The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  ‘You think your life has been a lie?’ She thrust her face into mine; her eyes were luminous, filled with unshed tears. ‘Well, you have made ours one. I thought when you ran away with that bastardo you made all we had done worthless. I was wrong. Today, you and your newly discovered father have made everything we have done mean nothing. You’ve rendered our lives, your papa’s life, meaningless. Think about that, Mister Secretary’s daughter. Think about that.’ She began to hobble to the door, a bent crone, twisted with thwarted hopes, lost children and the burden of raising another man’s daughter, a girl she never wanted.

  Pity knocked against my heart, but I refused to allow it entry. I didn’t help as she struggled with the latch, her fingers slipping. She wrenched open the door.

  As she paused at the threshold, the cold air from the corridor swept in, swirling her nightdress around her thin ankles.

  ‘Though I may not love you the way I should, or you would hope, I do care, Mallory. Believe it or not, I do.’ Her words were a force that drew me towards her. Her next ones stopped me in my tracks. ‘Let me give you a word of advice. Trust not Sir Francis. Just like you, he’s not what he seems.’

  ‘At least he wants me,’ I cried, a child wailing for its mother.

  ‘Wants you? Is he prepared to acknowledge you as his own?’ I stared. ‘I thought not.’

  ‘It’s not the right time … ’ I began, the words sounding weak.

  Mamma shook her head. ‘It never is for Francis. Not when it interferes with his lofty goals.’ She waited for me to look at her again. ‘You still want to know what you should do?’

  I nodded, the tears I’d tried so hard not to shed beginning to fall.

  ‘Go, child, and never come back. There, I’ve said it. That is what you should have done before. It’s what you need to do now. I will repair Gideon’s heart. You — even without intending to, you only break it.’

  I heard her on the stairs before another door opened then shut with a firm click. I didn’t move. I stood staring at the space where she’d been. It was a while before I closed the door. Breathing deeply, I tried to achieve nonchalance. In and out. According to Castiglione, by adopting the outer illusion of calm, an inner sense of peace would follow. It had worked in the past. I had to think. I had to work out what I was going to do next.

  When Sir Francis told me I was his daughter, I’d had no thought for anyone other than myself. Though I recognised Papa and Mamma had made sacrifices for Sir Francis and me, I’d not understood the extent of them or the impact they’d had.

  Papa had surrendered his future for the sake of his old friend’s daughter. In doing so, he forced his wife to do the same. No wonder Mamma despised me. No wonder she hated Sir Francis. She blamed him not only for her sister’s death but for the demise of her dreams.

  Oh, God. I almost destroyed my future when I ran away with Raffe, but that was nothing compared to what I’d already done. I’d ravaged Mamma’s and Papa’s lives through simply existing. Me and my father. My real father.

  I was no avenging angel. I was a destroyer — of hopes, of dreams, of futures. I was the blight I’d been tagged, a curse that devoured everything in her path: Mallory Blight.

  Mamma was right. There was no choice. I had to leave.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  The 3rd of December, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  The cock had crowed and Gracious had collected the hens’ eggs by the time I finished the letter. Dressing with more care than usual, I threw my few belongings in an old burlap, then went hastily to Caleb’s room.

  Without waiting for permission, I knocked and entered. The room was dark and frowsting. Stale beer, wine and food as well as the thick smell of tallow candles and smoke lingered. Fumbling my way to the window I flung the shutters open, allowing light and icy air to pour in. Sheets of paper were strewn all over the desk and a number had found their way to the floor. Tucking the letter beneath my arm, I began to pick them up.

  ‘Mallory,’ grumbled Caleb, sitting up in bed. ‘What on earth are you doing? Good God woman, even the sun is still abed.’

  Placing the pages on the desk, I pulled aside the curtains, admitting the weak light from the grey mizzle and sat on the bed.

  ‘I need you to deliver this,’ I said and held out the letter.

  Caleb rubbed his eyes and beard before looking from me to the letter and back again. ‘Why, you’re nicely prinked,’ he said, taking in my attire. ‘Where are you —?’ He stopped, screwed up his eyes then scooted forward in the bed, bringing the sheets with him. ‘Mallory, sweetling. You’ve been crying. What is it?’

