Now that I'm done with college, I'm getting back into creative writing! (And reading, for my own pleasure.) Pursuing a non-education English degree opened my eyes to multiple books. The Victorian Era being one of them. Reading novels like Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein", Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice", and Elizabeth Gaskell's "North and South" just makes me feel so many emotions that I need to write again. I believe that they have helped my writing style, too.

While I may not have played "Assassin's Creed: Syndicate" (yet), I feel like this story is clear and linear enough for me to stay focused. I want this to be a Romance, I want Jacob-everyone good to get their happy ending. And while some of my 21st American word choices may show, I ask that we all be patient with the upcoming updates. Furthermore, I do not own any of the "Assassin's Creed: Syndicate" characters: Jacob and Evie Frye, Crawford Starrick, Henry Green, Lucy Thorne, Pearl Attaway, etc. etc. The idea that Crawford Starrick has a 24 year old daughter, Catherine Starrick, is my own. Just is the Northcotts are.

****Please, be aware that there is "hinted" child abuse in this chapter. Physical, yes. And mental/emotional if you squint. Take care of yourselves if it triggers you. You are far more important than this story. Any and all tags are on my AO3 account (SugerG), too. Tags edits may change with upcoming chapters.****

Now, without further ado, To Be The Good Daughter!

Chapter One: Invisible Piano

On the outskirts of London stood Starrick Estate; a dark and dismal place, with spots of bright red uniforms prowling the estate like apex predators as the only form of life. Far from any road or any source of friendly company, all light seemed to fade away the closer one got to the manor. The only source of hope for those weaker of heart was the sound of a piano. Through the thick walls and cracked windows, there were melodies that seemed to have no end. They floated across the grounds at all hours of the day.

Crawford Starrick sat in his office as he half listened to the reports of London – of his many business endeavors. Had it not been for the movement of his fingers, one might have thought him asleep, for he closed his eyes to pay more attention to the distant music his daughter played in the drawing room. Catherine's piano playing was perfect now, he noted. He could not remember the last time he corrected her lines. Some of his fondest memories were of him and her seated in front of the grand piano, their fingers gliding over the black and white teeth. Her feet could not reach the pedals just yet. When she would hit a wrong key, she looked up at him with her bright brown eyes and a pout on her lips. "I'm sorry, Papa," she often said with a quiver in her voice.

Crawford would simply cover her tiny hand with his larger one and guide her fingers as was needed. "Like this."

Now she could play for hours without him. It was no song he recognized; simply a melody that she created. Such a tune was untouched by the grievances of the world – blind and hopeful for the future. Almost longing. Many a maid said how their delicate hearts bled for the woman of twenty-four summers. Not married—not even a devilishly handsome suitor at her doorstep. Although, some said, that William's eyes had lingered far too long in such and such a time. Worse yet, Catherine's only forms of companionship were the older Northcott girls – Elizabeth and Charlotte – the help. The three women were of similar age, and Crawford made sure the young and only Mr. Northcott had no interest in his only child. He would not lose such a treasure—not again. Thoughts of that nature lingered in the back of his mind whenever Catherine first entered a room. While Crawford did note his few similarities in her, she looked so much more like her late mother. Mrs. Starrick's likeness was in the entryway of the estate in the form of an enormous portrait. Within the portrait was a young Mr. Starrick, tall and proud, behind an equally youthful Mrs. Starrick, who held their new baby girl. Mrs. Starrick was a woman of Victorian beauty; the kindness of her soul reached out to her worldly appearance. Her stature was perfect as her dark joyful eyes just fell at Mr. Starrick's shoulder. Whispering women were jealous of her ivory, unblemished, and soft skin; and no one dared to mention her bosom, for it was very improper. But, how could they ignore them when her long dark hair was always pulled back to bring attention to them? Only a few strands framed her oval face and small ears. At least she would have gotten wrinkles with all the smiling her pouty pink lips did; pity, her cheeks were dimpled and her teeth a pearly white. In that particular painting, her smooth hands were cradling her newborn babe; rather than, focused at the column of her white neck or shoulder. A band of bright red ribbon with white lace trimming wraps around her neck, the brooch was a dark red surrounded by white with silver birdcage engraved inside. Up until the birth of Catherine, that choker was her treasure.

It was a dreadful morning when Mr. Starrick found his wife dead in the nursery.

"Find me a painter," he said softly, staring off ahead of him, with a wailing Catherine in his arms, "and a wet nurse."

There were only a few servants at the time of Catherine's birth. The Northcott family nearly doubled the staff – a husband at the time, a wife, a son, and twin girls. Crawford knew had it not been for Catherine, the Northcott family would no longer be on the estate years later. Moreover, that they would not live a happy life off the estate, for the eldest Mr. Northcott died when Catherine was only five. It was a horrible factory accident, which the Starricks should not bother with, but sweet Catherine had inherited her mother's kind soul as well.

