The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Sir Francis took the remnants of kindling from me one by one and touched the torn ends. ‘Possessed of such a device, how does one open the casket?’

  ‘Like this,’ I said and, removing what remained of the wood from the holes with a thin file, inserted two bent picks, one in each opening. After rotating them once or twice, another spring clicked, and more of the ornate scrollwork sprang apart from the escutcheon. This time, the real lock was revealed. Deceptively simple from the outside, closer examination revealed it was designed to take a key with many ward cuts.

  ‘I’m guessing you don’t have the key?’

  Sir Francis shook his head.

  ‘Could you hold this candle just so, please?’ I asked, and passed one to him before he could respond. ‘Don’t let any of the wax drop onto the casket.’

  Lost in my task, I forgot to whom I spoke, only understanding as I bent to pick this lock that I’d ordered one of the most important men in the Queen’s government around as if he was ten-year-old Dickon. Blushing to the roots of my hair, the heat was now unbearable. I could feel the brush of Sir Francis’s suit against my shoulder, smell the spices emanating from his body as he held the candle in place. Alien to my senses, they were not unpleasant. Behind me, the forge coughed and one of the dogs scratched itself, its leg thumping against the floor. Outside the rain pounded furiously against the shutters. Papa remained motionless.

  It took time, but finally, with a small twang, the catch sprang open. I withdrew my instruments and wiped a hand across my brow.

  ‘There,’ I said, and lifted the lid, catching only a glimpse of what lay inside — a flash of ornate silk, a cloth of white lace, the twinkling silver and gold of a thick crucifix, the muddy richness of old embossed leather and the creamy perfection of lace — before the lid was slammed shut and the forziere snatched from the table.

  ‘Was that …?’ The sight of a priest’s tools — an alb, a chasuble and cross, the apparatus of heresy — here, in the workshop, stole my equilibrium. Wonder and terror coursed down my spine. Was this brought here deliberately? To threaten Papa? To torment him over his wife’s recusancy? He used to pay all her fines … Had my actions and the cost made that impossible? I spun towards my father.

  ‘May I thank you for the service you’ve provided, Mistress Mallory.’ Sir Francis was suddenly formal and distant.

  Papa gripped my forearm and squeezed. Hard. ‘That will be all, daughter. Go back to the house. Tell your mother … Tell her I’ll be with her shortly.’

  ‘There’s no need to mention this —’ Sir Francis motioned towards the chest, ‘or my presence to anyone, Mistress Mallory.’

  I contained my curiosity, the questions I wanted to ask. Instead, resisting the urge to plead forgiveness for my Mamma and her adherence to the old ways, to affirm they were not mine, despite my previous lodgings, my relations, I took off the apron, grabbed my cloak, threw it over my shoulders and, carrying my hat and gloves, went to the door. The entire time Papa and Sir Francis neither spoke nor moved.

  ‘May God give you good night, Sir Francis, Papa,’ I called and, with a final curtsey, drew the door shut. Ensuring there was a mere crack, I forgot my recent vow to be obedient and, instead, remained where I was, pressing my face against the wood, turning so I’d catch anything they said. After all, had not this practice stood me in good stead for many a year? I was adept. I prayed the rain beating upon the thatch would fool them into thinking I’d scampered back to the house. Grateful for the small awning that protected me from the worst of the elements, I rolled down my sleeves and stationed myself for listening.

  When there was still no exchange of words, I thought my ruse had been suspected. Rain fell steadily, gusts of wind forcing it to strike my arched back, ruining my ruff and dampening my hair. My gloveless hands fast grew cold and stiff. The shutters rattled. As I was about to flee to the warmth of the kitchen, the men finally spoke.

  ‘Good, now, what do you think?’ asked Papa in a voice I barely recognised, laden as it was with portent and sadness. ‘Can you find her a position?’

  God-a-mercy, Papa was asking Sir Francis to find me employment. Like a little child who still believed in angels, fairies and the possibility of dreams, I’d persuaded myself Papa’s talk of finding me work as soon as I had healed was a threat, a form of punishment for the worry and pain I’d caused and the shame I’d brought upon the Bright name. I’d never really believed he’d do it, not even when my wounds had mended. Yet, here he was, seeking work on my behalf with none other than Sir Francis Walsingham. His ‘old friend’.

