The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Where your mother was all fire and brimstone, Lucia was moonlight, stars and quicksilver.’ I was unclear whether it was his poetry or the look on his face that made me both uncomfortable and strangely excited.

  Cognisant — as were all the English exiles — that changes were on the horizon at home, Sir Francis courted Lucia cautiously, torn between his love for this Catholic Italian woman and his own beliefs. For a brief time, England and its religious upheavals seemed far away, foreign even …

  When news reached the exiles that Queen Mary was ill and the child she had thought she was carrying was but a phantom, there was jubilation. This could mean that her half-sister, the Princess Elizabeth, would succeed to the throne. If she did, the promise of England becoming a Protestant country became a reality once more. Duty was everything to Sir Francis and, knowing he would have to return to England but wanting to bring his lover with him, he asked Lucia to marry him. She agreed but, in order to placate her parents, who were ambivalent about losing both their daughters to Englishmen and Protestants, Lucia would only leave her homeland once he was established in England, once he’d found not only his place in the new regime, but a home for them as well. Summoned to England urgently upon Queen Mary’s death by Sir William Cecil, Elizabeth’s Secretary, Cecil promised Sir Francis the seat of Bossiney and much more besides. ‘England needs you,’ Cecil wrote.

  Sir Francis left Italy, intending to return as soon as possible, wed his love and bring her back to England with him. When he returned, months later, it was to the tragic news that Lucia had died. She had died giving birth. She’d kept the knowledge she was carrying his child a secret — not only from Sir Francis, but from her family as well. When Valentina discovered the truth, her sister made her swear not to tell a soul. Lucia hadn’t wanted to alter her love’s intentions; she believed them to be honourable. She believed him to be an ethical man who would keep his promises to her.

  Sir Francis was grief-stricken; he was also riddled with guilt, for he’d returned to Italy under false pretences. It wasn’t to collect a bride, but to inform Lucia that he could no longer marry her. His circumstances had altered; with the change of monarch, his religious conscience had been reawakened. He was now promised to another — Anne Carleill, a virtuous Protestant widow with a young son — whose connections would advance his fledgling career under the new regime.

  By then, Gideon and Valentina were caring for the babe … for me. Gideon had ceased his studies and was learning the locksmith’s trade.

  I could scarcely believe that the child at the centre of these events was me. It was like listening to one of Angela’s stories, or watching one of Caleb’s plays.

  ‘When I saw how much Gideon cared for you, how content you were, how much a family you’d all become, I knew I couldn’t destroy that,’ explained Sir Francis. ‘I didn’t know what I could offer a tiny babe, my bastard child —’ He gave me an apologetic smile. The truth did not hurt so much as tie me in confusion. I was a bastard. ‘I was bewildered, heartsore. Confounded. I also had my betrothed to consider, and my new role in parliament. I already had responsibility for my three cousins and was taking on Anne’s son, Christopher, as well. My reputation as a principled, ethical man was growing. How would I explain you? How could I explain Lucia?’ He paused and stared at a point on the wall behind me.

  I remained silent.

  ‘It was then I asked your father to keep you. He and Valentina had cared for you a long while; Gideon showed such promise as a locksmith and had taken to the craft with ease. I had a vague thought that once I was firmly established, I could perhaps send for you, adopt you as my ward and thus protect your name and status. Protect my own as well.’

  The irony of this was not lost on me. Hadn’t I done the same? Done whatever it took to shield myself, and thus those I cared for, from judgement?

  ‘But I needed time,’ continued Sir Francis. ‘Gideon readily agreed, allowing me that and so much more. I think he was already more than a little in love with you.’ A ghost of a grin flickered. ‘I gave him all the money I had and returned to these shores and … continued with my life. Gideon and Valentina followed a couple of years later. By the time they arrived and settled in Harp Lane, you were so much their child, you were his daughter — even in name, you were a Bright. You had his mannerisms, his way of speaking; he was besotted with you. I had a wife of my own, a career … neither of us wanted to disrupt things, reveal what was best left concealed. We agreed we would never speak of it. There was no need. As far as everyone knew, you were the locksmith’s daughter and I had to be content with that.’ He met my eyes. ‘It was God’s will.’

