The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Back in Sir Francis’s study, it had been easy to pretend to an indifference I didn’t feel, a boldness that owed everything to artifice. To hear the tale of how I came to be, who I really was, was both exhilarating and fantastical. The repercussions were not yet apparent. But here, in the familiar surroundings of home, confronted with the person around whom my life to this moment had revolved, I suddenly understood that this was no play like those Caleb wove. This was real. This was my life.

  As at Tyburn, this was no place for mediocrita. The man waiting for me to drop a light kiss on his forehead, rest my head against his shoulder and chatter about my day, was not my father. He never had been. He may never have wanted to be. The role had been forced upon him. Tears began to well, pushed to the surface by a wave of anger and self-pity that took me by surprise with its fierceness.

  Why hadn’t Papa told me? Why had Sir Francis been the one?

  With a deep sigh, Papa put the key and rag down. Lifting himself off the stool, he studied me. I gazed back, fighting to maintain control, to not feel. Then, with a long, sad sigh, he turned around and placed his palms on the bench, arms straight, and bowed his head.

  ‘He’s told you.’ His words were slightly muffled.

  Even so, I heard them. ‘He did. Everything.’ My voice trembled. I caught hold of the alarm, the fury bubbling away inside me, and forced the wave of grief back.

  In the silence the dogs’ panting was like bellows, the crackle of the fire a roar. Papa said nothing. What was he waiting for? My tongue was thick, my throat dry. I wanted to beg him to tell me it wasn’t true. To reassure me.

  I said nothing.

  Almost indiscernibly, Papa’s shoulders began to shake. Two great tears landed on the bench, splashing upon the key resting by his thumb, his blackened calloused thumb, misshapen from all the years of crafting locks and keys.

  Dear God, my Papa was crying. Was it with relief or sorrow? I could not bear it. I could not. I staggered back against the door, the dogs growling, thinking it was a game. At the sound, Papa turned and in his eyes I saw all the pain building inside me made manifest. It wasn’t only my life the truth had irreparably altered.

  ‘Mallory,’ he cried, tears blinding him as he stumbled towards me, arms outstretched.

  ‘I cannot. I can’t. Stay away, stay away.’ I pushed him from me, opened the door and ran, as fast as I could, towards the house. I raced past the kitchen, fled up the stairs and into my small, cold room and locked the door behind me.

  I flung myself onto the bed and prayed the darkness would swallow me once and for all.

  My fear Papa would follow was unfounded and so, drowning in a well of misery, I lay upon my bed and wept a torrent. There was so much hurt and confusion to release. I cried for the mother I never knew and, in my mind, the father I had been denied. I cried at my foolishness in running away with Raffe, at the horror my fanciful dream became. I cried for all the deception and lies my life was built upon, and, lastly, for what I was beginning to understand would never be mine — a family I could call my own; a family built on common blood, mutual love and truth.

  At some point during the night, I rose, left my room to empty the jordan, returned and made a fire before creeping back under the covers and crying myself to sleep.

  I don’t know what woke me, except as I rolled towards the comforting glow of the fire, my head aching, my nose blocked, my eyes flickering, I became aware I was not alone. I gasped and sat upright, my knees pulled to my chest, and swung towards the shadow seated on the edge of the bed.

  ‘I told him. I told him that one day you would find out. He never believed me.’

  I don’t know which shocked me more: the words the voice spoke behind the flickering candle, or the fact it was my mother.

  ‘Mamma … ’ I released the breath I’d been holding and, as my eyes became accustomed to the wavering light, I was able to see her more clearly. I wondered when she’d become so shrunken, so grey. Her flame-coloured hair was doused liberally with the frosty hues of silver; her smooth complexion had become tinged with broken veins, and an ashen sheen surrounded her lips and the folds of her nose. The lines around her eyes might be faint, but the ones between her brows deepened as she regarded me with a dangerous glimmer.

  ‘How did you manage the stairs?’ I asked. It had been years since Mamma had ventured into my bedroom and not once since I’d returned.

