Taking Liberties (14 page)

She answered Beasley's unspoken enquiry. ‘And she
is
all right.' She might not be able to understand her daughter as other women understood theirs but she was not mistaken on this; Philippa had suffered greatly but her eyes on meeting her mother's, her whole demeanour, declared that her virginity was still intact. ‘I reckon we got a lot to thank that woman for.' It occurred to her that she hadn't done it. ‘Where is she?'

‘Ordering breakfast. Everything on the menu.'

‘Give her champagne.'

‘She's already ordered it.'

‘Good.' Makepeace balled her free hand into a fist. ‘John.'

‘Yes?'

‘Susan's dead.'

It was the one question that had been asked and answered before Philippa's eyes had glazed with exhaustion and remembered terror, at which point Makepeace had tucked her child into bed and soothed her to sleep.

There was a long silence before Beasley said: ‘How?'

‘Killed when the
Riposte
fired on the
Pilgrim
. It's all I know—it cost her to say that much. We'll find out when she wakes up.'

Beasley nodded and went out.

In the days when Makepeace had shared a house with Susan Brewer in London, she'd wondered if there was . . . well, a something between her two friends. But if there had been, it had come to nothing; Susan was the marrying kind, Beasley was not. Yet Susan had remained unmarried, instead pouring her affection onto her godchild, Philippa.

And Philippa had loved Susan, which was why she'd been allowed to go to America with her.

Everybody loved Susan. Since they'd met on the
Lord Percy
bringing them both to England nearly thirteen years before, she and Makepeace had been fast, if unlikely, friends—Susan so feminine, earning her living in the world of fashion and caring about clothes, everything Makepeace knew she herself was not.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. You can have Philippa back but I am taking Susan.

And Makepeace wept for the friend who would have been content with the choice.

She lifted the little hand she held in hers to put it against her cheek. Dirty, yes, but the nails were short and perfect. Philippa had always been a neat child and Susan had taught her well.

The male disguise had been effective because of the girl's thinness; she'd grown a little, not much; the pale, plain face was still the image of her father's with its almost clownish melancholy, but where Philip's had been amusing, Philippa's suggested obstinacy. And suffering.

It irked her that she could not read her child. She did not understand Philippa, never had; her teachers said the girl was gifted in mathematics and the businesswoman in Makepeace had been gratified—until Susan had explained that it wasn't shopkeeper mathematics Philippa was gifted in but pure numbers, whatever they were. Nor could Makepeace, who believed in airing her problems, often noisily, be of one mind with someone who would not openly admit to a difficulty until she'd solved it, and sometimes not even then.

Gently, she laid her daughter's hand back on the counterpane. ‘We got to do better, you and I.'

The movement disturbed her daughter's sleep. She woke up and Makepeace busied herself fetching breakfast and popping morsels of bread charged with butter and honey into her daughter's mouth, as if she were a baby bird. ‘I can feed myself, you know,' Philippa said, but she allowed her mother to keep on doing it. They were preparing themselves.

At last . . .‘Now then,' Makepeace said.

There'd been two sea battles. In mid-Atlantic
Lord Percy
, with Philippa and Susan aboard, had encountered the American corvette,
Pilgrim
.

‘That wasn't a very big battle,' Philippa said, ‘but Captain Strang was killed by the first broadside and
Percy
was holed below the waterline, so she surrendered quickly.'

An Admiralty report from the lips of an eleven-year-old, thought Makepeace.

‘And I was glad.'

‘Glad?'

‘I wasn't glad that Captain Strang was dead, he was a nice man. But the
Pilgrim
was going to take us back to America and I
wanted
to go back. It was Aunt Susan who said we had to get away from the war. I didn't want to, I wanted to stay and fight for freedom.' She darted a look at her mother. ‘England's a tyrant.'

Makepeace opened her mouth, then shut it again. ‘Go on.'

‘And Josh was onboard
Pilgrim
.' Philippa took in her mother's reaction. ‘Didn't you know?'

‘Josh? In the American navy?'

