Earl of Shadows

by Jacqueline Reiter

  ‘I came here to visit you,’ John quipped to cover his uneasiness. ‘I had no idea I would only catch glimpses of you every other Tuesday.’

  ‘My father was just as busy when he was in politics. It’s the way of things, Chatham; it is the price we politicians must pay for our places. I am the King’s representative in Ireland, with heavy responsibilities, it is true, but I would not have you report back to your brother that I am not meeting them.’ Rutland drained his wineglass and refilled it. John winced.

  ‘Rutland, you are my closest friend, and I have not seen you in two years. I hope you do not think my brother sent me here to spy on you?’

  ‘You know how much your friendship means to me, and to Mary,’ Rutland said, adding his wife’s name as an afterthought, ‘and I am delighted you made the journey to this godforsaken island to visit us.’

  ‘But?’ John hazarded. Rutland wiped his mouth and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Chatham, am I such a poor host you feel I have made you unwelcome?’ He poured himself a third glass.

  John said, a little too brightly, ‘Will you not eat before you go?’

  ‘I have no time for that. London’s St Giles’s and the Seven Dials have nothing on the stews backing onto Dublin Castle.’ Rutland pointed at the slice of bread on John’s dish. ‘To take that bread from you, most of Dublin’s inhabitants would slice your throat without hesitation. Think on that, and tell your brother I said it.’

  Rutland gave his wife another kiss. Mary Rutland’s eyelids flickered as her husband’s wine-laced breath washed over her. He straightened with difficulty, gave John a shallow bow, and left.

  John let his breath out. He looked at the slice of bread before him and felt suddenly sick. He pushed his plate away, excused himself to the Duchess and rose for some fresh air.

  He stepped out onto the balcony. The Lord Lieutenant’s lodge was small and plain to look at with its old-fashioned brick facade, but its location in the middle of the thousand acres of parkland was beautiful in an untamed way. A chilly breeze brought the scent of damp heather with it. There was a hint of thunder in the clouds hanging low over the purple band of the Black Rock Hills, and John glimpsed a fork of lightning on the horizon.

  He was two weeks into his visit to Dublin, and his shock at Rutland’s condition had yet to ebb. He had heard stories, of course, and received innumerable blotted, rambling letters from Rutland written in the small hours of the morning, but nothing had prepared him for the reality. Rutland lurched through Privy Council meetings, public audiences and military reviews in a barely-concealed alcoholic stupor. His was a punishing schedule in a post that brought him little love from either Irish or British politicians, but John barely recognised his dear friend in the swollen-faced drunk who hosted him.

  John heard a slippered footfall behind him and turned. The Duchess stepped onto the balcony, pulling her gauze scarf around her shoulders. She leaned against the balustrade with her long-fingered hands clasped in front of her.

  For a long while they remained silent. Every time John laid eyes on his friend’s beautiful Duchess he thought of his own Mary, far away across St George’s Channel. The distance between them only deepened his love for his quiet, shy wife. In contrast, Charles and Mary Rutland’s marriage was an arid desert. Rutland was openly visiting whorehouses now, carousing for hours while his soldiers stood very public guard all night long. He and his wife were no longer lovers, and John wondered whether they even remained friends.

  As though she knew what he was thinking about and wanted to change the subject, the Duchess said, ‘How is your sister? I understand she and Mr Eliot are married.’

  ‘They were wed last September,’ John said. He had had to sell Hayes to provide Harriot with a dowry sufficient to placate Eliot’s miserly father, but he left that bit out. ‘My sister has been married nearly a year now, and is the happiest woman in Christendom.’ Afraid that Mary Rutland might see this reference to another’s marital bliss as crass, John added quickly, ‘She is expecting her first child, and due to lie in shortly after my return to London.’

