The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Never before had he treated me in such a manner; referred to my dress let alone its shade. It was discomforting, to say the least. I drifted back through the outer room in a slight daze. All the desks bar Thomas’s were empty. Sir Francis’s intelligencers were busy elsewhere.

  ‘Mallory,’ said Thomas, rising and bowing. ‘Are you quite well?’

  His query so matched mine to Sir Francis, I gave a droll laugh.

  ‘Only quite. I just found out I’m to meet Frances and Lady Ursula tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Thomas, sitting back down and busily shuffling papers on his desk. ‘In preparation for Deptford.’

  ‘You knew?’

  Thomas had the grace to look guilty. ‘There’s very little I don’t.’ He indicated the piles of paper littering his desk, the floor and every conceivable space. ‘You understand, I could not have warned you … Nor can I speak of Deptford. It is not how we —’

  There was no point being cross. ‘It’s all right, Thomas. You owe me no explanation.’ He was as bound to keep secrets as I was, even ones pertaining to friends. I stopped. Was that what Thomas had become? A friend?

  The closed expression on his face made my position suddenly very clear. People who worked for Sir Francis didn’t have friends. There was loyalty, but it was to the enterprise they swore allegiance, not to each other. Family and friends did not compare. What folly that even for a moment I believed it could be otherwise.

  Anxious about the morrow, all I wanted was to make a good impression and not shame Sir Francis or my family. If I’d really been Frances’s companion all this time, we’d be familiar with each other. As it was, we were strangers to be foisted upon one another for a very public royal event. What if she disliked me on sight? What if I found her repugnant? What did I know about thirteen-year-old girls?

  I barely spoke a word to the servant assigned to escort me as I walked home, preoccupied by the Walsinghams and the realisation that there was not one person outside the house I could call a friend; Caleb was the only one within it. Though he was so very dear to me, he had others beyond Harp Lane to whom he could turn. I had no-one. Even Mamma could count Angela and Mistress Dorothy among her friends. Papa had many. When I left Harp Lane, I’d relinquished my few female acquaintances along with my reputation.

  The truth was, for all I enjoyed what I was doing, the secrecy it required and its importance, I was also very lonely. But I deserved no better and, God knew, so much worse. I’d no right to complain.

  Lost in misery, I failed to notice the extra horse in our stable or that Comfort wasn’t raising her voice at Gracious who, as she flounced about the kitchen, was giddy as a girl around a maypole. Nor was she shrieking at the apprentices to keep their fingers out of the pots and their hands off the bread, but instead speaking in well-rounded tones.

  I gave Comfort my cloak and gloves and decided I would approach Mamma for a loan of one of her dresses and ask Gracious to draw me a bath. Then I entered the parlour, and who should I find sprawled in one of our chairs, drink in hand, but Lord Nathaniel.

  My face must have fallen because the smile with which he greeted me swiftly vanished, replaced by a startled look that transformed into one of grave offence.

  ‘My … my lord,’ I began, curtseying. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here.’

  ‘That was patently clear, Mistress Mallory.’ His voice was gruff. He stood and took a step towards me, holding out the goblet as if it were a weapon designed to keep me at a distance. ‘Perhaps you were telling the truth when you claimed to be beyond female artifice and facades. Nonetheless, you need to learn to school your features.’ He paused and swallowed some wine, unaware of the effect his words had. ‘Actually,’ he continued, putting the goblet down before swinging back in my direction, ‘it’s fortuitous you’ve arrived while Caleb is fetching his manuscript and we’re alone. There’s a question I’ve been wanting to put to you. I’m curious as to why —’

  I blame my perturbation at the thought of meeting my employer’s wife and daughter. I blame the stark reality of my loneliness, my complicity in that state and the degree of self-pity this realisation prompted. I blame the fact I was unprepared for Lord Nathaniel’s frankness, his continued presence in the house and the irritation that came in its wake. But I cannot forgive what spilled out of my mouth next. Crossing the room, I stood before him, tilting my chin so I could peer straight into that arrogant face.

