She turned her head to look at Nic, to say to him that, no, this was a big mistake, she could not go ahead with this plan. But Nic’s experiences of his wife’s mercurial changes of mind had stood him in good stead and now he reached out to lay a hand on Aphra’s arm, to let her know that her fears were acceptable, not foolish. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, softly. ‘You need not fear. Santo’s a good man. So is his brother. You’ll see.’
There had been a time, early in their marriage, when Aphra had given Nic some very similar advice, helping him to understand her wayward cousin. Now he appeared to be doing the same for her, letting her know that her private reasons for going on such a voyage were as sound, if not more so, than the reason they would give to the other passengers.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Whatever the outcome, it will not be wasted, will it?’
By sailing so soon, Nic told them, they would be only a few days behind Santo, although it was anybody’s guess which of them might arrive first at Venice, for although Santo’s galley was faster than Nic’s carrack, it would have to make frequent stops to take on more water and food for the crew and pilgrims. The carrack was large enough to take on board all it needed without stopping once, so it would be sensible, he told them, to take something to do during those interminable weeks.
* * *
A day of non-stop preparations was followed by a day on the road, the Somerville cavalcade now augmented by Aphra, Tilda, two packhorses, and two grooms to bring the horses home again. On reaching Aphra’s parents in London, it was not too difficult to persuade Sir George to join them, just as Lady Betterton needed none to stay behind. Weeks at sea, she said, were not her idea of adventure, even if Venice was at the end of it.
Their visit to Paul D’Arvall and Aunt Venetia was timed to perfection, for it was young Flora’s birthday and such an invitation was beyond her dreams. Her twin brother Marius, however, must stay behind for his lessons. The other reason they gave was that such a journey would tax his strength, and though they were adamant, and Marius himself was philosophical, Aphra and Etta could not see why they were being so protective. If Aunt Venetia had had her way, her own packing might have taken an extra week, but the thought of seeing her own family after so many years acted as an incentive to keep to Nic’s timetable, especially when Aphra was trying to make amends for their curtailed visit to Sandrock.
Even at thirteen years old, Flora understood what this visit meant to her father and how deeply he had been affected by the death of his brother at their home. She knew he felt he ought to have been present at that moment and that there was still something to be revealed about it, something he ought to have been able to prevent. Her mother, perhaps to comfort him, had disagreed, had said that, if the authorities were satisfied to attribute the death to Ben’s heart problem, of which he was aware, then Paul should let the matter rest there. Flora had learnt a good deal by listening, asking questions and saying little, absorbing snippets of information dropped during adult conversation. Intrigued by her lovely cousin Aphra and the recent afflictions of her life, she welcomed the chance to be with her for longer than their last meeting, hoping that, in some small way, she might contribute to her happiness. She would also be meeting her grandparents for the first time. ‘I shall practise my Italian on them,’ she told her mother, ‘if only they will speak to me more slowly than you do.’
* * *
In the busy port of London on the wide River Thames, ships of all shapes and sizes sailed on the tide or rocked alongside the many wharves and jetties. Water-washed stairs led directly into warehouses or to garden doors with glimpses of green lawn beyond. Nic’s gigantic carrack was amongst the largest of the bulky merchant ships, its high sides towering above them, with even higher decks, fore and aft, like tiers of windowed buildings shining with gold paint on carved mouldings. The two cousins were familiar with such sights, but this was the first time Aphra had been on board one of them and, although Etta had told her of what she might expect, the panelled comfort and luxury of the cabins took her quite by surprise.
But as Tilda bustled about to arrange her mistress’s belongings within the compact space, Aphra stood by the multi-paned window that seemed to hang over the murky brown water, letting her mind fly over the hundreds of miles she must sail to reach the man she wanted. Her lips moved in silent prayer as she asked, not so much for her own safety, but that Santo would still want her as much, if not more, as he had on that memorable night when she had given him her most valuable possession.
