With all the hidden undercurrents swirling around their relationships, past and present, Aphra chose not to dig too deeply into the precise reasons for the brotherly quarrel, for she could hazard a guess about what might have caused Leon to react so violently. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, nestling into his arms, her cheek against his chest. ‘Truly, I am so sorry. I wish there was something I could do, or say, to make things better for him. I hate to see him like this. I had no idea how badly he’s been affected. Do you suppose that, if I were to meet his wife and show her I’m no threat, would that help, d’ye think?’
‘When do you return to England?’ he said.
‘I have no idea. It will depend on the others.’ She noticed that he had not answered her question, most likely, she thought, because he would not know what might help Leon. But after another stroll along the pathways, followed by a short interlude hidden behind a well-covered trellis, they went to rejoin the rest of the party on their way to the house, while Aphra’s heart sang so loudly of Santo’s love that she felt sure they would all hear it and smile. Except her father, who she did not think would be quite so approving.
* * *
As the simple midday meal drew to an end Santo took his brother aside where the rattle of water in the stream covered the sound of their voices. Together, they sat on a low stone wall in the shade of a lemon tree.
‘She was kind,’ Leon said, studying a cushion of green moss by his side. ‘After all that, she was kind to me. I don’t know why I should be surprised. She’s a remarkable woman. I suppose I ought to have expected you to fall for her, Santo.’
‘She wishes to meet Bianca,’ Santo said with a glance at his brother.
Leon sat up straight, frowning his disapproval. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Simply no.’
The silence between them seemed to indicate that there was more to be said on the subject. Gently, Santo persisted. ‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘Who can it hurt? Bianca wants to see her.’
‘Has she said so?’
‘Not in so many words, but she knows she’s here and she’d like to know more about her. And there may be a time, in the future, when they will have to meet. In public.’
‘When you make Aphra yours...yes... I can see that, but...’
‘Don’t be bitter, Leo. It doesn’t help matters to be bitter. Aphra is not likely to make things more difficult than they are, is she? You’ve seen how kind she is and, if the two of them wish it, who are we to prevent it? Shall we give it a try? There’ll never be a better time. Privately. Just us.’
‘Margaretta will be there with her, I expect.’
‘Good. Then we can kill two birds with one stone, as the English say.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Aphra thought she was my mistress.’
Leon smiled at that, wincing at the discomfort. ‘So you’ve been in the doghouse. Good. Serves you damn well right.’
‘So what was I to do, then?’ Santo said, standing up. ‘Suggest that she swim back home? Too many people in Venice with not enough to do but gossip, that’s the problem.’
‘Yes, and too many of them know Father. I’ll go up and speak to the women.’
* * *
Lorenzo Datini was holding forth, as he liked to do, just as Santo entered the cool salon. He was telling his guests about his younger son’s expectation of being offered a position at Padua University as a teacher of botany. According to him it was a foregone conclusion, subject to Leon’s good grades in the examination. To which Aphra would like to have reminded him of her part in sending back Leon’s notes. She caught Santo’s smile, their thoughts running along the same lines, their lips still alive with the memory of those recent stolen kisses.
‘As for Santo,’ Lorenzo continued along his favourite route of outlining his plans for his sons, ‘Santo will become the manager of my glass factory. Our workshops are on Murano,’ he said, waving an arm, ‘so we shall be seeing more of him than we do at present, when he’s abroad most of the time. Another year or so, when plans are in place. Our present manager is getting old. We need fresh ideas. Yes, Santo?’ He looked towards his son, smiling broadly while hoping to manoeuvre him into an agreement under the public eyes of his guests.
His son was wise to his father’s methods. ‘It’s something we have to discuss, Signor Padre,’ he said. ‘Another time, perhaps.’
The smile fell. ‘Oh, I know you fancy yourself as a merchant now, but you’ll get tired of all that. I know it. A change is as good as a cure, eh?’
‘A cure from what, Father? Doing well?’
