The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  ‘There’s pork and wild onions in it.’ She nodded towards the bubbling pot, trying to persuade me to change my mind. ‘And a fresh manchet to sop it up as well.’ She indicated the platter of sliced bread in the centre of the table.

  ‘My thanks, but I’ve no appetite.’ Not for food. ‘The excursion to the theatre has all but exhausted me.’ I forced a smile. ‘I’ll go to bed.’

  Comfort bestowed one of her looks that swept my entire frame and told me as loudly as if she’d shouted it what she thought not only of my attending the theatre but also my refusal to eat when I was already ‘like a desiccated scarecrow, fit only for the pyre’. I found myself strangely calmed. It demonstrated that, despite everything, she cared — not that her tone revealed this.

  ‘Whatever mistress says,’ she said tersely, forcing Kit and Matt to sidle up the bench as she draped my cloak over the end, spreading the hem over the flagstones, and placed my hat and gloves nearby. ‘Though if you’re to be venturing out more often now, it’s sustenance you’ll be needing.’

  Comfort had been urging me for weeks to summon the courage to leave the house and step back into the world. Until today, I hadn’t heeded anyone’s entreaties. What I’d overheard in the workshop indicated I’d soon have no choice. The thought made me sick to the stomach.

  I bade the room a good night and left. Gracious reappeared from where she’d been waiting outside and the buzz of conversation resumed. Confused and heartsore, I needed to think about what I’d heard, what Papa and Sir Francis had said — and not just about the prospect of employment.

  Thus far, I’d been able to hide the way I felt about Mamma’s indifference in the misplaced belief that Papa at least was partial to my return. After all, hadn’t he rescued me? Hadn’t he travelled the length of the country to retrieve me? Wept when he saw the condition I was in, the circumstances to which I’d been reduced? Hadn’t he paid for the silence of the women who’d been forced to care for me? Yet his words to Sir Francis tolled in my head: ‘She must be gone. The sooner the better — for us all.’ They wormed their cruel way into my heart and splintered it painfully, exposing the reality of my situation: I no longer had a home.

  Ascending the stairs to the first landing, I paused outside my mother’s room and discerned Angela’s muffled voice describing our day. I raised my hand to knock. Though Papa had asked me to pass on a message, and I’d mother’s blessing to seek before retiring, I could not. Not this night. Requesting, let alone receiving what was insincerely given would be my undoing. Lowering my hand, I stood still. Ever since I’d been home, Mamma’s manner towards me had further cooled, as if her emotions were contingent on the seasons and my presence presaged winter. Thus far I’d been able to pretend her attitude didn’t nip at my soul like an icy wind. I’d not manage such mummery tonight.

  Standing in the frigid hall, I recalled my reunion with Mamma. It was seven weeks since I’d returned, yet the painful emotions the memory evoked were still fresh. I did not need to add to my burdens this night. I passed by Mamma’s door, guilt weighing every step.

  The candle I carried almost went out as draughts swept across the staircase. Whereas I used to sleep on the same floor as my parents, since her illness my room had been given to Mamma to use as another parlour so she could entertain upstairs. My new room, though a corridor away from where the apprentices shared theirs, was a tiny space in the loft. The cold was bitter there, the walls and thatch inadequate to prevent its stealthy entry. My breath came in a fine mist as I climbed the dark, narrow steps.

  I ducked under the lintel into my bedroom and shivered in the chill. As I closed the door I savoured the welcome darkness, the demonic shadows the candle threw against the bare walls. Listening to the howl of the wind, the lashing rain and the low rumble of thunder, I shut my eyes briefly and wondered how Caleb fared, if he’d avoided the worst of the weather. I imagined him carousing with his troupe, enjoying the attentions of his new patron, who could not help be pleased with Caleb’s efforts this day — both his words and his performance of them. A smile tugged my lips. Rain would not douse his spirits, no matter how heavy or how long it fell.

