Taking Liberties by Diana Norman Page B

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 onboard and they were put in gaol. They don’t know how many or their names or where they are . . .’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Sir Philip Dapifer was my stepsister’s father,’ Oliver added, knowing it would help.
    It did. Mr Commissioner Powell looked up. ‘Not Sir Philip Dapifer? There now. Sir Philip. A good friend to the Admiralty, Sir Philip. Not that I knew him well, mind, but . . .’
    â€˜Just get on,’ Makepeace said, wearily.
    Encouraged that he was not dealing with hoi polloi anymore, 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