  God saw fit to take my true father from me? Snatch away my birthright? ‘God’s will it might have been, but Mamma’s?’ I had to ask.

  ‘Valentina did what your father wanted.’ Sir Francis turned away.

  What you wanted as well. She was suborned. Sweet Jesus. It explained so much. Mamma’s bitterness; the coldness in her eyes when she gazed upon me, the empty press of her lips upon my forehead; the mumbled blessings, forgotten wassails, her lack of maternal feelings. My heart was squeezed. I put my hand to my chest, unable to believe there was still air in my lungs. How much more did I have to hear? How much more could I take until I became just a broken possession? That’s what I felt like — an object passed about until it was finally discarded.

  Was that to be my fate?

  This revelation made so much sense. Mamma was not my mother. She was only my aunt. Her sister, little Lucia, was my mother. Lucia, the one named for the light, the one I never knew but loved because our name rhymed with hers — light bright, bright light. In Valentina’s heart I was merely her niece, and responsible for her sister’s death. Tears began to flow. I made no attempt to check them. My true mother’s memory, Mamma and Papa’s sacrifice, all they had done for me, for Sir Francis, deserved this from me at least.

  And what of Papa? Papa, my beautiful, wonderful, loving father was my uncle. My Papa who took me though I was not his, who sat me at his knee, read to me, taught me, who protected me from Mamma’s blistering tongue … was not my father. This man, this tall, sallow man from whom I took my hair, my height, my complexion, who had relinquished all responsibility for me, was my father.

  I was a Walsingham. I was his blood. And I had thought marriage to Sir Raffe Shelton, a mere country gentleman, was a social advantage my parents could be proud of. It wasn’t the Bright name I’d sullied through my actions, it was the Walsingham one. No wonder Sir Francis was keen to help Papa restore my reputation — it was his own.

  Mocking voices rang in my head. I was being the dutiful and obedient daughter I’d promised to be after all. I was following in my father’s footsteps, doing his bidding — with the exception of yesterday, when I had broken my word. No wonder he was so affronted.

  I swallowed the laugh that built in my throat. My life was like one of Caleb’s creations, a piece of theatre in which my character was written for me and I but played her part. Mallory Bright, enter stage right. Exit, stage left. No wonder I took to watching and all it offered with such ease. I was most experienced in the art of deception — something Lord Nathaniel had accused me of and something I had vehemently denied. The man had been right all along.

  ‘You may have remained with Gideon,’ said Sir Francis, measuring my every expression carefully. ‘But you’ve always been mine. I’ve watched you from a distance your entire life, Mallory; watched you grow into the lovely young woman you are, a learned one too.’

  ‘Not so learned that I didn’t dash my future upon a foolish dream.’

  ‘You’re not alone in doing that. You’re but your father’s daughter. Did I not seek to do the same?’

  In following my heart and not my head, I’d simply repeated the mistakes (or truth) of my real father. Like him, I too was given a second chance. There was a strange synchronicity that must have pained my parents so … only, they weren’t my parents. What did they care, really?

 
Something else occurred. ‘Raffe … It was you who found me, wasn’t it? In that house in the village? I never understood how Papa managed it, but he didn’t, did he? That was you as well.’

  Sir Francis nodded. ‘I’d heard of your —’ he cleared his throat, ‘elopement. Oh, how I wanted to intervene, especially when I learned the knave’s wife still lived. That she was with child.’

  My hand crept to my belly. How much did this man … my father … really know?

  ‘But I promised Gideon I would not, you see. He was always reluctant to ask for help, let alone take it. I think he feared I would swoop in and whisk you away as I’d once thought to do. So, I promised to maintain my distance unless invited to draw near. Eventually, I could not wait. Without Gideon’s knowledge, I set my men searching for you. When you were found, I went to Gideon … He in turn went to you.’

  It all made sense. Papa’s reluctance to speak about how he knew where I was. ‘And my working for you? Whose idea was that?’