  If only Caleb were here so I might seek his counsel. But he was not. I trimmed the wicks and lit two more candles — one in a sconce above the narrow bed, the other in an iron holder atop the battered chest tucked under the window. Kneeling by the hearth, I stacked some kindling, my hands shaking. The timber was dry and it wasn’t long before the wood took and the pleasant glow of the fire illuminated the room. I eased myself up, noting with delight that my knees didn’t hurt any more and the dull ache banding my back had all but gone. Depositing the candle on the mantelpiece and spreading my hands towards the flames, I glanced towards the window. Rain cascaded down the frigid glass. One of the shutters had blown open. No servant tended this room. Gripping the window frame as lightning divided the heavens, I looked down upon the workshop. Blurred stars of light glimmered in the gaps in the wood. The evening already felt like a dream. Had I really opened that casket? Had I actually met Sir Francis Walsingham? Papa was either still conversing with his guest or biding his time before telling Mamma his plans.

  What would she say? I could not imagine she would be anything but glad. Papa left me in no doubt as to how he felt.

  She must be gone …

  Running my fingers through a tangle of wet hair, lost in dark thoughts, I didn’t hear the door open. It was only when a pair of plump arms slipped around my waist and the familiar smell of the flower Our Lady’s Modesty assailed me, I knew who’d entered. I pressed my head against the soft body and relished the solace it offered.

  ‘I heard your step outside your Mamma’s room.’

  ‘Ah. I believe the angels and their envoys themselves would not get past you, Angela.’

  She chuckled softly. ‘What did your Papa want, bella? Is everything all right? You never came to see your Mamma, to receive her blessing. She was worried.’ There was a mild rebuke in her tone; I knew who had been anxious.

  I pulled away, a wry expression upon my face.

  ‘Despite what you think, she does care, bella.’ Angela’s voice was husky and sad. She hated that her cousin and dearest friend and the child she’d helped raise were always at odds — especially now. ‘May God forgive her, she just has difficulty showing you.’

  ‘I know.’ Why I said that when I wasn’t certain, I’m not sure. Perhaps I needed to believe it.

  Angela kissed the top of my head. ‘I’ve said this to you before, but you broke her heart when you left. Her greatest fear came to pass. She … she thought she’d lost you forever.’

  ‘I know,’ I repeated, my voice harsh this time as I tried not to dwell on the idea that Angela was mistaken and that such a possibility would only please my mother. ‘But she did not. And the moment I returned she wished me gone. You were there, Angela. You heard her. That I am still here offers her naught but constant unhappiness.’ I picked up the poker and began prodding the fire, which had all but gone out, sending sparks up the chimney. Smoke billowed into the room.

  ‘It’s not only her heart that’s broken,’ I whispered, sealing my mouth against words that should never escape. Between coughs, I blew upon the wood, ceasing only when the crackle of flames announced the fire had taken again. I took a log from the pyramid next to the mantelpiece, heaved it atop the embers and clapped my hands to rid them of detritus. I stepped away, my face hot, my soul sore. I reached for a drying sheet and began to towel my hair.

  ‘Bella, what is it? Tell me,’ said Angela, taking the sheet from my hands and tending to the wet strands of hair. Her kindness undid me. The tears I’d thought vanquished welled once more.

  Angela tried to fold me in her arms again, but I held up a hand so she could not. ‘Don’t hold me, Angela. I don’t think I could bear it.’

  ‘Mallory?’ she let her arms drop and, sitting on the bed, patted the worn coverlet beside her. ‘Dimmi.’

  Tentatively, I joined her. I would talk this ti
me — to Angela. Taking a deep breath, I began.

  ‘I learned tonight Papa also wants me gone — the sooner the better.’

  ‘Learned?’ She gently tugged a lock of hair. ‘Ah, you were listening where you should not again, weren’t you?’

  I nodded miserably, hiccoughing as a cry rose in my throat. Angela renewed her attentions to my hair, the combination of ruffling and smoothing strangely comforting.

  ‘Is it possible you didn’t hear aright?’

  ‘I wish it were so. He has even deployed a powerful friend to help find me a position — and swiftly.’ My head fell into my hands. ‘Oh, Angela, I never foresaw a time when they’d be so accustomed to my absence that Papa and Mamma would wish me away from their sight altogether.’

  With a cluck that managed to express sympathy and regret, Angela put down the sheet and pulled me towards her, her lips against my hair.

