‘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 do you be meaning?’
‘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