  I placed my hand over his on my cheek.

  ‘Please, Caleb, no kindness, no understanding. I can scarce contain myself. Call me whore, call me trull or caitiff, but do not ask what is wrong, for I cannot tell you — not yet. One day soon, all will be apparent.’

  Taking the letter slowly, he beheld it as if it had teeth. ‘You’re not planning to elope again, are you?’ he said, cocking his head to one side, hoping to elicit a laugh.

  I bit back a sharp, bitter one. ‘Of that, I can assure you I am not. But I am leaving. That’s also why I’m here. I wanted to let you know.’

  ‘Oh dear gods, Mallory, why? I mean, I always knew it was a possibility, but why now?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Is it because of what we witnessed? Campion? Has Sir Francis said something?’

  Oh aye, but not what Caleb assumed. I shook my head.

  ‘Is it her?’ asked Caleb, his eyes narrowing. We both knew to whom he referred.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Mamma? No … she has … naught to do with my decision.’ What an accomplished dissembler I was becoming. ‘It’s the right thing, that’s all.’

  ‘Does your father know?’

  My father. I almost choked. ‘Papa will not be surprised, I think.’ I nodded towards the letter. ‘Once he reads that, he will understand. Please, reassure him he’s not to worry. I know you can comfort him; you’re like a son to him — the son he never had.’

  ‘And he is the kind of father I always longed for… But where are you going? What will you do?’

  I pressed my fingers against his lips.

  ‘Hush. Hush. I intend to go to Seething Lane. I’m not leaving London, Caleb. I will still see you — at least, I hope so.’

  Frowning, Caleb slid his hand from my face. God forbid, tears gathered on my lashes. ‘I will do as you ask. But Mallory … are you sure?’

  Before I could reassure or explain, there was the sound of muffled voices below — Mamma and Angela. They were speaking in Italian. Caleb’s bedroom was directly above Mamma’s.

  ‘I love Angela dearly,’ groaned Caleb, gripping the sides of his head with his hands, crumpling my letter, ‘and the sound of your mother tongue, but sometimes it’s more than I can stand. They chittered all through the night — your Papa was with them for some of it — and it made reading, let alone writing, an impossibility.’ It was no mystery what they would have been discussing. He waved a hand towards his desk, awash with parchment, books, half-empty cups and paper. My eyes travelled to the chest. It was still there. Caleb saw the direction of my gaze.

  ‘You’re leaving now?’ he asked, hoping to distract me. It worked.

  ‘Aye, before the house stirs too much.’

  ‘Zounds. Will your father have apoplexy when he reads this?’ He flapped the letter.

  ‘I doubt that.’ I stood. ‘Please, Caleb, look to him, won’t you? And write to me care of Seething Lane. This isn’t adieu, my friend. I will come to your plays, we will still see each other.’

  ‘I will hold you to that, Mallory Bright. I lost you once, but ne’er again.’

  Caleb threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Still in his shirt and hose, he was a sight. Drawing me into his arms, he held me tight. ‘Whatever it is that’s brought this on and come between you and your father — for
I know of naught else that would drive you away again — it will be resolved, Mallory. I will make sure of that.’

  The sadness I’d kept at bay began to spill. Caleb’s understanding and commitment to heal a breach I’d not deliberately caused, yet did not know how to begin to mend, broke me. I tried to push him away. He held me tighter.

  ‘It will, Mallory. It just needs time.’

  ‘Like all things.’ I managed to extract myself. ‘But also space. That is what I am supplying. Just give Papa the letter and keep watch. Alert me if there is need.’

  With a flourish, Caleb bowed, his hair flopping over his forehead. ‘Your wish, et cetera, et cetera, my lady.’ The cheeky grin fell, to be replaced by a look of deep sadness. ‘Good God, Mallory, what am I to do without you?’

  Depositing a kiss on his cheek, I left while I still could.

  THIRTY-NINE

  SEETHING LANE, LONDON

  The 3rd of December, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  I caught Sir Francis as he was about to leave for Whitehall and begged a few minutes of his time. He invited me into his office, away from the curious eyes and ears of his assistants, shut the door and bade me sit.