  ‘You gave them no choice, bambina. You left when they did not wish you gone, and with that … that man. And now … now they have no choice but to let you go again.’

  ‘No choice?’

  ‘You left this house a child, now you’re a woman grown. Twenty-one and a widow.’ I didn’t contradict her. ‘You cannot remain beneath your father’s roof, not any more. You made your way in the world once, it would look strange, unseemly, if you did not do so again. As if you were hiding something …’ She paused. Waited. I didn’t utter a sound. ‘People will talk.’

  As if they hadn’t already.

  ‘This is about appearances then? About what others will think? What they’ll say?’

  Angela gave a gentle laugh. ‘Is it not always? You heard Isaac Hattycliffe. Your Papa and your Mamma seek to protect your reputation, not to damage it further —’

  ‘You mean no more than I have already.’

  Angela nodded. She would not insult me with platitudes. ‘They also seek to protect their own, and for that I cannot blame them. It was not easy for them. They had to work hard to placate those who were … offended by what you did. Some clients took their work elsewhere. Gideon found it hard to replace Benedict when he left. Dickon was not your Papa’s first choice, nor his second. They had to rebuild trust.’

  A whimper escaped me. Angela tightened her hold. Acting on a whim, I hadn’t given my parents a choice then and now they had none either. I had disobeyed their express commands. Left without their blessing, without so much as a fare-thee-well. At the age of nineteen, a besotted innocent, I thought I knew better; that my choice of husband far surpassed Mamma’s. How could a mere weaver’s son compare, regardless of his prospects? Like the stories I so loved, I imagined the day would come when I’d invite my parents to my manor house as Lady Mallory, the elegant and respected wife of Sir Raffe. I believed my choice would make Papa proud and Mamma more so.

  In that, and in so many other things, I’d been grossly mistaken.

  From the moment Sir Raffe first encountered me, he played me for the callow girl I was. Fed me flattery and stoked my outrageous dreams with even bigger promises. Had he ever loved me? God knows, I thought I loved him.

  Bottled up, not simply for the weeks I’d been home but, as God Himself knew, almost every day since I’d left, I cried the tears I’d denied myself. I wept for my lost innocence, for the pain and humiliation I’d endured, the hurt inflicted on my parents, the apologies and regrets that failed to compensate for my actions, for the lives forever altered, for those lost, and in weeping I found a kind of release. As the rain raged against the glass and the wind screeched through the gaps in the walls, I held Angela and cried my own torrent. Through it all, she held me in her arms, rocking me, dropping light kisses on my brow, my hair, stroking the tendrils from my face where they clung to my sticky cheeks.

  I’m not certain how long my lamentation lasted, only that when it subsided, the fire had once more begun to shrink and the candles were lower. Even the rain had subsided to a steady trickle that promised a better morrow.

  ‘One day, you will look back upon all this and wonder it had the power to torment you so,’ Angela said softly.

  I sniffed and shook my head. Angela did not know. ‘I cannot begin to imagine what would ever induce me to forget.’

  Angela gave me a squeeze. ‘There’s only one thing that has such power. Amore, bella. Amore. What else? Does not love conquer all?’

  I choked and pulled away from Angela’s embrace. ‘Love? Oh, Angela, love was what caused all my troubles in the first place.’ I shook my head dismally. ‘I’ve given up on love.’

  ‘Such a nonsense you speak,’ said Angela, tweaking my nose. ‘One does not give up on love.’

  ‘I do. It’s nothing but a torment, it causes nothing but pain. The poets and troubadours describe it as a madness, and they’re right. “Falling in love”, they say. Tumbling into the abyss, more like. What happens when one falls but injury? I’m injured beyond all repair.’ I blew my nose on a kerchief Angela passed me.

  ‘Ah, but love’s arrow is a wound that heals all others, even as it makes another.’

  I gave a bark of laughter. ‘Love’s arrow will sail over my head before it lodges in my heart.’ I wriggled away from her, pulling at my kirtle, the laces of my bodice. ‘Of that I’ll make certain. I will duck.’ I imitated the action.

  Much to my chagrin, Angela began to laugh.