‘Didn't you know?'

‘No,' Makepeace said clearly, ‘I didn't. How could I? I didn't even know you and Susan had set out for England 'til two weeks ago. The mail's interrupted. Small matter of a war, I guess.'

‘Is that why you didn't come for me sooner?'

‘Of
course
it was. Did you think I . . .' Makepeace bit her lip, this was no way to resume their relationship. ‘So Josh was a sailor on the
Pilgrim
.'

‘Able seaman, bless him. He joined to fight England's tyranny.'

‘Go on.'

And then, Philippa said—she was trembling—a British ship of the line, the massive
Riposte
, caught up with
Pilgrim
and opened fire with broadsides of fifty-one guns.

Makepeace held the child's hands tight while she relived it, saw the mouth twist to try and find words to express the inexpressible—‘noise', ‘explosions'—and find them inadequate for the horror of being bombarded, of panic's indignity.

‘You can't get away, Mama. We'd been put below deck but . . . we stuffed our cloaks in our ears . . . I was scuttling. Like a rat.' She looked at her mother with her teeth bared. ‘Like a rat. Screaming and piddling . . .'

Thank God she's telling me, Makepeace thought, and said: ‘Anybody would.'

Philippa shook her head. Anybody hadn't—she had. ‘And then, things were breaking. Aunt Susan flung herself on top of me. Everything went dark. Then there were flames and I saw Aunt Susan . . .'

The broken sentences flickered like gunfire on a broken ship, a broken body. Susan staked, like a witch at a crossroads, by a giant splinter through her spine. Susan of the pretty fingernails, Susan . . .‘
Green curdles my complexion and I shun it like the plague
.'

Makepeace let go of her daughter's hands and covered her face with her own. What had Susan to do with their filthy war? How could men look at her body, at the child beside it, and not see the obscenity of what they did?

Her voice going high as she tried to control it, Philippa went on. ‘Josh found me and got me into a boat. He swam beside it until a crew from the
Riposte
picked us up. They took Josh away then and locked him up with the rest of
Pilgrim
's survivors. They put me in the care of the ship's doctor.'

Makepeace dried her eyes. ‘Were they kind to you?'

‘I suppose so. I hated them. They lined the ship's rail and cheered as
Pilgrim
went down and Aunt Susan with her.'

Makepeace said: ‘I never had a friend of my own age. When I met her coming over, she was . . . well bred, not well off but well bred. I was a tavern-keeper, I'd lost everything, or thought I had. Susan dressed me in her own clothes, taught me to walk so your father would notice me. God rest her soul, she was the most generous person I ever knew.'

‘She was.'

The noise from the taproom came up through the floorboards into the quiet of the room in waves of increasingly enjoyed hospitality and Makepeace realized that, though she and Philippa had been eating breakfast, it was approaching evening.

She tensed herself for the next round. ‘What happened when you landed?'

Philippa, too, gritted her teeth. ‘They lined Josh and the other men up on the quay. There was me and a little boy from the
Riposte
, a ship's boy. He didn't like it in the navy. Mr Varney, he was one of
Riposte
's lieutenants, he told us to stay where we were, somebody would come to dispose of us. I was afraid they'd put me in an orphanage or some terrible place. Jimmy, that's the boy, he didn't like it either. As soon as Mr Varney's back was turned, he ran away, I don't know where.'

For the first time, Philippa started to cry. ‘Then . . . then they put Josh and the others in a boat to take them to prison. He'd been shouting, telling me to go to a church and tell them who I was so they'd send for you. He was frightened for me. And I was so frightened for him. The British treat prisoners of war like vermin. They shut them up in prison ships so they die of hunger and smallpox. Everybody in New York knows about the prison ships. I tried to follow him but I didn't have any money and it was . . . horrible. I didn't know what to do, Ma. I just stood and cried.'

Makepeace kissed her. ‘I wouldn't have known what to do either.'

‘Wouldn't you?' Philippa dried her eyes. ‘And then Dell came up and said that once upon a time she'd stood on a quay and cried and nobody had helped her but she wanted to help me. She took me home.'

