‘You be lucky if you be thinking of getting a drink,’ she mumbled.
But they continued past the gin palace, out of sight. Harriet waited for them to reappear on the beachfront but they didn’t. She stood up and strained her eyes to see at which house they had stopped. It could have been hers or the two neighbouring houses. It could be the constables with news of the murder, she thought.
‘Girls, we be going back now, come on,’ she instructed.
‘But we be playing nice,’ Ann complained.
‘I don’t be wanting to go back,’ Keziah moaned.
‘Be quiet and come on,’ Harriet retorted, leading the way back down the grassy path.
Back at the house, Harriet tentatively opened the street door. There, clutching their bicorn hats, stood two gentlemen. They wore smart buckskin trousers, tailcoats with dark silk cravats.
‘They be from the workhouse,’ Christopher blurted, his face ashen.
One of them stepped forward and smiled bleakly. ‘Harriet Lovekin?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she answered.
‘My name is Mr Crispe and this is Mr Harman—we are churchwardens and overseers of the poor. We understand you have recently lost both your mother and father—is this correct?’
Harriet nodded as both her sisters sidled up to her.
‘And how do you mean to exist?’ Mr Harman asked, not attempting to disguise his scorn.
‘What do you be a-meaning?’ Harriet replied.
‘What I mean is, how do you intend to live—buy food? Have you a job of your own? Perhaps you are a laundress’s assistant or a seamstress?’
‘No, but the gin palace next door be mine.’
The men laughed.
‘I’m afraid you are underage, unmarried and living in a house which is situated on land now belonging to the king,’ Mr Harman said.
‘Your situation is rather bleak,’ Mr Crispe added. ‘But, we are here to assist.’
‘Might we sit down?’ Mr Harman asked.
Harriet nodded. ‘Girls, you can be carrying on with your game on the beach—just be minding the tides.’
Ann and Keziah scuttled off outside and Harriet and Christopher joined Mr Harman and Mr Crispe at the parlour table.
‘Now,’ Mr Crispe said with a smile. ‘I can find no record of yours or your sisters’ baptism in the town—perhaps your late mother or father could trace their origins there?’
Harriet flushed crimson and shook her head. ‘We was baptised in Westwell, Kent—that was where our Ma be from and all.’
‘I see,’ Mr Harman said, nodding to Mr Crispe.
‘And your father? Where was he baptised?’
Harriet shrugged. ‘I don’t be a-knowing.’
‘It is as I thought,’ Mr Harman said, joyfully tapping his fingers on the table. ‘We are now obliged to have you and your sisters removed from this town, where the expense of your maintenance will be met by the parish of Westwell.’
‘Please sign your name here,’ Mr Crispe added, thrusting a piece of paper and a fountain pen towards Harriet.
‘A carrier will be here by tomorrow,’ Mr Harman said. ‘Pack no more than two cases.’
‘You can’t be doing this!’ Christopher yelled.
‘I ain’t even buried Ma!’ Harriet wailed. ‘Please!’
A silent agreement passed between the two overseers’ eyes and Mr Harman nodded.
‘You can see your mother buried,’ he agreed. ‘Good day to you both,’ Mr Harman said, standing from his chair and making his way to the door.
‘Good day,’ Mr Crisp echoed, following his colleague.
‘Mr Crisp,’ Christopher called. The two men, having placed their hats on their heads, stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘Do it be normal for you to go a-visiting folk like this? I always be thinking that it were the poor that went looking for help.’
Mr Crisp smiled. ‘A little word came from the Town Hall.’
There was a slight pause, then, through a haze of tears, Harriet watched as the two men marched back up the hill in the direction from which they had come.
‘Oh, Christopher,’ Harriet wailed.
‘Don’t be fretting,’ he soothed, placing a hand onto hers.
‘How can you be a-saying that? Certain-sure, we be about to get carted off to Westwell.’
A silence hung in the dim airless room, as they both contemplated their futures. For all Christopher’s reassurance, Harriet was frightened. After all that had happened, she was now on the verge of losing her home and Christopher.