  I tried to ignore her chuckles but failed and laughed with her. I stared into the fireplace, placing one hand on my heart, the other on my stomach. My smile vanished. I’d been such a fool because of my heart, taken such a risk, destroyed lives. I would not be led by it again. It was too dangerous. If I had a choice, I would rip it from my body and throw it upon the flames like an offering of the ancients. Watch it sizzle and blacken until it was nothing but ash. The thought was oddly cathartic; if it was within my ken to do such a thing and live, I would. I put my thoughts into words.

  ‘It would be much better,’ I dried my eyes upon the kerchief, ‘not to have a heart for Cupid’s arrows to strike in the first place.’

  ‘Alas,’ said Angela. ‘We all have a heart.’

  ‘Not me. Not any more.’ I spun around to face her, slapping my breast. ‘I no longer have one.’

  She gave a gurgle of mirth. ‘You’re no conjurer to magic it away. And why would you wish such a thing anyhow?’ Joining me by the fire, Angela took the kerchief from my hand and flapped it towards my face to prevent my answer. ‘Of course you feel that way now, because it’s drained of any emotion except sorrow. One day it will be ready for love again. Like your body and mind, it too needs to heal.’

  But the wound I’d sustained could never be repaired. Angela didn’t understand, could not. No-one could. I would not let them.

  Stepping closer, Angela lowered her voice. ‘Not all men are knaves, bella. There will come a day where you will meet one who will make you forget the past, forget what pain you endured. Who will show you what love truly is.’

  It never occurred to me then to ask Angela how she could possibly know such a thing. In the fireplace scintillas of golden sparks latched onto the wood, turning into undulating flames. As I watched them, my mind wandered. The heart I denied possessing beat strangely as my thoughts turned to Sir Raffe, the man who, with his handsome face, head of flaxen curls, pretty turn of phrase and passionate kisses, had spun my heart and my head.

  I glanced at the book sitting open upon the chest, Castiglione’s The Book of the Courtier. It had been a favourite of Master Fodrake’s and mine and was also one of Caleb’s. Ostensibly about excellence and moral integrity and how to achieve this as a courtier, even if the king you served was a tyrant, it urged a gentleman to seem indifferent to the very thing he pursued — perfection. While written for men of a certain rank, I wondered: what if a woman was to do the same? What if a woman was to aim to be the best in all things, but without appearing to try? Didn’t women do this often? Appear unaffected by events and those around them? Mamma and Angela used to speak of married women of their acquaintance and how th
ey suffered their husbands, their lot in life, presenting a calm and even grateful face to the world, never revealing their true feelings. Then there was our neighbour, Dorothy Lamborn, who loved her husband so much that when he died of the sweating sickness she refused to rail and mourn, to hide herself away until such time as she could face the world again. She told Mamma that would dishonour her husband and their love. Instead, she went about her business as if naught was amiss, keeping her tears and sorrow inside. People talked, of course they did, but Mamma said she understood. Castiglione called such a thing mediocrita — a careful balance of opposites. Could I do that? Seek not to love or hate but to be content in a state somewhere between? According to Caleb, I’d no small talent for acting. Could the world be my stage?

  I thought of Sir Francis and Papa down in the workshop. Couldn’t I, using the tools others provided — a job, shelter, wages, and all the learning Papa had ensured I received — mould myself into a different person? One for whom the ruinous past was not inevitably the scaffolding upon which my destiny would be built. Truth was, if I didn’t do something, change the way I felt, the way others spoke of me, then Raffe, along with his lies and his malice and the dark road he had forced me down, would be the victor — even in his absence, he would govern my life. This must not be.

  It didn’t occur to me then to wonder why Mamma had spoken so freely of those women who hid their real feelings from others. It would be a long, long time before I learned why — and the knowledge would tear at the heart I sought to deny.

  The rain beat against the glass as the fire warmed my face. Images of Papa hammering molten metal, the sparks flying about the workshop, filled my head. I was a piece of metal to be fashioned into a new shape. Mediocrita, the courtier’s studied insouciance, would be my means.

  Wiping my face, I gave Angela a tremulous smile. ‘You’re wrong, Angela. I won’t ever forget the past, but I won’t let it dictate my future. I won’t let it shape who I become.’