The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  I studied my left hand, the slim band of gold glinting in the firelight. Mamma had given me both a ring and a character: the grieving widow. Papa had urged a fresh start and sought the aid of an old friend.

  I stared at the fire. Didn’t the flames roar anew each time the hearth was swept and the wood stacked? I shut my eyes. The light continued to dance against my eyelids, certain, merry, strong. I was a Bright.

  From this day forth, I would be Mallory Bright: the woman with a past and a future as well. There was equilibrium in that. There was mediocrita. And I would be a woman without a heart.

  As if to contradict me, my heart beat beneath my locket. My fingers closed around the warm metal. But being without a heart didn’t resonate with how I felt or with Castiglione’s advice. Rather, I must be the woman who refused to reveal her heart, to show passion — towards anything.

  Opening my eyes, I retrieved the kerchief from Angela and gave my nose a final, defiant blow. There’d be no more tears. From this night forward, I was done with those as well.

  FIVE

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  The 19th of November, Anno Domini 1580

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  As I sat in the parlour the following morning and watched the grey dawn cede to a cold, sunless day, the events of the night before crowded my head, thwarting any attempt to read and forcing me to recognise that governing my emotions was easier said than done. It would require much practice. Curled in what was known as Mamma’s chair, Ovid’s poetry open in my lap, the pages unturned. The fire crackled in the hearth, light refracting off the ewer and cup of small ale sitting on the table in front of me. A scattering of empty chairs and stools as well as low tables, some with pretty objects upon them, filled the space. Lavender had been sprinkled through the fresh rushes, giving the room a sweet perfume. Tapestries I’d gazed upon my whole life adorned the walls, a little more frayed and faded than in my recollections. I’d spent many cold and lonely nights over the past couple of years trying to recall each and every scene, every last thread, as well as conversations and meals that had taken place in their presence in order to transport myself back home again when the possibility of return seemed all but gone. Forcing myself to cease that line of thought, I listened to the sounds of the house. Wind rattled the shutters and shook the panes. Above me, floorboards creaked as Angela, Mamma or the servants moved about the rooms. Beyond the parlour, doors opened and closed, feet shuffled across rushes, voices rose and fell. Outside, bells rang, criers could be heard and the faint groan of wheels on cobbles could just be distinguished.

  The conversation I’d overheard between Papa and Sir Francis played over in my head, and my anxiety ebbed and flowed. How did Papa know this man? To whom did the forziere with the deadly lock belong? What would happen to that person now the contents were discovered? Recalling Sir Francis’s sombre appearance, I shuddered. Why had Papa asked Mister Secretary for help? And in what other matters had he asked for assistance?

  So many questions without answers, except those crafted by my wild imaginings. One thing above all tormented me. How could I not have noticed Papa’s failing eyesight? There’d been no hint, no sign when he found me. Thinking back, we’d barely spoken on our journey home. Ashamed, I couldn’t look at him or, when I did, it was only to turn away again lest he read what I tried to hide. The trip had taken days and during that time there’d been moments when Papa had mistaken a shadow for a beast, a distant plume of smoke for clouds. I’d thought nothing of it. Then there’d been that night at the inn near Nottingham where he’d missed a step and fallen to his knees, blaming it on the wine he’d consumed. Wrapped up in a mixture of remorse, relief and fear my secret would be discovered, I’d not heeded these things, accepting Papa’s explanations when all the time he was concealing his condition. No wonder he’d asked me to unpick the lock for Sir Francis. Guilt consumed me. If I’d been at home, perchance Papa wouldn’t be in this predicament. If he hadn’t been so keen to express his disapproval by banishing me from the workshop, I could have helped, taken on extra duties; or ensured the apprentices did so, at least.

  If I’d never left, he wouldn’t have had to strain his eyes so much. Papa’s poor vision was likely my fault, another sin to add to my growing inventory.

  There was no help for it, I would have to persuade Papa to let Uncle Timothy examine him and see if anything could be done. Why, a pair of spectacles might help. The possibility Papa might also change his mind and keep me by his side was too delicate a notion to properly examine. I let it rest — for now.

  I flipped a page, and the parlour door flew open. In tripped Caleb, sweeping an elaborate bow before throwing a sheaf of papers onto the table and casting himself into the chair opposite.

  ‘How goes it, sweet lady?’ he said and reached for the ewer. Without asking, he topped up my cup and downed the contents in a few swallows, releasing a satisfied sigh before refilling it.

