The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  She was wise. If anything, the pain festers. I kept that observation to myself.

  ‘Sometimes, I wish Nate would talk about it. But he chooses not to. He never has. You see, by the time he sailed into Plymouth, Mother had been dead three months. He only learned of her death when he made land. Same with Benet. It was such a shock for him. At least I was here, you know. Witnessed everything, and was prepared. As prepared as one can be to lose your brothers and mother.’

  ‘How did they die?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Jonathan was first. He contracted smallpox. He was in the north when it happened. He never made it home — his squire died as well. Then Benet fell from his horse and broke his leg. His pain was terrible to see. An infection entered his body and no matter what the physicians did, it would not leave. He died at Braeside — that’s our house on the river.

  ‘Losing Jonathan then Benet so close together, and with Nate being gone, was more than Mother could bear. She took to her bed. Master Bede called the doctor, who declared her suffering a malady of the womb, and ordered her to be bled every other day. After a few months, she rejoined us. But then she began to complain of bruises upon her body and she developed a terrible rash. We thought she’d encountered a plant in the garden or something. When her gums swelled and her teeth fell out, I feared for her life. She was in agony. The doctor prescribed poultices for the swellings in her joints, they drank her urine and declared it foul, but the cause was not known. She died a few months later … Nate sailed into Plymouth three months to the day …’

  My chest was tight, bursting with feeling for this brave young woman and her brother.

  Then Beatrice told the story of why Lord Nathaniel had embarked with Drake. It was a version of what Papa had revealed to me. She spoke of the duel he had been involved in, and how on the voyage he had rescued the black female slave. She gave scant details, and I had an overriding sense that she was sparing herself as much as me.

  ‘Nate wasn’t always as he is now — so direct, so indifferent to the impact of his words and actions. I still see glimpses of the brother I remember — the one before the fights, the duel, the voyage and the terrible scars,’ said Beatrice. ‘Why, do you know he brought the cats from Drake’s ship to live here? Much to Mistress Margery’s horror.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘He couldn’t bear the thought that they might starve — not that he’d admit that. You’ll see them around. The big red one is Bilge Rat and the one with one eye and half its ear missing is Barnacle.’

  ‘Nicholas mentioned that my lord employed some of the crew from the ship as well.’

  ‘Aye. When the sailors weren’t paid what they were promised and Drake turned his back upon them, it was Nate who found them work. Many are here — others he employed on our estate. Lance as well. Have you met him? Sir Lance?’ When I shook my head, she smiled broadly. ‘You will. He’s Nate’s closest friend. Known him since he was a boy.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed by the sailors, will you? I was at first. But they’re like Bilge Rat and Barnacle. They look ferocious and ill-made, but they too are kittens in lion’s coats. I’ve grown very fond of them; Mistress Margery, too, though she’d never admit it.’

  ‘And what of your brother? How does he occupy himself now?’

  Beatrice rose and went to the window. ‘That’s the problem, you see. He attends court as the Queen demands, but as you just saw, he doesn’t like going there. The only thing to bring him joy since he’s returned is his patronage of the troupe.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you bring him more joy than anything.’ I meant it.

  She turned and flashed a grin. ‘I think I’m more of a problem than a boon. Nate never expected to be lumbered with me. That’s why your being here is so … so … pleasing in so many ways.’ She sank onto the end of the bed. ‘I didn’t realise how much I missed female company until I met you that day at Whitehall. Nate had spoken about getting someone, but I resented the idea. I thought I’d enough to occupy me, and Mistress Margery, nurse Rebecca, and my maid, Alice, are kind. But it’s this —’ she touched her breast and then rested her hand on my arm. ‘This intimacy, the fellowship is what I’ve missed.’

  It was something I’d longed for my entire life, but never achieved. Perchance with this young woman I too could find a bond I was lacking. I’d once thought to have it with Raffe, but that had proved an illusion, and while I shared so much with Caleb, he was a man. Already, with Beatrice, our words felt unforced, natural.