  ‘And you, sir,’ I snarled, ‘need to learn to remember who and where you are. I’m not a schoolboy and nor are you a schoolmaster to harangue me. You’re not my father nor my brother. How dare you treat me as if I were one of your ale-addled sailors, or one of your poor servants. School my face, indeed. You sir, need to discipline your tongue. Though that would require you to do the same to your wits and I’m persuaded you are only ever able to marshal half of them.’ Words flew from me, anger making my voice deeper and louder than I ever intended.

  As he opened his mouth to speak, I wagged a finger in his face. Like a virago in one of Caleb’s plays, I dared to admonish Lord Nathaniel, and not merely for the way he spoke to me. All his sins and those I’d imagined got an airing. They ranged from his fondness for drink, his sometimes slovenly attire, his swaggering and confident belief that all women adored him and his rancid assumptions about the gentler sex, to his expectation he was always welcome beneath our roof, regardless of whether or not he showed us — me — courtesy.

  God forgive me, I would have continued too had not Lord Nathaniel chosen that moment to grab the finger I was waving like a sword, pull me into his arms and kiss me.

  SEVENTEEN

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  That evening, late March, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  I tasted the sweetness of wine upon his parted lips and the tip of his warm, liquid tongue. His soft beard grazed my cheek, as he drew me closer and closer still. His great, burly arms pressed me tight against his body, one hand burning the small of my back, the other holding my accusatory finger fast. Through the fabric of my skirts, I could feel the power of his legs encased in their woollen hose, the expansive strength of his chest as he pressed me against the jacquard of his doublet, flattening my breasts. I could never have imagined such a huge man could embrace someone with such gentleness even as he brooked no resistance. I was being absorbed, drawn into him, and for a moment I forgot where I was, who I was, my anger transforming into something that travelled in waves of heat throughout my lower regions before running like quicksilver along my arms and legs, exploding like a fiery sun on a summer’s day in my very centre.

  Inhaling sharply through my nose as I melted into his body, a heady, musky fragrance that made my head spin, my stomach lock, consumed me. My traitorous lips opened further, my mouth receiving all he had to give.

  The hand against my back moved up my spine to cradle the nape of my neck, long fingers loosening the tangle of hair, stroking, kneading, a thumb finding flesh and summoning sensations I’d denied myself in the false belief I’d no desire for such things.

  His kiss deepened, his lips firmed and mine answered. He groaned into my mouth and with that primal sound, its echo rising in my throat, something within me snapped.

  No. No. No.

  I didn’t know I’d spoken aloud until I managed to jerk my head away, to stare into eyes that looked upon me with such longing, I was snatched back into the moment and rendered temporarily mute. I ripped my finger out of the cage his hands had become and, with all the strength I could muster, slapped him across the face.

  The effect was immediate. I was set free. Staggering back, I stared as thin red lines appeared on his left cheek, welling and widening as the blood began to flow. My palm burned by my side, the heat matching that travelling across my face and within my body as my veins became molten rivers that would not be cooled. I was reeling, confused. A fingernail was rent, the pain sharp. My legs began to shake beneath my skirts. I had to sit. I had to stand.
I would not quiver like a wet cat. I would not retreat. Not again. Never again.

  ‘How … how dare you,’ I hissed, my breath coming in short pants.

  Kiss me, or elicit such responses?

  Raising his hand to his face, Lord Nathaniel gingerly pulled it away, rubbing the blood staining the tips between his fingers.

  ‘How dare you, mistress,’ he said, a note of laughter in his voice.

  Taken aback by his evident humour, I renewed my attack. ‘Did I not tell you I wasn’t one of your court ladies, bowing to your needs, demanding your attention, saying one thing and meaning another? Did I not say that I do not play with you, my lord? That I do not act?’

  ‘You did.’ Lord Nathaniel reached inside his doublet, withdrew a kerchief and wiped his hand before daubing his cheek. ‘But you did imply I was a half-wit and that, my lady, is unforgivable.’

  His calmness was perplexing. The rage that had flooded my body and cast aside all sense began to subside. The marks on Lord Nathaniel’s face glared at me, signs of my loss of control, manifestations of the very kind of behaviour I despised in him. Oh, sweet Jesu. What had I done?

