a great deal about it, sir,’ Edwin said, sharply.
‘I should, Master Betterton. These were made in my father’s workshop.’ Suffering the concerted stares of five pairs of eyes, Santo waited impassively.
Aunt Venetia saw nothing strange in this. ‘That’s it!’ she said. ‘I thought the name was familiar to me. The Datini glass workshops on Murano. So that’s your family, signor.’
‘What’s Murano?’ said Flora.
‘It’s an island just a short boat ride from Venice, signorina,’ Santo said. ‘Your mama will have been there to see the glass-blowers. The craftsmen were moved out of Venice because of the danger from the furnaces, you see. So now there are several workshops there and all the workers live there, on the island.’
‘And does your papa work there, making these?’
‘Not personally. He owns it and his men make other things like mirrors and lenses for spectacles.’ Obligingly, the conversation veered along Flora’s need to know about the glass instead of how such rare and expensive vessels came to be owned by Dr Ben. But now there was a certain constraint between himself, Aphra and Edwin whom he believed were sure to be wondering if it was Leon who brought them for his tutor. A very costly gift, they would think, for a student to give.
* * *
The guests were not late to retire to their rooms that evening, though a light touch on Santo’s sleeve was taken as a request to stay behind. ‘When are we to expect the men to return from Southampton?’ Aphra asked him, intending her businesslike question to be heard by those guests still on the stairs.
‘With the wagon, some time after noon, I suppose,’ he replied.
The door behind them closed on the flickering torches and, in the dim passageway, she turned to him, angrily. ‘Did you have to say all that about the glasses? Could you not have used some discretion, signor? Was it absolutely necessary to claim them as coming from your father’s workshop? They must have guessed who brought them here?’
‘Does it matter who brought them?’ he said, feeling the heat of her anger from where he stood. Her cheeks were flushed, her beauty breathtaking.
‘It not only matters who brought them, but why. Did you know about them?’
‘You mean, that they could have been a gift from Leon? No, how could I? Perhaps you believe Dr Ben bought them. It’s possible, I suppose, but they’re worth a small fortune. Some of the finest I’ve ever seen. Or perhaps they were given to him by a client, as thanks. Who knows?’
Something resonated in Aphra’s mind when, earlier, she had seen the other vessels of rare materials. ‘Do they have special properties, these rare glasses?’
‘Well, I know that the soda ash comes from Syria.’
‘Not that kind of property,’ she said, irritably. ‘I mean medicinal.’
He spoke slowly as he recalled something that Leon had once told him. ‘Only that any liquid drunk from a rare material can have a curative effect, that’s all. But glass is not a rare material, mistress.’
‘Then perhaps my uncle wished to own them because, being very expensive, they might guard against disease, or poisons, even. The more expensive, the more effective.’
‘That may well be, but I’d be interested to know how your uncle acquired them. Leon couldn’t possibly have—’ He broke off as the dim light caught the sudden flash of anger in her eyes and the toss of her head as she began to move away from him.
‘Enough! I’ve heard enough of him, signor. I care not!’
‘Mistress, I only—’
‘No! Enough!’ she cried. ‘I do not wish to hear his name again. Can you not understand? I’m trying to...trying not to...’ Infuriated by words that failed to express her meaning, she swung away again only to come back to him for another try, batting his hand away as he tried to take hers, to hold it, to make her stay. ‘No...no! You don’t understand a thing, do you?’ She panted, forcing words out under pressure. ‘How I’m trying...day by day...to dismiss him from my thoughts...to start again...and now you...you...forcing him back into the room on the first time I have guests, when I thought only to show them how I’m forgetting...how I can manage. Oh...go!’ she wailed. ‘Just go! Go home back to Italy. You ought never to have come here. I really don’t need your kind of help, signor.’
‘Of course,’ Santo said. ‘You’re quite right. You don’t need my help, madonna. I shall pack my bags and go tomorrow, if you will allow me to stay overnight. You may recall that Dante and Enrico are on your errand, bringing back the supplies you need. I should meet them on the road to Southampton. I’ll send the wagon back here without its escort, shall I, and take a chance on it arriving intact? Is that what you want?’
That was not what she wanted. No. She wanted him here without his deceitful brother shadowing him, reminding her of broken promises and her broken dreams. She covered her face with both hands, unable to answer, too aware of his masculine presence near her in the dark passageway where the deep sea green of his doublet glinted dimly with gold. She sensed his warmth and knew that his question was but one more reason why he should stay and that the longer she remained silent, the more he would understand her dilemma.