  ‘Better than you, I’d say,’ I said, removing my hand from my heart, which had leapt at his entry. ‘How were the celebrations last night? Was your new patron happy with the production? What time did you get in?’ I closed my book. There was no point even pretending to read now.

  ‘Pray, when did you become such a shrew? The sun has barely risen. Cease, my lady, and let this gentleman, who has only just crossed the threshold, rest his folly-fallen head with easeful silence and this medicinal —’ He raised the cup to his lips once again.

  ‘Is that not the cause of your affliction, sir?’ I asked wryly, pointing at the cup. Caleb looked worse for wear. His eyes were red, his skin sallow and his attire appeared slept in. The smell of taprooms, beer, smoke and other odours wafted from him. I screwed up my nose.

  Seeing my expression, Caleb brought his sleeve to his nostrils. ‘Ugh. I reek worse than a tanner’s jakes. I blame Lord Nate, who I rename the devil incarnate. He made me do it.’

  ‘Ah, your new patron,’ I said and gestured for him to return my cup.

  ‘Aye.’ Caleb tossed back the remainder of the drink and gave the vessel over. I refilled it and sipped slowly. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he continued. ‘The man is a libertine. First he gave me malmsey, then sack. I believe there was beer as well, before he persuaded me to drink a philtre or two. Then he had the courtesy to abandon me for a pretty wench.’

  I raised my brows.

  He chuckled before groaning and holding his head. If Mamma or Papa ever heard how Caleb spoke to me, they’d disapprove. I enjoyed the details to which no lady should be privy. It was a mark of our friendship, of the easy yet fond regard in which we held each other. He was the brother I never had, the friend and confidant I so sorely needed.

  For certes, Caleb was taken with this Lord Nathaniel Warham. He might dub him the devil this day, but he’d also called him ‘dashing’, ‘clever’, and after his lordship purchased the rights to form an acting company and appointed Caleb a shareholder, actor and chief writer, he called him ‘a man of great taste’ who had a story for every occasion. Unlike most nobles who gave their name, protection and funds to theatre companies but little else, Lord Nathaniel watched every performance, attended rehearsals and made suggestions for improvements which Caleb, uncharacteristically, accepted with goodwill. Nor was the lord above drinking with the men — as the events of last night testified. Caleb said he’d even been to Lord Nathaniel’s houses — a grand manor not far from St Paul’s and an estate upriver from Hampton Court. I hoped to meet this paragon one day, but with the possibility of my departure looming, I might be gone before the chance presented itself.

  ‘A groat for your thoughts,’ said Caleb from the hearth.

  ‘Only a groat?’

  ‘If they’re worth more, I’ll give a fair price.’

  I half-smiled then frowned.

  ‘What is it, Mallory?’ Caleb crossed the room in two strides, drew up a chair and reached for my hands, holding them loosely in his own. ‘Is it your mother again? What has she said?’ I shushed him, g
lancing nervously at the door. ‘Have you been weeping? You have, haven’t you? Has someone offended you? You were safe walking home yester eve? Is it those dreams again? You have to stop holding yourself accountable. You must seek me out if you’re distressed.’ Questions and injunctions poured out of him. I shook my head, trying to get a word in.

  ‘No. No. Aye. It’s none of those things. I know you care for me and I give thanks. But please, Caleb, no sympathy, not today. I prefer your scandalous tales. Show me kindness and, as I told Angela, the dam inside me may well break again.’ I drew a jittery breath, fighting for control.

  Releasing my hands, Caleb sat back and adopted the voice of one of his characters, Master Toby Scrofula. ‘Very well. Hold nothing, vixen. Tell me all. What ails thee?’

  I bit back a smile. God, I would miss Caleb. ‘Turns out, you’re not the only one who might be leaving — the house, if not the town. Only I fear my absence, unlike your tour of the shires, may be more than temporary.’

  I quickly filled him in on what had happened when I arrived home last night. When I said Sir Francis’s name, Caleb let out a long whistle.

  ‘Mister Secretary! Here?’ His eyes widened as I confirmed it. ‘Why?’

  I confessed how I’d lingered outside and listened to their conversation.