  Then I remembered what I was really doing here, in this room, encouraging her to divulge aspects of her life and heart. Why, I was a false friend. The idea made me ill. Unaware of the turn my thoughts had taken, Beatrice gazed wistfully towards the door.

  ‘He’s so sad, Mallory, sad and discontented. That’s the other thing Mary Drake said. Once men get salt water in their blood, they can’t forget it. She said it’s like a siren song that lures them away. She said he won’t stay, he’ll venture forth again and that it’s up to me to shore up a future for myself, for the Warham name and fortune.’

  There was only one way for her to do that: marriage. It seemed young Beatrice and I had more in common than I first thought. Our destinies were to make suitable matches, the only means of saving us from unnatural futures as spinsters.

  ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I wouldn’t listen to Lady Mary Drake. Methinks she talks of her husband and not your brother or any other man. I would heed his lordship, for there’s no doubt he loves you and would be loathe to leave your side again.’

  Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears and she tried to hide a sob. Hesitating only a moment, I drew her into my arms. Stroking her hair, I whispered nonsense, made soothing noises and all the while my mind was a-fever. As I gently rocked Beatrice, I considered the ease with which she’d opened up to me. The poor child was in desperate need of a friend. I made a solemn vow then and there, despite the mission Sir Francis had given me, that I would be the friend Beatrice so badly needed. Being a watcher, an agent, did not preclude such a role …

  Or did it?

  I pushed aside my misgivings and the tremors of disloyalty and doubt that gnawed at my resolve. I bade Beatrice dry her eyes and begged her to give me a tour of the house that, for the time being at least, was to be my home as well. It also served to deflect her curiosity about me.

  And so the day segued into a pleasant evening and a quiet supper with only Lord Nathaniel, Beatrice and Nicholas for company. In the evening, Beatrice played the lute and then the clavichord, and proved to be most talented. Asked to accompany her, I declined, as my musical skills were sadly lacking. However I did agree to sing a madrigal with her, as I had a passable voice.

  ‘You put the robins to shame with your harmonious sounds,’ said Lord Nathaniel when we’d finished and Nicholas had ceased clapping. ‘You are perfect together.’

  A compliment it might have been, but I attributed it more to the wine than reality. Beatrice’s voice had a lovely tone; mine was too deep for a woman. But it didn’t stop Beatrice looping her arm in mine and begging a refrain. Rather than argue I obliged, and so passed my first evening in my new household.

  FORTY-TWO

  WARHAM HALL, KNIGHTRIDER STREET, LONDON

  December through Yuletide, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  By the time I’d been at Warham Hall for a few weeks, Beatrice and I had settled into a routine. For certes, she was an even greater delight than our first encounter promised. As the days passed and the rain turned into a thick, silent snow as Yuletide approached, I found myself thinking that if I could have been blessed with a little sister, I would have wanted her made in Beatrice’s image.

  Even Lord Nathaniel’s contrariness, which familiarity seemed to reduce to tolerable levels, couldn’t spoil my joy in my new role. He was in demand at court as Christmas festivities beckoned, and sometimes days would pass without us seeing him or his squire. I found myself looking for him and feeling oddly despondent when he was
absent.

  A week went by before I met Lord Nathaniel’s old friend and fellow officer on the Golden Hind, Sir Lance Ingolby. Filled with good humour, which Lord Nathaniel’s moods could not dent, Sir Lance would oft remain of an evening, entertaining Beatrice and me. I didn’t need to be one of Sir Francis’s watchers to note the lingering glances Beatrice bestowed upon the handsome man, nor the way she curled her hair around a finger and took pains to wear her best dress and cleanest ruff when he was present. I only hoped that if her affection was not returned, or if her brother disapproved, Sir Lance would ensure she was not too bruised.

  While our evenings were often spirited affairs, most mornings would find Beatrice and me in the parlour reading French, Spanish and Italian. I encouraged her to read aloud, and would then question her closely, insisting she converse in that language, sharpening her fluency. After luncheon, we’d translate passages from Latin by some of my favourite poets and philosophers. While her Greek still left a bit to be desired, over the weeks it improved markedly and as a reward for her hard work, I would reveal snippets of my family’s history and we would read chapters of Malory to each other while the sun disappeared behind the horizon and we curled before the fire with mulled wine, soft cheese and sweetmeats on a plate before us.

