‘It takes more strength to stand in the shadow than bask in the light,’ she said. ‘You are the best, most devoted man I know, and I love you for it, truly I do.’
The glow of affection on his face was her reward. John pulled her to him and buried his face in her hair. She pressed against him, desperate to absorb his pain and doubt, longing to lose the world around her in the brightness of his love.
****
At the end of the summer John took Mary to visit her parents at their country house of Frognal. He returned to Berkeley Square a few days later, and was just stepping out of his carriage when he caught sight of his brother’s valet, Williams, riding up from Berkeley Street on a broad-backed shire-horse. The servant was dressed from head to foot in black woollen mourning.
John’s throat constricted immediately. Heedless of onlookers, he ran across the road and grabbed Williams’ reins. ‘My mother?’
Williams looked older than his 60 years, his brown eyes rimmed with red. He had been in John’s father’s service for many years, and had seen all the Pitt children grow up. Now he dismounted and stood with bowed head, crushed by the news he had to bring. ‘Your mother is well as far as we know, Your Lordship.’ He handed John a letter in William’s handwriting, sealed with a black wax wafer. John stared at it, hardly daring to touch it, as though until he did so the news the letter contained could not possibly be true. ‘But I’m afraid I have mighty bad news regarding your sister Lady Harriot.’
October 1786
Every room in the Dowager Countess of Chatham’s house at Burton Pynsent was covered in black crape. The thin October light barely penetrated, as though grief had sapped it away. When Mary and John had arrived a few days before, the Dowager Countess had been almost unable to leave her room, crippled by the loss of her daughter. A week later she was finally able to get as far as the small drawing room. Here she sat huddled in her mourning, weeping on and off while Mary held her hand helplessly and John stood by the window cuffing at his own eyes when he thought no-one was looking.
Just as the sprawling, crumbling old house seemed to be returning to something like a daily routine, the carriage they had all been expecting from London rattled down the gravel-strewn driveway from the Curry road. Mary stood by her husband in the portico to greet it. Behind them the sun was setting behind Troy Hill, setting off the monument John’s father had erected in a blaze of scarlet glory. The pillar cast a long shadow across the green, fertile farmlands below. Mary glanced briefly at it, then turned back to the vehicle drawing up in front of the house, its cheerful yellow panels boarded over with mourning black.
Her husband’s jaw was tight, the muscles standing out like cords in his neck. As Mary’s eyes brushed over him he swallowed convulsively as though trying not to give in to tears. Mary discreetly squeezed his hand, and the uneven pressure of his fingers in response told her more eloquently of his pain than any words. She had dreaded William’s arrival, certain it would unblock the emotional dam John had set up against his grief for his mother’s sake, but she knew John needed the release.
The footman jumped off the plate and opened the carriage door. Mary released John’s hand, and he stepped forwards to meet his brother.
William looked worse than John did. Mary did not think his hair had been powdered for some time, and his normally youthful face looked older than his years. But the change in him was nothing compared to the change in the man who emerged from the compartment after him. Mary had never known Edward Eliot to be anything but a happy, smiling young man, relaxed in his own wealth and good humour. This was a man in anguish, crushed beneath the weight of a pain beyond healing.
John, too, seemed frozen to the spot. Then he clasped Eliot by the hand. ‘My dear Eliot, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. At least God has spared you your daughter.’
‘My daughter.’ Eliot did not look like he had found John’s words comforting, and Mary had no doubt Eliot felt God had left him the wrong one. ‘Yes, it is true, I still have Harriot Hester.’ His voice broke on the name. His glassy expression acquired a desperate sheen. ‘I trust you will excuse me.’
He pushed past John and entered the house. John looked after him in helpless silence, then turned back to William. The autumnal breeze cut between the two brothers, the only two remaining from the first Lord Chatham’s fine brood. It twitched at the black velvet of John’s collar and flung a lock of William’s lank, unpowdered hair into his face. Nothing could be heard but the sound of sheep bleating distantly and the tolling of the church bell in the village.