  She gave a dry laugh that turned into a wet cough. I took the candle from her and placed it on the chest, then got out of bed. I put some distance between us and tossed more wood on the fire.

  ‘I may be ill, but I’m not dead … yet. My legs work. Allora, I used them.’ Her voice was a croak. ‘We need to talk but I do not want your father to know.’

  Turning, I frowned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he asked me not to speak with you.’

  I took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s afraid of what I’ll tell you.’

  At that moment, I too became afraid. We stared at each other across the room, me with my back to the fire, Mamma propped on the bed.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said quietly, ‘when I look at you, I see Lucia. Mostly, I see him.’ She spat the last word.

  ‘Sir Francis?’

  ‘Si. The bastardo who killed my sister, your mother. The man who put his own needs above his child’s, above the man he called his dearest amico.’ Only her accent betrayed her deep agitation. It was thick with barely disguised fury.

  ‘Papa.’

  ‘You would still call him that?’

  ‘I …’ I gazed at her in astonishment. What else would I call him? ‘Naturahnente.’ My heart had taken on a life of its own, thundering in my chest. It was too strange —Mamma, in my bedroom, talking about Sir Francis, about my mother, her sister Lucia.

  She screwed the ends of the bedclothes into a ball. ‘Why did he tell you? Why now?’

  ‘I …’ How could I explain to Mamma it was because he had sensed he was losing my trust in his judgement and that he had sought to bind me in the only way he could — with the truth? ‘He felt it was time.’

  She threw back her head and laughed. Again, it became a cough. I swiftly poured an ale from the ewer, crossed to the bed and brought it to her lips, holding it steady so she could drink. She took a sip then waved it away. ‘I am all right. Do not fuss.’

  I lit some candles, sat at the other end of the bed and waited.

  Drawing her rosary from beneath her nightclothes, she began to worry the beads. Uncertain whether she used them to further agitate me or from genuine need, I tried not to focus on them, but on her words instead.

  ‘He felt it was time, did he? How convenient.’ She stared at a point in front of her. ‘Mister Secretary, this father of yours, for all that he appears to work in your best interests, his motivation is always the same. He looks to himself first and foremost. Lucia, God rest her soul, died before she could learn this and have her heart broken. I always knew when he bought this house for us, when he helped your father gain wealthy clients, that one day we’d pay for his benevolence — interference, that’s what it was. Control. I knew. Would Gideon listen? No. He is too trusting. Believes in the good of human nature. Bah. I have seen the worst and Sir Francis — your father — is among them.’

  I began to defend him. She made a dismissive gesture. ‘Do not talk of him in this way to me. Despite what you might think, what he says, this man cares not for you. Do not be fooled by pretty words, Mallory, not again.’ I dropped my eyes. Mamma could never resist an opportunity to remind me of Raffe.

  Rain began to fall, a dull drumming on the roof, thick drops striking the glass. We both looked towards the window before facing each other again. ‘Is that why you never loved me?’ I asked finally. ‘Because I was not your daughter or because I was his?’

  Mamma studied me, a strange smile playing on her lips. ‘Never loved you?’ She gave a laugh. ‘Mio Dio, I never dared.’

  She
beckoned me closer. I hesitated, uncertain whether her intention was to embrace or strike me. Her mouth moved but no words came at first, then I heard them, faint, as if she loathed speaking them.

  ‘You have her eyes. Her beautiful star-dream eyes. Her hair as well. Ink black, thick, straight. Allora, Mallory, no matter what you think, the moment you were placed in my arms, my heart filled. Were you not my sister’s child? Blood of my blood? But you were also his. So I feared what loving you would do. I was terrified of losing you — not like I lost Lucia, who I will see again in heaven, God willing. But because you were never really mine, I dared not lose my heart lest you be taken from me forever.

  ‘When Francis asked us to keep you as if you were ours, said that he would stake no claim, I dared to hope. We came to England, we were given this house and we became a family …’ She took another drink.

  Never before had Mamma spoken to me like this. I didn’t dare interrupt.

