Taking Liberties. Diana Norman

The young man acknowledged her politely, rising for a slight bow; the woman ignored her.

      In one look, Diana had automatically assessed to what social order they belonged. Decent enough young man, neat, well dressed but not quite the ton: a professional person from the provinces. The woman was less easy to place. Good clothes, really very good, nice silk, but worn without care, distressing red hair escaping from a hat that didn’t match the gloves. In misery, from the look of her. A wife of the mercantile class in some distress.

      Below the window, in Horse Guards, a Grenadier company was parading in full battle gear to the accompaniment of drummers and fifers. From the Dowager’s high viewpoint they looked like pretty squares of tin soldiers. Having attended reviews of the Earl of Stacpoole’s Own Grenadiers, she could guess that under their fur mitres and carrying a weight of sixty pounds in knapsack, blanket, water flask, ammunition and weapons, they were not feeling pretty. As she watched, one of the toy soldiers fell flat, fainting, as if flicked over by an invisible child. The roar of the drill sergeant’s disapproval coincided with the entry of Mr Commissioner Powell behind her.

      ‘My goodness, so sorry to keep you waiting, your ladyship. Dear, yes, I hope they made you comfortable.’

      She’d expected a naval officer but Mr Commissioner Powell was a lawyer and his neat subfusc looked dowdy and civilian amidst such shiny naval order. He was flurried by her importance – in her note she hadn’t scrupled to emphasize her title, the late Earl’s eminence and her son’s position at Court.

      ‘There’s sorry I am for your bereavement, your ladyship. A loss to us all, indeed. Such a great man. Please come this way, your ladyship. My office …’ He bowed her towards the door.

      ‘We were here first.’

      The Dowager looked round. The woman at the table had raised her head. Mr Powell stopped, amazed. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘I said,’ the woman said, ‘we were here first. We been waiting and I want for you to deal with us now.’ The voice was toneless but the American accent was strong.

      Colonial mercantile, thought the Dowager.

      Mr Powell wasn’t impressed either. ‘But, madam, you can understand …’ His hand indicated not only the Dowager’s position but her widow’s weeds.

      ‘Sorry for your loss, ma’am.’ The woman didn’t look at Diana; her eyes were on Powell. ‘But, see, my daughter’s missing and that man there knows where she is.’

      It had been a terrible day, a terrible week for Makepeace and Oliver Hedley. After a breakneck journey from Newcastle to London, it had transpired that Andrew Ffoulkes, the rising young luminary of the diplomatic corps on whose help Makepeace had counted, was absent, sent abroad on a secret mission. At the house of the Marquis of Rockingham, another influential friend, they’d learned that the master was in Yorkshire.

      Though they’d scattered money like rose petals around the Admiralty, its clerks had been too harassed by the developing situation at sea to search for the information needed by an increasingly distraught woman. When, finally, they’d managed to trace the fate of the Lord Percy, the news had been awful.

      Nor had it been final; that was the thing. Apart from the fact that they had been involved in dreadful events, whether Philippa and Susan were alive or not was still uncertain; they had been supercargo, civilian passengers, and, as such, no department had been willing to assume responsibility for them.

      At last, one clerk had been helpful. ‘You want the Sick and Hurt Office, ma’am. They got them sort of records.’

      ‘I know where she is?’ Mr Powell asked now.

      ‘That’s what they told me.’ Makepeace was keeping her voice steady, but when she tried to get up from her chair she sagged. She hadn’t eaten and had barely slept for seventy-two hours.

      Oliver began to fan her with his hat. Idly, the Dowager handed him her fan. ‘Use that, young man.’ She recognized desperation when she saw it and was touched. She turned to the commissioner. ‘Perhaps you had better deal with this person, Mr Powell. Now, I think, and here.’

      ‘Oah, but all records are in my office.’

      ‘They can be fetched,’ the Dowager told him with finality. The woman was obviously exhausted. In any case, she found herself intrigued and had no intention of missing the story about to unfold. ‘I am prepared to wait.’

      ‘Very well, if your ladyship is sure.’

      She was sure. She took a chair at the back of the room out of everyone’s eyeline. ‘Please proceed.’

      Obediently but somewhat put out, Mr Powell seated himself at the head of the table opposite Makepeace and Oliver. ‘Name?’

      ‘This is Mrs Hedley. I am Oliver Hedley, her stepson.’ Oliver took up the running. He produced a notebook. Having won her point and the necessary attention, Makepeace had slumped.

      ‘March the sixth this year,’ Oliver said, ‘a Royal Navy dispatch carrier, the Lord Percy, left New York bound for London. My stepsister and a friend, Miss Susan Brewer, were on board. Halfway across the Atlantic, the Percy was engaged by the American navy corvette Pilgrim. Percy’s captain was killed.’ Without looking up from his notes, Oliver put a hand on Makepeace’s shoulder for a moment; she’d been fond of Captain Strang. ‘Lord Percy was forced to strike her colours and the remaining crew and passengers were taken aboard Pilgrim. That is what the Admiralty told us.’

      Mr Powell rose from his chair. Makepeace looked up, quickly. ‘Are you listening?’

      ‘I’m sending for the records, madam,’ Mr Powell told her. He went out into the corridor to speak to someone and came back to Oliver. ‘Yes, yes, continue. Your sister and friend, now aboard the Pilgrim. American vessel.’

      ‘They were. But on May the fourth Pilgrim encountered a British man-of-war, the Riposte and’ – again Oliver’s hand reached for Makepeace’s shoulder – ‘the Riposte sank the Pilgrim.’

      There was silence. The Dowager averted her eyes and stared instead at a portrait of Commissioner Samuel Pepys.

      Mr Commissioner Powell said, quite gently: ‘So the American vessel went down …’

      Oliver nodded. ‘So the American went down but … but some of her people were picked up. The Admiralty says the Riposte took on survivors and headed for England. Home port Plymouth. She arrived there in June, we’ve learned that much. The Admiralty told us American prisoners were on board and they were put in gaol. They don’t know how many or their names or where they are …’

      ‘Excuse me again.’ Once again, the commissioner went to the door and gave more orders.

      Makepeace said, her voice rising: ‘So where is she? Where’s my Philippa? Where’s Susan Brewer? If they’re in gaol … if you’ve put them in gaol …’

      Mr Powell tutted. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘we don’t put females in prison. Boys under twelve and females are set at liberty, see, but I’m not sure we keep the names.’

      The starched and waxed sailor who’d accompanied the Dowager to the room came into it with a pile of ledgers.

      ‘Now then.’ Mr Powell peered at the books. ‘Plymouth, Plymouth …’ He selected one and licked his fingers. ‘June, June. Busy month, June and, o’ course, Plymouth is a busy port. But yes, yere we are, HMS Riposte. Docked June the seventh to unload prisoners. Look at this now, there’s near a hundred of ’em, French as well – she must have sunk a Frenchy on her way home. Prize money there then, I expect. Name again? Hedley, is it?’

      ‘Dapifer,’ said Makepeace, her voice suddenly strong, like a tolling bell. ‘Her name is Philippa Dapifer.’ It began to break as she added: ‘She’s eleven years old. Twelve in September. Travelling with her godmother, Miss Susan Brewer.’

      ‘Sir