  ‘Your mother must be delighted at the prospect of a grandchild.’ John flinched, and he saw awkwardness chase across Mary Rutland’s expression. He clearly did not need to tell her Mary’s miscarriage still tore at his heart. The Duchess murmured, ‘What a pity Lady Chatham could not accompany you to Ireland. The past two years must have been hard for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ John said quietly. ‘They were.’

  He did not elaborate, for he did not want to think of the misery since Mary’s miscarriage. Losing the child had exacerbated the rheumatism in her hip, and she had spent over a year unable to move without the aid of a wheeled chair. Now her health was beginning to return and John no longer dreaded what each day might bring, but he would never forget her cries of pain whenever she had tried to cross the room, or how every day, every minute had been a milestone to be counted down until Mary could walk again. Sometimes, in the early hours, John still woke with a gasp from nightmares of Mary’s yellow-lipped face, her body haemorrhaging blood beyond his ability to staunch it.

  To change the subject, he said, ‘The weather is so changeable here. I should go for a ride in the Park while it is still fine.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mary Rutland murmured.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Because Charles was right. We have made you feel unwelcome. Do not pretend you did not notice Charles was drunk this morning.’

  ‘He has a hard task,’ John said, uncomfortably. ‘The country is divided between rich Protestants and poor Catholics. I can easily believe it is difficult being the King’s representative in a country that bears the English little love. But Rutland seems popular, for a Lord Lieutenant anyway. He’s doing splendidly.’

  ‘Is that what you will tell Mr Pitt?’ Mary Rutland said and John blushed.

  ‘My dear Duchess, I am here to visit you. Upon my honour, I have no other reason.’

  ‘I believe you,’ the Duchess said. ‘But you must realise that your presence here adds considerably to my husband’s troubles.’

  The birds had stopped singing and there was a profound heaviness in the air. A growl of thunder broke the silence. John licked his dry lips. ‘How so?’

  ‘Last year your brother proposed a complete reformation of the commercial relations between England and Ireland. I need not remind you how his failure stirred up hostility against my husband in Dublin. What are the merchants supposed to think now the Earl of Chatham, Mr Pitt’s brother, is come to spend the summer with the Duke of Rutland?’

  ‘They are mistaken if they think I am my brother’s instrument here,’ John said. ‘In any case, you and the Duke know differently.’

  ‘I am not sure my husband does,’ Mary said. ‘He knows you and Mr Pitt are close. What will you tell your brother, Lord Chatham? That my husband works so hard to conciliate all Ireland’s interests he hardly has time to eat? That he stays at table well into the night, and starts drinking the moment he rises in the morning? He is “doing splendidly”, indeed.’

  John did not know what to say. ‘I am sorry you feel like this.’

  The Duchess picked at a loose thread on her glove. ‘All Charles wants is to prove himself worthy of his father. You of all men must comprehend the importance of that.’

  ‘I do,’ John admitted.

  ‘Then you must know it is not your fault my husband is too good a man to be Lord Lieutenant.’

  There was a great deal left unsaid in that sentence. John stared at Mary Rutland’s profile, as hard as flint. ‘It is not my brother’s either,’ he said at last.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, but John did not believe her.

  August 1786

  John arrived back in London the first week of August after a long and turbulent journey. After he had peeled off his travelling clothes and overseen the unloading of his trunks John asked after his wife and discovered Mary had gone out. He suppressed a pan
g of disappointment, for he had been eagerly anticipating their reunion, but rather than wait aimlessly for her return he decided to visit William.

  William’s Downing Street house was at its quietest at the end of August, when most politicians and men of business were away terrorising the fowl on their country estates, but John had never yet managed to come upon his brother alone. William’s secretary was carrying a towering pile of despatch boxes from the entrance hall to the study when John entered. ‘He’s in the library, with the Marquis of Carmarthen. Shall I have you announced?’

  John was shown into the green drawing room, overlooking Horse Guards. A few minutes later his brother came to find him. William carried a packet of papers and looked preoccupied. The ministry was much better established than it had been two years ago, but the amount of work William had to do to keep his head above the water was staggering. He seemed to thrive on it, but John sometimes felt as though affairs of state had raised his attention above the level of ordinary mortals, and that his friends, family and connections constantly slipped beneath his notice.