  Sir Francis made a hapless gesture. ‘It was never really intended you would work for me, I was meant to facilitate employment. Gideon invited me to the workshop so I might witness your skills. He wanted to show me that despite what had happened, you were still a woman with prospects. It was a huge concession for him. Afraid of what I might do should I meet you face to face, he nonetheless allowed it to happen. As it was, the thing he feared the most never came to pass … until now. But I saw your potential, Mallory, how I might use your talents and keep you close at the same time. Get to know you.’

  ‘Why wait until now to tell me the truth?’

  Sir Francis paused. ‘To restore your faith in me. To make amends for the falsehood you believe I composed about Campion. ‘

  ‘By revealing a secret that’s been kept for over twenty years?’

  Sir Francis shook his head. ‘It seems preposterous when you put it like that. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.’ He sighed and his eyes wandered to the picture of Mary. ‘A very long time. My greatest concern now is how you feel about … this.’ He touched his chest. ‘About me.’

  I felt suddenly shy. The little flare of anger, of defiance, had been replaced by awkwardness. This man was my father.

  ‘I’m uncertain,’ I said. ‘I never imagined …’

  ‘Of course not. How could you?’

  Aye, how could I when the secret had been kept from me all these years? My hand went to the locket nestled between my breasts. We all had our secrets …

  ‘I must speak with Papa.’

  ‘I thought you might wish to … ’

  ‘You would not want me to?’

  Sir Francis uncrossed his legs. ‘It is up to you. But if I may offer some advice, it won’t be easy for Gideon, or Valentina. They feared such a revelation would alter your relationship with them and would have kept the truth from you … I swore I would keep silent until they deemed otherwise. I’ve broken my promise. Something else we have in common.’ He cocked his head. ‘Has it? Altered your relationship with them? Your feelings?’

  I wasn’t certain of the answer. ‘I … I do not know.’ That was the truth. And yet, deep in my heart, I knew it transformed everything. The thought scared me. It also elated me.

  Sir Francis moved the jug, picked up some papers and straightened them. ‘Has it changed the way you feel about … working for me?’

  I thought about the deep disappointment I’d felt at discovering Sir Francis’s interference with the dossier, my indignation that he would stoop to such measures and the shocking consequences. What did it say about me that the fury and the disappointment were no longer there now I knew he was my father? They had been replaced by a desire to understand, and in so doing perchance to excuse his behaviour, see it as necessary. To think of it in any other way was too much. I opted for the lesser evil. My father was noble in his intentions. He had to be.

  But what about the promise he made to my real mother; the one he was willing to break? I could not hold that against him; to do so would be to punish him for something all men and women were guilty of at one time or another — changing their minds. Ignorance of her state, of her death, should not make his decision to part with her worse. Did he not travel to Italy to tell her in person? No, it was the choices he made after he learned everything for which he should be held to account. Was I so contrary that while I wanted to resent him, to loathe his selfishness, I also, knowing him as I did, understood what drove him? Did not the same motives drive me?

  Aware he was waiting for a response, I took a deep breath. ‘If anything, I want to work harder, to prove my worth both as your agent and your daughter.’

  ‘Ah, you have proved that over and over, my dear. I could not be more proud.’

  My dear. A smile tugged my lips.

  ‘But I ask that you keep the nature of our relationship to yourself. Not until I’m ready to claim you openly and freely should you mention the truth of your birth to anyone else.’

  ‘You would do such a thing? Claim me?’

  Sir Francis’s smile broadened and may even have reached his eyes. It was difficult to know with the candlelight distorting his expression.

  ‘I want the world to know you’re my daughter — but when the time is right. I’ve already lost one, I’ll not lose another.’

  Curse my wretched heart, it responded like a plucked instrument. Papa and Mamma were ready to disown me and all this man wanted, all my father wanted, was the right conditions in which to claim me. Then I recalled his haughty wife and saintly daughter.

  ‘What about Lady Ursula and Lady Frances?’

  ‘Do not concern yourself with them. They will embrace you.’ Under duress they might embrace me, but accept me, never. ‘Until such time, it is our secret.’