Like his wife, Nic was well aware of Aphra’s true mission as opposed to the alternate one believed by their other relatives. Aphra’s father, Sir George Betterton, saw every reason to pursue the mystery surrounding Ben’s death and had thanked Nic heartily for making the expedition possible.
For Aphra, there was still time for her to envisage every kind of greeting, welcome, and situation they might find at their journey’s end although, as both Aunt Venetia and Etta had said, together they would overcome any obstacles they might encounter, of which Venetia’s family would not be one. They would be ecstatic, she assured them. So with such positive speculations to help them, they endured and came to enjoy those weeks at sea during which there was no need for them to call at any port but only to catch sight, very occasionally, of land in the far distance.
There was little to mark their progress except the passing days and nights, each one shortening the time before Aphra would meet Santo. She thought how strange it was that she should now be so desperate to see him again after her earlier insistence that he must leave her and never return. What would the stern father, Signor Datini, think about her sudden appearance after forbidding his younger son to return to her? Would Santo have told him about his feelings for her, whatever they were? Would he accept that a woman’s heart could find another love so soon after losing one? Or would he understand that, as a novice, she had at last found the difference between a sweet first love and the earth-shattering emotions of the real kind, capable of turning a cautious careful woman into a determined risk-taker? Obviously, the father was capable of exerting considerable influence over his sons. But would there be a reason, she wondered, for him to forbid Santo from encouraging her? Or would Santo find his own reasons?
Plagued by doubts, fears and flimsy hopes, Aphra’s usual patience was tested to the full as each plunge and dip of the carrack took them, mile by slow mile, towards her uncertain future, relieved only by the expectation of learning why her beloved uncle had departed this life so abruptly. That, at least, would be no wild goose chase.
* * *
Aboard Santo’s galley, the beat of the drum thudded rhythmically above the heads of the crowded pilgrims, many of whom were already collecting their belongings and preparing to climb the ladder to the upper deck, now occupied by row upon row of sweating oarsmen. They felt each pull and surge as the galley moved gracefully past the ancient lighthouse and into the Spanish port of A Coruña. The fresh air and exercise would be a welcome relief after their confinement, although the long trek ahead of them to Santiago de Compostela would tax many to their limits, especially the physically frail, the very young and aged. The voyage from England, by Santo’s standards, had been relatively easy but, to these poor souls whose stomachs were not as robust as his, it had been a penance to add to their woes. There had been two deaths already, with the comfort of others always to hand, even in those cramped conditions.
Things would be quite different, however, for the lovely young woman who sat sideways on her grey silky-maned gelding surrounded by her attendants and her luggage. She had waited on the quayside all morning and for the last three days for the sleek galley that sped towards its moorings. She had not given up hope, for Santo had promised that he would, eventually, come to collect her, and Santo always kept his word. Shading her eyes against the glare from the water, she saw the name painted on the bows, La Speranza, and knew that, from the other almost identical gal
leys, this was the one. ‘Come,’ she said to her attendants, ‘the signor is here at last.’
Scanning the quay crowded with more pilgrims waiting to embark, Santo saw the one he was looking for, her trim figure perched high above the proud arch of her horse’s neck. Well dressed as always, even after a journey of fifty miles, she dismounted ready to greet him, her slender form encased in deep wine-coloured silk that shone gold in the bright light. Her hair was immaculate, too, drawn back from her face and gathered at the back of her head with a jewelled band from which a profuse bunch of red-gold hair sprung in tiny coils, covering her back and shoulders. No one watching this lovely creature assumed for one moment that she would be joining the jostling crowd of eager pilgrims in the smelly hold of any ship.
‘I’m late, madonna,’ Santo called, holding out his hands to her. ‘Forgive me.’
Affectionately, they kissed both cheeks and stood back to smile. ‘No matter,’ she said. ‘You’re here and safe.’
‘Your mission?’ he said, still smiling. ‘Successful, was it?’
