At four John moved into the study to write. He covered several expensive, gold-edged sheets of paper with abortive sentences before, finally, finding the right words. He rubbed his hand through his hair, causing a shower of powder to fall onto the page, and wrote:
‘My dear brother, I have not been able to compose myself sufficiently since our conversation to put pen to paper. But what makes me wish to write you these few lines, is that I am aware I have said nothing of my personal feelings towards you, which I can assure you arose only from finding myself unequal to doing it. The recollection of the affection which has uninterruptedly subsisted between us from our earliest days makes me feel the present circumstances doubly painful; but whatever may be my fate in life, I shall sincerely wish for your honour and prosperity.
Believe me, very affectionately yours, Chatham.’
John stared at the letter, dry-eyed and dry-mouthed, until the maid-of-all-work came to sweep the grate and lay a new fire. He gritted his teeth and made a firm decision. He sprinkled pounce over the sheet even though the words had long dried; folded it four times into an envelope; melted a gob of wax onto the flap; and sealed it, firmly, with the ring on his right hand.
He hesitated on the threshold, but only for a moment. Then he closed the door and left with a heavy step.
Chapter Twenty
June 1795
John gazed out of the carriage window and dreaded seeing his mother. Although he had not breathed a syllable of his rift with William in his letters to her, others would have had no such reticence. He had never forgotten how she had pleaded with him to support his brother all those years ago when William had first been offered the Treasury. What if Mama felt he had, finally, broken his promise?
He did not think he could stand any more judgment. As John had predicted, his transfer to the Privy Seal had attracted ridicule from all quarters. When John first appeared in Parliament in his new capacity he had to run a gauntlet of abuse:
‘If it isn’t the late First Lord of the Admiralty!’
‘The august keeper of the King’s Privy Seal!’
‘I trust your new duties are not too onerous, my lord?’
These were the thoughts that needled him every day, every moment, poisoning his humour and souring his mood. He and William could not avoid each other completely, of course; they had to meet occasionally at cabinets and levees, but so far they had limited themselves to greeting each other coldly. John had resolved not to be the one to make the first move towards reconciliation, but the longer it took for William to approach him, the more bitter John became. Six months had now passed since their quarrel and John was still waiting.
John glanced across at his wife. Mary’s eyes were fixed on the passing landscape. She had always been perfectly attuned to her husband’s attitudes and desires, but now that he no longer knew where he stood with himself, let alone anyone else, Mary also seemed to have become as rudderless as a storm-stricken ship.
The carriage climbed out of Langport and John felt his heart constrict. Travelling through the familiar landscape of his childhood always brought back memories, and the little village of Curry Rivel with its square-towered church, cottages and hay-strewn lanes had hardly changed. But as the carriage drew up outside Burton Pynsent he had to make a conscious effort to compose himself. A welcoming committee had formed beneath the portico. Mrs Stapleton, his mother’s companion, clutched a shawl against the bitter wind. Beside her was John’s brother-in-law Edward Eliot, his face prematurely aged by a grief that had only grown since Harriot’s death. His hands rested on the shoulders of his daughter, eight-year-old Harriot Hester. Before them all was John’s mother, leaning heavily on her cane with swollen-knuckled hands.
Little Harriot Hester wriggled out of her father’s embrace, ran down the steps with her pink silk sash trailing behind her and launched herself into Mary’s arms. ‘Aunt Chatham! Uncle Chatham!’
Mary smiled and bent to accept the embrace. John stroked the little girl’s head fondly, but kept his eyes on his mother. The expression on Hester Chatham’s strong-boned face was worse than the judgment he had half-expected to find. She looked sad and uncomfortable, as though someone had died and she hardly knew how to offer condolences.
‘Oh, Johnny,’ she murmured, and his resolution to maintain a dignified aloofness crumbled. He closed his eyes against the tears. His mother came down the steps and clasped him to her tightly, just as she had done when he had woken from nightmares as a child, floating free in the darkness, disorientated, lost.