‘What sort of home?' Makepeace asked sharply.

‘It's a room above a pawn shop in Splice Alley. She doesn't keep it very clean . . .' Philippa's voice became prim. ‘I had to clean it.' She became aware of her mother's tension. ‘You needn't look like that, Mama. I know what she does.'

‘What?'

‘She sells her body to men. She says when you've got nothing else to sell, that's what you have to do.'

‘Does she.'

‘She didn't bring any men to the room, if that's what you're worrying about. She works the ships.'

Makepeace looked around the inn's bedroom with its lumpy walls and furniture. I am hearing these things from my daughter's lips, she thought. We are having this conversation.

Yet, at least, her diagnosis was being confirmed; her daughter had been kept at one remove from the wretched woman's occupation or she wouldn't be talking about it with this judicial remoteness.

‘She's a kind person,' Philippa said, wagging her head at her mother's expression. ‘She protected me. She wanted to because I was in danger. I was her good deed. She said I was the brand she plucked from the burning. “Sure, I'll be brandishing you to St Peter at the Gates, and maybe he'll unlock them and let me into Heaven, after all.” '

The imitation was startling not just for its exact Irishness nor the affection with which it was done but because gaiety was inherent in the mimicker as well as in the mimicry. Makepeace hadn't, she realized, heard such lightheartedness from her daughter since a brief period at Raby when she and Andra, still only business partners, had been getting ready to dig for coal and Philippa had played with the miners' children.

She was happy then, before I took her away. I thought she deserved better as Sir Philip's daughter.
Better
. . . Dear God, look what better brought her.

‘Dell's a child, really,' eleven-year-old Philippa said.

Makepeace couldn't resist saying: ‘She's a child who left you waiting all night in a boat while she cavorted with sailors.'

‘That was only for the last few nights,' Philippa said, calmly. ‘She had to take me with her. Her pimp had just been released from prison and she was afraid to leave me behind in case he put me on the game.'

Makepeace lowered her head into her hands.

‘I was gainfully employed most of the time, Mama, truly. I worked for Mrs Pratt in the pawn shop downstairs, calculating the interest charges. She ran a small gaming room at the back as well, and I'd work out odds for her.'

A gambling hell. Was the girl doing this deliberately? Makepeace searched her daughter's face for some sign of provocation but saw only a small, intent camel looking back at her.

‘So you earned money,' she said.

‘A little. Not much. Mrs Pratt isn't very generous.'

Makepeace gathered herself. Now they came to it. ‘Then why didn't you send for me?'

She might as well have taken an axe and cut the bridge between them. The girl's face became dull and sullen.

Makepeace said: ‘You were landed here on the seventh of June. I found that out from the Admiralty.
I had to find it out
.' She tried to get her voice back to level pitch. ‘That was seven weeks ago. Why didn't you send me a message?'

There was a mumble.

‘What?'

‘I knew you'd find me eventually.'

‘That was luck, not judgement. If it hadn't been for John Beasley I wouldn't have found you at all. Do you know what I went through?'

Tears trickled down Philippa's cheeks but she remained silent—and Makepeace, not usually percipient about her daughter, was vouchsafed a revelation. ‘It was a test,' she said, wonderingly. ‘You were testing me. Making sure I'd come.'

‘You didn't come over to Boston when Betty died.' It was an accusation.

No, she hadn't. The removal of that old woman, the only constant in Philippa's disrupted life, just as she'd been the only constant in Makepeace's, had left a chasm which she should have acknowledged by her presence.

But suddenly she was tired of flagellating herself. ‘I was eight months pregnant,' she said. And if it was the wrong thing to say, it was the truth and Philippa could put that in her pipe and smoke it. ‘
What?
'

Still mumbling, her daughter said: ‘And you might have taken me away.'

‘
Of course I'd have taken you away!
' Makepeace shrieked. ‘I'm picky. I don't like my daughter consorting in back alleys with trollops, kind as they may be.'