  We stared at each other, only a pace or two apart. My chest was heaving. His was not. The fire spat, and footsteps could be heard above us. A door slammed shut somewhere in the house. The dogs issued a volley of barks outside.

  Still we didn’t speak.

  I could take it no more. ‘What possible reason could you have … did I give you for taking such … such liberties?’

  ‘You didn’t,’ he said and picked up his wine. ‘May I pour you one?’

  ‘I’d sooner you answer my question.’

  He filled a goblet and passed it over. I took it without thinking, my hand shaking, and sipped.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But only if you promise to answer the question I intended to pose when —’ he grinned, ‘circumstances altered.’ He touched his cheek again, wincing.

  The enormity of what I’d done — struck a guest in our house, a lord no less, Caleb’s patron, and with such violence — began to dawn on me. Marry, the man had done the unforgivable, had, without invitation, violated the daughter of the house … No. He had not. It was but a kiss … a kiss I responded to like the shameless trull Mamma and the neighbours believed me to be, that Raffe had told me I was over and over.

  I was not. I was a gentlewoman, a widow. Mistress Bright. He had no right. I gave him no cause. Not even the insult I offered deserved such a response. Or was Lord Nathaniel correct? Was this a facade I maintained which he, without effort, had dismantled? Had he shown me who and what I feared I truly was? A woman who couldn’t control her passions?

  ‘I’ve two reasons for … for interrupting you,’ said Lord Nathaniel, his eyes fixed upon my flushed face. ‘First and foremost, I wanted you to stop talking. Kissing you was the simplest way to achieve that.’

  I blinked. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord. I don’t believe I heard you aright.’

  ‘Oh, you did. There’s nothing wrong with your hearing. I wanted you to stop screeching at me like a harridan; levelling accusations against me as unwarranted as they were unasked. I thought a kiss would suffice. I was right.’

  Cold, hard fury staunched the heat more effectively than winter snows upon a flame. Quenched the doubts I’d allowed to well to the surface.

  ‘You’re wrong, my lord,’ I said coldly. ‘You didn’t think.’

  Sitting down, he crossed his legs, lifting a thread from his hose and letting it flutter to the floor before looking up at me. My nails had left terrible raw marks upon his face. They almost matched the other, older scars. I wondered what talons had made those …

  ‘No, mistress, I did think. I thought it would be very nice to kiss someone who could look so magnificent, so utterly irresistible when they were furious. I swear, your eyes emitted lightning, like Zeus in a rage.’ He drank. Slowly. He dragged the kerchief across his mouth, the red stains vivid on the white. ‘I was right. It was beyond nice. What wasn’t so pleasant was the slap you conferred upon me for my efforts. I’ll have to ensure I do better next time.’

  His eyes twinkled. Why, the man was a rogue, a blackguard who thought he could have his way with whatever woman he chose … and in her own home. Well, not this woman. I would not be won over so easily, nor by words he’d no doubt learned like an actor and rehearsed with many, many women after setting the stage for such a scene.

  I put down my goblet and turned to him. ‘And you say that women play a part to attract a man, a husband? I say you stand accused of the same, only your intentions lack honour, sir.’

  Throwing back his head, Lord Nathaniel laughed hard. ‘I never pretended to possess any in the first place — honour or honourable intentions, mistress. Though, I find it ironic such an accusation springs from your lips, sweet as they be.’

  I felt my cheeks colour again. Damn my flesh that it betrayed me so — and not for the first time this evening. Clearing my throat, I moved away from him, towards the hearth, forcing him to twist around if he wished to see me.

  ‘My lord, I allowed you a question if you answered mine. Ask it, and I will quit your sight.’

  Lord Nathaniel smiled. ‘Very well, though it will dismay me to lose the privilege of your company, just when I am starting to enjoy it.’ I shot him a look that would have withered a fresh bloom. ‘You see, Mistress Mallory,’ he said, turning slightly and waving his goblet in my direction, ‘you’re an object of curiosity to me. A young widow, a woman of learning, a person about whom Caleb does, even for a playwright, wax lyrical, swearing your virtues and talents are unparalleled. He supports your claims you’re not fettered by those habits and mannerisms I loathe in other women, that you’re not one to pretend or play. Forsooth, in the time I’ve spent in your company, I’ve had cause to doubt my own convictions regarding the fairer sex. I do but wonder then, how is it you claim to your family and friends, and even to me, that you tend young Frances Walsingham?’