Aphra could see now why Santo would not have discussed her with his parents. He would have to choose the right moment for that, too, especially since his father clearly wanted him to stay near the family. What chance would she have against the authority of such a man, having already experienced his firm hand over Leon’s future?
For all his domineering, Lorenzo was astute enough to see that Santo’s agreement could not be forced in this manner, out of politeness to their guests. Sir George, Nic and Paul also recognised that it was time for them to take their leave, having achieved the purpose of their visit.
But Signora Juna, Santo’s mother, was reluctant to lose the company of the English guests who had brought a touch of warmth to her villa and shown such an interest in it. ‘Stay a little longer,’ she pleaded. ‘I have not yet shown you my Giotto. This you must see. Just a small panel, but one of his finest, I’m told. Do come.’
Santo signalled to Aphra. ‘You still wish to meet Bianca?’ he whispered.
‘Indeed I do. Now? Leon doesn’t mind?’
Beyond them, Venetia cleverly slipped her arm through that of Signor Lorenzo, looking up admiringly into his face and following his wife’s lead while chattering excitedly to him.
‘Leon understands,’ Santo said.
‘And Bianca will not be jealous, I hope?’
‘I cannot say, sweetheart. You must judge for yourself.’ Aphra might have asked why the Lady Bianca had not come down to meet them, since she lived here, but perhaps that would have placed both of them under some considerable strain. So it was with the expectation of having to suffer the curiosity and some questioning from Leon’s wife, the woman he had been obliged to marry, that Aphra put on her bravest face and told herself that this was to help Leon through his wretchedness. To have Santo beside her gave her the courage she needed.
Leon’s apartments were as luxurious as the rest of the villa’s interior, causing Aphra once again to compare the rambling ancient priory where she was now mistress and where Leon might have become master, had things been different. The lady’s room was vast and dimmed by a screen of linen pulled down over the large windows and, over by a high tapestry-covered wall, a very large canopied bed with half-closed blue-velvet curtains appeared to occupy centre stage. Carved and painted marriage chests stood solidly against the walls where several small gold-glittering portraits of saints and virgins waited to receive prayers. The room smelled of medication and a want of fresh air.
As they entered, Leon came towards them. A lady rose from a stool near the bed, a lithe and lovely creature with a mass of tight curls tumbling round her face. Her smile was for Aphra alone as they were introduced. Margaretta Rossi, sister of Signora Bianca, Leon’s wife. Gracefully, she dipped a curtsy and so mischievous was her glance at Santo that Aphra was immediately aware that her mistake had been discussed. Santo’s sister-in-law.
Stop leaping to your stupid conclusions, he had said, in exasperation.
The young lady was proudly wearing a pewter shell pinned to her shoulder, like those pilgrims who had visited Santiago de Compostela. ‘Welcome,’ she said, sweetly. ‘We hoped you’d come up to see us, since we cannot come down, you see.’ She looked towards the great bed where, under the stark white line of a linen sheet across the bedspread, a hardly discernible bump showed that someone was there, her w
hite gown and close-fitting cap merging with the pillow, her white face turned towards the sound of voices.
Oh, Leon! Why did you not tell...? She stopped herself. Questions would wait until later. Regrets were useless. It was help they needed, not pity. She must hide her shock, summon every ounce of fortitude and do something to help. Anything. Smile, at least.
‘Madonna...’ Leon began, hoping to explain.
Aphra laid a hand on his arm. Not now. A familiar gesture from one who was not related, but allowable, she thought. Smiling was not as difficult as she’d feared, nor was it hard for her to walk towards the shadowy patient or to take up the soft hand being offered to her and to hold it gently in her own, to curtsy, then to sit on the stool vacated by Margaretta. She was close enough to hear the whispered words of welcome. Instinctively, Aphra knew that there was love in the weary heavy-lidded eyes that glanced quickly over at Leon as he stood apart, just as she knew how much she and this woman had shared hopes, fears, disappointments and betrayals. All was written in this poor woman’s lovely face, ravaged by pain. And she, Aphra, had foolishly thought that she alone had been the one to suffer. ‘Bianca,’ she whispered as tears burned behind her eyes, ‘forgive me. I didn’t know.’
