For a moment, Harriet just stood and stared longingly at the gently rolling sea, wishing she could somehow make the whole sorry America Ground vanish so that she could remove the shackles of mourning and plunge into the cold water.
She managed a half-smile when the sound of laughter drew her attention. It was coming from Ann and Keziah, up on Cuckoo Hill, playing some kind of game involving running in circles around each other.
Unhurriedly and thoughtfully, Harriet climbed the grassy bank, all the while gazing out to sea.
She reached the top and felt a welcome cool breeze caressing her body, billowing gently through the folds of her dress. Wordlessly, she sat on a flat-topped chunk of sandstone and watched her sisters playing. She turned her back to them and faced the America Ground. The change since her most recent visit was startling; entire buildings had been obliterated, as if plucked from the ground by God himself, leaving no hint of their ever having existed. The complete row of cottages that had once fronted onto the sea had gone—every piece of wood, every stone, removed. Of the properties that had remained, men were now actively toiling in their destruction. Houses with roofs stripped bare like exposed ribcages, devoid of all their contents and occupants, were dotted all around. From her position on the hill, Harriet could see at least four wagons being loaded up with possessions, beasts and people.
On the far side of the America Ground, Harriet watched as two men—clearly not Americans by their wealthy attire—strode down towards the Black Horse.
‘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