  My chest grew tight. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, my lord.’

  He gave me his full attention and continued. ‘Oh, I think you do. My understanding is that Mister Secretary’s family is in Surrey, at their estate in Barn Elms, yet you’re in London. Unless you’re taken by the wings of Hermes each day or saddle Pegasus, how can you possibly be a companion to Frances Walsingham when she is there,’ he pointed to the furthest corner of the room, ‘and you are here?’ His finger rooted me to the spot. ‘So who, I ask, is playing whom, mistress? What is it you really do when you go to Seething Lane each day?’

  Damn his gleeking mind, it was as sharp as a Gray’s Inn cleric’s.

  God must have been on my side, because before I could remind him I also taught languages to Sir Francis’s staff, Caleb chose that moment to enter and I was spared having to answer. Unaware that anything extraordinary had happened, Caleb burst through the door waving a leather-bound sheaf of papers, continuing the conversation where he might have left off.

  ‘Ah, Mallory. We were just discussing you.’ Dropping a kiss upon my cheek, he strode to Lord Nathaniel. ‘Here.’ He pushed the paper into his lordship’s hands. ‘If Tilney wants more changes, he can make them himself. I never thought these words would leave my mouth, but I’m not only tired of Drake’s Hind, but all hinds at the moment.’ With an abrupt laugh, he helped himself to some wine and threw himself in the chair I’d never had the chance to sit in.

  Muttering something about being exhausted, I gave my apologies and left as swiftly as I was able.

  As I closed the door, I heard Caleb say, ‘Go to, Nate, you and Mallory haven’t had words again, have you? And what on God’s earth have you done to your face?’

  EIGHTEEN

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  Late March, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  Harp Lane, London, and the Shelton Estates, Durham Anni Domini 1578–1579

  In the 21st and 22nd years of the reign of Elizabeth I
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br />   It was pitch black when I awoke. My hair clung damply to my forehead, my jaw ached from grinding my teeth, and my muscles felt tight and sore from fighting the demons of recollection. Tangled in the linen, I lay on my side, panting. Only the faint glow of embers revealed I was in my bedroom, not in the huge draughty room of my imaginings. There was no armchair in the corner, no sword resting against its torn fabric, no leather bindings coiled neatly on the table ready to hold me in place. All that was in my past. I lowered my arms that had been raised as if to ward off blows, untwisted the sheets, smoothed out the blankets, and climbed out of bed. Pulling the nightgown away from my sweaty flesh, I went to the window, cracked open the shutters and lifted my face to the heavens in the hope of a reprieve from the nightmares that crowded my head, blotting out the beauty of the firmament and leaving only darkness.

  The darkness had a name: Raffe. Sir Raffe Shelton. I hadn’t given him a proper space in my thoughts for weeks. Tonight my former lover saw fit to return with a vengeance.

  Cool air flowed around me. The night was so still, so quiet. Nothing stirred except the memories I’d kept locked away deep inside. Roused by a kiss, a kiss I’d briefly allowed myself to become lost in — to, God forgive me, enjoy. Now, like the furies of old, they flapped their musty wings at the walls I’d erected to keep them at bay and demanded my attention.

  I pulled the stool over to the window, lay my forearms along the sill and placed my chin squarely upon them, staring into the purple hues of the midnight hours, waiting until the darkness was transformed into familiar shadows. Only once I was certain I really was home, that this wasn’t another mirage sent to taunt me, did I dare to go back and, once and for all, try and put my past to rest.

  At the age of nineteen I found love, and by twenty-one had forsworn it. In two brief years I learned love was but a phantasm, a fool’s paradise until we bit into the apple and saw the garden for the bed of thorns and stinking refuse it is. Love was merely a word used by men to beguile, seduce and deceive. It made the wise foolish, the cautious bold; it invited risk without thought of consequence. Unprepared, I’d been caught in its web and become drunk on its poison.