  William gave John an absent smile, as though his thoughts were still deeply engaged in discussing foreign affairs with Carmarthen. ‘Good to see you back. How was your journey?’

  ‘Poor. We were 24 hours sailing from Dublin to Holyhead. I’ve never been so sick in my life.’

  ‘I thought you were hardly ever seasick.’

  ‘Which comment proves you have never sailed from Dublin to Holyhead.’

  ‘Lady Chatham is well? She has had no return of her complaint?’

  ‘I have not seen her. She may have gone to Mr Partington’s. He has a machine that creates electrical pulses, which he channels into her hip with glass rods.’

  ‘Does it work?’ William asked, his scientific interest piqued. John shrugged; he did not want to think about the animal terror with which Mary faced her weekly visits to Mr Partington, or the brittle, unconvincing cheerfulness with which she insisted, afterwards, that she felt so much better for them. In any case, William had already moved on.

  ‘I am eager to hear of your visit to Ireland. How was it?’ William opened the portfolio he was carrying and flicked through it. ‘I trust all is well?’

  John had been rehearsing what he would say about Rutland for days. He knew it was vital for his friend’s sake that he make William aware of Rutland’s situation, but he knew from long experience that William would not listen unless his attention was fully engaged, and clearly this was not the case. Even so, he had to try. ‘Well enough. The country seems quiet. Will, about the Duke of Rutland—’

  ‘That’s good news,’ William remarked, without raising his eyes from the papers in his hand. John fought the anger that rose in his breast, but what he had to say was too important.

  ‘I need to speak to you about Rutland. He is doing excellent work as Lord Lieutenant, but I—’

  This time the doorbell interrupted him. William’s next visitor had arrived; John was reminded that his brother’s time was no longer his own, and that William’s own family had no greater claim over him than anyone else. John took one look at William’s face and knew his opportunity was gone. For now at least, William was not paying enough attention for John to persuade him of Rutland’s danger.

  A footman opened the door and announced: ‘The French Ambassador, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry, John,’ William said, ‘but as you see I am very busy. I have just left Lord Carmarthen, who was telling me about the latest correspondence from Paris. If Mr Eden can secure us a favourable commercial treaty with France, we shall meet the next parliamentary session in great strength.’

  ‘I really must talk to you about Rutland,’ John urged.

  ‘Come to dinner on Friday. Steele and Long will be there. We can talk about it then.’

  ‘Very well,’ John said, knowing full well he would not be able to talk freely about Rutland if William’s friends were present, but William already had his hand on the latch.

  ‘Till Friday then. My love to Lady Chatham.’

  The door closed behind him. John knew William had not intended to be dismissive, and that he would listen on Friday with all the alertness he had not had time to give today, but John could remember the days when he had not needed an appointment for his brother’s attention.

  ****

  Mary had returned by the time John came home. She was just untying the ribbons of her straw bonnet when the front door opened and John came in, chewing his bottom lip as he often did when preoccupied. When he caught sight of his wife warmth flooded his face; Mary’s vision fogged. Aching hip forgotten, she picked up her skirts and flung herself into his arms.

  They had been apart for six weeks. Once alone in their bedchamber John embraced her with still more ardour. Mary had not realised how much she had missed him until she felt the familiarity of his arms around her. She could feel his need, too, in the tightness of his hands on her shoulders.

  For a long while there was no time for talking. At length, tired of kissing, they propped each other up on a chaise-longue, wallowing in their proximity after such a long time apart.

  ‘You are plumper than when I last saw you,’ John said with approval. He stroked her cheek. ‘That dress suits you.’

  Mary twitched her long grey walking dress. ‘It’s just a smock.’

  ‘I think you should wear it more often.’