‘Interesting. Very moving. We shall not know how successful until we get home. And did you get what you went for?’
‘I did,’ he said. The smile faded amongst the memories, but thankfully the lady was too preoccupied to notice as she watched her luggage being moved into position.
‘Do we sail today, or shall we rest at the inn overnight? I can vouch for the comfort, although...’
‘No, you’re right,’ he said. ‘We must not delay. We’ll take on water, clean out, reload and get away on the next tide. Your quarters have been made ready.’
Expressing no surprise at Santo’s success, the lady prepared to occupy the area in the bows of the galley safely covered over with a stout awning of canvas, as private as one could be on such a ship. Santo’s success had not surprised her because, in her experience, this remarkable man was as unfamiliar with any kind of failure as she was to being ignored. So the stares she received as she and her retinue went aboard were, although gratifying, nothing very unusual.
* * *
Relieved not to have been delayed a moment longer than was necessary, Santo moved out of A Coruña’s harbour on the next high tide, even though his galley relied less on deep water than the larger ships. His oarsmen were not convicts, as many others were, but paid, well-fed and well-treated men who enjoyed the life and the reputation of being the fastest and strongest in Venice. Trained in seamanship, they worked the sails once the ship had left harbour and soon they were skimming through the sea with their new cargo of pilgrims, baskets of fresh food, water, fish newly caught, eels still wriggling, crabs still clambering. And a fair young woman returning home with the hope that her prayers at the shrine of St James might be answered.
With long days and nights at sea behind him, Santo’s thoughts returned again and again to that last night spent in Aphra’s arms and to the days before that in which her emotions, understandably confused, had veered like the wind in his sails. Pushed to the last few hours of his stay at Sandrock, she had come to him as a homing pigeon finds its roost, revealing to him her needs, giving him what his body craved without bargaining or explaining. No words of love had been spoken, for no doubt she had learned that to do so was almost as dangerous a commitment as the gift of her body and he had not been able to discover whether she would ever give her heart, too, as long as her other love, a certain Dr Ben Spenney, claimed it. So he had not spoken of it, not wishing to force a decision or to ask for more than she was offering. The tragedy was that, with no chance for him to stay there longer and with so many miles now between them, the situation, delicate, fragile and inconclusive, was hardly likely to improve or be resolved. Not for some time, anyway.
One thing he took from it, however, was the certain knowledge that he had been the first to receive her gift. He had not asked his brother about that part of their relationship and Leon had not ventured the information. Nor would he ever have asked Aphra. But now he knew that she, too, would be remembering that night, wondering the same things, reconstructing those ecstatic moments of bliss. By comparison, his own gift to her had been bestowed before in other places, given without any devotion. But Aphra was not one of those casual acquaintances and, although he had willingly pushed that aspect of their loving to the back of his mind at the time, it had come back to haunt him every day since. What if he had made her pregnant? What would his father say to that? he wondered. Had he been any less of a fool than Leon?
To the Italians, the begetting of illegitimate children was not frowned upon in the same way as it was in England. At home, even popes fathered them, including illegitimate boys in their wills like those born within the family. But for a woman like Mistress Betterton, such a scandal would send shockwaves through her family, for Santo doubted that any relative of hers would condone such intimacy with the brother of the man who had deceived her, and to become pregnant after such a short acquaintance would never be understood, however much they tried. That he had taken advantage, not only of the situation, but of her parents’ absence, too, was bad enough, but to leave her at such a time was worse. Yet he had had little choice, as Signora Margaretta, now comfortably installed on La Speranza, would certainly agree.
* * *
Those weeks spent at sea in Lord Somerville’s sturdy carrack had not been as difficult for his passengers as any of them had first supposed when they were given the chance to get to know each other better than at any other time in their lives. Bearing no grudge against Aphra for cutting short their visit to Sandrock, her uncle Paul and aunt Venetia were happy to discuss Ben and the priory with her while telling her more about their three children, proud but never boastful.