‘I be needing a rest, I’m rattleboned,’ she announced, heading out of the door. ‘I’m going for a lie down.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
1st May 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
The intense humidity of the past few days, which had caused several restless nights in homes right across the America Ground, had culminated yesterday evening in a violent thunderstorm. The three Lovekin girls had huddled together in their room above the Black Horse, under the canopy of the American flag that Harriet had strung out above their bed, not able to sleep until the early hours of the morning when the cantankerous thunder had recoiled over the sea and peace had finally been restored.
Now, as Harriet—with her sisters close by her side—stepped from the cool interior of St Clements Church, the air was warm and salty.
The strains of intense grief were indelibly marked upon the three girls’ faces. Harriet, her eyes puffy and bloodshot, tried to maintain an external strength for the sake of her sisters. She took their hands in hers and smiled. ‘Come on, let’s be getting home.’
They followed obediently, sniffling into their handkerchiefs.
‘But I be wanting to see her buried,’ Keziah said, stopping dead in her tracks.
Harriet glanced around her to see who was within earshot. ‘Keziah,’ she whispered, ‘it ain’t the done thing for a woman to attend no burial, now hush.’
Reaching for Keziah’s hand, she pulled her back to her side, grateful to be leaving the grounds of the church. She too would have liked to have attended the burial, but it was simply not permitted. Christopher was there, as were a handful of other men who had attended the service. It was a decent enough send off and, given the circumstances of her death, the clergyman had waived the fee for a few words at the graveside. The cost of the funeral had taken every last guinea that had been cobbled together from the house and gin palace.
So engrossed was she in her own thoughts, that Harriet failed to see the gentleman standing at the roadside in front of her. She walked directly into him, suddenly returning to herself as they collided. It was him.
An icy chill ran down Harriet’s spine and she felt her legs waver beneath her. ‘Richard,’ she said flatly.
‘Hello again, Mister,’ Ann chirped.
‘So sorry to hear about your mother,’ he simpered, flashing a smile between the three girls. ‘Very nasty business, that.’
Harriet, aware that a group of female mourners were following close behind, nodded politely and muttered her gratitude.
Richard grabbed her arm, his nails digging into her flesh. ‘My constables are having a terrible time finding out who killed her. Terrible time.’
Harriet let go of her sisters’ hands and removed Richard’s grasp, before striding onwards, determined not to show any emotion.
‘It’s almost like they never will…’ Richard hissed.
‘What do he be meaning, Hattie?’ Keziah asked, looking up at her older sister.
‘He be playing with words, that be all,’ Harriet answered. ‘He be thinking he’s cleverer than us, but he ain’t.’
Harriet continued to lead her sisters back home. As they descended the hill from the Priory Bridge, she spotted the horses and carriage outside their house. Please not now! Harriet thought. Not today, not without Christopher here.
‘That man be back at our house,’ Keziah noticed, pointing to the gentleman standing beside their stree
t door. ‘What do he be wanting?’
Harriet stopped, gently pulled on the girls’ hands and drew them towards her. She stooped down and placed an arm around their waist. ‘Listen, girls, those men there be a-taking us some place nice to look after us for a short while.’
‘Where?’ Keziah demanded.
‘Do you be a-coming, too, Hattie?’ Ann blubbered.
‘Yes, I be a-coming, too. We be going to a village in Kent—but it just be for a very short while, that be all. Alright?’
‘Why?’ Keziah asked.
‘It just be while things be getting sorted out. Now, be brave,’ she said, standing up tall and composing herself before she continued down the hill.
Right outside the house were two large chestnut horses, harnessed to a curricle. It was a simple uncovered, two-seater carriage with two large wheels and a rig behind for the rider—in this case, a thin gangly man in his early forties with deep-set dark eyes, whom Harriet instantly distrusted.
‘Misses Lovekin,’ Mr Harman greeted, raising his hat from his head. ‘This is Mr Barker and he is here to ensure your safe transportation to Westwell, where you will be met by the overseers. I trust you have everything packed?’
Harriet nodded. ‘Wait here,’ she directed her sisters, who instinctively gravitated towards each other, eyeing the two men suspiciously.