  Tears of frustration and injustice rose. Is this why Mamma insisted I go to the theatre? So Sir Francis could arrive unseen by me, so Papa and Mister Secretary could collude without my knowledge or objections? So together they’d arrange my eviction from hearth and home? Then why the mummery with the lock? Why did Papa want to show Sir Francis what I could do? What sort of employ was he seeking for his child?

  ‘I confess, she’s far more skilled than you led me to believe.’ Sir Francis sat upon the stool I’d recently vacated and put the forziere back on the bench, his hand resting lightly on the lid. ‘She’s not what I expected.’

  Papa looked wistful. ‘She’s not what anyone expected.’

  They exchanged a brief smile. ‘She looks well … considering … ’ said Sir Francis. Papa didn’t reply. ‘You say she has languages?’ he continued.

  ‘Italian, French, some Spanish,’ replied Papa. ‘She writes in these as well as Latin and Greek. She reads as well as any learned man. Has a solid grasp of mathematics.’

  Sir Francis rubbed his beard. ‘She knows her letters? Mathematics, you say? Unusual for a woman, but may be of worth. And she can unpick any lock?’

  ‘You saw for yourself. I’ve yet to find one she cannot open.’

  ‘Extraordinary.’ Sir Francis struck the casket with his knuckles and sighed. ‘I want to help, Gideon, truly I do. I want to help her.’

  ‘You must, Francis. If not you, then who? I’ve nowhere else to turn, no-one else to whom I trust her welfare. Only you. I’d never have thought Mallory with all her learning, her headstrong ways, would be one to fall prey to a varlet, but I’d forgotten, for all her knowledge, she’s also a woman, with a woman’s heart and head, readily turned by pretty words and a fine pair of legs.’ Papa paused and heat sped through my body. Was that really me? I blinked and swallowed. It was. Once upon a time. The truth pierced me; my cheeks burned despite the cold.

  ‘After what she endured and the rumours that accompanied her return, she needs to forge herself a new identity.’ Papa sat opposite Sir Francis and leaned forward on the bench, closing the distance between them. The tiny chest was all that separated them. He blinked rapidly.

  ‘Your sight does not improve?’ asked Sir Francis with sympathy.

  What was this?

  ‘It worsens daily,’ sighed Papa. He gave a hollow laugh. ‘The vagaries of age and profession; too long spent at the forge, an errant spark in my youth.’ My heart contracted as Papa pushed his knuckles into his eyes. ‘Part of me wishes it had been stolen completely so I didn’t have to see what the scoundrel did to her; the conditions in which she was forced to live. Truly, it broke my heart into pieces, Francis — and when I thought it could not be shattered any further.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Sir Francis. ‘The knave did not pay dearly enough for his crimes.’

  Sweet Jesu. This man knew my sins, my fall from grace. What else did Sir Francis know? Why, when I had brought so much shame to my family, was Papa conversing so freely about me with his friend? My father, who was so private, had not only confessed a physical frailty about which I knew nothing, but saw free to reveal my disgrace. If I couldn’t trust Papa to keep my degradation to himself, then who?

  Hot tears welled. I dashed them away, determined to see as well as hear what unfolded in the workshop.

  Papa shook his head. ‘Regardless of his sins, Mallory committed her own and, truth be told, as much as I w
ish it were otherwise, she can no longer stay here. Not now evidence of that man’s … attentions has faded. Valentina … ’ He gestured as if trying to conjure the words. ‘Valentina cannot find it in her heart to forgive — not yet. She does not know the full extent of what happened, all the humiliations Mallory suffered.’ He let out a long, wistful sigh. ‘I thought, seeing Mallory again, how frail, how damaged and changed, would make a difference …’ He shrugged. ‘I was wrong. Her very presence arouses Valentina’s spleen and the doctor, my own brother, tells us it will do naught but delay her recovery. I will not allow that. I cannot. From the moment Mallory … left, shunned the betrothal Valentina arranged —’

  Sir Francis made a dismissive motion with his hand.

  ‘She went into decline, a condition from which she’d only lately begun to improve. Mallory’s presence is not … ’ Papa had the grace to appear ashamed. ‘Beneficial. I would it could be different, that I could keep her here beside me. That I did not have to seek your aid again.’