  Caleb sank back further into the chair, his fingers gripping the arms. ‘So, Mister Secretary Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster, is your father’s “old friend”. Zounds. I wonder what that means? How do they know each other?’ His eyes took on a familiar faraway look. ‘It’s well known Sir Francis left England when Bloody Mary came to power, returning only when Her Majesty took the throne. So did your father. It’s entirely possible they knew each other in exile.’

  ‘Papa has never made mention … not one word.’

  ‘You could ask your mother …’ began Caleb, before catching the look on my face and pressing his lips together. ‘All right … perchance not. Still, how intriguing. I wonder what work, if any, he’ll find for you? I wonder where you’ll go? I know.’ He sat upright and pointed at me. ‘You’ll be given to a diplomat in the Spanish embassy who’ll fall for your Romany beauty and beg you to marry him.’

  A small noise of disgust escaped me.

  ‘I’m allowed to dream,’ protested Caleb. ‘Especially since you stubbornly refuse to and insist on appearing like a drab. You may think you hide your beauty by dressing in such a manner, concealing your face and refusing to smile and shine in conversation like you used to. One has only to look beyond the dreary exterior and see the treasure sparkling beneath.’ He waited to see if I’d respond, and when I did not, he reached over and grasped my fingers. ‘You’ll not bring him back by denying yourself, you know.’

  Oh, I knew.

  Kissing the back of my hand, he released it and lifted the papers he’d brought into his lap and began to straighten them.

  ‘He has daughters, Sir Francis,’ he scratched his head. ‘Some stepsons, too, though I believe there was a terrible accident. An explosion if I’m not mistaken … ’ He shuddered. ‘There was something about the younger daughter as well …’ Caleb paused and examined his fingernails. ‘I forget. No doubt he needs a governess. Imagine that: Mistress Mallory, Keeper of Mister Secretary’s Children.’ He gave a bark of laughter. I returned a dry smile. ‘You might find yourself working for the most feared man in the realm.’

  ‘And angels will descend to dance for my pleasure and you might find yourself a respectable woman.’

  Caleb met my eyes, his twinkling. We burst into laughter.

  Wiping his eyes, Caleb passed me a sheaf of paper. ‘So happens, I have work for you. I need to con lines for tomorrow’s performance. Can you help?’ Before I could answer, he went on. ‘I managed to convince Master David, our new book holder (if ever a man was born to hold the book, it’s Master David), to loan me his copy of the play as well as the sheets with my lines.’ He waved the pages he was holding. ‘He told me if anything happened to that,’ he pointed to my lap, ‘he’d cut my balls off and fling them into the bear pit. I’m not ready to be a eunuch and not pretty enough to play the woman’s part, so watch what you do with those, my sweet lady.’

  I carefully perused what Caleb had given me. Covered in neat script from which lines, arrows and scrawled amendments blossomed in the margins, it was Sackville and Norton’s popular tragedy Gorboduc. Familiar to Londoners, it told the story of two princes who, after their father divided his realm, fought over their share, setting off a chain of catastrophic consequences. With no single heir, there was bloodshed aplenty, families torn apart, misery, war and love. In other words, it was a marvellous story that captured the audience’s imagination and spoke to the times. After all, our Queen had refused to either produce an heir or name a successor.

  ‘Knowing your manhood is in my hands,’ I responded carefully, not daring to look at him, ‘I’ll protect these pages accordingly.’

  Caleb gave an amused snort.

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t performed Gorboduc before. It’s just the type of work you like, agitates political sensibilities.’

  ‘Oh, I have. A few times in your absence. Though not with Lord Warham’s Men, and only in minor roles.’ There was an uncomfortable silence. With false gaiety, he continued, leaning over and trailing his finger down the first page. ‘If you could read all the parts with the exception of the King’s and the Chorus,’ said Caleb, getting down to business.

  Glad for the distraction, I took another sip of ale and settled into the chair. The pleasure I took from pretending to be someone else was greater now than it had ever been, and I launched myself into the various roles with gusto, rising from the chair and moving around the room as appropriate, adopting diverse postures and voices. Lost in the world Norton and Sackville had created, I could be anyone but myself.

  Absorbed in what we were doing, time flew. As we were about to start a third read-through, this time with Caleb attempting to recall his lines without looking at the script, he went to throw more wood on the fire while I refreshed our drinks.

  ‘Gideon!’ exclaimed Caleb.

  I spun around. Standing in the doorway was Papa. How long he’d been there, I was uncertain.

