John tried to keep his expression neutral, which was not easy. He experienced, again, the alarm he had felt upon seeing William for the first time the day before. William was only 36 but he might have been a decade years older. Gout had plagued him on and off since March, and a catalogue of woes weighed heavily on his shoulders: domestic bread riots; Prussia’s separate peace; still more continental disasters. The exertion of climbing the hundred steps to the top of the tower had robbed him of breath. John was damned, however, if he would let his concern show. This meeting had been called on his terms, and that was how it would be carried out.
William folded the handkerchief back into his pocket, pressed a hand to his forehead and said, ‘If I did not know you better, I would say you called me up here in the hopes that I might die making the effort to climb those stairs.’
John looked coldly at him. William’s eyes lost some of their humorous sparkle and his expression became more circumspect. He glanced down at his crossed arms.
The wind whistled through the pillars of the viewing platform. John sat stiff-backed, listening to the soft sound of the rain striking the stone column. He avoided his brother’s gazes. After a space, William spoke. ‘Brrr, it’s cold. Why are we sitting out here when we could be playing a round of cards with Mama and our little niece?’
‘We can talk better here,’ John said, curtly, trying to ignore the chattering of his teeth. He felt safer here, on neutral ground.
‘You might have spoken to me at any time since your arrival yesterday.’ William picked grass burrs off the tails of his coat. ‘Since you are staying only a few days, and you were only here three months ago, I take it you made the journey to see me – so what on earth have you to say that you cannot tell me indoors, in the warmth?’
‘You know perfectly well what I want to talk about.’ William flinched. John bit off the instinct to continue, for it would not do to lose his temper this early in the conversation. He had promised himself to see this through, for his own peace of mind. He softened his tone. ‘I hear you’ve been ill.’
‘Not very,’ William replied, impenetrably. It was so short a response that John could do very little with it. He struggled for a moment, then gave up.
‘Glad to hear it.’
Silence again. William inspected his gloves. He must have been just as alarmed as John was to find that they could not even have an inconsequential talk without shadows hanging over them. ‘How long are you here?’
‘Not long. Mary is with her parents at Frognal. I plan to join her there for a week or two before we return to town.’
Awkward silence again. John’s mind raced desperately for a way to keep his brother talking. He could think of nothing but politics, which always brought out the side of William he found most difficult to relate to, but in view of the alternatives it was the safest option. ‘I hear our friend young Camden is to go to Ireland?’
He could see at once that he had lit upon the perfect subject. William’s face cleared. ‘Yes, it seems likely. It will please me much to have an ally in Dublin again.’
‘Ireland will need careful handling,’ John acknowledged, trying not to remember that the last time his brother had sent a friend, Rutland, to Ireland, the results had been tragic. ‘Camden is the perfect choice. He has a conciliatory manner. I recall what Ireland was like when I went there in ’86; there is much poverty and misery there.’
‘I had forgotten you went to Ireland.’ William had only been out of England once, to France for six weeks before becoming Minister. John had been round the world, to Canada and the West Indies, and fought for the Crown; William had hardly seen anything at all save for the University of Cambridge and the clubs of London. And yet it was William, not John, who planned the campaigns; William, who had no idea what Holland was like, or Toulon, or Corsica, or any other place that had made the news recently. John felt a prick of injustice; he fought it. This was not the time or the place.
He said, instead, ‘Camden must beware not to follow the path of conciliation too far. Past Lord Lieutenants have been too willing to listen to Ireland’s Catholics. In peacetime, I’d say nothing of it, but we are at war and the French will take advantage of any Catholic disaffection. Camden must stamp it out, with force if necessary.’
William had been following John’s words eagerly enough; now John was aware of a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. ‘You think Camden ought to ally himself with the Protestants against the Catholics?’
John could not quite believe his brother disagreed. ‘The Catholics will be poison in the system for years to come. If control is to be re-established, it will be with the help of the Protestant interest, who have always been our friends.’
William said nothing, but gave John a look that combined irritation and suspicion with a surprising amount of affection. That glint of amused exasperation in his brother’s eyes disconcerted John. It was as though seeing something that had been so much a part of their closeness, after so long an estrangement, undermined the seriousness of their quarrel.
There had been a time, and not so long ago either, when he and William could have spoken on any topic in complete cordiality. For the first time John began seriously to doubt whether they could ever conquer their awkwardness.
Defeated, he was reduced to talking of the weather. He rose from the stone bench and leaned against the stone balustrade of the viewing platform. The long grass of Troy Hill sloped sharply down into a void of cloud and mist; Sedgemoor and the glimpses of Burton Pynsent through his father’s oak trees were lost to him. ‘If the weather does not improve soon, they say the harvest will be ruined for a third time.’
‘I know,’ William said. He took off his cocked hat and examined the silk ribbon along the brim of it with long, probing fingers. ‘There is already talk of a scarcity.’
‘What will we do if we cannot import enough grain?’ John asked, despairingly. ‘Will the people starve? Will there be a revolution, as there was in France? Will we have to declare martial law here, as we have done in Ireland?’