John was the first to move. He stepped forwards and put a hand on William’s shoulder. Not a word was said, but Mary could almost see the strength of the shared pain passing through that touch, and the air around them seemed to turn thick. William’s mouth twisted. John’s face did not move, but a tear carved its way down his cheek and trembled on his chin. At last William broke away from John and held a hand out to Mary. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He smelled of stale powder and misery.
‘Where is our niece?’ John asked.
‘We left her nursing at Langport. I do not suppose it will be long before she arrives. How is Mama?’
‘Suffering, as you would expect. But she is bearing up, despite the severity of the blow. You will see for yourself.’
‘Thank God you were able to come to her so quickly,’ William said. ‘I would have come down sooner, but Eliot …’
He tailed off. John reached out again and squeezed his brother’s shoulder.
‘Eliot has us to look after him.’
And you have each other, Mary thought, although she did not speak the words aloud. John was still holding his grief in like a blocked fountain, but somehow William’s presence had given him strength, as if the knowledge that he was not alone had taken the edge off his pain. Time would be needed to heal the wounds, if indeed they could ever fully be healed; but if they could be, Mary felt the process had begun here, on Burton’s portico.
****
Eliot was not well enough to support the ordeal of seeing the Dowager Countess, and stayed in his room all evening. When the two brothers retired to the library to discuss little Harriot Hester’s future, Mary stayed with her mother-in-law. She and John had been cooperating to make sure Lady Chatham was alone as little as possible. Most of their time together was spent in silence, for physical proximity was what Lady Chatham needed more than conversation.
Mary took up her station by the fire and drew her workbox close. Lady Chatham watched as she selected a skein of coloured thread and continued working at the tambour frame. She was making a tiny gown for her new niece, decorated with pink and white roses to symbolise new life and youth. Her needle flashed in and out of the fabric, catching the firelight with tiny bursts of flame.
Mary did not know how long she sat there in silence, the turmoil in her mind easing with every stitch, before Lady Chatham placed a black-gloved hand on her arm and stilled her needle.
‘I remember you when you were a little girl,’ she said.
Mary looked up. Her mother-in-law’s face was partially hidden behind the lace of her mourning veil, but her heavy-lidded grey eyes, so like those of her eldest son, were full of affection. Mary smiled. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘No, it was not. Your mother brought you with her on a visit to Hayes. You must have been seven or eight. Four years younger than my poor Harriot.’
Lady Chatham stopped talking. Mary said hastily, ‘Only speak of her if you wish to. I am happy sewing if you find you prefer silence.’
‘It is not of her I wish to speak,’ Lady Chatham said with a shake of her head. ‘Or of my poor Hetty, already gone so long. I wish to speak of my third daughter, the one I first met all those years ago.’
Mary said nothing, choked with emotion. She could feel a heat in her cheeks that had nothing to do with being so close to the fire.
‘I recall it so well,’ Lady Chatham went on. ‘You wore a yellow dress, with white flowers in your h
air. You were so pretty, and so well-behaved, and I remember thinking even then you would make a man very, very lucky.’ Her hand on Mary’s arm tightened. ‘I was so pleased when John chose you for his bride. I knew you would be good for him; but even then, I had no idea how right I was.’
‘I do not think he is so lucky,’ Mary said uncomfortably. She could not help adding, with a push of pain, ‘If I truly made him lucky, I would be able to give him an heir.’
The agony of that failure throbbed inside her the more intensely because, only two months previously, she and John had once more had cause to hope she might be expecting a child at last. She could still taste her disappointment, like ashes, bitter and dry. But Lady Chatham shook her head.
‘Nonsense. Do you think any of us think the less of you for that? I have four grand-daughters. I love them all dearly, but they cost both my daughters their lives.’ Mary did not trust herself to speak. Lady Chatham wiped her eyes and finished, ‘Do not lose yourself in what might have been. John would not recover if he lost you. Never doubt that.’ She leaned over and planted a kiss on her daughter-in-law’s cheek. ‘You are his jewel. That is why he is so lucky to have you.’
