Parson, I don’t—’
Phineas turned on the man with a snarl.
‘Dare you gainsay a servant of the Lord?’
Jacob stepped up and took her arms.
‘Sorry, lass.’
She hardly heard his muttered apology, for she was sobbing now, her scalp burning where Phineas had almost torn the hair out by the roots. She heard his hard voice boom out.
‘Elias, bring me the dagging shears.’
‘No!’
She screamed, cried, pleaded, but it was no use. She heard the rasp as the shears cut through her hair, handful by handful, and all the time Phineas was reciting from the Bible.
It was all over in minutes, less time than it would take a man to shear a sheep. There was a curious lightness to her head; she could feel the burning sun on her scalp. Jacob released her, but she did not move. She sat hunched on the rock, her eyes dry now, staring unseeing at the ground.
Phineas stood back.
‘And the Lord said, “Withhold not correction from the child”.’
His words fell into silence. The men were milling around, uncertain what to do. The skylark had gone, and even the sheep had ceased their bleating.
Slowly Charity got to her feet. She stared around her. The sky was still an unbroken blue vault and the hills looked the same, but everything was different, as if her world had tilted and she was looking at this scene as a detached, indifferent observer. She raised her eyes to look at her father. His face was still an angry red and he was breathing heavily, his arms by his sides and the cruel steel shears clasped in one hand.
‘But I am not a child,’ she said slowly. ‘Not anymore. And that is the last time I will let you lay a finger on me.’
With that she turned and walked away, leaving her hair, those long, silken tresses, lying at his feet like a creamy golden fleece.
Chapter One
January 1807
It was trying to snow, the bitter winds blowing the flakes horizontally across the carriage windows. Charity Weston felt a flicker of relief that there were no passengers riding on the top of the Scarborough to York cross-country mail. Black, low-lying clouds were making the winter day even shorter and soon the familiar landscape would be lost in a gloom as deep as that which filled the carriage. It was very different from the bright limelight in which she spent most of her days—or rather her nights—on stage.
She wondered what her fellow passengers would think if they knew she was an actress. The farmer and his wife might not have smiled at her quite so kindly when she took her seat, but then, all they saw was a fashionably dressed lady accompanied by her maid. She had even gone back to using the soft, cultured voice of a lady, having thrown off the rather flat, nasal tones of the south that she had assumed, along with another name, whilst working in London. It would be no wonder, therefore, if they thought her a lady of some standing. However, if they lived in or near Allingford it was quite possible that they would realise their error in the next few months, for she had accepted an offer from her old friend to join his theatre company.
A new town, new roles and a new audience. Once the idea would have filled her with excitement, but for some reason Charity could not raise any enthusiasm.
Am I getting old? she wondered. I am seven and twenty and all I want is a place of my own—not the lodging houses I own in London, but something more....
The carriage was rattling through a village and she saw a little cottage set back from the road. Golden light shone from the downstairs window, and the door was open. A woman was standing in the threshold, arms thrown wide to welcome the two little children running up the path towards her. Charity watched her catch the babes in her arms and look up at the man following them. Even in the dying light it was possible to see happiness shining in her face, and Charity felt something clutching at her heart.
That was what she wanted: a home and a loving family.
She turned in her seat, pressing her head to the glass to look at the cottage until it was out of sight. The scene had been a happy one, but it was no more than a single moment, and she knew only too well how deceptive appearances could be. Once they were all indoors, out of sight, the children might shrink behind their mother’s skirts as the man towered over them, Bible in one hand and riding crop in the other. He would demand complete obedience and reward any defiance with a thrashing. Shivering, Charity huddled back into her corner and closed her eyes, struggling to repress the memories. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come back to Allingford, so close to her roots.
The sudden slowing of the coach and raised voices from outside caused the farmer’s wife to shriek. Charity heard a mutter from Betty, her maid, who was sitting beside her.
‘Oh, lordy, what’s amiss?’
‘Most likely a cow on the road,’ Charity replied calmly. She let down the window and leaned out. ‘No,’ she said with equal calm. ‘It is not a beast. Well, not a four-legged one, at any rate. It is a highwayman.’
Betty gasped and the farmer’s wife began to gabble hysterically, her hands clasping the silver locket resting on her ample bosom, but Charity felt nothing more than a mild excitement as she regarded the horseman who was standing beside the road and brandishing a pistol towards the driver and guard. In the gloomy half-light he presented a menacing figure with his hat pulled low over his brow, throwing his face into deep shadow. Everything about the highwayman was black, from his tricorn to the hooves of the great horse that carried him. In a rough, cheerful voice he ordered the guard to throw down his shotgun and hand over the mailbag.
Charity felt a touch on her arm.
‘I pray you, madam, come back into the shadows,’ muttered the farmer in an urgent whisper. ‘Mayhap once he has the mail he won’t bother with us.’
She sat back at once but made no attempt to put up the window again, lest the noise and movement should attract the man’s attention.
‘I think it pretty poor of the guard,’ she whispered. ‘He’s made not the least attempt at resistance.’
‘There must be a gang of them,’ breathed Betty.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Charity leaned closer to the window again. ‘I can only see the one man.’
The rider dismounted and picked up the mailbag, throwing it over his saddle. Charity turned to the farmer.
‘Surely between you and the two men on the box, you could overpower him?’
The farmer immediately shrank back farther into his corner.
‘Not if he’s armed,’ he declared, a note of alarm in his voice.
‘He’s coming over,’ hissed Betty. ‘Oh, lordy!’
She clutched at Charity’s sleeve as the door was wrenched open and the stranger said jovially, ‘Well, now, let’s be seein’ who we have in here. If ye’d care to step down, ladies and gentleman!’
The farmer’s