‘I do not know.’ Those simple words spoke more eloquently of William’s despair and vulnerability than the longest, most eloquent of his speeches, coming as they did from an incurable optimist. It was a hand stretched into the gloom and John reached for it.
‘Will matters ever go back to the way they were?’
‘I do not know that either,’ William replied, lifting his eyes to John’s. ‘I heartily hope we may.’
John was not sure they were talking about the state of the country any more. He looked at William’s pale, puffy face and took a deep breath. If he did not say his piece now, perhaps he never would. ‘Will … I know you are busy, but when we are back in town, Mary and I would be obliged if you would dine with us.’ William said nothing. John wondered if he had been too abrupt, but their conversation had proceeded so awkwardly he did not know if he had the heart for more small talk. He added, desperately, ‘We have not seen you for so long.’
For a moment, John thought his brother might try to remind him just why that was. He was needlessly worried; William’s severe expression broke into a disbelieving smile. ‘I would be delighted.’
John was so relieved he could think of nothing to say but, ‘Good.’
They grinned at each other for a space in awkward silence. John was just nerving himself to say something else when William heaved himself off the bench and thrust out his hand. ‘John … thank you.’
John stared blankly at his brother’s hand, and then the bitterness was back, so suddenly he had no time to raise the defences against it. By thanking John for putting an end to the quarrel William appeared to set himself apart from it, happy to accept its resolution as no more than John’s duty. John stepped away and snapped, ‘I am doing this for Mama, Will. Not for you.’
It was not strictly the truth, and he was immediately sorry when he saw pain sweep across William’s face. John thought he might have undone all the good work of the previous half hour, but
then William shrugged and said, ‘Then let us go and tell her.’
They entered their mother’s dressing room together an hour later. Lady Chatham’s pale, lined face lit up in happiness at the sight of her sons arm in arm. While William bent to kiss his mother, Eliot whispered into John’s ear: ‘Well done, you’ve made him the happiest he’s been in a long while.’
John smiled half-heartedly. Being told this by Eliot was tantamount to being told so by William himself, and yet John would much rather have heard the words from William’s own mouth. Some recognition of his own fault, some reference to the hurt done to John’s pride, anything would have done; but all John had received were thanks for the fact that he had, as usual, made all the sacrifices.
He could feel it slipping out of his hands, running through his fingers as finely as silk thread blown away by the wind. The feeling of entrapment was so strong and stifling he almost choked. Still, mindful of Eliot’s advice and his own instincts, he forced himself to join the family group as though nothing had happened.
Chapter Twenty-two
November 1796
‘My dear Lady Chatham! Congratulations!’
Lady Macclesfield crossed the throne room of St James’s Palace and kissed Mary on both cheeks. Mary blushed, wondering whether her friend had spotted something she was not yet willing to reveal, but then she realised what Lady Macclesfield meant and gave a quiet sigh of relief. ‘The congratulations are due to my husband, not me.’
‘Indeed, Chatham.’ Lord Macclesfield came to stand by his wife. ‘Congratulations on your appointment as Lord President. I can see how pleased you are.’
‘I am,’ John nodded. ‘Very much pleased.’
Mary watched her husband conversing with Macclesfield and thought John’s pleasure was not quite reflected in his expression. The Lord Presidency of the Privy Council was a significant honour. It was a better paid and more responsible post than the Privy Seal, and William had intended the promotion as an olive branch, but Mary and her husband both knew it was not the Presidency of the Council that would restore John’s public reputation.
The thing most responsible for the recent improvement in John’s humour was not his new Cabinet post. Even while Lord and Lady Macclesfield plied John with good wishes Mary could see his attention was elsewhere. He was looking at her, his eyes full of hope and anxiety. Frustrated affection bubbled inside her. A month past his fortieth birthday, he was as transparent as a schoolboy.
While Lord and Lady Macclesfield greeted the arrival of Lord Mornington, Mary whispered into John’s ear, ‘Don’t look at me like that, as though I am made of glass. Everyone will guess.’
‘I can’t help it.’ John slipped his arm around her waist above her court hoop. His touch was tender, but also protective. ‘I keep thinking something might happen to you … to the child.’ He kissed her neck. ‘I do not want this pregnancy to end like the others.’
‘It won’t,’ Mary said, more robustly than she felt, but she knew this was what John needed to hear.
‘Vaughan said you should rest.’
‘Vaughan also says I must remain cheerful. How am I meant to do that, shut up for months until this child arrives?’
He opened his mouth, then closed it again because Lord and Lady Macclesfield were approaching. Macclesfield glanced round at the other courtiers in their finery, the men in their heavily embroidered waistcoats, the women with their long silk trains. ‘Where is Pitt? He rarely misses drawing rooms.’
‘I imagine he is busy with Lord Grenville,’ John said. ‘Lord Malmesbury arrived in Paris a week ago. My brother will be trying to gauge from his despatches what chances we have of making an honourable peace.’
‘I trust a good one, now that we are bereft of allies in Europe. The war has gone on too long, and we cannot afford to fight the French alone now both Prussia and Austria have made terms.’
‘Well, Lord Chatham,’ Lady Macclesfield said brightly, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Now that you are Lord President of the Council, what will become of the Privy Seal?’
