Copyright
Sandrock Priory, Wiltshire—1560
Almost hidden by a creamy-white canopy of apple blossom, Aphra turned to take another look at the solid stone walls of Sandrock Priory as if to remind herself, yet again, that it belonged to her. Against a cloudless sky, she saw how the ivy clambered up towards the red roof tiles where patches of yellow lichen and pale fern fronds made a vivid palette of new spring colour after so many weeks of greyness, the same greyness that had surrounded her heart with tragedy. Now, at last, she was beginning to see ahead to a new and peaceful life at the converted priory in which, until two months ago, Dr Ben Spenney, her beloved uncle, had lived and worked as one of Europe’s leading apothecaries. That he had left the priory to her in his will was still a source of amazement and some concern, too, for the place was enormous and, had he not also left her his considerable fortune to go with it, she would never have been able to afford its upkeep.
Her sandalled feet shifted in the long damp grass, turning her towards the orchard where honeybees droned busily into the blossom before heading back to the hives. Everywhere she looked, new growth was unfurling through the warm soil, washing the neat garden plots with a richness that seemed to echo Aphra’s new status as a property-owning woman, the new mistress of Sandrock. Only thirty years ago, the priory would have responded to the sound of bells and Augustinian canons at prayer, its gardens given over to the growing of vegetables and fruit for the refectory tables. Since its enforced closure in 1536, the buildings had been stripped of all association with religion and converted into rooms for domestic use by Aphra’s grandfather, Sir Walter D’Arvall, whose illegitimate son, Dr Ben Spenney, had inherited it. Aphra had never called him ‘uncle’. Their friendship had always been closer than the usual uncle-to-niece—more like dear allies whose degree of kinship had allowed a certain familiarity. Although never discussed, their special bond was enjoyed by both of them and understood by their families.
During his years of ownership, Dr Ben had housed young medical students specialising in the use of herbs, a branch of medicine that in the last decade had become more highly respectable and reliable than ever. He had shared with them his wide knowledge of plants and their properties, and had helped them to complete their degrees. The University of Padua in Italy had sent him one of their best students to study here, though he could not have anticipated that young Master Leon of Padua would fall deeply in love with his beautiful niece, Mistress Aphra Betterton of nearby Reedacre Manor. Now, in just over a year, fate had stepped in to deprive Aphra of both Master Leon, whom she had loved, and Dr Ben, whom she had also loved, but differently.
Yet while fate had taken away with one hand, it had given something back with the other, demanding at the same time that she should move on into another phase of her life that would set her mind and body to work instead of wallowing in grief. It was a huge task for her to take on single-handed, albeit with a number of workers living on the estate and who knew more than she did about how Dr Ben had managed things. She would have little time left over at the end of each day to indulge in memories, even if they were too recent to have healed completely.
Swishing her old grey-blue skirts through the dew-laden grass, she looked across to where one end of the physic garden joined the orchard, where already men were tying, hoeing, digging and weeding, their brown backs bent to the earth. A splash of bright colour amongst the greenery made her frown and look harder, then smile as she recognised the distant figure of her father wearing his favourite suit of deep red velvet. As an assistant at the Royal Wardrobe in London, Sir George Betterton had access to all the latest fashions in colour and style, always dressing up for an occasion, even for visiting his daughter on a May morning. Behind him, however, stopping to look at the patches of new growth every now and then, was another man Aphra didn’t know. Nor, if she were quite truthful, did she want to, having come here to be alone without the need to make polite conversation to anyone except her family. This was an intrusion and her father ought to have known better.
Trying to suppress her irritation, she glanced down at the hem of her skirt, soaked with dew, grass stalks stuck between her toes, and her old white apron pocket bulging with warm eggs laid away by an independent hen. Aphra’s thick pale blonde hair lay loose upon her shoulders, shining like silk in the sunlight, sliding back down on to her face whenever she brushed it away. Her lips showed a dusting of white flour from the bread roll the baker had given her as she’d passed the kitchen. It was not the image she would have chosen to present to a stranger.
She had time to study him before she emerged from the low-hanging blossom, wondering why her father had needed to bring him here without warning. He was tall and powerfully built with long well-muscled legs encased in a dull gold hose that matched his paned breeches of a deeper tone, like his short doublet. Judging from his tanned skin, she thought he might be a man who travelled, his dark hair lying thickly upon his frilled collar at the back, kept in place by a brown-velvet cap. As he and her father drew nearer, she had an uneasy feeling that he knew of this place, for he looked around him as he walked, at the small arched windows, the massive walls, the regulated order of the estate, the wattle fences, the eel traps in the stream running alongside the building. She thought she saw him nodding, as if to confirm what he expected to see.
‘Good morning to you, my love,’ her father called. ‘Were you hiding?’
‘Not from you, Father. Good day to you.’ She lingered in his embrace, smiling into his velvet doublet, wishing with all her heart that he’d come alone, or with her mother.
He took her hands, suddenly serious, apologetic, but unable to say so. ‘We have a guest,’ he said, rather unnecessarily, ‘and I ask that you receive him, love.’
Darting a glance over her father’s shoulder, she noted two very dark brown eyes regarding her with open admiration and again she felt that he was confirming what he already knew. ‘Father,’ she said, squeezing his hand, ‘this is not the time.’
‘I know, love. I know. But I think in this case, it might be best.’
She sighed, unable to hide her resentment, but unwilling to be more discourteous than that. ‘Then introduce your friend, if you must.’
Sir George’s concern was plain to see as he let go of one of Aphra’s hands. ‘This is Signor Datini,’ he said, ‘from Padua. Elder brother of...of Master Leon, my dear.’
The sharp pull away from his hand and her step backwards hardly surprised him, the wound to her heart being still so raw. ‘Father,’ she whispered, holding a hand flat to her chest, ‘how could you bring him here? Here, of all places, where I...’ Glaring at their guest, her beautiful grey dark-rimmed eyes sparking with anger, she could not trust herself to finish the sentence without discourtesy.
Showing a remarkable degree of understanding, Signor Datini stayed at a respectful distance, speaking to her in a deep voice quite unlike his brother’s light musical tenor. ‘Mistress Betterton,’ he said, ‘I hope that in time you will forgive my intrusion, even in the company of your father, but there are reasons why I had to see you in person.’ He doffed his cap, revealing a head of thick wavy hair.
‘Who sent you?’ Aphra asked sharply. ‘Did he?’
‘You refer to my brother. No indeed, mistress. My father sent me.’
Sir George had rarely heard this harsh tone from his daughter except when scolding a servant. ‘Aphra,’ he said, ‘there are things to be discussed.’
‘I’m sure you think so, Father, but I am well past
