Linda Finlay - The Girl with the Amber Comb

LINDA FINLAYlives on the Devonshire coast and is the author of eight novels. From lace-making to willow weaving, each one is based on a local craft which, in order to write authentically and place herself firmly in the shoes of her heroines, she has learnt to do herself. However, it is people and their problems that make for a good story and, with so much interesting material to work with, it is easy for Linda to let her imagination run as wild as the rugged West Country landscape which has inspired her writing.

The Royal Lacemaker

The Girl with the Red Ribbon

A Family For Christmas

The Sea Shell Girl

Monday’s Child

Orphans and Angels

The Flower Seller

The Bonbon Girl

Linda Finlay

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Linda Finlay 2020

Linda Finlay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008262990

Version 2020-06-21

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

Change of font size and line height

Change of background and font colours

Change of font

Change justification

Text to speech

Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008263003

To my loving husband, Pern,

for his continued support and encouragement

Cover

About the Author

Also by Linda Finlay

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Sedge Moor, Somerset. Autumn 1834

The harvest moon hung like a buttery orb, gilding the withies that stood like sentinels alongside the dykes. The smell of apple pressings from a cider house drifted across the land. Beyond rose Aller Moor, the black holes scored by peat cutters staring down on the Droves like watchful eyes.

Suddenly the quietude of the night was broken by a piercing scream that disturbed a heron from its roost. Mary cuddled her daughter closer, wiping the sweat from her brow before bending to ease the sac from her body. Although she worked quickly, she knew in her heart it was already too late. Sure enough, as the tiny form whimpered and took its first breath, Della shuddered and breathed her last. Mary shook her head, hot tears bouncing from her cheeks to mingle with the waters of the rhyne that now ran red with blood.

All she could feel was despair for a young life lost and hatred for the man whose selfish lust had been the cause. Another whimper sounded from the withies and she steeled herself to look. Yet even as she stared, the wail became impatient, its insistence demanding attention. It was just as Mary had thought, but now her worst fears had been realized, did she have the nerve to perform the task she’d sworn she would?

Sedge Moor, Somerset. Seventeen years later

‘Oh Grammer, why didn’t I listen to you?’ Eliza cried as, oblivious to the dew glistening like stars in the pale light of early morning, she dropped to her knees on the grass. Gently, she placed her posy between the two graves, one recently dug, the other flattened with time. Grammer Mary now united with her daughter Della, the mother Eliza had never known.

‘May St Michael give you protection from darkness and evil,’ she murmured. The bright blue daisies symbolized farewell and Eliza knew she wasn’t only saying goodbye to the woman who had raised her, but to her own dreams for the future. As the willows rustled their leaves, she dashed away a tear, scarcely able to believe her beloved grammer had gone to sleep the previous week never to wake and greet another new day.

It was now the end of September and the swallows were taking flight from the nearby reed beds on their way to warmer climes and a new life. Eliza wished she was going with them, for winter was fast approaching bringing the wild winds and incessant rains that would batter their home for weeks on end.

Sighing, she got to her feet and stared over the withy beds that glinted yellow in the swirling autumn mist, towards the scattered stone cottages and farmhouses which made up the hamlet of Worth.

‘Happy birthday, Eliza.’ She started as her gramfer came up behind her. ‘Were a time of mixed emotions the day you were born and that’s the truth,’ he said gruffly. Turning, she smiled and linked her arm through his, for he said the same thing every year. ‘You’ve brought such joy and Lord knows how I’d manage without you now that …’ his voice cracked and he turned towards the old oak where the two crosses were flanked by the bright flowers.

Although she didn’t feel like celebrating today, her birthday had always been an occasion to be marked. A specially baked cake followed by a toast to Della.

‘I’m sure Grammer’s staring down from heaven to see what you’ve got for me,’ Eliza teased, forcing a smile as she tried to lift his spirits.

‘Mary were never one to miss out on anythin’.’ His lips twitched, hazel eyes pensive as he stroked his greying beard. ‘I might have a little somethin’ but you’ll have to wait ’til later. Birthday or no, there’s work to do first. Old Man Conger’s callin’ for those eel traps he ordered this art’noon. Mary was that busy she didn’t have time …’ his voice trailed off again.

‘I’ve a basket to make for Mr Batstone then I’ll see to them,’ Eliza assured him, for the man was a good customer who always paid promptly, sometimes even giving them fish for their evening meal. Besides, their flour sack was almost empty and the money would help pay for another.