  ‘Georgiana is always telling me I need to wear dresses that are less drab.’ She plucked at the velvet lapel of John’s elegantly tailored coat. ‘She says I look like a mouse married to a peacock.’

  ‘Your sister said I was a peacock?’ John said, raising his eyebrow. Mary pushed him back against the pillows of the chaise-longue.

  ‘Are you going to deny it? You learned fashion at the feet of your foppish friend Rutland.’ She leaned over to kiss him and felt him tense in her arms. ‘What is troubling you? I can tell something is wrong.’

  For a moment, she thought he was going to resist her, but then he sighed in resignation and closed his eyes. ‘You are, as usual, very perceptive.’

  The agony of affection glistened on his face as he told her about his visit to Ireland and his fears for the Lord Lieutenant. He did not go into detail, but Mary recognised the seriousness of the situation in the trembling of his voice. She listened in silence, her head against his shoulder.

  ‘What do you think will happen if the Duke remains in Dublin?’ she asked when he had finished.

  ‘I do not know, in truth I do not. Rutland does not have the frame of mind for hard business. I do not blame my brother for appointing him Lord Lieutenant, for God knows William needs a man he can trust in Ireland, but I do not think William took Rutland’s frailties into account.’

  ‘Have you spoken with William about this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should,’ Mary said, but she had caught the hesitation in that single syllable. She pushed her hair over her ears and sat up. ‘John, you have not told me all. Something else is troubling you. What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. Mary did not believe him. She studied his taut profile, waiting for the words to come, and at length they did. ‘I only wish I could be certain William will listen to me.’

  ‘Why should he not? You are his brother.’

  ‘Do you think that is enough? William is at the head of government – a government in which I have no part. Every time I see him I feel he begrudges the time he has to give to me.’

  ‘I am certain he will want to know your thoughts about Ireland.’

  ‘And that is just the thing,’ John said, gritting his teeth. ‘No-one in Dublin imagined I had simply come to pay Rutland a friendly visit. They all thought I would report back to my brother. Even Rutland said so.’

  ‘He was probably drunk.’

  ‘He was definitely drunk, but that’s not the point. I am William’s brother, and they all naturally assumed I have his ear, his trust. Could it be any more ironic?’ His lips curved downwards. ‘Rutland sho
uld never have gone to Ireland in the first place. William made a mistake. But who am I to tell him? I have no official capacity; I have no value beyond our family connection, and that is not enough. All I can do is vote where my brother tells me to, and wait for him to bestow a few crumbs of attention on me, like a common backbencher.’

  ‘You are being too harsh on William, and yourself.’

  ‘Before he left, Rutland told me he was grateful to William for the chance to prove himself worthy of his father. The Marquis of Granby was nearly as celebrated as mine, you know. What if William never trusts me enough to give me the same chance?’

  ‘He knows what you are capable of. You are his only brother, John. He trusts you.’

  ‘Does he?’ John said, and now he no longer even pretended to hide the pain in his voice. ‘He did not let me into the secret when he first took the seals, and he was living under my roof. I thought things had changed, after I—’ He broke off. ‘I know he owes me nothing. But to continue as we are, on such unequal ground …’

  ‘Is it office, then, that you want?’ Mary asked when he tailed off. In her private opinion, John was as temperamentally unfit for the rigours of office as Rutland was, but she said nothing, knowing it was not what he needed to hear. John pulled a face and bent his head over his clasped hands.

  ‘I have always admired William’s brilliance; I have never doubted he was destined for great things. But what if he has accustomed himself to my silence? What if he will not listen to me when it truly matters?’

  Mary looked down at the top of his head. She had always admired John’s aristocratic elegance, his quiet charm, but beneath it all she had long recognised an endearing vulnerability. Faced with a direct question about his ambitions he had hedged without answering, and Mary did not suppose he was even aware he had done so. John was so accustomed to coming second, he had stopped questioning it long ago. She wondered if William was aware how lucky he was to have such a self-effacing brother. She put her hands on John’s cheeks and kissed him.