They had not spoken for several minutes. Christopher had been unusually quiet and when she had pressed him, he had grown quieter still, denying there to be any problem. Harriet herself was lost in the labyrinth of her own tangled thoughts. It was just over two months since she had sat at this very spot, in the hulk of the Polymina and had been made aware of Christopher’s feelings towards her. Feelings that she had rejected and spurned, in favour of an absurd infatuation with Richard. Inwardly, she was sickened and rebuked herself: how stupid she had been. But now, after such sorrow, they were going to rebuild their lives. Her mother had somehow managed to secure a permanent lease for the Black Horse and their house, which she was now renting to Mrs Woods and Christopher, whilst Harriet, her sisters and their mother resided in the two storage rooms above the gin palace. Although Harriet hated sleeping in the awful room, it did mean that she only had to share a bed with Keziah and Ann; it wasn’t perfect but it would have to do for the moment.
Harriet’s thoughts reverted back to the present when Christopher squeezed her side.
‘Do you be warm enough?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, but I think it be time to get home,’ she answered, slowly and reluctantly standing.
Christopher sighed. ‘We don’t never get more than a few minutes together,’ he lamented. ‘It ain’t fair and it ain’t right.’
‘There ain’t no choice,’ Harriet responded, offering him her hand.
Christopher took it in his and, rather than use it to help himself up, raised it to his lips. ‘I were going to wait for the right moment, but fegs, what be better than this?’ he asked, gesturing out to the midnight landscape. ‘Harriet Lovekin, will you marry me?’
Harriet gasped, giggled then replied, ‘Do you be serious?’
‘Of course,’ Christopher assured her.
She paused a moment and caught a look of seriousness in his eyes. ‘Yes!’
Christopher leapt up and kissed her.
They held each other for several minutes, saying nothing. After all the bad things that had occurred, she could finally see a happy future. She, Christopher, her mother and the girls living on the America Ground, running the gin palace. New homes were sure to spring up all over the place—better homes if the king now owned the land. Harriet smiled, broke from their embrace and reached for his hand.
‘I be knowing the trouble I face, but let’s be a-telling Ma,’ she beamed.
‘Now?’ Christopher asked. ‘It be gone midnight.’
‘I don’t be a-caring!’ Harriet cried. She turned to the sea and shouted, ‘I be getting married!’
‘Hattie!’ he chided playfully. He placed his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
‘Let’s be going to tell her,’ Harriet persisted.
‘No, I don’t be thinking waking everyone up at such an hour is a good idea, Hattie. Certain-sure, we’d not be permitted to meet again until after we were wed.’
Harriet sagged but knew that he was correct. ‘Alright,’ she murmured, dispirited. ‘Let’s be enjoying our time, then, fiancé.’ She sat back down on the grassy bank and Christopher tucked himself in beside her, sliding his arm around her shoulder.
Harriet was convinced that Christopher must be able to feel the rapid thudding of her heart, drumming as it did throughout her entire body. She tried to set free the words that were trapped inside of her, words that would give a name and shape to the nebulous feelings that were lodged so deep down that they now formed an intrinsic part of her. But the words would not come. Christopher squeezed her arm, as if somehow guiding her to find the courage to speak.
She swallowed hard and gave a space for the words to rise. ‘I love you, Christopher,’ she breathed.
‘I love you, too, Hattie,’ he answered.
Eliza Lovekin was jolted awake by the sound of banging. She sat up in the bed that she had crammed into the smaller of the two storage rooms above the Black Horse. Judging by the weak light that was piercing through the gaps in the window shutters, it was early morning. She swung her legs out of the bed and wandered to the door and listened. More banging. Then she heard what sounded like Christopher Elphick shouting. She opened the door and there she saw Harriet in her white nightdress standing at the top of the stairs.
‘Whatever do that boy be a-wanting?’ Eliza demanded, hastening down the stairs.
‘I don’t be knowing,’ Harriet answered, following quickly behind her.
Eliza turned the key and opened the street door. Christopher was standing in front of them, visibly shaking.
‘It be Mrs Woods!’ he blurted. ‘She be murdered!’
‘What? What happened?’
Christopher shrugged. ‘Butter-my-wig, I don’t be a-knowing! I only be knowing that she be dead—stabbed in the back.’
‘Hattie, you be waiting here. Don’t be letting your sisters out.’ Eliza rushed from the house towards the Black Horse, closely followed by Christopher.
Hurrying through the parlour and up the stairs, Eliza opened her old bedroom door and gasped. Blood—so much blood. It had flowed freely and unstoppably from the slits in Ann Woods’s back, saturating her nightdress, seeping into the straw paillasse. A steady but constant drip from the base of the bed fed a swelling red pool on the floor.
Eliza was sickened and clutched at her stomach, as flashes of the aftermath of Lydia Elphick’s suicide flickered into her mind. Why would someone want to murder poor Ann Woods? Eliza wondered. Then a terrible thought entered her mind and made her shiver. She turned to face Christopher.
‘Christopher, do this be how you found