  ‘But, we were family in name only — his name. Hovering over us like an avenging angel —’

  I started. She had no idea how such a description affected me. My stomach twisted. Verily, like father, like daughter.

  ‘I thought perhaps if I had a child of my own, it would be easier to forget the way you came to us; if I could give you a brother or sister — a cousin, really — I would allow myself to feel something for you. Alas, God in His wisdom gave me many babes, but took them all to His arms.’

  Her eyes were so full of sadness, it was hard to watch as she spoke. I wanted to reach out and hold her, but I could not.

  ‘I blamed you for that,’ she said, without malice or anger. Her candour struck me with all the force of a blow. ‘I thought God was punishing me for not loving you, for not accepting His will and trying to create another being.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Your Papa said he didn’t mind and I truly think he did not. “Look,” he would say to me, “we have a beautiful, clever daughter who enchants her tutor and all who come within her compass. What more do we want?” I was greedy, I did want more.’ She returned to her beads.

  ‘You had him under a spell. There was nothing he would not give you; nothing he would not do for you. I knew it would end in disaster. I could not stop him loving you, but I could make sure you understood the world was not there for you to sup from endlessly. That there was harshness and hate, manipulation and deceit. Oh, there was deceit …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I told myself it was up to me to ensure you had discipline; that you understood your place in the family, and thus the world. I may not love you like a mother, but I tried to ensure you were taught what a daughter should know. Yet again, your Papa undermined my efforts and introduced you to what no female child should learn.’

  ‘Locks,’ I said softly.

  ‘Aye, that, and to write, to read and speak the language of the ancients. For what purpose? I would ask. Why do women need such knowledge? It is an empty dowry no husband wants or needs. Again, he did not listen. Part of me began to think he was deliberately making you unmarriageable so he could keep you himself, filling your head with stories and so much more besides. Master Fodrake was no better, the old fool.’

  I lowered my eyes. I hated that she could talk about Papa and my beloved tutor in this way.

  ‘And then there were the locks and keys. Oh, you two had your own little language, your time together huddled over his creations. Excluded from these, I could only watch and mourn what you were becoming.’

  Despite the fire behind me, coldness crept into my bones and my heart. Listening to Mamma divulge all she’d kept hidden, as if I were her confessor, able to grant her absolution, was far more painful than I could ever have imagined. Despair lapped at my mind. I fixed a blank expression on my face. I would not let her see how cruelly her words bit.

  ‘You were so very different to the other girls.’ This was no compliment, but an affliction to be mourned. ‘Where your Papa took pride in your accomplishments, I was ashamed. No real daughter of mine would have been like that — like you. Your father thought he was making you in his image. I used to accuse him of it. Looking at you now, I was wrong. No matter what Gideon or I did or said, you’re Francis’s.’

  She leaned forward, peering at me. ‘You were always Francis’s spawn.’ She said his name with such violence, I slid back along the bed.

  Seeing my reaction, she nodded.

  ‘Even now, it’s hard to look at you. Some days, I cannot stand it.’ She sighed, the burden of these feelings at last lightening as it was passed to me. ‘It became so unbearable, God forgive me, I arranged to meet with Francis’s wife, Ursula, and tell her the whole sorry tale. But then you ran away and I thought our troubles were over. I dared to hope we could wash our hands of you and Francis forever. Don’t look at me like that. You accepted the truth from your father, why not from me, your aunt?’

  I lifted my chin, determined to hear her out and not to let her see me weep. Aye, I’d accepted it from Sir Francis, but he did not loathe me the way my Mamma — my aunt — (God, that made it easier) evidently did.

  ‘But Gideon would not let it rest. Nor, it turns out, would Francis. He found you, did he tell you that? Of course he did. Si, he told Gideon where you were, that your knight had abused you terribly and you must be brought home. I told Gideon to leave you, that you’d chosen your path and you should be made to walk it, but he would not listen. When it comes to you, he never does.’