  Again? What did that mean?

  Sir Francis nodded gravely. ‘It will take time for what happened to be wiped from people’s memories, and for the stain to be cleansed from her soul.’

  ‘It pains me, but she must find work, Francis. And soon. As much for herself as anything.’ He glanced towards the window. ‘My apprentices tell me the neighbours call her Mistress Blight. My daughter, Francis. My daughter. I would spare her such knowledge.’

  Oh, Papa, I would have spared you such knowledge.

  Papa clasped his hands and shook his head sorrowfully.

  I wanted to pound on the door, to shout at Papa not to listen to the names others bestowed on me, to retract his words and make Mamma see reason, but I couldn’t. With all that had occurred as a consequence of my disobedience, I’d lost that right. I was a blight. Mamma’s malady was my fault. Perchance my employment in a respectable household would restore her health; would re-establish good opinion.

  Leaning against the doorframe, I hung my head; anguish tightened in my chest. I’d not only humiliated my family, besmirched the Bright name and impaired my relationship with Papa (and any hope of reconciliation with Mamma), I’d ruined any chance of a decent marriage and a family of my own. In God’s eyes and those of my parents and neighbours, I was more than a fallen woman — I was a scourge, the blight they labelled me. How far I’d fallen, only my widow’s garb, the golden band Mamma insisted I wear upon my finger and the story of the fictitious cousin I’d hastily wed prevented others from learning the terrible secret I had to keep. I sought the solidness of my locket. The real extent of my sins I could share with no-one, except Caleb.

  Caleb alone knew and he loved and forgave me … Caleb alone …

  It was fitting that Papa sought to place me elsewhere, concerned by what my presence was doing to Mamma. I should be grateful he didn’t simply throw me on the streets. I’d heard stories of young women being disowned by their families, cast out with no more than the clothes upon their backs, left to make their way in this cruel world. At least my parents hadn’t rejected me in such a manner. Would they, if they knew everything? I pressed my face against the door, uncaring that the wood would leave an impression upon my cheek. The men were silent. The rain drummed against the shutters and thrummed along my shoulders. A log split, and the sound caused one of the hounds to growl sharply. It seemed to prompt the men to action.

  A stool slid across the floor. ‘Her skills are unusual,’ said Sir Francis, rising. ‘They may yet serve a purpose. I need time to think, to talk to those whose judgment I trust. Leave it with me, Gideon, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Papa stood and clapped his hand on Sir Francis’s shoulder. ‘Know you, Francis, this is most important. It may be Mallory’s only chance. Find her a purpose. She has talents, beauty, too, for all she sees fit to disguise it. Place her somewhere, anywhere, give her a fresh start, restore her confidence and with that the opportunity to make the future she’s denied herself. God’s truth, she must be gone. The sooner the better — for us all.’

  In that moment, I was reduced to nothing more than a living reminder of my own folly and defiance. With Papa’s words, the consequences of my reckless decision two years earlier were made painfully apparent. Eloping with Sir Raffe Shelton had cost me not just my home, my family, the esteem in which I’d once been held, my dreams and hopes, but something I thought as everlasting as the sun or moon — my father’s regard. It was more than I could stand. Sorrow welled from my stomach, filled my chest, weighted my legs and arms and threatened to spill from my mouth. I clamped a hand across my lips lest it escape.

  At that moment Sir Francis lifted his head and stared straight at the gap in the door with those unforgiving eyes. I jumped back, slipping in my haste. I began to shake. Please God, don’t let him discover me. Don’t let him wrench the door open and find me trembling like a wet cat. I picked up my sodden skirts and bolted down the path, my pattens kicking up mud.

  Uncaring of the torrents of rain, the cloak falling off my shoulders, the hat and gloves crushed in my hands, I ran to the back door, slowing only when the merry voices of the servants, the apprentices, the clank of tankards and the scrape of bowls, reminded me where I was, what I was doing. Our servants were part of the family from which I was to be excluded, the life I was to be denied — the life that, God’s wounds, I’d denied myself. Along with Papa’s words, the sounds combined to bring home to me the extent of the price I was still to pay. I paused, my hand pressed against the door, my breath ragged, my chest rising and falling.