****
After dinner Mrs Stapleton took out her embroidery, and Eliot and the little girl sat down to a game of backgammon. Mary hung over Harriot Hester’s shoulder and gave her assistance. John found himself by the window with Mama. Since their emotional meeting neither of them had breathed a word of what had happened over the past six months. John could see Lady Chatham was working up to it. She sat in her padded chair wrapped in shawls, her arthritic hands clasped. Her eyes rested on Harriot Hester.
‘My niece is much grown,’ John observed.
Lady Chatham studied her eldest son for a moment. ‘She has outgrown all her clothes. Mrs Capper has had to find another seamstress in Langport, because the one in Curry cannot keep up.’
John watched Mary whisper into Harriot’s ear. The little girl moved one of her backgammon pieces, and Mary whispered something else. Little Harriot giggled. Something about the scene fed John’s sense of loss and obsolescence. He rose from his chair. A rustle and the click of a cane on the floorboards told him his mother followed.
‘John …’ she began, but tailed off. She could not alter what had happened and they both knew it. John was aware he had clothed himself in righteous humiliation as though it were armour. He knew many judged him for it, but so long as it repelled unwanted pity or dismay, he did not much care.
‘I suppose,’ he said, stiffly, ‘you are going to take me to task?’
‘Whatever for? You have done nothing wrong.’
The bitter taste in John’s mouth intensified. ‘My brother disagrees. You’ll have to ask him why.’
‘I do not need to ask him anything. He tells me all.’ John snorted so hard the window misted in front of his face. Lady Chatham placed a hand on his arm. He could feel her fingers trembling through his fine woollen coat. ‘I worry for you, my son.’
‘I am astonished to hear that,’ John said. His anger took himself by surprise. ‘You have always been more likely to worry about my brother.’
‘I worry for both of you.’
‘Which is why you are about to tell me I must stand by my brother, are you not?’
‘William,’ Lady Chatham murmured. ‘Your brother’s name is William.’
‘Is it really?’ John said. ‘I had forgotten.’
Lady Chatham tugged at her shawl. ‘You are William’s only remaining sibling. You must know your assistance is more valuable to him than ever. Please speak with him.’
‘Give me one reason why I should!’ John shouted, and his mother shrank back as though he had struck her.
At the backgammon table Mary straightened, but Eliot stood and whispered a few words in her ear. Mary shot John an expression of doubt, then slowly sank into Eliot’s place at the backgammon board.
Eliot came over and took John’s arm. ‘Harriot is still young, but she has her mother’s brains. I find I cannot play backgammon with her without developing a headache. Will you take a turn with me in the saloon?’
Eliot was already guiding John out; John recognised he was not being given a choice. The last person he wanted to talk to was his brother’s closest friend, but neither did he want to remain here with Mama. The headache Eliot had used as a pretext was growing very much a reality for John, and he did not have the strength to fight.
The saloon was on the ground floor, with a view across the terrace towards Sedgemoor. The sky was the colour of lead and the burgundy-painted walls covered with Italianate paintings looked dark and depressing. The b
lack of Eliot’s coat and breeches contrasted with the paleness of his face. He leaned against one of the chairs lining the wall but did not sit. John took up a reluctant station opposite.
‘I wanted to thank you and Lady Chatham for allowing Harriot Hester to spend the winter with you in London,’ Eliot began after a pause. ‘She still talks about it now, and asks when she can return.’
Gratitude and affection pierced John’s defensiveness. ‘We were happy to have her. Mary much wishes for a daughter of her own.’ He left that hanging for a moment, then decided he could not possibly make the conversation any more awkward by adding, ‘And she reminds us of my sister.’
Mentioning Harriot was always a gamble, for Eliot had never really emerged from the black fog of mourning her unexpected death. Eliot’s face went waxy, but he said only, ‘She is very like her mother.’