  Caleb dusted his hands and stood up, touching his bonnet. ‘God give you good day, sir. We didn’t hear you.’

  Bestowing a warm smile, Papa shut the door and approached the fire. ‘Nothing to forgive.’ He patted Caleb on the back. ‘I was enjoying listening to you both. It’s an excellent play. God give you good day, Mallory.’ He kissed my cheek.

  ‘You too, Papa.’ I tried to examine his eyes in the daylight, but he turned his face away.

  ‘When and where are you performing it?’ asked Papa, moving to the table and bending over as if reading the sheets.

  ‘Inn of Temple Courts on the morrow,’ said Caleb. ‘We rehearse from dawn,’ he sighed. ‘We intended to practise today, but I’m afraid the festivities of last night went longer than they should, so we decided to put an extra effort in tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Circe’s Chains,’ said Papa. ‘Angela said it went well.’

  Caleb glanced in my direction, his lips twisting slightly. I pulled an apologetic face. There hadn’t been the chance to tell Papa about the play. Caleb knew that. Still, his voice had a slight chill when he replied.

  ‘Better than I’d hoped. Can I be of service, Gideon?’ he asked, pouring a drink and passing it to Papa.

  Taking the cup and raising it by way of thanks, Papa took a sip. ‘Not you, Caleb. It’s Mallory I need.’

  Caleb’s astonishment matched my own and he turned slowly aside.

  I kept my voice calm, calling on my resolve to be controlled. ‘How may I be of service?’

  Papa flexed his fingers, finding them suddenly very interesting. ‘A locked chest has just been delivered — the workings are curious and I thought you might like to see them.’ He raised his face and for the first time since I’d returned, I was able to see his eyes clearly. Tho
ugh the late afternoon sun struck his cheek, casting part of his face into shadow, it was evident his once shining chestnut eyes were dulled. A milky film had grown across one. Aware of my scrutiny, Papa blinked and lowered his head. ‘I believe it’s Flemish, but I would like your view.’

  ‘Does it need unlocking?’

  Papa nodded. ‘The key was lost in the crossing.’

  ‘Then let’s open it and make a new one.’

  Papa slid the cup into Caleb’s hand and turned to the door. ‘Caleb,’ he said gruffly by way of farewell, ‘I’ll not keep her long.’

  Caleb casually dismissed me with a wave of his hand and mouthed Go, go. ‘I will return anon, your majesty,’ I said, dropping a small curtsey, allowing Caleb to see my delight before regaining my composure.

  ‘And I will await your return, my subject,’ he said with a straight-faced bow behind Papa’s back, raising his hand in a signal of solidarity.

  Without another word I followed Papa, my feet barely touching the floor. Perchance Papa’s loss of sight would work in my favour and, instead of sending me away, he would keep me by his side and allow me to be his eyes.

  And if dreams were locks, we’d all possess keys.

  SIX

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  From mid-November to after the Feast of the Epiphany, Anni Domini 1580–1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  The chest and its numerous locks were not particularly interesting. Nor was the design Flemish but Spanish. A spring-loaded flap hid the main keyhole that was raised by pressing a trigger at the side of the chest. Once exposed, it was evident any well-made master key would open this lock and likely the others. Papa would have known this.

  He stood by my side, silent, his breathing heavy. I wanted so badly to question him regarding his sight, Sir Francis, to plead with him to let me stay. Once I wouldn’t have thought twice about posing such questions — or questions about anything. Artlessly, I could shock Papa with my queries, which ranged from why Plato had Socrates banish poets from his Republic, to why Mistress Shoemaker, the mercer’s wife, had died while her child lived. Whereas Mamma would sometimes strike my cheek, appalled by my temerity, Papa would take it all in his stride and answer honestly and in detail. Thus I learned that Plato believed poetry excited the parts of the soul that steered a person away from rational thought and behaviour. Poets fired the imagination, dealt in untruths and pretended to knowledge they did not and should not possess. When I said I wanted to be a poet, Papa laughed and said, ‘Don’t we all.’ As for Mistress Shoemaker, Papa took his time to answer and when he did, it was in the kind of voice reserved for church and Sundays. He said, ‘Sometimes God calls mothers to His side,’ and that we shouldn’t see it as a tragedy so much as a blessing because they were at peace with the Lord. ‘But what about the baby?’ I insisted. ‘If going to God is a blessing, then why wasn’t the baby, who is without sin, taken too?’