Privately, Venetia believed that Aphra’s mission was not quite what she would have them believe and that her relationship with the handsome and charismatic Santo Datini was what occupied her thoughts rather more than Ben’s tragedy. Eventually, she said as much to Etta, who would surely know the truth of the matter. She did and, while wording her opinions with the utmost discretion, confirmed that Venetia had got it right, both of them agreeing that neither Venetia’s husband nor Aphra’s father ought to be party to this information. One never quite knew what men were going to do with women’s secrets, did one? So, to establish firmly in her husband’s mind that the mission was about his brother and nothing else, Venetia made sure to remind him of this, casually and privately in their cabin, while Flora was ‘asleep’.
For herself, Venetia could not understand why any woman would not fall desperately in love with Santo at first sight, as she might have done had not her own Paul kept a close guard on her heart.
As the distant coastline of Italy slipped past them on the port side, Venetia’s thoughts turned to their personal appearance, by which she meant Aphra and Etta, her own not having been allowed to suffer from a lack of audience. Or anything else, for that matter. Venetian women, she told them, would never be seen anywhere looking less than their best. Having a husband who worked at the Royal Wardrobe was a good way to stay ahead of fashion, both in England and abroad, though she did not forget that Etta’s husband, Lord Somerville, was the one who supplied the Royal Wardrobe with exotic fabrics from Venice.
So now, she told them, they could leave off their starched ruffs for the more comfortable stand-up half-collars of lace, leave off their heavily jewelled hoods in favour of a single jewel or a tiny cap, leave off their farthingales to hold out their skirts and dispense with the layers of flashy jewellery, choosing only one or two of the best pieces for more impact. She knew what she was talking about. The effect of the radiant silks, figured brocades, velvets and gauzy veils, the sleek hairstyles and pearl-covered nets of gold mesh made the three men gasp at the transformation and, as they appeared on deck, the stares of the crew made their efforts more than worthwhile.
Emerging from her cabin into the bright honey-gold sparkle of Venice, Aphra could hardly believe what she was see
ing, even though Venetia had tried to prepare her. The buildings, a mass of intricate lace-like patterns, seemed to float on their shimmering reflections under a sky of brilliant blue pierced with towers, pinnacles and domes. Ahead of them at anchor, long wicked-looking galleys with spiky furled sails unloaded their precious cargoes into small boats. In the square of San Marco, swarms of people moved like worker ants stranded on a maze of waterways. She had slept little on the previous night, wondering what she might see, hear and say, knowing the futility of such anticipation, but unable to prevent it. But no overworked imagination could have prepared her for the sparkling brightness, the colours, the elegance and the glassy images reflected on the dancing green waters of the lagoon.
‘Magic!’ she breathed. ‘This is so...beautiful! How could you leave such a place to live in London, Aunt?’
Uncle Paul answered for her. ‘Blame me.’ He grinned. ‘I insisted.’
With no warning of their arrival, Aphra had assumed that Venetia’s family might not appreciate such a large invasion of their hospitality, though Venetia had brushed off her concerns with a wave of her hand. ‘Nonsense!’ she had said. ‘Ca’ Cappello is an enormous place. More rooms than I can count. And they love having guests to stay, especially family. They’ve never seen Flora. They’ll be delighted.’
After more than five weeks at sea, the firm paving beneath their feet seemed to rock until their balance was restored. Groups of pilgrims stood patiently beneath the banners of agents selling passages to the Holy Land, as gondoliers took others out to the ships. Shading his eyes, Lord Somerville scrutinised the names on some of these, at last striding off towards a group of merchants to whom he introduced himself, pointing to the nearest vessel. ‘La Speranza?’ he said. ‘Is that the Datini galley, signor?’ Without him noticing, young Flora, eager to hear her cousin’s lordly husband exercise his Venetian dialect, had followed him and now slipped her hand into his, standing quietly beside him.
The Mistress and the Merchant Page 16