‘Why?’ Mary joked. ‘Do you want it for your husband?’
‘Everyone will be wondering who is next to be raised to the Cabinet.’
John gave a sardonic smile. ‘You are right, and that is why my brother intends to put the Privy Seal into commission.’
‘I read in The Times it was to go to Lord Liverpool,’ Lord Macclesfield said.
‘Liverpool?’ John snorted. ‘He has the Duchy of Lancaster. I do not think he can hold both posts, and Lancaster is more valuable by £400 a year.’
‘But the Privy Seal is a much higher-ranking position within the Privy Council. You know how much Lord Liverpool values his standing.’
At that moment, the doors to the throne room opened to admit the Countess of Liverpool herself in a yellow silk gown, fanning her broad, ruddy-cheeked face. ‘Why, here is Lady Liverpool now,’ Mary said. ‘We can ask her.’
‘Do you not think we ought to find out—’ John began, but Mary barely heard him. She was too full of happiness and determined to share it. She crossed the room and tapped Lady Liverpool on the arm with her fan.
‘My dear Lady Liverpool, Lord Macclesfield tells me I am to wish you and your husband joy.’
Lady Liverpool’s plump face turned to Mary’s in suspicion. ‘Joy? Whatever for?’
A hand fastened round Mary’s arm. It was John. ‘Mary …’
‘For the Privy Seal,’ Mary said, starting to doubt in the face of Lady Liverpool’s scowl, but too committed to withdraw. ‘I understand it is to be his.’
Lady Liverpool’s eyes flicked from Mary to John, and Mary saw the colour rise in her jowly cheeks. She was only now realising she had made a terrible error, but it was too late. Lady Liverpool raised her voice. ‘The Privy Seal? Hah! Unlike your husband, mine will not allow Mr Pitt to make a fool of him so easily.’
Silence fell instantly across the room. All eyes turned to Lady Liverpool and to Mary; then, as one, they turned onto John. Mary felt the heat rising in her face. She did not dare look at her husband.
John hand tightened around her arm. ‘Mary, come away, please.’
Mary longed to repay Lady Liverpool’s rudeness in kind, but she knew she had already done damage enough. She raised her chin and gave Lady Liverpool a shaky but defiant look. ‘You are of course entitled to your opinion.’
The room began to hum with conversation again, but Mary felt as though everyone was still staring at her and her husband. John shooed her to a more secluded position, his face red with embarrassment.
‘Well then,’ Macclesfield said, uncomfortably. ‘That seems categorical enough. Liverpool is not minded to take the Privy Seal.’
‘Whatever possessed you to step up to Lady Liverpool like that?’ John snapped at Mary under his breath. Mary’s eyes flickered, but she tried not to react to the injustice of his words. John softened his voice. ‘Look, I know you meant well, but you should have waited until the rumour was confirmed.’
‘I meant no malice,’ Mary said. She raised her eyes to meet John’s and said, deliberately, ‘The Privy Seal is an honourable post, after all.’
John swallowed and gave a wan smile. ‘Yes, it is.’
He kissed her hand, but Mary could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. She fought down the lump in her throat. Honourable the Privy Seal might be, but it was no more than that. Many considered it a catch-all post for Cabinet members unfit for serious business. Lady Liverpool was shrewish enough to have said so to John’s face; but how many others had thought the words she had dared speak aloud?
****
By the time John and Mary returned to Berkeley Square John’s embarrassment had ebbed. The King had been particularly gracious, which would mean much: His Majesty, at least, clearly believed John worthy of his new office. Mary could only hope John would find the strength to turn from the past and face the future with determination.
The future, indeed, was much on her mind. They spent a
good while embracing after retiring to bed, as the candle guttered down to its last inch. Once they had sated themselves with kisses John stroked out her long dark hair. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her neck, her breasts, and then, after a long hesitation, her belly, firm and flat under her linen nightdress. In the semi-darkness he looked full of shy wonder, and much younger than his years. ‘I still cannot believe it.’
‘Neither can I,’ Mary murmured. She put her hand over his, as though to protect it.
‘If it is a son, do you think William will finally allow me to re-join the army?’
‘Perhaps, once our son comes between him and the earldom.’ The phrase “our son” seemed altogether too strange for Mary to credit, and chased all other words out of her head. John caught the tone of her pause; anxiety flashed back into his face.
‘I still think you should not have gone to court today.’
‘How many times do I have to say it? I am with child, not ill.’ But she could hardly blame him for not daring to believe in their good fortune after all the long years of waiting and hoping and, finally, despairing. Luck was not usually on John’s side.
He brushed his lips against hers. She could see he was aware his inability to become attached to this pregnancy hurt her more than she would admit. ‘I am sorry. Only I do not want to … to … I could not withstand another disappointment.’
‘Plenty of women have their first child at 34,’ Mary said. ‘Your mother was older.’
He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s not that. It’s— Mary, I can barely even think about what it is. After all these years, to get what I have wanted so much, for so long …’
He tailed off into silence, but Mary understood. This child was more than the long-awaited heir to the earldom. It was John’s fulfilment and absolution. It was a way into the future, a path away from all the unpleasantness of the past.
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