Read Online Taking Liberties by Diana Norman - Free Book Online

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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Grayle.’
    â€˜Grayle, of course. American. May I ask your interest in this person, your ladyship?’
    The Dowager appeared to consider. ‘I don’t think so,