  The more I came to know Beatrice, the more I loved her and began to view our relationship as one that could not be sullied by my true mission. Some days, we’d abandon books altogether and play music, sew, or, donning our thickest cloaks, brave the snow and cold and browse the shops in the Royal Exchange or walk down to the river and watch the swans and boats gliding upon the frigid currents. On these excursions we were accompanied by two men who were clearly former sailors. Their glacial stares and the way their hands hovered over their swords kept any potential pickpockets at bay and prevented vendors from bothering us — though the call of ‘hot pies’ was most tempting.

  As I was absorbed into the fellowship Beatrice offered, and experienced the affinity of her huge household, I reflected on my lack of any real bond with my newly proclaimed father. Since being employed by him, I’d sought different kinds of allegiances, the kinds that proffered regard for what one did rather than who one was. Allegiances that relied not on a shared past, but on present actions alone. Hadn’t I given loyalty to Sir Francis over my filial obligations to Papa? Hadn’t Thomas become a de facto Caleb? Being at Warham Hall reminded me how important the communion between those who shared history, values and feelings could be — even when there was discord. I savoured every moment I spent with the Warhams, even though they reminded me of what Papa and I had once enjoyed — something I feared we might not have again.

  Perhaps it was this fear that ensured I wrote to Papa daily. The first missive had been the most difficult to write. While I wanted to object to the way the secret of my birth had been kept from me, to pour out my feelings of betrayal mingled with gratitude, I stayed my heart and thus my quill, and chose instead to remain on safe topics. As an obedient employee, I also honoured my master’s decrees and maintained my reports. I was so afraid that if I didn’t, I would lose everything. Sir Francis may have declared himself my father, but it became clear that this was to be in name only. The realisation cut deeply, and if not for my devotion to mediocrita, I may well have succumbed to despair. In the blink of an eye I’d gone from having two fathers to having none, and I could do nothing about it. Tempted to put my feelings into words in my reports, I nevertheless resisted and maintained a formal tone, hoping my lacklustre efforts at watching were not apparent.

  Sir Francis wrote to me saying he understood the lack of information in my missives, but emphasised that as soon as the weather improved he was eager I should attend the theatre.

  The books have not yet left London and are either being distributed within the city or stored with the intention to disseminate them later. Find out what you can about Lord Warham’s Men. Remember, you are my eyes and ears.

  How could I forget? In order to compensate for my laxness, I asked if we might invite Caleb to supper one evening. Beatrice was most enthusiastic.

  ‘What a grand idea. It’s been a while since Caleb was here. I adored his play Circe’s Chains.’

  ‘You saw it?’ I was surprised Lord Nathaniel would allow Beatrice to attend such a political piece of theatre.

  ‘Oh, a few times,’ said Beatrice, and began to recite some lines. ‘I’m looking forward seeing The Scold’s Husband again, too, and his new work, Dido’s Lament. Nate thinks that play will be the making of Caleb.’

  Making or breaking.

  We then had a long conversation about those who abhorred theatre (Puritans mainly) and attitudes towards actors — however accomplished they were, if a company did not hire them, they were considered layabouts and regarded with suspicion. If they lacked a licence, they were arrested as vagrants and flung into the Fleet prison.

  ‘I think that’s why Nate made sure one of the first things he did was to offer patronage to a troupe,’ said Beatrice.

  I glanced at her. ‘You think he was rescuing them as well?’

  ‘I do.’

  And so Caleb was sent an invitation, which he accepted readily. I knew he was an old friend of Lord Nathaniel’s, and that they’d been at Oxford at the same time, but I didn’t know their families had a connection as well.

  ‘Oh, my family isn’t the only one with Catholic skeletons in the closet,’ said Caleb, his eyes glinting in the candlelight as we sat around the dining table. He held out his goblet for refilling.

  ‘Caleb!’ exclaimed Beatrice. ‘That was years and years ago.’