‘How could you?’ Bianca replied, wearily. ‘I was only given half the story, so I expected you would be, too. Men. They believe it’s kindness, but it isn’t, is it?’
To be given only half the story and to expect that to suffice? To expect any woman to rebuild her life on half-truths? No, it was a strange kindness not to have told her of this when she might have understood sooner the reasons for Leon’s change of heart, wanting her, Aphra, rather than an invalid. But wait! Was she leaping to conclusions again? ‘Will you tell me about it?’ she said, keeping hold of Bianca’s hand.
But the frail young woman was drowsy, and obviously not up to the sustained effort of conversation. ‘Stay with me,’ she said, closing her eyes.
‘Your sister...?’ Aphra ventured, hoping to regain her interest.
Margaretta came to sit on the bed, taking over her sister’s voice. ‘I live with my husband and children in Venice,’ she said. Touching the shell on her shoulder, she explained, ‘Santo picked me up from A Coruña to bring me back to Venice. I went to ask for a miracle for my sister, you see.’ Her eyes softened as they rested on Bianca’s face, apparently sleeping. ‘It may already be happening.’
‘Yes,’ Aphra said, shamefaced. ‘My thoughts...sometimes...run on ahead of me. I am not proud of them.’
Margaretta nodded, touching Aphra’s arm with her fingertips in a gesture of complete understanding. ‘It happens. But you would not have expected...?’
‘To see your sister like this? No, indeed. If only I’d been told. How long?’
‘It started after Leon went to England. They were betrothed, you know. She was well until then. Signor Lorenzo wrote to him telling him how Bianca had become weak, her legs painful, not working properly. She was not sleeping.’
‘Has the illness been diagnosed?’
‘The doctors cannot identify it. She’s in constant pain. Fortunately, Leon has been able to prescribe a new medication for her, now he has his notes returned. Santo says you were willing for Leon to have them back. That was kind of you.’
Aphra’s look across to where Santo and Leon stood talking was intercepted, as if they both knew which bit of information was being exchanged. ‘New medication,’ she said, sliding her eyes to the table on which stood a flask of whitish liquid amongst a collection of beakers and bottles. ‘Straight from your English notebooks? Your research notes? Pain relief? Insomnia? The latest treatments?’
Bianca’s eyes opened wide enough for Aphra to see the adoring expression sent to Leon’s bewildered face, hoping for the smile that refused to respond. Aphra waited, scarcely breathing, for him to make some kindly remark to his wife while, for her, the dense cloud of misunderstanding began slowly to dissolve in her mind. Of course. This was behind the urgency to have the notebooks returned. Not for his studies or exams. Not for his ambition to secure a good position or to earn a good salary, but for his wife’s sake, an invalid in perpetual pain.
Slowly, the two men approached the bed, suspecting that, between them, they had handled this whole affair rather badly. Before Aphra could say ‘why didn’t you tell me’, Santo began his own justification. ‘Yes, that is why he needed them, Aphra, but please try to understand how difficult it was for me, at the time, when you were...’
‘Yes, I know all that, Santo. But this is not about my feelings, it’s about Bianca’s needs. There must be something...’
Bianca waved a feeble hand from the bed, reminding them that she was still in the room, although appearing to sleep. ‘I need Aphra to stay,’ she said, plaintively. ‘We have things to say to each other. Margaretta must return home tomorrow to Alberto and the children, and then I shall be alone again.’
‘Your ladies come in and out,’ Leon said, as if that should have been enough.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but that’s not the same, is it?’
‘No,’ Aphra said, before Leon could develop his argument. ‘Bianca needs to talk and so do I. Santo, do you think your mother would allow me to stay a while longer to be with Bianca? I could do such a lot to help.’ It took her some effort not to launch immediately into the details of how she’d move that damn blind aside, for one thing, throw the windows open, move the bed for a better view, move Bianca out of this dark, dreary place into the garden. She needed someone to read to her, play music, make her smile, take her mind off the pain. And Leon needed showing how she could become a blessing to him instead of a burden. Surely, she thought, this tragic situation could be made more bearable.