"Papa," Catherine said as she tugged on his trousers, "please let Mrs. Northcott stay. She is very kind and considerate. She knows an awful lot—she could be the Nanny! A nurse even! The boys are always getting hurt, aren't they? William loves the horses; he could help Sam. He's getting really old now, isn't he? Lizzie and Lottie could help the others in the estate; cooking, cleaning, and such. Please, Papa, don't let them go." Tears welled up in those large eyes of hers.

Crawford thought it over as he petted his daughter's hair. The Northcotts had packed what little belongings they accrued over the handful of years and stood in the doorway with their eyes glancing between father and daughter. Catherine had grown fond of them, however, not to the point where she viewed them as her playthings as many girls of her social standing would have. She once called Mary Northcott "Mummy" in her giggling voice. Crawford was quick to hit the word back from her vocabulary. Words of that nature were only reserved for his late wife.

Even so, they stayed and worked. Only William was allowed to leave the estate for hours on end. He subtly brought the littlest Northcott – Jane – with him in his endeavors when not tasked with escorting the Grand Master to his locations. Had Mary been born of a higher social standing she might have been a governess. Alas, she was not, and became a sort of nanny to Catherine. Elizabeth and Charlotte were primarily kitchen maids, but were stationed wherever Catherine needed them after her studying. The newest Northcott normally worked out in the garden or with her brother in the stables. On certain days of the week, this family and Lucy Thorne would meet a half dozen or so Blighters at the estate's front gates to receive any needed items within the household.

It was at these hours Catherine could not be seen nor heard. She had, of course, grown used to this over the years. During her earlier years, the governess would tell her to read or sew. Sewing was not her forte, often she accidentally pricked her finger with the needle, and so Romance novels had become the best form of escapism for her. Her heart yearned for such companionship, for a love so wonderful that she herself may change for the better and her lover as well. They almost seemed like fairytales. William had always said she could meet whomever she wished in London.

"You know I cannot leave the estate," she told him once. "Father forbids it."

"Catherine," he had taken to calling her by her Christian name in private company, at her insistence, "you have my word that no one will know."

"Father forbids it," she repeated and started playing the piano in a haunting tune. Even so, thoughts of the city, seeming so far away despite her father's business there, floated in her head.


The reports of London were just a bit more bearable when she played her piano. Just underneath Crawford's mustache was the hint of a smile. His left hand stilled, coming to rest on his thigh. The right remained up as he read his letters. Three words came up again – the Frye twins. Particularly, Jacob Frye. He had been killing Templar gang leaders, or assisting the police in arresting them, liberating his factories, and leading gang wars in the streets. The change in Crawford's operations was minor, but it was a change he did not want to see.

If Crawford did not find a way to stop the Frye twins, they could destroy everything.

"After they killed Ferris and Sir David, Grand Master, they only been worse to—"

"Mary," Crawford said without looking in her direction. The man in front of him stopped talking, perplexed by the mention of the old woman's name.

"Yes, Grand Master Starrick?"

"Bring my daughter to me, now, if you please."

"Yes, Grand Master Starrick." Mary curtsied at her boss before leaving the room. Over the two decades of her stay in Starrick estate, her feet had gotten quick and she moved as if she were a highborn lady. Not even her skirts dared to make a sound. It was rather unfortunate that her slippers gave away the speed at which she walked now.

Clip-cloc-clip-cloc-clip-cloc

The other maids, young and spire as they are, made certain to stay out of Mary's way when she walked in such a manner. Even her daughters knew better.

The woman of fifty or so years headed towards the drawing room, indicated by the piano playing. Mary had help raise Miss Starrick along with her own two girls, and over the years, they all have become the best of friends. Her girls often snuck into Miss Starrick's chambers when they were younger to gossip and giggle late into the night. That is, up until Master Starrick put two squarely built men in front of her doors one late evening. Master Starrick's henchmen coming to the Northcotts' doorstep was merely luck. Mary and her husband had to go to work, thus they had the twins strapped to their chests with William at their side. Those men had ordered they pack their things and leave their home. "You will have good work there," one said. "There is a starving babe," said the other. The promise of good pay and solid holdings made them leave their home that night. Upon arriving at the estate, William nearly burst with excitement.

"We get to live here?" he bounced in the carriage, blue eyes sparkling.

"Yes," his father said placing a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder, "but you must behave yourself. These are business people, we mustn't be rude. Think of your sisters and this other babe."

"Miss Catherine Starrick," Mary corrected.

The young miss nearly did starve. Mary wasn't her mother; she smelled and tasted different. Either Lizzie or Lottie was in the opposite arm, as well. In his rising ire, Master Starrick almost sent for another new mother. As fortune would have it that next morning, before Mary fed her own daughters, Catherine suckled by herself. A few weeks later, Mary was able to double breastfeed with Catherine.

