of him. You may tell him so, from me.’
‘Please,’ said the elder brother, ‘please try to understand. We do not condone my brother’s deception. Our family is concerned for you.’
‘Very touching,’ Aphra retorted, ‘but I do not need their concern. Your brother and I were not betrothed, signor, so I have absolutely no claim to make and, even if I had, I would not. Your brother’s sudden change of mind is insulting enough without haggling over who said what to whom. So if you have come here to find out whether I intend to sue, you can assure your family that I am well rid of a man as fickle as that.’
A lesser man than Signor Santo Datini would have reeled from that salvo, but he was a hard-dealing merchant and the fury behind Mistress Betterton’s eyes was something worth seeing even though it was directed partly at him. He had, for one thing, come here to find out more about her and the effect his brother’s stupidity had had upon her future intentions, but it would not do to tell her so. Licking her wounds, the lady was clearly in no mood for platitudes. ‘I can understand how you feel,’ he said, committing that very same error, deserving her quick retort.
‘I doubt that very much,’ she said. ‘No one can.’ Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, brushed angrily away with the back of one hand. ‘There is no more to be said on this subject, Father.’
‘Not out here in the orchard, perhaps,’ Sir George agreed, ‘but I think we might offer Signor Datini some refreshment before we return. Shall we?’ Extending a hand, he indicated where their courtesies lay.
Assenting in silence, she led the way to the prior’s house that had been converted into a more comfortable collection of parlours, bedrooms, kitchens and service rooms where, in the last few weeks, Aphra had begun to place her personal stamp on the previously masculine interiors. Through cool stone-flagged passages she led the two men into a sunny parlour overlooking a beautifully manicured square plot that had once been the cloister garden. A servant poured wine for them, discreetly leaving them as soon as they were seated on cushioned benches. The white plastered walls reflected light from the greyish-green glass in the windows and on the windowsill stood a pewter jug filled with bluebells. A woman’s touch in a place built for men.
Aphra sat next to her father opposite Signor Datini, uncaring that her face was streaked with tears or her hair was sticking to her cheeks. For months, ever since Leon’s distressing letter, she had told herself that it would have been easier for her to bear if he’d been dead; the memory of his sweet deceitful words, his arms, his kisses flooded over her like a terrible ache and it seemed that, as the hostess, she would be obliged to speak of him to his brother whether she wished it or not.
‘He spoke of his family,’ she said. ‘You are Santo, I take it?’
‘I am indeed Santo, mistress. Leon told us about you, too.’
‘Really? Then why the sudden change of mind, I wonder? Did he get cold feet at the thought of marrying an English woman? If that was on his mind, signor, you may return to Padua with the good news that there is no betrothal nor any claim for the Datini family to concern itself with.’
‘Aphra! Stop! This will not do, my dear,’ her father said. ‘You cannot hold Signor Datini responsible for any of this. He was sent by his father.’
‘To check up on me? On our family? Well, tell your parents I can manage well enough without their help. As you see, I am well set up with my family nearby. What more could I want?’
Bitterness and anger from his daughter were too new for Sir George to be used to them, she being usually so quietly in control of herself and every situation. ‘Little mother hen’ he and Aphra’s mother called her, knowing how she would take to motherhood with enthusiasm one day, though not like this. The idea of having a family one day, they thought sadly, might have been one of the reasons she had been too hasty in accepting the first offer of marriage that had come her way, falling in love too easily with a young student who had not finished his training. Master Leon had not wanted a betrothal ceremony before he returned home last September to tell his parents, which ought to have rung warning bells in their minds, and did not, because he’d had Dr Ben’s approval.
‘Mistress Betterton,’ Santo said. ‘I am happy to see that you want for nothing, but I came to offer you our family’s protection, should you need it. I had no idea what to expect, though I knew about Sir George’s royal employment, of course. As for yourself, I am both surprised and relieved to see you living where my brother received tuition with Dr Spenney. Leon told me about Sandrock Priory. He was happy here but, as a student, he had no right to offer you something he didn’t have. That was wrong of him.’
His gentle tone did nothing to ease Aphra’s distress. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we spoke of marriage, but we made no vows, formal or otherwise. That exonerates the Datini family from all obligations, doesn’t it? Or is it me who is to blame? Is that what you think? That I seduced him?’
‘Aphra! Enough of this!’ her father said, sternly. ‘You are letting your tongue run away with you. Say nothing you might regret later.’
‘Father, I regret everything. Everything. Every word. Every deed. Every wasted emotion. And I regret that you have brought Signor Datini here to remind me of what I would rather forget. Why on earth did you think it could help?’ Pushing herself away from the table, she walked over to the huge stone fireplace where the surround was covered with the arms of previous priors, a mass of symbols understood even by any illegitimate incumbents. Dr Ben himself had been illegitimate and his brother Paul, too, with whom Ben had been staying when he died. Both sons had been generously included in their father’s will.
‘My family, mistress, wanted you to know of our support and sympathy,’ said Santo. ‘And Sir George and Lady Betterton, too. Leon is deeply ashamed of himself.’ His voice was rich with the lyrical tones of his own language.
‘Ashamed with another woman, you mean?’ she said, whirling round to face him, deliberately thinking the worst, tormenting herself. ‘Is that what you meant by offering me something he didn’t have? The freedom to marry?’
His slow blink turned his eyes away from her towards the light and she could not tell whether he was refusing to rise to her bait, or whether he wished to spare her more pain. She chose the more painful option, simply because she had become used, after Leon’s short letter, to thinking the worst of him. He had given her no reasons, nothing positive to cling to, only an abject apology in a rambling tortuous English that suggested he had not found it easy to write.
She held her face with a hand on each side as if to prevent it crumpling. Her father took her into his arms and held her, her long loose hair falling down his doublet like a veil. His eyes met those of their guest over the top of her head, accepting that Santo’s slight nod of the head meant that Aphra had guessed correctly and that it was time for them to leave.
* * *
Sir George’s country home, Reedacre Manor, was barely an hour’s horse ride away in the same county, and indeed it was fortunate that he and his wife were still there instead of at their London home near the Royal Wardrobe. Had not Signor Datini arrived there unexpectedly last evening, they would by now have been packing up for their move, for Aphra was settling into Sandrock now and physically in much better shape than a month ago. Peace of mind was what she required and Signor Datini’s arrival would not help matters.
The Italian rode easily on the big hunter from Sir George’s stable and both husband and wife had remarked on his graceful bearing and his exceeding good looks that made his brother seem more like a young lad than a fully matured man. He was, they decided, altogether more robust, and probably more