John had always thought the red-haired, snub-nosed Harriot Hester looked more like her father than anyone, but he said nothing. A memory flashed into John’s mind of the time, long ago, when he had come upon Eliot and his sister cosily ensconced together in Vauxhall Gardens. Time had polished away much of the detail, but he would never forget the way Harriot’s hand had floated close to Eliot’s on the table-top, or the fondness glistening in Eliot’s eyes as she talked. The young, fresh-faced boy who had surrendered his heart to Harriot all those years ago was now a gaunt-cheeked, prematurely aged man who was still in love with a ghost.
Yet John knew Eliot would now scold him for remaining overly attached to the past. He dreaded it; although he wore his hurt like a badge for all to see, it came from something intensely private, and he had no wish to share it with anyone.
At length, it came. Eliot uncrossed his arms. ‘You were unfair on your mother.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘You would force her to take sides,’ Eliot said quietly. ‘You cannot do it. She loves you, Chatham, but she loves Pitt just as much. If she thinks Pitt has wronged you, I am certain she believes you have wronged Pitt.’ John snorted. Eliot asked the question John was tired of hearing from all quarters. ‘Have you spoken with your brother?’
‘No, I have not,’ John said, so harshly Eliot’s white face infused with colour. ‘I should have known you would line up to hurl abuse at me. You’ve always been his friend rather than mine.’
‘Far from it. Were I not your friend, I would not have intervened when you attacked your mother earlier.’
‘I did not attack—’
‘No,’ Eliot agreed. ‘You did not. But you would have done, had I not stepped in.’ John was silent. Eliot was right: William’s betrayal lanced through him like a throbbing wound, and anyone who touched it received the brunt of his agony, no matter who they were. ‘As your friend, then, I ask you to listen. I do not pretend I have earned the right to your trust, but I am your brother as much as I am Pitt’s.’
The sun was setting. Shadows grew longer and the burgundy of the walls deepened to the shade of blood. John drew one of the chairs away from the wall and sank into it. ‘I do trust you.’
The sharpness on Eliot’s face softened in relief. He, too, drew a chair and leaned over his knees. ‘I suppose you know Pitt has been indisposed?’
William’s fits of gout were a regular occurrence now. John, like William himself, had got used to them. ‘Of course I know. I am still a member of the Cabinet.’
‘You know, then, that he still drinks.’
From the drawing room came the sound of cheering. John guessed Mary had allowed Harriot Hester to win the backgammon game. He shifted in his chair; talk of William’s escalated drinking unsettled him. He tried to tell himself it was none of his concern, but he could not get the Duke of Rutland out of his mind. He had seen Rutland reach determinedly for the decanter much as William had been doing ever since the war had begun to go badly.
‘I have spent the last eight years living in Pitt’s house,’ Eliot said, adding shakily, ‘The house Harriot died in. At first I remained because I was afraid I might abandon a part of her if I left. But latterly I have remained because I know Pitt needs me to stay.’ Eliot paused. ‘People used to say Pitt and I were like brothers, even before I married Harriot. But you truly are his brother, Chatham. You know him better than anyone, certainly better than I. That is why you must speak with him. We are all he has left. Pitt has nobody but us.’
‘He has plenty of friends. Dundas.’ John spat the name with distaste. ‘Our cousin Grenville.’
‘I say nothing of Dundas, but Grenville is turning away from Pitt more and more. He is vehemently against any peace with the Republicans, whereas Pitt is warming to the idea out of necessity. He and Grenville are, I fear, parting ways, and I do not think Pitt can afford to lose another friendship.’
A sour taste came into John’s mouth. ‘It won’t affect him more than losing mine.’
‘My dear Chatham,’ Eliot said. ‘It is killing him.’
The simplicity of that statement brought John up short. He gave a nervous laugh. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you not noticed? I suppose you have not been living with him. You have not seen the marks of exhaustion on his face.’