  ‘You look tired, Mallory,’ he said.

  It could have been said of him as well. His skin was grey, his eyes dull and red-veined.

  ‘I … did not sleep well. I’d much to think about.’

  ‘Aye, us both.’ He smiled, but it was awkward, lacking in warmth. Sadness drew my mouth down. I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t this — a meeting of strangers.

  ‘You spoke to Gideon?’ asked Sir Francis.

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ I said. ‘He guessed.’

  ‘Ah. He was always insightful.’ He shoved some papers aside and placed both elbows on the desk. ‘How … how was he?’

  Shaking my head, I lowered my chin. I could not, would not say. To reveal Papa’s hurt and pain would be too great a betrayal, even to this man … my father.

  ‘I understand.’

  I raised my head. I believed he did. ‘Living at home has become, for the present …’ Mamma’s face swam before my vision, her bitter words. I will repair Gideon’s heart. You — you only break it. ‘Untenable. I thought perhaps I could live with Goodwife Bench at Billiter Lane and work from there.’

  I gazed at him hopefully.

  ‘Live at Billiter Lane? Mallory, I’m afraid that’s not possible.’

  What remained of my heart sank into my boots. ‘Then what am I to do? I know I cannot live here.’

  Sir Francis coughed. ‘That you certainly cannot. What would my lady wife and dau —’ He stopped, shooting me a look before turning away. ‘It would not be appropriate and would only increase the wounds I imagine Gideon feels; Valentina too.’

  And be impossible for you.

  Scraping back his chair, he stood. ‘There has to be a better solution. Are you sure you cannot remain at Harp Lane?’

  I didn’t respond. The man who only last evening admitted he was my father could not, would not help me. Despair hammered my resolve. I’d stupidly believed that when he confessed to his paternity, Sir Francis would at the very least accept some responsibility for my well-being. It seemed I was wrong.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  I feared he did not.

  He began to walk around the room, rubbing his beard, smoothing his cheeks, his agitation obvious. Why had he admitted paternity if he wasn’t also driven by a desire to improve our relations? I began to pray for a solution; that the man who’d confessed he was my father last night would see fit to help me today. All I asked for was assistance, not public acknowledgment of my birthright.

  I watched him pace before the portrait of the Queen; her eyes gazed at me over his shoulder.

  How fortunate was my sovereign. A woman of power, not dependent upon menfolk for goodwill, for security and a future. Why, she could reject a thousand husbands, earn the ire of her Privy Council for ignoring their entreaties and still command. With ships, captains, armies and Sir Francis’s entire network of agents at her disposal, let alone courtiers who obeyed her every whim, Her Majesty ruled not only men, but the country and kept the baying Catholic world at heel.

  Oh, to be a Queen …

  I recalled something Mamma said not long after I returned home after being rescued from Raffe. I’d gone to her room to receive her blessing before bed. More mellow than usual, she included me in her conversation with Angela, which, as it often did, centred on who was marrying whom in the parish.

  ‘Enjoy your freedom while you can, Mallory,’ she said. ‘’Tis but an illusion. None of us —’ she gestured to Angela and me, ‘are ever free. It is a dangerous estate for a woman. The sooner we shackle you to a husband, the better. You’re not Her Majesty to deny God’s natural course and refuse to be a woman or a wife. You’re a mere female, one with a past and a sullied reputation who must needs take salvation — in the form of a man — where she can.’

  ‘Valentina, you do not mean that,’ said Angela.

  ‘Don’t I?’ Mamma spat. ‘Do not all men use us for their own needs, whether it be to satisfy their desires, produce an heir, or look to their well-being? We’re not God’s servants. We are men’s. Who looks to us, Angela? Tell me? Who looks to us women?’

  Mamma’s words echoed in my head. Who looks to us women? After all this time, I had the answer. If our fathers could not or would not, then we must look to ourselves. My eyes were drawn to my burlap, which had fallen open at my feet. Atop my belongings was the book I’d purchased for Beatrice. Again, my mind led me down the paths of memories … I wish you were my companion, Beatrice had said.