The girls grew up together not bothered by class as the governess tried to teach the young Miss Starrick. All of the girls would giggle at her words. Lizzie and Lottie stood in front of Catherine with filthy clothes and their golden curls a tangled mess of flower petals. "We've adopted her as our sister! She's the lost Northcott!" Lizzie cried with her fist in the air. Lottie's fist shot up alongside her sister. Catherine, not quite as filthy as the other two, squealed out her laughter.

"Lost Northcott," she shouted over her governess' cries. Catherine chanted those two words as she ran away from the "old batty woman with a stick up her arse" as Adam once said.

Mary watched as Catherine ran about the gardens with her dark hair whipping behind her.

"Catherine," Master Starrick's voice boomed from the doorway, and everything stopped. "Come inside. It's time for your lessons."

"Yes, Papa."

He would then proceed to pick the bits of grass and flower petals out of her hair. Reprimanding her as he stood above her. "Your mother would be very disappointed in you."

"I'm sorry, Papa."

None of the Northcotts could say anything in this exchange. They were allowed to stay, but could be thrown out at a moment's notice. In one horrid moment, Mary had to bite her tongue to keep her silence. In another, she had to pull William away from the young miss as the governess smacked her head for not standing just so. Unfortunately, one evening, Lizzie and Lottie heard Catherine's stifled cries in her bedroom. Once they entered the room, she shushed up, but she still sniffled and there were tear marks down her soft face. At their persistence, young Miss Starrick removed her hands from under the duvet to reveal her beaten hands. The Northcott twins reported this to their parents, and Mary reported this to Master Starrick.

No one saw nor heard of the governess afterwards.

Particular lessons took their root. Miss Starrick no longer ran about to chase the chickens or played with the Northcott children. She stopped any attempts to help the other servants. Throughout her entire childhood, even now, she stood under her father and mother's portrait when Master Starrick's inner circle visited.

"You look more and more like your mother every time I see you," they often said. "It's a pity she died because of you."

Catherine remained still at their words, motionless as a few pinched her cheek. "Thank you," she would reply.


Mary could see the resemblance now that Miss Starrick was older. It's mostly in her nose, lips, chin, and neck. Her bone structure was a blend of her parents – a tad sharper than her mother, but far softer than her father – with eyes unfocused unless spoken to in a direct manner. Probably recalling a moment in a book she once read or conjuring up some fanciful situation.

The stout older woman gazed upon Miss Starrick as she continued to play at the piano. Unlike so many noble young ladies, including her late mother, there was not a strand of hair out of place on Catherine's head. Lottie made sure to braid the miss's long hair and style it just so with elegant pearls pinned into her mane. The tresses almost resembled a crown. If her father let her attend any parties, Miss Starrick surely would have heard the envious whispers of her pale skin contrasting beautifully with her dark hair and constricting gowns. Master Starrick did not allow his daughter to dress in simple muslin or housedresses; they are too grand for such fashion. Even her traveling gowns were limited.

"Miss Starrick," Mary called out.

"Yes?" Catherine did not open her eyes or rise to greet the older woman. Her fingers continue to dance across the keys.

"Your father wishes to speak with you in his study."

"Yes, of course." The song she was playing came to a natural end, despite not being a classic. Much like a ghost, Catherine rose from the bench with a wink from the red choker wrapped around her neck. The ruffles on her bustle flowed down into their proper placement similar to a bow.

Catherine walked a few steps ahead of Mary down the corridor. It was a slow and dignified walk, as to not disrupt the very air around her person. No words were spoken between them for a time; only a few remaining servants bow or curtsey to her as they passed.

"What does my father wish to speak with me about?"

"I'm not entirely sure, Miss, but if I had to guess it would be the Frye twins." Mary kept her gaze just past Catherine's arm.

An elegant brow quirked up at this inquiry. Even so, Catherine did not look back. "The Frye twins?"

"Assassins, Miss. They have been disrupting Master Starrick's business endeavors."

Catherine hums. What could her father possibly want of her with Assassins? She knew of the Templar and Assassin world, but was told to never worry about it. Only to pay attention to her studies – that were outside her father's Templar business. "Why don't you run along and read those Romance novels of yours," Miss Thorne once said before shutting the door in her face. It was only because Catherine loved her books so much that was what she did; not out of spite. That would be improper of someone in her standing.

"Do you know why my father wishes to speak with me?"

"I haven't the foggiest clue. They always make sure I leave the room before they speak of such plans." Mary now stood between Catherine and the study's doors. There was an argument behind those doors. For a fleeting moment, Catherine wished she could press her ear against the door to listen what was being said. Unfortunately, Mary knocked firmly three times before opening the door.

"Miss Catherine Starrick," she announced to the room of Templars.

All eyes fell on the young woman in deep crimson.