As a successful merchant, he was not unused to the silence of assent, though he did not usually acknowledge it by taking anyone in his arms, as he did with Aphra. Gently, so as not to startle or anger her any more, he eased her slowly towards him and held her comfortably against his body, being careful not to dislodge her jewelled black-velvet hood while taking some delight in the soft touch of her silky hair over his hand. He would like to have done more than that, but this was not the time nor, in fact, might there ever be a time when she would allow more than this. ‘Men can be so clumsy,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me. You have every right to be angry. Shall we try again tomorrow, madonna?’
Sliding her hands away from her face,
Aphra nodded, placing her palms upon his chest to ease herself away. ‘I bid you goodnight, signor. Don’t break your fast in the kitchen tomorrow. Join us in here, if you will.’
‘Thank you. Sleep well. And if I may offer a small crumb of advice?’
She waited.
‘Don’t try to solve all your problems at once. Answers sometimes arrive without our digging too deep for them.’
In the darkness, a dull flash of gems told him that she had nodded in agreement and, as she walked away towards the staircase, the air moved around his face and the rustle of skirts faded with the soft padding of her shoes on the stone flags.
* * *
Comfortably swathed in her loose night-robe, Aphra sat on the edge of her bed to sip the warm milk and honey while her maid Tilda moved silently about the room to prepare it for sleep. Questions with too few answers passed in an endless stream in her mind, always returning to those few moments in the dark, where she had allowed Signor Datini to take the liberty of holding her. What kind of message, she asked herself, was she sending? Had his younger brother kindled in her the need for a man’s comforting arms so much that she must now accept it from him, too, no matter how inappropriate? Had she wanted to pretend, for just one moment, that it was Leon instead of his brother?
There had been a time, just after Leon’s departure for Italy when, full of hope, she had indulged herself to the full with memories of their times together. She had thought longingly of his company and of how their relationship had developed so quickly during those months when he had stayed with her and her married cousin Etta.
Henrietta, half-sister to Queen Elizabeth, had asked Aphra to be her companion during those months last year when their time was divided between Etta’s two homes, one in London’s Cheapside, the other in rural Surrey. Studying for a time at the Apothecaries’ Hall in London, Leon of Padua had been invited by Etta’s husband to stay with them for convenience and it had been easy for them to meet, mornings and evenings, and to foster an easy companionship where each would tell the other of the day’s events, as husbands and wives do.
In medicinal plants, they had found a common interest and Leon had brought a new meaning to her life that had been missing until then, with none of the bitterness and sarcasm she had shown to his brother. It had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to give him her heart while believing in his dreams and not once had it occurred to her that she was overdoing her generosity.
She had asked her parents if they liked him and, seeing her happiness, they had agreed that he was a considerate and caring young man, accepting that there would be no betrothal until Leon had spoken to his parents. Younger sons were obliged to tread carefully if they wanted some financial support from a father, even though Leon’s potential as a first-class apothecary had been verified by the eminent Dr Ben Spenney, who had Aphra’s welfare very much at heart. What could possibly go wrong?
‘We wanted nothing more than your happiness,’ Etta had told her, holding her dear cousin while she sobbed. ‘Perhaps we ought to have been more cautious, asked more questions. But I suppose we thought that if Ben thought highly of him, that was enough. Even my lord saw no guile in him and he’s as cautious as anyone could be. Even now, I can scarce believe it, dearest. We all liked him. There must be a good reason behind it.’
Leon’s betrayal, followed by Dr Ben’s sudden death, had broken Aphra’s heart, leaving her with two mysteries she was in no position to solve. Then the questions had begun. Had it been everyone’s approval that had made her so sure of him? Loving too easily, Signor Datini had said. She had taken it the wrong way, but it was clear that that was what she had done, too. Fallen in love without a ripple on the surface of her composure, no doubts, all sweetness, comfort and a kind of security in his arms.
He had shown her only his good side and she had not had time to see any other. She had been excited and proud of his scholarship, his future. Now, such doting was a warning never to fall in love again. Never to allow sweet words, or the comfort of his brother’s embrace, not to allow her heart to skip a beat, or her eyes to admire the width of his shoulders, his hands smoothing over a map, like skin, his voice in the dark telling her not to look too hard for answers, his insistence on staying at Sandrock, his command of difficult situations, his authority. She would do better not to dwell on such things, for there could be no future in it.
Setting down her empty beaker, she went to the window to look out at the dark garden and then across to the building on the opposite side where Signor Datini had been given rooms. A dim light shone from the lower window and a shadowy figure moved across it just before the light was extinguished. Aphra moved quickly back into the room, feeling an uncomfortable twinge of guilt at her curiosity.
