Taking Liberties
A remarkable, sparkling historical novel by the author of A Catch of Consequence.Two women, both searching for apparently missing people, meet in the chaos of wartime Plymouth. Britain is at war with the French and the rebellious American colonies. But where the French captured by the British navy are recognized prisoners of war, the Americans are the non-combatants of their era.Diana Stacpoole a young aristocrat recently saved by the death of her husband from a brutal marriage, is searching for the imprisoned son of a colonial friend: Makepeace Burke, a self-made woman, is looking for her daughter and companions, rescued from their destroyed ship but somehow lost on arrival in Britain.The journey of discovery both women make through docks and prisons, government offices and brothels, palatial houses and smugglers hideaways, not only allows them to find the missing persons but also to forge an unlikely friendship and to find remarkable lovers. Finding liberty for others leads them to splendid liberty for themselves.
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TAKING LIBERTIES
Diana Norman
HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003
Copyright © Diana Norman 2003
Diana Norman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007235230
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780007405329 Version: 2016-02-09
To my friend and agent, Sarah Molloy
CONTENTS
As the immediate family and the priest emerged from the crypt in which they had delivered the corpse of the Earl of Stacpoole to its last resting place, his Countess met the gaze of the rest of the mourners in the chapel and saw not one wet eye.
Which made it unanimous.
Perhaps, for decency, she should have paid some of the servants to cry but she doubted if any of them had sufficient acting talent to earn the money. For them, as for her, the scrape of stone when the tomb lid went into place had sounded like a gruff, spontaneous cheer.
Nevertheless, she satisfied herself that every face was suitably grave. The lineage of the man in the crypt was ancient enough to make William the Conqueror’s descendants appear by contrast newly arrived; there must be no disrespect to it.
Despite twenty-two years’ sufferance of many and varied abuses, the Countess had never encouraged a word to be spoken against her husband. Under her aegis, existence had been made as tolerable as possible for those who lived and worked in his house; floggings had been reduced, those who’d received them had been compensated and she had learned to employ only servants too old or too plain to attract sexual assault. But in all this she had refused to exchange confidences or criticism with any. The man himself might be vicious, but his status was irreproachable; if she could distinguish between the two, so must others.
A snuffle from behind the Countess indicated that her daughter-in-law at least was indulging the hypocrisy of tears. Yes, well.
Perhaps she should have acceded to the King’s suggestion and had the service in Westminster Abbey but … ‘They’re not putting me alongside foreigners and poetic bloody penwipers. You see to it, woman.’
The air of the chapel was heavy with incense. Heat from the closely packed bodies of the congregation rose up to stir hanging battle banners emblazoned with the Stacpoole prowess for killing people. The day outside being dull, only candlelight inclined onto walls knobbly with urns and plaques, increasing her impression that she and the others were incarcerated in some underground cave.
They’ll bury me here. Beside him. Beloved wife of …
Even without the veil, the suffocation would not have shown on her face which long training kept as still as the marble countenances of Stacpoole effigies around her.
Nearly over. The priest intoned the plea that their dear brother, Aymer Edmund Fontenay, Earl of Stacpoole, might be raised from the death of sin into the life of righteousness – though not as if he had any hope of it.
A last clash from the censers.
‘Grant this, we beseech thee, O merciful Father, through Jesus Christ our mediator …’
Outside, on the gravel apron, her hand resting on her son’s arm, she paused to take in the air. The gardens of Chantries had never been to her taste: too artificial, more Le Nôtre than Brown – the Earl had seen little use for nature unless he could set his hounds on it – but today her soul sailed along the view of knotted parterre, fountains and lake to the utmost horizon of Bedfordshire. She was free.
