Minutes passed as Eliza thought on her predicament. In the light of the trouble that she would face, she was comforted by Joe’s soft, rhythmical breathing beside her. She turned to face him, the soft moonlight finding its way through, but barely lifting his features from the shadows. He was a handsome man—striking and masculine but with a soft edge, she having sensed his vulnerability back in the woods. She looked at his muscular torso and saw more cuts and scars.
Something inside compelled her to gently touch the scar that snaked across his left bicep. Joe flinched and a wash of cold embarrassment and shame suddenly surged over her. ‘Sorry. Night.’
‘It don’t be hurting,’ he whispered.
‘Did you get it fighting?’ she asked. ‘In the French wars?’
‘Yes,’ Joe answered.
‘Do you be running away?’ Eliza ventured.
‘Yes. It ain’t for me—I be heading back home to Hollington. What about you? What do you be running from?’
‘Nothing,’ Eliza retorted, a little too sharply.
‘The workhouse?’
‘How do you be knowing that?’ she demanded.
‘Because if you be having a nice family or a decent husband, then certain sure you wouldn’t be leading no strange men across the countryside. Do I be right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we both be runaways together,’ Joe said, taking her hand in his. After a time he asked, ‘What do it be like—the workhouse?’
Eliza took a moment to respond, despite the answer being simple. ‘Awful. We don’t be treated good. We get woke at five, breakfast at six, then pass the morning cleaning, weaving, laundering until dinner at twelve, then we work until six and then in bed by eight. Sundays we do nothing. It be the same week after week. Nothing changes in the workhouse except deaths and new arrivals.’
‘That be sounding ernful,’ Joe whispered, gently squeezing her hand.
‘Better than war, I suppose,’ Eliza said.
Joe murmured his agreement then fell silent.
In the quietness that followed, Joe’s hand grew limp and his breathing deepened, leaving Eliza mulling over the bizarre direction that her day had taken.
Eventually, her thoughts became fragmented and interspersed with dark spells until sleep consumed her.
‘Get up, now!’ an angry voice yelled.
Eliza stirred. There were men talking nearby. Where was she?
‘Get up!’ he repeated. She knew the voice and, in a dawning of recognition, knew where she was. Last night’s events flashed into her mind. She sat up and opened her eyes. Joe was still asleep beside her.
‘Well, what have we here?’ It was the voice of Mr Beresford, the workhouse governor.
Eliza turned to face him. Standing arrogantly beside Farmer Willis, he was shaking his head but smiling inanely. ‘Little innocent Eliza who does no wrong and gets an honest man sent away, lying here with a shirtless vagrant.’
Joe began to stir and sat up sharply.
‘Please, Mr Beresford,’ Eliza pleaded, ‘I ain’t done no wrong. I showed him to the road then it got dark so we slept in Farmer Willis’s barn. We ain’t done harm. Please.’
Mr Beresford laughed and tugged on his long grey beard.
Joe stood up to face the men. ‘It be right, what she just said. It were all my fault, so please be showing her some leniency.’
‘This common prostitute?’ Mr Beresford snarled. ‘Show her leniency? If only you knew what she’d done.’
‘I don’t be caring what she done, she showed me great charity.’
Mr Beresford snorted. ‘I bet she did. Get over here, you filthy wench.’
Eliza solemnly stepped towards Mr Beresford, but Joe reached out and grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t do it,’ he instructed.
She stopped and looked him in the eyes, resigned to her fate.
Mr Beresford huffed, marched into the barn and grabbed Eliza by the hair.
‘Stop!’ Joe shouted.
Eliza screamed, as pain pierced through her scalp. She grappled and reached behind her, but his grasp—as she knew only too well—was strong.
They had almost reached the entrance to the barn when Eliza suddenly dropped to the floor. Looking up, she could see why: Joe was pounding his fists into Mr Beresford.
‘I’ll fetch help!’ Farmer Willis declared, scarpering away.
Mr Beresford tumbled to the floor, defeated and Joe stood over him, sweating and breathless.
‘We be needing to leave,’ he said quietly to Eliza.
‘Me?’ she said.
Joe nodded. ‘If you want.’
Eliza thought of what awaited her at the workhouse. Then she thought of her punishment. Without doubt, she would be publically whipped at the common stocks—just like last time—and all the men, women and children from the workhouse would be ordered to watch.
She took Joe’s hand and they hastened from the barn.
Chapter Twenty-One
27th April 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
A raging fire burnt inside Richard’s heart, sending a feverish virulence pumping through his body. Just as his carefully conceived and meticulously executed plans were starting to come together, he had discovered the foolish and nonsensical decision to issue Eliza Lovekin with a lease—and a freehold one at that—bearing the signature of none other than Alderman Thomas Honeysett. When Richard had confronted him, he had admitted to a moment of folly and Richard knew that Eliza had once again taken advantage of the old man. ‘But it really is not such a problem,’ he had croaked when Richard had challenged him.
‘What do you mean?’ Richard had demanded disbelievingly.
‘What I mean is, you can’t make a claim on a parcel of land if you’re not actually alive.’
Richard sighed at the recollection of the conversation. Such a reckless thing to have done at a time when the Priory Ground was just beginning to implode. He couldn’t have been happier with the outcome from the inquest. It mattered not to him who the final owner transpired to be, just that the illegal settlement would come to an end.
He looked at the clock: it was almost midnight and time