She had been mistaken about the real reason for Uncle Paul’s visit, having believed, cynically, that it was sure to be for the hunting. After the first smiles of greeting Uncle Paul had not mentioned any desire to hunt and, at supper, Aphra had noticed how thoughtful he appeared, lacking his usual light-heartedness. Obviously, the sudden loss of his brother had affected him deeply, especially since it had happened at his house with all the resulting enquiries about how, why and exactly when. Fortunately, Paul had been able to satisfy the authorities that his younger brother was an eminent pharmacist and had been aware of his heart condition. The fact that he had left a will appeared to confirm that he had regarded this seriously, although Aphra herself had never noticed any sign of it, nor had he spoken to her about his heart, only to his brother. Hoping that there might be an opportunity to talk to Uncle Paul in private while he was here, she climbed into bed from where she could watch the slow progress of the moon on its silent voyage, its light rippling unevenly through the small thick panes of glass. How easy it was, she thought, for familiar images to appear distorted, these days.
* * *
With the first light, the view through the windows was even more distorted by rivulets of rain that came with strong westerly winds to streak the glass and send clouds lumbering across the sky. After breakfast, when only three of them remained, the gentle questions put to Aphra by her aunt and uncle about what she intended to do here at Sandrock were easy enough for her to answer. ‘Oh, there’s plenty for me to do here,’ she said. ‘Ben’s herb gardens have come back to life again now and I intend to carry on, growing them to supply the London doctors. Most of them would prefer not to buy from anyone else. He was always so reliable. They send their own couriers with lists, you know. And besides that, he was compiling a record of them and teaching his students how to paint plants as an aid to recognising them. Some of the old herbals are shockingly inaccurate. That’s a part of his work I can continue. I think he’d approve.’
Paul D’Arvall nodded in agreement. ‘He would. And with your knowledge of herbs and remedies, you could probably treat the locals, too, my dear. You’d be as good as any town physician.’
‘As long as I didn’t charge a fee. But there’s still some tidying up to be done. Until now, I’ve not felt inclined to look too deeply into his cupboards and shelves, but I shall have to make a start soon. Do you know what Ben might have wanted seed pearls and costly gems for, Uncle Paul? Apparently, he’s ordered some from the Southampton merchants. It’s due to arrive some time today.’
Paul frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound like Ben,’ he said, softly. ‘He always scoffed at the quacks who use that kind of thing in their preparations. I hear that some of them grind pearls into powder so they can say what exotic and expensive stuff they’ve added, but I don’t think Ben...well, I really don’t know, love. Perhaps he wished to try them as an experiment. He liked to experiment, didn’t he?’
Aphra waited, thinking that there was something her uncle might be about to add. Starting his answer so positively and then tailing off into unsureness sounded rather odd. Aunt Venetia’s lengthy glance at her husband also seemed to imply that there was more, until she reminded him of
something that took Aphra’s expectations on to a different level. ‘What about Ben’s things?’ she said.
‘Things?’ said Aphra.
‘Yes...of course!’ Paul slapped the table with a sudden eagerness. ‘Ben left his satchel and notes with us...well...naturally, I didn’t bring them sooner, Aphie, because you were too upset. But now you should have them. Shall I bring them down here to you, or...?’
‘No, thank you, Uncle. If you could take them to Ben’s library where I work, I’d like to look through them in my own time. Did you...?’
‘No, dear,’ said Venetia, ‘we didn’t go through his satchel. No point, really. And his notes mean nothing to us. You may find a use for them.’
‘Thank you. Was there anything else? No letter? The ring he wore? That should be yours, Uncle Paul.’
‘The one on his little finger? No, my dear, we left that in place. I don’t know who or what it signified, but then, you see, we had no connection as boys. I was brought up with the D’Arvalls and Ben was brought up here in the priory by his uncle, Father Spenney. Which is why he was given that name. None of us knew we were related until after my sister was married. Then the story came out and we discovered that we were full brothers. But we had very little to do with each other. It was a sad story, not knowing his mother. Well, nor did I for that matter, but at least I had a stepmother to comfort me.’
‘He thought highly of you, Uncle. I’m glad he was with you...when...’
‘Yes, love. We’d had a merry evening together. We loved him. All of us.’
‘You said, at the funeral, that he’d complained of pains in his heart.’
‘Yes,’ Venetia said. ‘He thought we ought to know. Just in case.’
Swiping a hand around his jaw, Paul sighed and nodded. ‘Even went as far as making a will. I protested. Said it was too soon for that. But he would have it so. He gave it to me to keep. Just as well, in the circumstances.’ Leaning forward over his arms on the table, he looked intently at Aphra. ‘I’m glad he left Sandrock to you, love. It was the right thing to do.’
The Mistress and the Merchant Page 7