Inside the parlour she had left two canvas cases. Taking one in each hand, she took a final look around the room. Her eyes settled on her mother’s portrait, hanging above the fireplace and she felt a sudden rush of emotion that she could no longer fight against. ‘See you soon, Ma,’ she wept at the picture, before wiping her eyes dry and making her way outside.
Taking the key from around her neck, she locked the street door, hoping that it was not for the last time. ‘Let’s be a-going,’ she said calmly.
Harriet helped Ann, then Keziah into the carriage, before squeezing herself in.
Mr Barker placed the cases at their feet then mounted the rig behind them.
‘I wish you well,’ Mr Harman said.
Harriet offered a polite nod, trying to stifle her tears, and the curricle began its journey.
They trotted up the hill and crossed the Priory Bridge behind a horse struggling to pull a cart laden with bricks: another house and another family packing up and departing.
Harriet turned and witnessed the house and the Black Horse fading from view.
They were leaving the America Ground.
But, if all went to plan, it wouldn’t be for long.
The journey to Westwell took just over five hours. It had been unbearable in every possible way. It was hot, sticky and uncomfortable and, owing to the cramped seating, Ann had to sit on Harriet’s lap for much of the ride. The horses had maintained a good canter some of the way, but, in moments where a slower pace were required, Mr Barker seized the opportunity to speak to Harriet. ‘Course, you don’t have to go to the workhouse,’ he had started, sucking his yellowing teeth as he spoke.
‘What do you be meaning?’ Harriet had asked.
He had nodded assuredly. ‘Saved a good few girls like you from the workhouse over the years.’
‘How?’
He sucked his teeth again and tried to look mysterious. ‘Got meself contacts. I knows folk who runs places—factories—in London that take on young things like you.’
‘No, thank you,’ Harriet had replied indignantly.
‘Dying in the poorhouse be what waits for you lot, then.’
Harriet had ignored him for the remainder of the journey.
‘Here we are—Westwell Church. That be my job over. If you be changing your mind, come back to Hastings and ask for Benjamin Barker—you’ll find me soon enough.’
The three Lovekin girls watched as the horses were whipped into a trot, leaving them alone in a desolate silence in front of the church.
Westwell, situate at the foot of the North Downs, was a parish formed of little over eight hundred people who were well used to visitors, the village being found on the route of the Pilgrim’s Way to Canterbury. It was, however, seldom that such visitors sought assistance from the parish purse.
‘Now what we be doing?’ Keziah asked.
This was the place of her mother’s birth and childhood. Harriet slowly turned a full circle: set among an infinite view of trees, woods and fields was a public house and a smattering of homes and farms. No sign of the infamous workhouse, about which her mother had warned her. Harriet’s observation fell back on the church and she caught sight of an elderly lady ambling out from the vestibule.
‘Excuse me!’ Harriet called.
The old lady dithered then turned. ‘Yes?’
‘We be needing to speak to the overseers of the poor. We been sent from Hastings.’
The old lady frowned. ‘You’re the Lovekin girls, ain’t you? We’ve been expecting you,’ she muttered darkly. ‘Follow me.’
‘Girls, you be a-waiting here. Play that nice game I be seeing you playing up Cuckoo Hill,’ Harriet said with a smile. ‘I don’t be long.’
The old lady, dressed in a red woollen coat and grey bonnet, sauntered inside the church. She held the door open with a scowl. ‘He be in the vestry.’
The door closed with a clatter behind them.
‘Mr Crouch! Mr Crouch!’ the old lady cooed. ‘The Lovekin girls be here—the wretches from Hastings.’
The carved oak vestry door swung open and a young, well-dressed man in a grey linen coat, buckskin trousers and high boots appeared. He had a neatly trimmed black moustache and a head of wild hair. He smiled and extended his hand towards Harriet.
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Lovekin. Please, come this way,’ he said.
Harriet shook his hand and followed him inside the vestry.
It was a sizeable and well-lit room with chests and cupboards around its edges, dominated by a large table with eight chairs.
Mr Crouch pulled out a chair and indicated for Harriet to sit, taking the chair beside her.
