Taking Liberties. Diana Norman

that I knew him well, mind, but …’

      ‘Just get on,’ Makepeace said, wearily.

      Encouraged that he was not dealing with hoi polloi any more, Mr Powell got on, his spectacles glinting in the turn from side to side as his eyes searched the page of a closely written list.

      At the back of the room, the Dowager’s interest increased. Sir Philip Dapifer, well, well. She had met him rarely and only then by chance – being a liberal Whig and an influential supporter of the Marquis of Rockingham, he had been anathema to Aymer who’d refused to meet him socially – but she had liked what she’d seen of him. Charm and excellent breeding.

      The same could not be said of Sir Philip’s first wife. Well born and exquisitely pretty but a voracious trollop. Aymer had not been so particular about her, the Dowager recalled. There had been a rumour that they’d had an affair, one in a long line of various affairs for them both; the woman had been shameless. Hadn’t there been something about her and Dapifer’s best friend?

      Yes, there had been, and Dapifer had gone to America to divorce her quietly, trying to protect her name and his. And returned … yes, it was all coming back now … and returned with a totally unsuitable new wife, an American, a serving girl from a Boston inn – something like that. So that poor female there had been the second Lady Dapifer, had she?

      But Dapifer had died, suddenly and much too young. The Dowager remembered the surprisingly sharp pang with which she’d heard the news, as if something valuable had been taken out of the world …

      Mr Powell was muttering to himself. ‘Dapifer and Brewer we’re looking for. I’ve got a D’Argent here, no, no, that’s a Frenchman …’

      He’s not going to find them, Makepeace thought. They’re not there. It’s coming and I won’t be able to bear it. This is like it was when Philip died. It was a return to affliction, an old terror come again so that she felt she did not belong where she sat but should be somewhere else.

      Behind her, the Dowager continued to squeeze her memory. Yes. The first wife had claimed the Dapifer estates back after Sir Philip died on the grounds that the divorce had not been legal. The scandal sheets were full of it at the time. And then she and her lover had frittered the lands away and somehow – the details were hazy – this second wife had got them back. Now, poor thing, she’d lost her daughter.

      The commissioner’s finger was approaching the end of the list.

      ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry …’ He turned a page. ‘Wait now, here’s something. Supercargo.’

      Yes, Makepeace thought, please. Please.

      Mr Commissioner Powell tilted his book to see the page better. ‘“Supercargo, American. Two …”’ he read, ‘“one female, one ship’s boy. Released June the seventh.’ He looked up, smiling as if he had not just turned the screw to the rack’s limit. ‘There we are then.’

      The Dowager took a hand. ‘Names?’ she suggested. ‘Ages? Location? Are such people let go to wander as they may when they arrive on these shores? A child? In this case, possibly two children?’

      ‘Well.’ Mr Powell blew out his lips; some people refused to be satisfied. ‘It just says “supercargo” yere. I agree with your ladyship, the names should be on the list but when a captain’s engaged with the enemy … And by rights, supercargo’s not our concern, there’s charities to deal with them, we got enough with prisoners. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, Mrs Hedley. Perhaps there’s some record in Plymouth.’

      She felt helpless before the world’s oppression, but while there was a crack of hope in it, she had to go on. ‘Plymouth then, Oliver,’ she said.

      He nodded and took her arm.

      As Mr Powell opened the door for them, the Dowager was moved to say: ‘Have you a conveyance, Mrs Hedley …?’ It was kindly meant; the Dowager was a kind woman and, had the answer been no, would have gone on to offer the coach in which she had travelled from Chantries. However, her accustomed languid tone fell on Makepeace’s ears as condescension.

      For the first time Makepeace became fully aware of the woman who’d been sitting behind her, listening to her misery. She was tall, elegant and, from what could be distinguished beneath the veil, beautiful. But she also looked disdainful and belonged to a class that, with one or two exceptions, had always treated her, Makepeace, like a squaw wandered into its midst with a tomahawk. She represented a female set which, during her first marriage, had patronized her, belittled her and, when she’d been brought low after Philip’s death, had not lifted one of its beringed fingers to help her.

      She stiffened. She said: ‘I got my own coach, thank you.’ There was no gratitude in her voice. She went out.

      Yes, well.

      The Dowager crossed to the table, sat down and picked up the fan that Oliver had left on the table, also without thanks. What else could one expect of the low-born?

      Mr Powell tutted in sympathy. ‘Now then, your ladyship, we can attend to your request. A Lieutenant Gale, was it? One of our prisoners?’

      ‘Grayle.’

      ‘Grayle, of course. American. May I ask your interest in this person, your ladyship?’

      The Dowager appeared to consider. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

      ‘Oah.’ Some pink appeared in Commissioner Powell’s cheeks but the rebuff merely emphasized the blueness of her ladyship’s blood and, therefore, her right to administer it. ‘Well there, I found him at least. The Sam Adams, you said in your note. And here she is.’ Mr Powell inserted a finger behind a bookmark and opened one of the ledgers. ‘American sloop, three hundred and eighty-five tons, eighteen guns, taken at Cap La Hague, December the third last year, surviving crew forty-one.’ Mr Powell ran his finger down a list. ‘And here he is, Forrest Grayle, Lieutenant.’ He looked up, a terrier dropping a bone in her ladyship’s lap.

      ‘Where?’

      ‘What? Oh.’ Mr Powell found more bookmarks. ‘Where’s that report of the action, now? Yere ’tis … nyum, “Exchange of fire …” nyum, nyum, “several hours …” Oh, a real battle, this one. “Badly holed but seaworthy … taken under tow.” Ah yes.’ Again Mr Powell was triumphant. ‘Plymouth. There’s a coincidence, isn’t it? Plymouth all over the place today. Yes, she was taken to Plymouth and the crew incarcerated in Millbay Prison. There’s lucky for them.’

      ‘Really.’

      ‘Indeed.’ He leaned forward. ‘It would be the hulks else and I won’t hide from your ladyship, whilst we do our best for these souls, what with French and Americans, let alone the occasional Spaniard, every prison in the country at our disposal is crowded out and hulks have to take the overflow. Believe you me, Millbay is better. It’s on dry land for a start.’

      He’s probably quite a nice little man, Diana thought, if undoubtedly Welsh.

      She said: ‘Obviously you have your problems, sir, and I am here to relieve you of one of them. I wish to arrange for Lieutenant Grayle to be exchanged.’ She added lazily: ‘One would be happy to pay for such an arrangement.’ For a while, she could still draw upon the Stacpoole bank account.

      ‘Oah.’ Mr Powell sat up with surprise. ‘Exchange, is it? No, no. There can be no question of an exchange for American prisoners. Absolutely not. Nothing I can do for your ladyship in that quarter, do you see.’

      ‘I do not see, I’m afraid,’ she drawled. ‘One was led to believe you gentlemen incorporated the exchange of prisoners of war in’ – she waved a hand – ‘whatever it is you do.’

      ‘Prisoners of war, yes, prisoners of war, that’s right enough. But Americans aren’t prisoners of war, your ladyship, not like the French. We’ll be able to send French prisoners back in return for some of ours but strictly speaking Americans are rebels against their lawful