‘As am I to have him,’ Mary said, perhaps a little defensively. Lady Chatham took her hand.
‘We are all lucky to find someone who brings out the best in us, to stand by us when we have most need of their strength and love.’
****
After supper Mary went up to the second floor. The upper servants slept here; the ceilings were lower, the floors uncarpeted, and the walls painted a uniform shade of cream. She entered the room that had been transformed into a makeshift nursery for little Harriot Hester. The chamber had been cleared of all furniture save for an elegantly carved cradle, a small truckle-bed, and a chair for the wet-nurse, who stood and curtseyed when Mary entered.
Mary tiptoed over to the cradle. Harriot Hester had arrived at Burton an hour or so after her uncle and father. John’s three-week-old niece lay on her side, swaddled tightly, her tiny round head covered in wispy dark hair. She was asleep, her eyes tightly closed, and as Mary watched her little pink tongue darted out once or twice as though to taste milk in her dream.
Mary felt a swell of warmth inside her, but also a tug deep inside she could not suppress. She had told the truth to Lady Chatham; she regretted not being able to give her husband an heir. She had ached with envy for Harriot Eliot’s good fortune in falling pregnant so quickly. In her darkest moments, Mary’s black fancies had painted images in her mind she was ashamed, even horrified, to acknowledge: Harriot miscarrying, bringing forth a dead child, suffering in her labour. Yet even though she knew very well the dangers of childbed, Mary had never imagined Harriot giving up her life.
The baby screwed her face up as though about to cry. Mary reached out a hand, then pulled it back, suddenly unsure.
‘You won’t wake her, your ladyship,’ the nurse said. Mary tentatively touched her fingers to the little girl’s cheek. It was covered with a velvety down and surprisingly warm.
‘She’s so small,’ Mary said.
‘She will grow, madam,’ the wet-nurse replied. ‘She has a fine appetite.’
The wet-nurse left the room to fetch some linen. Mary’s hand lingered over the baby’s silky head. She, a mother without a child, gazed down upon this child without a mother, and felt her heart ache.
A hand fell on her shoulder. Mary turned to see her husband. John’s long face was cast in shadow; a sprinkling of powder lay stark against the black collar of his coat. He looked lost, and tears leapt to her eyes. He wiped them away, then cupped her face in his hand. She could feel his grief in the trembling of his fingers as he lowered his mouth to hers.
‘I had a feeling I would find you here,’ John murmured. Mary tightened her arms around him. He clung to her.
‘How is Mr Eliot?’
‘Mr Woodforde has prescribed an opiate so he can get some rest after the journey.’ John did not go into any more detail, and Mary did not press for it. He shifted restlessly. ‘We will need to decide what to do with our poor niece. Eliot is in no state to look after her, at least for now. She may have to remain here, with my mother, until he recovers.’
If he recovers, Mary thought instinctively, but she said, ‘Will she go to his parents in Cornwall?’
‘No doubt they will have her occasionally, but William said Eliot particularly wanted the little girl to stay with Mama.’ A pause. ‘He thought it was what Harriot would have wanted.’
Mary nodded. She remained silent, happy just to be near him. Then something John had said struck her and she frowned. ‘You said you had known you would find me here. Why?’ He did not respond immediately. Mary turned and looked up at him. ‘Why, John? Tell me.’
‘My mother said you were sorry you had not been able to give me a child.’ He kissed her again. ‘I hope you know that means nothing to me.’
‘I know,’ Mary said. John pulled her closer and buried his head in her hair. He spoke so quietly she barely heard him.
‘I cannot lose you, Mary.’
Next to them, little Harriot Hester gave a small sigh and wriggled in her swaddling. John glanced down at her and Mary saw his lips twitch. She reached up and pressed her lips to his. There was tension in his jaw under her fingers, but it relaxed as she deepened the embrace.
‘You will not lose me,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
Chapter Thirteen
October 1787
‘John …’
The servant who had been undoing John’s coat buttons glanced up and immediately retired. Mary stood in the doorway to her husband’s dressing room. She was wrapped in a dressing gown; his eyes sought the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly midnight.