Harriet sat and nervously glanced around the room. The old lady was hovering in the doorway and on the table she spotted several books that she identified as being parish registers.
‘I expect you’re thirsty after your travels, Miss Lovekin,’ Mr Crouch said. ‘Can we get you something to drink? Or eat?’
Harriet was desperately thirsty and hungry. ‘If that not be too much trouble,’ she mumbled.
‘No trouble,’ Mr Crouch answered. ‘Mrs Graves, fetch Miss Lovekin and her sisters some bread and water, would you?’
‘But we only got enough bread for us own poor,’ she retorted with a defiant sniff.
‘Then take it from my personal allowance,’ Mr Crouch replied.
‘But…’
‘Thank you, Mrs Graves,’ he pressed, before turning back to Harriet. ‘Now, Miss Lovekin. I had a letter’—he fished around on his desk until he found what he was searching for—‘which stated that you and your two sisters were being sent here because you have connections to our parish.’
‘That be right,’ Harriet asserted, trying to sound confident.
Mr Crouch’s face contorted with a look of mystification. He picked up one of the registers from the table. ‘We’ve scoured these registers and, I’m afraid to say, we can find no trace of you, your sisters or your parents.’
‘Oh,’ Harriet gasped, hoping that her reaction was not too dramatic. Of course she knew that no trace would be found. ‘Do there be some mistake?’
Mr Crouch shook his head vehemently. ‘Both myself, Mr Hannay and even Mrs Graves have painstakingly picked through all these registers. You’re sure your mother was baptised Eliza Smith?’
Harriet nodded emphatically.
‘And her parents’ names?’
‘I don’t be a-knowing that,’ she said with a shrug.
Mr Crouch placed the register down on the table and exhaled. ‘I am afraid, Miss Lovekin, that without supporting documentation, the parish cannot offer you relief of any kind.’
‘What I mean to say is that you can only remain in Westwell if you have the necessary funds to support yourself and your sisters,’ he told her.
‘What about the workhouse?’ Harriet asked.
‘No, I’m sorry. The best I can offer you is a carrier back to Hastings.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Harriet hastily replied. She stood and faced Mr Crouch. ‘Thank you, you ain’t like most other official folk.’
Mr Crouch stood and shook her hand. ‘I wish you all well.’
Harriet found Keziah and Ann sitting beneath the swollen shadow of a giant yew tree, devouring a small piece of bread each.
‘Here be some bread,’ Keziah said, offering it to her sister.
‘You two share it, I don’t be hungry,’ she lied, as she took a seat beside them.
Now, they just had to sit and wait.
A cold moonless dusk descended quickly upon Westwell. The three Lovekin girls, only visible as indefinable silhouettes, were huddled under the yew tree outside the church.
Harriet suddenly sat up sharply. Movement. Something was cutting through the twilight. She leapt up and smiled as the vague shape formed into a pair of horses, behind which was a curricle.
He had come for them, just as planned.
The carriage drew to a halt and Christopher jumped down, drawing Harriet into an impassioned embrace. He kissed her then she simply clung to him.
‘Do you be ready?’ he whispered.
‘Yes. Girls, come here,’ Harriet called into the darkness.
Keziah and Ann appeared and were helped into the carriage, followed by Harriet. Christopher clambered onto the back. ‘To Hollington, then,’ he said.
Harriet breathed deeply. They were on their way to Amelia Odden’s house. Tomorrow the vicar of St Leonards Church would read their first banns then, in three weeks’ time, they would be married and could return to the America Ground as man and wife.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The car was barely moving but Morton was banging around uncomfortably on the hard floor. It wasn’t the first time that he had been crammed into a car boot for a genealogical case; the other occasion, however, had been of his own volition. This was different. Very different. His befuddled mind had only just begun to wake up and comprehend that he was being carried by his arms and legs when he had been dumped into the boot and the lid unceremoniously slammed down, just inches from his face. His head was pounding, aching like it had never ached before. He raised his hand and gently touched his temple. His finger met with a bloody, pulpy mess where he had collided with the gravestone.
The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3) Page 26
