The situation seems to have worsened after the effigies. As we walk in town or attend church, men nod their heads and say, ‘Sir, Miss,’ to us, or call from afar: look who it is, Gentleman Jack! We do not recount this to the family of course; Anne never wants them to be concerned with it. But to publish in the newspaper, knowing everyone will read it, seems beyond cruel. We have received letters too, full of insults, one of them even offering to rescue me from the Listers. We try to laugh at them and ignore them. They are just words.

If only it had just remained as name calling.

But Anne comes home bloodied and will not tell us what happened. At night, once the candle is out, I feel her sobbing and hold her in my arms. It takes a lot for Anne to cry. I do not ask her about it, I just hold her and cry too, for when she hurts, I hurt. What they do to her, they do to me too; we are one in this. I am as angry as she is. Having now physically hurt her, I become afraid. What will they stop at?

Miss Lister

My father dabs the gash on my head with some stinging ointment and reassures me I will be all right, as if I am one of his men in battle. He does not seem to know what to say and I do not say a word. I wish I’d been out on a horse and could simply say I had fallen, but one does not just fall over when walking; not unless someone comes at you with a stick.

Father gets me drunk on brandy and I finally calm as the anger is drowned out by a numbness induced by the alcohol, which I rarely touch under normal circumstances. He holds my hand, an oddity for him, but I do not pull away. I do not call him a sentimental fool or ask him what he wants; he’s holding my hand because he cares for me and so I let him. I do not want him to let go. I am a young girl again who has fallen from my horse and am trying to be brave so that he will continue to let me ride, but inside all I want to do is cry.