  ‘What was?’ I asked, feeling thick-headed and wishing I hadn’t finished the last drink.

  ‘It’s not everyone can boast an archbishop in their family. Aye, Mallory,’ said Caleb, lowering his voice, ‘consider that. Our good little Protestants, Lord Nathaniel and Lady Beatrice, can boast an uncle who, once upon a time, was Archbishop of Canterbury — William Warham. Why do you think Nate was at Oxford? A veritable hotbed of popery. You have found shelter beneath a Catholic roof.’

  ‘He was a great-great uncle or something,’ protested Beatrice, half-rising as if to clear away Caleb’s words. ‘Hardly counts. Anyway, Nate’s no papist.’

  Enjoying her discomfort, Caleb laughed. ‘Does it? Count, I mean? Mallory, you’d know, working for Sir Francis. Isn’t he suspicious of anyone with Catholic relations in their past as well as present? It doesn’t matter what one claims to believe, it’s the connections they enjoy — or don’t — that condemn them.’ I glared at him. He had a point. It always bothered me that Sir Francis never mentioned Mamma’s Catholicism. I now knew why. Just as he kept her secret, she kept his.

  ‘She didn’t work for him, silly,’ chuckled Beatrice, pulling faces at Caleb. ‘Well, not really. She was his daughter Frances’s companion. You know I wrote to her and told her you’re mine now and how fortunate I am.’ Beatrice beamed at me.

  I choked on my drink. Caleb stood and slapped me on the back. With watering eyes, I raised a smile. ‘Did you? When?’

  ‘Oh, two days ago, but feather-head that I am, I haven’t sent it yet.’

  That night I’d something to report to Sir Francis after all, and only relaxed when I learned the next day that Beatrice’s letter would be intercepted.

  It made me aware of how thin my facade was. Lord Nathaniel had caught me out with his questions on more than one occasion. He already suspected I was never Frances’s companion and had made his opinion clear. Why then did he allow me into his household, allow me to be with his sister? What had changed? Was he watching me watching him?

  The thought was strangely exciting.

  After his first visit, Caleb’s presence became a regular thing. I was grateful for his company and the laughter he brought to the dining room and parlour. When Lord Nathaniel was home, we all enjoyed discussing his plays, Sir Lance included, and getting insights into his new ideas. Concerned how Dido’s Lament was proceeding, and knowing his political
inclinations, I only relaxed when Caleb whispered that in the current atmosphere, where suspicion bred suspicion, he’d decided to err on the side of caution.

  ‘Truth is, his lordship warned me off; said playing with religious fire is how martyrs get burnt.’ He swept his arms down his sides. ‘The thought of my fine apparel being consigned to the flames was just too much to bear.’ As usual, Caleb was dressed in colours and fabrics that bordered on breaking every sumptuary law in existence and those yet to be invented. How he afforded such fine cloth, feathers and fur was beyond me. I felt yet another rush of gratitude towards Lord Nathaniel.

  It was from Caleb I learned the things Papa did not reveal in his daily replies to my letters. He had become increasingly withdrawn, more likely to be found in his workshop at any time of the day or night. According to Caleb, Papa was becoming a recluse.

  ‘He declines invitations, keeps his customers’ visits to a minimum; why he barely enters the house except to sleep and wash. I don’t believe he’d even eat if Mistress Pernel didn’t send Gracious to the workshop with food and drink. Angela tries to persuade him to eat, and mostly manages, but he’s fading away. Your uncle has been to see him and prescribed a purgative that kept him between his bed and the jordan for a few days. He looked worse after that. I take ale down, try and draw him out, but he’s distracted, sad, and, truth be told, a little angry as well. I don’t know what happened between you two, Mallory, but I suspect it needs no physic beyond your presence. Can you not pay a visit?’

  Caleb might be right, but I was not yet ready to face Papa, nor had he extended an invitation. Nor had Mamma. What could I say? Where could I begin? For all Caleb said, no matter how tempted I was to fly home and see Papa, Mamma’s words were like an itch I could not help but scratch. Papa was better off without me. He would grow accustomed to my absence. One does to anything, or so I reasoned …