‘It is the war,’ John said, adding bitterly, ‘I have given him time enough to come to me; he has not done so. He may regret Grenville’s friendship, but I can only conclude he has little regard for mine.’
John’s anger with his brother surged again, and with it the bitterness and frustration of his situation. He rose restlessly and paced back to the tall windows. Dusk was drawing in, great fingers of darkness reaching up the flagstones of the terrace. For a while both men said nothing. John was trying very hard not to think of anything; Eliot must have been putting his thoughts in order.
Eliot spoke at length. ‘How can you say such a thing?’
‘I think my brother’s treatment of me speaks for itself,’ John ground out.
‘Chatham, please think. Pitt needs you.’
‘He may need you.’
‘He needs both of us,’ Eliot insisted. ‘My ties to Pitt are strong, I grant you; but the ties of blood are stronger. You are right to fault Pitt for his behaviour, but he is no ordinary man.’
‘I know,’ John said, with poison in his voice. ‘I have heard nothing else all my life.’
‘You do not understand. Power changes a man, no matter how good, no matter how brave. Pitt is surrounded by flatterers, men who have known him only as Minister. He has become accustomed to his every wish being carried out in an instant: men come to him, not he to them. He cannot see what has happened to him, but we, his friends, must accept it is what he has become. He tells us half-truths, he dissembles, but he still needs us, and when his manner drives us away, he crumbles.’
John shook his head. ‘I don’t feel it.’
‘It’s his way,’ Eliot said, mildly. ‘The Minister in him sees every selfless act on our part as his due. We that love him must take him as he is.’
John was touched that his brother might have such a friend, but he knew his brother-in-law was very religious, and suspected his willingness to give William the benefit of a doubt came more from Christian charity than true conviction. John could not think of William in such terms, not yet; the prospect that he might still owe something to his brother was one he was not yet ready to face.
‘So what should I do?’ he said at last, bleakly. ‘Should I forgive him?’ Eliot nodded and John felt despair welling inside. ‘I do not know that I can.’
‘It may be that you have to go further, and find forgiveness for yourself.’
‘I have nothing to reproach myself for,’ John said immediately, and coldly. ‘I have no need to beg my brother’s pardon.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ Eliot murmured.
Chapter Twenty-one
September 1795
The wind flung icy drizzle into John’s face as he rode out from his mother’s dower-house. The haze and the low clouds, trapped by the Sedgemoor hills, prevented a view even as far as
Burton Pynsent itself.
St Aubin, his valet, had been surprised at his resolve to go out, but John had been adamant. He rarely made more than one visit a year to his mother, but even though he had had no intention of being at Burton Pynsent while his brother was visiting, he knew this might be his only chance to talk with William away from the distractions of London. He was determined to put his flying visit to good use.
John tethered his horse to a stile near the monumental pillar his father had erected on Troy Hill, struggling to secure the leather straps with hands slick with rain. He squinted at the lantern-shaped viewing platform at the top of the pillar, framed against the ash-coloured sky. Nobody was there. He drew out his watch to check the time, but his hands were half-numbed with cold and the fob caught against the band of his leather riding breeches. One of his seals flew off into the long grass. John cursed. Losing his seal was an ill omen, but he had no time to look for it now.
The steps up to the viewing platform were covered with moss and slippery with damp. John and his siblings had often climbed the tower as children, but no-one had been here for many years. Grass grew through cracks in the stones. A single pigeon eyed John in a startled manner before flying off in a burst of feathers. The view across Sedgemoor was truncated by the bad weather, but the feeling of being enveloped in fog, cut off from the rest of the world, seemed fitting under the circumstances. John wiped bat droppings off the surface of the stone bench, sat down, and waited.
Little time passed before he heard hoof-beats. John thrust out his booted legs and concentrated on making grooves in the moss with his spurs. Footsteps echoed up the monument’s winding staircase. They seemed to John to be slower than necessary. A few moments later William appeared. He sat opposite John with a sigh and began mopping the rain off his face with his handkerchief.
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