  Tilting my head back, I opened my mouth and with eyes screwed against the icy, hard drops that pummelled my flesh, cried soundlessly to the dark, savage skies above.

  FOUR

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  The 18th of November, Anno Domini 1580

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  Composing myself, I removed my sodden cloak and stepped into the kitchen only to be swooped upon by our maid, Comfort. Muttering darkly, she failed to notice my swollen eyes and no doubt red nose — or if she did, saw them as a consequence of the cold and wet. Plucking the heavy garment from my numb fingers, she pushed me towards the hearth, admonishing me for the state of my clothes, much as she did when I was a child.

  Squeezing past the long table in the centre of the kitchen, I shot a look at father’s four apprentices sitting on a bench against one wall, a set of pipe organs. Kit Jolebody was the eldest and tallest, his golden head and thin neck rising above Matt Culpeper’s dark locks, while next to him was the brooding Samuel Blackstone. At the end of the bench was little Dickon. Catching my eye, he bestowed a reassuring toothy grin. With the exception of Dickon, I’d known them all for years and had even shared lessons with Kit and Matt. Only Dickon was new to me, replacing Benedict Thatcher who, having finished his journeyman period, had left not long after I did to start his own business in the south.

  Conversation ceased and one by one the young men lowered their heads and gazed blankly into their tankards of ale and empty trenchers until Comfort reminded them of their manners and they chanted a ‘God’s good evening’, which I returned. Despite a common childhood and many a game between books and slates, as I matured our open exchanges were replaced by sidelong glances, murmurs or studied indifference. Since my return they were even more discomfited to be sharing a space with me, a situation no doubt made worse by what had happened to our maid, Nell, and all the gossip surrounding my disappearance and her dismissal. When it was discovered that Nell had passed notes between myself and Raffe, Mamma let her go without a reference. I had never thought that Nell, who’d been with us since she was twelve and I was six, should pay for my sins. Every time I passed the room she used to share with Comfort, or set eyes upon her replacement, Gracious, guilt would enter my chest and march around tirelessly.

  ‘Gone home to Kent,’ Comfort shrugged when I found the courage to ask. ‘I’ve not had cause to think of her these past years,’ she added. Nor had I, whi
ch just made the situation so much worse. How had I been so unthinking, so selfish?

  The young men were tense, waiting to see whether or not I would join them. Though the pottage our cook, Mistress Pernel, had prepared before she went home smelled wonderful, I’d no appetite or desire for company this night and no intention of ruining what sounded like a convivial repast. I’d barely shared a meal with the household since coming home. With her health poorly, Mamma had made a point of eating in her rooms and so, in order to avoid any accusation of taking sides in a dispute that remained undeclared but which seasoned household relations the way salt does a stew, Papa had his meals brought out to the workshop. With the master and mistress disposed to eating in solitude, the large room in which we used to dine remained empty and cold; the practical Comfort refused to light a fire just for Caleb and me. Instead, once the marks upon my face had healed, she insisted we eat in the kitchen, along with the servants and apprentices. When Caleb was home, I didn’t mind perching on one of the benches and sharing dinner or supper, letting the conversation wash over me. It reminded me of easier times. But when Caleb wasn’t there to punctuate the meal with stories and laughter, to draw me out of my desire to become invisible, discussion became stifled, wary, nothing like the gatherings of my memories. Before long, I asked to dine upstairs in my room. The relief on Comfort’s face when I made the request, never mind the faces of young Gracious and the apprentices, would have been comical if it wasn’t also hurtful.

  Now as I stood by the fire, my hands outstretched, I was aware of Matt and Kit exchanging cautious glances.

  I put them out of their misery and said, ‘I’ll not be needing supper tonight, Comfort. Do not trouble yourself on my behalf.’ If I thought the audible sigh of relief from Dickon was my imagination, the cuff across the back of his head from Comfort confirmed my ears had not been deceived. Entering the kitchen from the scullery just as I spoke, Gracious almost dropped the basin of water she was carrying. Bobbing a curtsey, she lowered her eyes and hurried through the room. Matt snickered while Comfort simply shook her head and regarded me with narrowed but kindly eyes.