  The tartness in Mamma’s voice, in her breath, was overpowering. The more she spoke, the more a sickly sweet smell, one I recognised from Tyburn, emanated from her. It was the smell of death. God forgive me, but at that moment, I wished it would come and strike her. I wished I really was the avenging angel people whispered of and that I could silence her for good.

  I was wicked beyond belief. Oh dear God. Please, give me strength.

  ‘I told him if he brought you back, you would simply go again — you were never ours in the first place. I forced him to agree to find you employment, anything to get you out from under our roof; somewhere I didn’t have to see you.’ She began to chuckle, a harsh, hoarse sound. ‘What does he do? Turns to his old friend, Francis. I knew then we’d lost you for good. It was only a matter of time. Ha! Is that not what he said? It was time to tell you? Si, allora, the man makes us all march to his time. To his rules. He always has and always will. You as well, daughter of his or no. You’re another pawn for him to move if and when it suits him in his game of politics and power.’

  Unable to stand it any longer, I rose from the bed and flung open the shutters. The air was cold and fresh. The rain fell heavier now, as if the sky itself was weeping.

  ‘I don’t have to listen to any more of this.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, heaving herself off the bed and shuffling around to join me. She pulled my sleeve, pinching the flesh of my arm as she did. ‘You do. I haven’t finished. Don’t turn your back on me, Mallory. The least you owe me is respect.’

  Respect? Aye, I supposed I did. Against her will, I’d been raised by her husband, dwelt in her home. She’d given me clothes, food and the education she thought a waste — which, by running away like a feckless colt, I’d proved it was. Holding my head high, I faced her. I towered over her bent form. I might be cowering inside, but at least I stood tall.

  Shivering by the window, her breath came in gasps. ‘While my heart cannot be broken — I prepared for this long ago — your Papa’s has shattered into a million pieces.’

  I closed my eyes. I recalled the teardrops landing on the bench, Papa calling my name, beseeching me to stay. Opening my eyes again, I nodded sadly.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Me?’ She turned away with a noise of disgust. ‘It’s not for me to tell you what to do. He’s your Papa, for God’s sake. It’s for you to know.’

  Wrath took hold of me then; a rage so deep and incandescent, it burst forth. ‘How should I know? He’s not my father! He’s my uncle, my guardian, and then only by the grace of God and Sir Francis. Nothing
is as I thought. Nothing.’ I grabbed her arms and shook her. ‘You were so certain this day would come, the secret would be exposed. You were right. So, tell me what to do.’

  My chest heaved, tears welled behind my eyes but I wouldn’t let them fall. Mamma went still in my grip. I released her slowly.

  ‘No. I won’t,’ she said. ‘But what I will tell you is this: who walked away from his education so you might have one? Who sacrificed his future and mine so you might have one?

  ‘You weren’t told that, were you? I didn’t think so. Your Papa took up locksmithing, trained by my father’s side, so he might immediately earn money for the family thrust upon him by his so-called friend. Your nonno insisted my wedding be brought forward so we could hold our heads high. Ashamed of Lucia, that she gave herself to the Inglese before they were wed, a tale was spun of how they’d secretly married before Francis left. My papa would not allow her name to be said in his presence again. Lucia was dead to him in every way. Lucia was gone and so was what had once been my family, what had once been my future. I was to marry a man with prospects, a man who would enter the law, become a member of parliament, mayhap even the Privy Council; does that sound familiar? Si, it should.’ She tapped the side of her proud nose. ‘Instead, what happens? Because of Sir Francis, because of you —’ she jabbed a finger at me, ‘I, the locksmith’s daughter, became the locksmith’s wife.’ Her mouth twisted into an ugly shape, her eyes were flint.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ I said.

  ‘You dare say that to me?’ Her voice was shrill. ‘The woman who this very evening rejected her papa? Fled to her room? You who is the daughter of Mister Secretary, a knight of the realm? Ha. Which would you rather be, Mallory? A Bright or a Walsingham? A locksmith’s daughter or the daughter of the Queen’s Secretary? I think you know the answer. After your little performance in the workshop, so does your papa.