‘What is it, Mary?’ Her furrowed brow worried him. ‘What has happened?’
‘Your brother sent up just now.’ Mary hesitated. ‘There is news from Dublin.’
‘From Dublin?’ John’s mouth went dry. ‘The Duke – Charles …?’
He had been expecting this for days, ever since hearing that Rutland was dangerously ill with a fever; and yet the shock he felt when Mary nodded rendered him incapable of further speech. Surely the morning would bring one of his rambling, blotted letters admitting it was all a joke, informing John he was well, and coming home at last.
But there would be no homecoming for Rutland. John had known there would not be since the reports of Rutland’s indisposition had first trickled in three weeks ago. He had known ever since he had visited Rutland and seen his friend’s yellowed face, prematurely scored with strain.
His greatest friend was dead. The reality of the news broke in upon him then and tore through the numbness. John was not sure what hurt more: knowing he would never see Rutland again, or knowing he might have saved him had he only spoken up.
****
The funeral procession reached Bottesford shortly after noon. A thin rain had begun falling shortly after the cavalcade left Rutland’s seat at Belvoir Castle, and by the time it had reached the valley the church’s tall steeple could only just be picked out from the mist.
Rutland’s largesse to the people who lived on his land was legendary, and a gratifyingly large crowd had formed to watch their lord laid to rest. Many of them were well-to-do artisans, prosperously dressed in sombre linen, but John, riding behind the hearse, saw several men and women in ragged clothes and bare feet. Nobody spoke; even the children watched in silence as Rutland’s coffin passed.
The chancel of Bottesford Church was so full of monuments the coffin had to be carried very carefully past them to be laid before the altar. The blank-eyed alabaster statues of Rutland’s ancestors gazed on as Reverend Crabbe, Rutland’s old chaplain, gave the service. It seemed to John as though the statues were participating in the mourning, their hands clasped in prayer for Rutland’s soul.
Once the coffin, covered with its velvet pall, had been lowered into the family vault, John accompanied the procession back up to Belvoir. The clim
b up to the castle, with its commanding view over the Leicestershire hills, was painful. John had spent so many happy hours here, hunting, drinking and making merry with his friend. Those days were gone, and Rutland was no more. The Duke of Rutland now was a boy a month from his tenth birthday, slim, dark-haired, and struggling against his emotions. John watched the boy he had always known as Lord Granby wiping his eyes and trying to look older than he was. His heart tightened at the sight. He remembered all too well the disorientation of coming to terms with losing a father and gaining a title in the same moment.
Reverend Crabbe gave a lengthy eulogy to Rutland in Belvoir’s family chapel. ‘To a good disposition he joined those sentiments and ideas which are more particularly expected in the eminent and great: a dignity of mind, a frankness of manners, a largeness of heart. He thought nobly, he spoke liberally, he lived honourably.’ The minister looked grave. ‘Now he is dead, it is not a family alone, it is a nation that weeps for him.’
And his friend. John could feel the tears he had been suppressing all day breaking through despite his best efforts. He placed one hand over his eyes to hide them. Mary laced her fingers through those of his disengaged hand and squeezed them. He squeezed back, grateful beyond words for her presence beside him.
After the service, John and Mary paid their respects to the Duchess of Rutland. She had changed since John had last seen her in Ireland; she looked much thinner, and older, with great black marks under her beautiful brown eyes. She was not wearing make-up, and John realised with a shock he had never seen her bare-faced, not once in all the years he had known her. The strength of her grief at losing Rutland had shocked everyone, for she had been living apart from him at Belvoir for some time. John wondered if she felt guilty for having left her husband in Ireland, for not having been with him when he died.
Mary kissed the Duchess on the cheek. John took her hand. He could barely find the words, but he had to say something, anything, and hope it would carry the sincerity he truly felt but could not articulate. ‘My dear Duchess.’ What could he say? No words could convey his pain. ‘I am so sorry.’
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