Taking Liberties by Diana Norman

‘ Lord Percy ’s a naval vessel, ain’t she? The Admiralty’ll know what’s happened to her. I’ll write this very day—’
    â€˜No,’ she said. Somehow she’d got herself in hand, even if that hand was trembling, and Oliver saw not just the acumen but the courage that had made his stepmother the woman she was. ‘No more damn letters. We’ll go to the Admiralty and we’ll go today. I’ll get some answers out of their damn lordships or I’ll know the reason why. When’s the next coach to London?’

Chapter Three
    THE Commission for Sick and Hurt Seamen and the Exchange of Prisoners of War, more generally known as the Sick and Hurt Office, was under the direction of the Lords of the Admiralty in London and, as such, reflected their lordships’ demand for spit and polish.
    The sailor who stamped along its immaculate corridors beside Diana wore dress uniform so stiff with starch and wax she decided he’d been lifted into it by traction. The waiting room he ushered her into had Caroline elegance; even the restrained sun of a muggy day coming through the windows was reflected in an oak floor lethal with over-buffing and the scent of unexpected roses, standing to attention in a centrepiece on the great walnut table, was overpowered by a smell of beeswax and turpentine.
    She was asked to wait. ‘Mr Commissioner Powell has been delayed a minute, ma’am.’
    She frowned; she was not used to being kept waiting by underlings. However, she was on an adventure and she had nothing more important to do. ‘Very well.’
    There were two other occupants of the room, a woman of about her own age and a young man, sitting silently on adjoining chairs at the table. The Dowager lowered her head as she passed them on her way to look out of the window. 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜I said ,’ the woman said, ‘we were here first. We been waiting and I want for you to deal with us