‘I know my mother would be happy for you to stay here as long as you wish,’ Santo said. ‘She’d probably invite you all to stay, but I know your aunt and uncle wish to see more of the Cappellos while they’re in Venice. But why not ask Lady Somerville to remain with you, Aphra? If Lord Somerville would not object?’
‘As I did for her in London. To be my chaperon. That’s inspired,’ Aphra said, wondering if she was being fair in denying Etta the amazing experience of seeing Venice’s many attractions. And would it be fair on Nic, who had already done so much to help?
Leon, Bianca and Margaretta were all in favour of Aphra’s offer, at least two of them well aware of Santo’s other reasons for wanting her to stay. Leon, however, remained behind as Santo and Aphra took their leave of the two sisters, knowing how this latest revelation, whilst solving another part of the puzzle for Aphra, would also leave behind a trail of questions to which only time would provide the answers.
Escorted along the cool tiled corridors of the villa, she was still mentally reeling from a discovery that was as pitiful as it was unexpected. Uppermost in her mind was the grievance both she and Bianca shared concerning the lack of openness about what men preferred to see as a kindness, as if women were incapable of accepting the full story. Bianca’s illness. Leon’s urgent need of the notebooks. His deep unhappiness, only partly explained. Ben’s predicament, which surely would have been better shared, in the circumstances. Then the silly mystery about Margaretta and her voyage back to Venice which, after all Aphra’s fury, was actually no mystery at all. Yes, of course, Aphra admitted, she ought not to have formed her own conclusions about that, but what else was she to think, given that she and Santo had exchanged no definite assurances about their future, either together or apart? They had admitted their love for each other, but where did that leave them, he a successful merchant in Venice and she the owner of a large estate in England?
Santo knew exactly where her room was. Once inside, and with the heavy iron key turned in the lock, they clung tightly to each other, pressed against the door, kissing with a passionate relief, though in Aphra’s case, this was combined with some anger, too. Santo was quick to recognise it. Bending swiftly, he picked her up
in his arms and carried her over to the bed, holding her down with ease on the green-figured satin as her questions spilled out, between puffs of exertion. ‘Explanations will wait,’ he said in answer to her protests.
‘They won’t wait!’ she said. ‘Why could you not have told me? Why...?’
But Santo had seen the compassion in this astonishing woman about which Leon and others had told him and now the ache of love had grown almost beyond control. He knew also that some physical consolation was required to calm her fears about their future, for this was something that had been on his mind, too, though he could not have foreseen how she would be so generous with her time.
‘Hush, beautiful creature,’ he whispered, lifting the strands of silky blonde hair away from her face. ‘You were magnificent. Kind. Forgiving. Understanding. Unselfish.’ With each compliment, he planted a soft kiss upon her features, moving his mouth downwards to throat and neck, and lower to the smooth mounds of her breasts. The questions stopped, replaced by deep sighs, by hands that caressed his head, sinking into the deep dark waves as she had wanted to so many times that day.
Although her mind was still in some turmoil, the needs of her body demanded the kind of attention only Santo knew how to give, for that one experience of his loving had been, so far, the only memory of heaven she had been able to cling to. That occasion had been dark and only for feeling, not for seeing. This time, there was to be no undressing, either, for the rest of the family would be waiting downstairs, and Aphra was every bit as eager to take whatever small moments they could steal before time ran out on them.
So rather than make a protest about the urgency, she found the lack of preparation exciting, hardly mattering at all when the thrill of expectation was already rippling through her thighs and into her secret parts to the tune of his hands which, like a skilled lutenist, knew exactly which chords to play upon. Her skin responded to his knowing touch like a lock opening on the instant, placing herself shamelessly ready for him, lifting her hips to meet him, gasping with the sweetness of being possessed by such a man as this. Again. ‘Santo,’ she said. That was all. Just his name. It felt like honey on her lips.
The Mistress and the Merchant Page 21