Taking Liberties Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Author’s Note

  READERS GUIDE TO Taking Liberties

  “Diana Norman has a passion for history . . . Undoubtedly it’s this passion coupled with her perpetual thirst for knowledge that has made her one of the bestselling historical novelists of today . . . Educational and exciting.” —Bristol Evening Post

  “Norman . . . is very good on serious social issues.”

  —The Sunday Herald Evening Times (Glasgow)

  “This is a riveting novel, full of interesting characters and a ‘page turner’ of a story. Where Diana Norman scores is bringing history to life, highlighting lots of interesting details so you can really picture what life must have been like.” —Belfast Newsletter (Northern Ireland)

  Praise for A Catch of Consequence and Diana Norman’s previous novels

  “A Catch of Consequence moves at a cracking pace . . . Diana Norman creates an exhilarating sense of those times and their possibilities.”

  —The Daily Telegraph (London)

  “Diana Norman is, quite simply, splendid.”—Frank Delaney

  “Drama, passion, intrigue and danger. I loved it and didn’t want it to end ever.” —Sunday Times

  “It’s all good, dirty fun shot through with more serious insights into the historical treatment of women and perhaps, in its association of sex, sleaze, greed and politics, not so far removed from present realities after all.” —Independent on Sunday

  “She captures the feel of the period with wit, verve and emotion.”

  —Woman’s Own

  Also by the Author

  MORNING GIFT

  THE VIZARD MASK

  THE SHORES OF DARKNESS

  BLOOD ROYAL

  A CATCH OF CONSEQUENCE

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  A Berkley Book

  Published by The Berkley Publishing Group

  A division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2003 by Diana Norman

  Readers Guide on page 449

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Berkley trade paperback edition: November 2004

  Visit our website at www.penguin.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Norman, Diana.

  Taking liberties / Diana Norman.—1st pedigree pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-19815-5

  1. United States—History—Revolution, 1775-1783—Prisoners and prisons—

  Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—George III, 1760-1820—Fiction. 3. Prisoners

  of war—Family relationships—Fiction. 4. Americans—England—Fiction.

  5. Female friendship—Fiction. 6. Women—England—Fiction. 7. Devon

  (England)—Fiction. 8. Smuggling—Fiction. 9. Nobility—Fiction. 10. Widows

  —Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6064.O73T34 2004

  823’.914—dc22

  2004046310

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my friend and agent, Sarah Molloy

  Diana Norman

  Chapter One

  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.

  Fred North bumbled up to her, bowing and blinking his weak little eyes, apologizing. She hadn’t noticed him in the congregation; it appeared he’d arrived late. ‘My deepest apologies, your ladyship, and my sincerest commiseration.’

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister. It was good of you to come.’

  So it was; a less amiable man would have pleaded the war with America as his excuse to stay in London. Perhaps, like so many here today, he’d wanted to assure himself that her husband was safely dead. The Earl of Stacpoole had been among the tigers of the poor man’s government, harrying him into standing up to the Americans against his inclination to conciliate. ‘Feeble Fred,’ the Earl had called him. ‘I told him: it’s castration that rabble needs, to Hell with conciliation. And the German agrees with me.’

  Always ‘the German’, never ‘His Majesty’.

  As they went along the terrace, the mourners were reduced to a train of grey and black Lilliputians against the vast frontage of the house.

  She was allowed to go first up the steps but in the hall there was a bustle as her daughter-in-law came forward, taking Robert’s hand and her new precedence to lead the procession into the State Dining Room for the funeral meats.

  Of course.

  Again, Diana’s face showed nothing but its usual boredom. Her daughter-in-law had the undeniable right to display to the gathering that she was now mistress of Chantries, though a better-bred female might have waited until the corpse of its former master was a little chillier in its grave. Alice, however, was not well bred, merely moneyed.

  The new Countess was aged twenty and the Dowager nearly thirty-nine, but their appearance narrowed the difference. Alice Stacpoole was the shorter by a head, muddy complexioned and a slave to fashion that did not suit her. Diana Stacpoole, on the other hand, had skin and hair the colour of flax
; she might have worn sacking and it would have hung on her long, thin frame with helpless elegance.

  She could also have been beautiful but lack of animation had settled the fine bones of her face into those of a tired thoroughbred. Enthusiasm for any creature—a dog, a servant, her own son—had brought reprisals on them and, for their sake, she had cultivated an ennui, as if she were bored even by those she loved. It had been a matter of survival.

  Marriage to Aymer, Earl of Stacpoole, though it was his third, had been represented—and accepted—as an honour to a sheltered, sixteen-year-old girl, the desirable joining of two ancient estates; yes, he was her senior by twenty or so years but charming, wealthy, still in need of an heir; she owed the match to her family.

  She never forgave her parents for it. They must have known, certainly suspected; the first wife had been a runaway and subsequently divorced, the second a suicide.

  After the first year, she’d seriously considered following one or other of her predecessors’ examples but by then she was pregnant, a condition which, as her husband pointed out, made her totally subservient. Kill herself and she killed the child. ‘Run off and I’ll hunt you down.’ He had the right; the baby would be taken from her to be at his mercy in its turn.

  She could have given way and become a cowering ghost in her own home but she found defiance from somewhere. The man waxed on terror; she must deprive him of it. As a defence she appropriated boredom, appearing to find everything tedious, complying with the demands of his marriage bed as if they were wearisome games rather than sexual degradation, earning herself thrashings but withstanding even those with seeming indifference.

  It was protection not only against her husband but for him; in the sight of God she’d taken him for better or worse, his escutcheon should not tarnished by any complaint of hers.

