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 street 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