  Had not Lord Nathaniel also raised the possibility? Offered me not merely a position, but an opportunity?

  ‘Sir Francis,’ I said, rising so fast that he spun around. Should I have called him father? It did not seem right. It did not describe our relations. ‘If I may? I think I have a solution.’

  ‘Oh?’ He regarded me in such a manner, I knew he thought the prospect unlikely. ‘Please, enlighten me.’ He returned to his seat, rested his elbows on his desk once more and waited.

  I remained standing and cleared my throat. ‘It so happens that Lord Nathaniel Warham is seeking a companion for his sister Beatrice.’

  ‘I know her. She’s a friend of Frances’s.’

  I bowed my head in acknowledgment. ‘His lordship once asked if I might consider such a post. At the time, it was not feasible. But in light of recent events, and since I’m unable to find accommodation in one of your homes —’ I didn’t disguise the recrimination in my tone, ‘might not this solve my dilemma? Since I am not free to leave your employ as I am contracted, could you recommend me to him?’

  Sir Francis’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated my proposal. He no longer saw me, lost in the maze of his mind.

  ‘Perchance you could write to Lord Nathaniel …’ My voice petered out. I sank into my chair and waited.

  Voices drifted through the door, as did the sound of footsteps and a loud bang as something was dropped upon the floor. Sir Francis didn’t notice. Through the window behind him I watched an ostler placing a feed bag over the head of a fractious horse, holding him by the reins, putting his face close to one of the horse’s ears as it resisted before calming and plunging its nose into the chaff. An older maid stopped to converse with one of the yard hands, who threw his head back to laugh at something she said. If Lord Nathaniel would not have me, the life of a maid might have to suffice …

  ‘Placing you in Lord Nathaniel’s house could work in a number of ways,’ said Sir Francis. Hope began to flower in my breast. ‘It will provide you with safe accommodation, respectable employment, and you’ll be seen to be away from my sphere of … influence by Gideon and Valentina. I believe they would approve.’

  I didn’t correct his assumption. Mamma would not care if I was sent to the Celebes Sea.

  ‘It will give them time to
adjust.’ His tone softened. ‘It will give you the same.’

  ‘I’ve no need of time,’ I said swiftly. The lies were dancing off my tongue of late. I was indeed becoming the false woman Lord Nathaniel had accused me of being, saying one thing and meaning another.

  Sir Francis regarded me patiently. My glibness did not fool him.

  ‘Whether you do or not, a post with Lord Nathaniel places you in the perfect position to do something for me. For your country.’

  Not yet ready to own me as daughter, he would fain continue to use me as an employee. Mamma’s warnings tolled. My shoulders became heavy. My temples throbbed. I pressed my fingers against them. This didn’t sit well. Had I been too hasty? I opened my mouth to object, but before I could, Sir Francis continued.

  ‘In the wake of Campion’s death, the colleges in Reims and the networks they’ve established throughout England are seeking to recruit more souls. That renegade priest Anthony Tyrell revealed as much when we questioned him. The Guises in league with Philip and the Pope are pressing harder for the Queen’s removal. Her assassination. They will stop at nothing to achieve this.’

  I inhaled sharply.

  ‘Over the last months, hundreds of Catholic books and pamphlets have made their way to our shores, all designed to sway weak minds against Her Majesty and our faith.’

  ‘You’ve not seized them?’

  Sir Francis hesitated. ‘Only a few. We’ve allowed most to enter the country, tried to follow them from the ports with the intention to find the source and monitor to whom they’re distributed. Even though hundreds have arrived, thus far only a few have reappeared. Alas, despite our best efforts, we’ve been unable to discover where the bulk of them are being housed, or for where they’re destined. We suspect they’re in London. Whoever has them is either awaiting a signal to begin distribution or the arrival of someone who will take them out of the city. From here, there’s no doubt they’ll disappear into Catholic strongholds in the countryside — Northamptonshire, Oxford and further north — and be used to garner support for that viper in our bosom, the Scottish Queen. For that reason, we must find and destroy them — and destroy whoever has them. If Campion has taught us anything, it’s the danger of powerful, persuasive words.’