  Nor her own. Though by no means as long as the Stacpooles’, the Countess’s ancestry was equally proud. After a somewhat dubious foundation by Walter Pomeroy, a ruffian who, like Francis Drake, had charged out from Devonian obscurity to fling himself and a large part of a mysterious fortune at the feet of Elizabeth, thereby gaining a knighthood and the Queen’s favour, the Pomeroys had conducted themselves with honour. Young Paulus Pomeroy had refused to betray the message he carried for Charles I though tortured by Cromwell’s troops. Sir William had gone into exile with Charles II. At Malplaquet, Sir Rupert had saved John Churchill’s life at the cost of his own.

  The wives had been equally dutiful; happy or miserable, no breath of scandal attended their marriages. Like them, the Dowager threw back to the Middle Ages. Had the Earl been a Crusader, his absence in the Holy Land would have provided his Countess with blessed relief from abuse yet she would have defended his castle for him like a tigress until his return. In this disgraceful age, other women might abscond with lovers, run up debts, involve themselves in divorce, travel to France to give birth to babies not their husband’s, but Pomeroy wives gritted their teeth and abided by their wedding vows because they had made them.

  One’s married name might belong to a ravening beast but the name was greater than the man. For Diana, true aristocracy was a sacrament. One did not abandon Christianity because a particular priest was venal. It was the bloodline that counted and its honour must be upheld, however painfully, with a stoicism worthy of the Spartan boy gnawed by the fox. Better that Society should shrug and say: ‘Well, the Countess seems to tolerate him,’ rather than: ‘Poor, poor lady.’ One held one’s head high and said nothing.

  Such public and private dignity had discommoded Aymer, put him off his stroke. Gradually, a spurious superiority was transferred from him to her that he found intimidating—as much as he could be intimidated by anything—and even gained his unwilling respect. After that, like the bully he was, he turned his attentions to more fearful victims so that she was spared infection by the syphilis that caused his final dementia.

  By then she’d plastered her hurts so heavily with the appearance of finding things tiresome that its mortar had fused into bone and blood. The naive young girl had become static, a woman who moved and spoke with a lassitude that argued fatigue, her drooping eyes seeming to find all the world’s matters beneath her, thus making people either nervous or resentful at what they interpreted as disdain. If they’d peered into them closely they might have seen that those same eyes had been leeched of interest or warmth or surprise by having looked too early on the opening to Hell. Nobody peered so closely, however.

  Under the influence of the 1770 malmsey and the Earl’s absence, his funeral party threatened unseemly cheerfulness. Instead of sitting in her chair to receive condolences, the Dowager Countess circled the great room at her slow, giraffe-like pace to remind the more raucous groups by her presence of the respect due to the departed.

  There was a hasty ‘We were remembering, your ladyship . . .’ and then reminiscences of Aymer’s japes, the time when he’d horse-whipped a Rockingham voter during the ’61 election, when he’d thrown his whisky and cigar at Jane Bonham’s pug because it yapped too much, causing it to burst into flame, the time when . . . Endearing eccentricities of the old school. ‘We won’t look on his like again.’

  There was necessity for only one verbal reproof. Francis Dashwood was being overloud and humorous on the subject of her husband’s last illness—Dashwood of all people—and met her arrival with defiance. ‘I was saying, Diana, the pox is a damn hard way to go.’

  The Dowager Countess hooded her eyes. ‘For your sake, my lord, one hopes not.’

  She passed on to where Alice was exciting herself over the alterations she proposed for Chantries. ‘. . . for I have always thought it sadly plain, you know. Robert and I plan something more rococo, more douceur de vivre as the French say, more . . .’ Her voice trailed away at the sight of her mother-in-law but she rallied with triumph. ‘Of course, dear Maman, none of this until we have altered the Dower House à ton goût.’

  The Dower House, the overblown cottage on the estate that Aymer had used as a sexual playroom for his more local liaisons. She had never liked the place. Robert and Alice were expecting her to set up home in it—the conventional dower house for the conventional dowager—no doubt to spend her days embroidering comforts for a troop of little Alices and Roberts. Extend twenty-two years of imprisonment into a lesser cell.

  ‘Make it nice for you, Mater,’ Robert said.

  ‘Thank you, my dear boy.’ This was not the time to discuss it, nor did she want to hurt him, so she merely said gently: ‘We shall see.’

  He was, and always had been, her agony. It had been a mistake to have the baby in her arms when Aymer strode into the room after the birth; it should have been in its cradle, she should have pretended indifference, complained of the pain of its delivery. Instead, she’d been unguarded, raw with an effusion of love. Immediately, the child had become a hostage.

  She had failed her son, could have failed him no more if she had run off; he’d been taken away from her: a wet nurse, a nurse, a tutor, school—all of them chosen to distance her from the boy and put his reliance on the caprice of a father who’d both terrified and fascinated him. Her mind trudged round the old, old circular paths. Should she have stood against Aymer more? But revenge would have been visited on the boy as much as her; warring parents would have split him in two. Yet what had she been to her poor child? A figure drifting mistily on the edge of a world in which women were cattle or concubines.

  By the time she’d achieved some definition of her own, it was too late; both son and mother were too distanced from each other for the relationship that might have been. Individuality had been stripped from the boy, not a clever child in any case, and he’d opted for a mediocre amiability that offended no one and proved impossible for his mother to penetrate. She’d tried once to explain, said she’d always loved him, was sorry . . . He’d shied away. ‘Can’t think what you mean, Mater.’ Now, here he was at twenty years old, a genial, corpulent, middle-aged man.