  Just as one secret is exposed, another takes its place. God Himself knew, I was good at keeping those.

  Sir Francis stood, arched his back and grimaced. ‘Tonight has been a revelation in so many ways. I’m most impressed with the manner in which you’ve accepted what I’ve told you.’

  It was Castiglione he should be thanking. On the outside, I was all aplomb. If he could but see into my head, he would find a maelstrom of wild thoughts. Maintaining my hard-won assurance, I gave a small shrug.

  ‘What we cannot change … I’m grateful to finally know the truth.’

  There was an awkward moment when I rose and curtseyed just as he bent to kiss me and his teeth struck the top of my head. We both laughed, lifted our arms, dropped them, then finally held each other.

  We stepped apart and he examined my face. Was he looking for likeness or weakness? ‘Until I’ve a new mission for you, you’ll continue to come to the house, decipher and decode. We’ll carry on as usual.’

  As usual? Nothing would ever be ‘usual’ again. From the expression on Sir Francis’s face, the same thought crossed his mind.

  ‘Good night … father,’ I said softly. ‘May I call you that?’

  He hesitated. ‘For tonight alone — in this room. And I will call you daughter.’ He shook his head as if astonished by the notion. I was. ‘Good night, daughter, and may God be with you.’

  I shut the door behind me as I left, then rested my back upon it, staring at the dark ceiling. ‘Sweet Mother Mary and all the blessed saints,’ I said, using a phrase I oft heard Angela whisper when she thought no-one was about.

  ‘Say that in the wrong ears, and you’ll be on the next to hurdle to Tyburn,’ said a voice.

  My hand flew to my breast. ‘Zounds, Thomas! Do you live in the shadows? I didn’t see you.’

  He rose from behind his desk. ‘Obviously. What are you doing muttering papist nonsense? Where did you hear that?’

  I approached his desk, which as usual was covered in paper. A solitary candle burned at his elbow. I tried to see what he was doing, but in the dancing light the ciphers were incomprehensible dashes and squiggles. ‘Here and there. Speaking of which, why are you still here?’

  ‘I’m to escort you home.’ Rubb
ing his eyes behind his spectacles, he lifted his cloak from the back of the chair. ‘You and Sir Francis must have had a great deal to discuss. You’ve been hours.’

  When I didn’t respond, he shrugged. He knew better than to press. ‘Come along, your Papa is waiting.’

  Papa. Father. The terms were laden with fresh meaning. Though Thomas used what was a common expression, I knew this was different. Papa did indeed wait for me. He waited because he knew something momentous had happened.

  As we walked the chilly streets towards Harp Lane, discussing the aftermath of Campion’s death, Londoners’ reactions and news from the French and Spanish embassies, my mind was occupied by an entirely different matter. On my way to Seething Lane that morning I’d thought nothing could distract me from what I had witnessed at Tyburn. Nothing.

  But something else had taken centre stage, changing the lines I’d thought to deliver and altering the very nature of my performance. A new character had been introduced — my father — and altered all the roles, especially mine.

  At the gate I farewelled Thomas and entered the yard. The light was burning in the workshop. I took a deep breath and headed towards it, my mind full, my heart an anchor that tried to restrain me. It was time for me to enter the next scene, and see how beloved characters now played their parts.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  The 2nd of December, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  ‘I’ve not known him to keep you so late before. Is something amiss?’ Papa continued to polish the key in his hand.

  The dogs gave me an excuse to linger by the door as they bounded over to greet me. I patted their heads and rubbed their backs as their tails struck my legs, but I didn’t know how to reply. For all that I likened my situation to a play, I was the actor who forgot his lines. For all that Sir Francis praised my poise, it began to desert me.

  Seeing the man who’d pretended to be my Papa for all these years, who’d nurtured me, taught me, protected me and, above all, lied to me with the best of intentions, it was as if a great scythe swept through my memories and ruthlessly lopped them down. They lay scattered, disorderly and fragmented, and I could not grasp one. They made no sense.