John was not surprised when William rose before the last service and said, ‘I’m afraid I am poor company tonight. If you have no objections I shall turn in early.’
‘Are you certain?’ Addington said. ‘Lord Chatham, after all, leaves tomorrow.’
William flicked his eyes over to his brother; John had the impression William was perfectly happy not to spend more time in his company. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
The servants removed the cloth, and Ursula retired to the parlour. In accordance with his promise to Sir Walter Farquhar, Addington had kept only one decanter of wine on the table. Now that William was gone he called for another. Addington turned to John while the footman filled their glasses. ‘Well?’
He had no need to elaborate; his anxiety spoke eloquently enough. John drank thoughtfully and chose his words with care. ‘You are right. He does seem better.’
Ten years of sitting in the Speaker’s Chair listening to the verbal contortions of politicians had attuned Addington to nuances of speech. ‘But?’
‘But … I admit I had hoped to find him a little better in the … a little brighter than this.’ John sighed and poured himself more wine. ‘Parliament is due to meet soon. It’s deucedly early, but we have no choice. He must know he must be well by then. Why, then, do I get the impression he is not even trying?’
‘I wish he had gone to Bath,’ Addington said. ‘At least I was able to offer him my hospitality to recuperate. I’m certain he will rally. Your visit has done him good, I’m sure.’
John made an uncomfortable snorting noise. He did not think he could do William any good at all. On the contrary he had been glad when William left the dinner table early; dealing with William in this state was too exhausting. He changed the subject. ‘Has he talked much about public matters?’
‘No. I gave Sir Walter Farquhar my word I would not broach any political subject, nor have I.’ Addington hesitated. ‘Since Pitt is not here, I would like to ask you about Ireland and the union.’
John swilled the wine around in the bowl of his glass. ‘I do not know how much I am at liberty to say.’
‘I do not ask you to divulge any secrets. But you must know there are all sorts of rumours: that the Cabinet is divided, for example.’
John snorted again. ‘That’s not a rumour. That is a well-known fact.’
‘I do not mean divisions over war strategy. I mean the disagreement over what to do with Ireland when the union comes into force.’
‘You mean the Catholic question.’ John sighed. ‘Some of my colleagues believe the Catholics must be placated at any cost, to stop Ireland rebelling again; some believe it would be madness of the highest order; the rest do not seem to care either way. The whole business is a lamentable mess and my brother’s ill-health could not have come at a worse time.’
Addington scooped some raisins from the bowl in the middle of the table. ‘When I was at Weymouth a few weeks ago, attending the King, the talk of the court was that the Cabinet would soon allow Catholics to sit in Parliament and hold high office. There was even a letter, supposedly written by your brother and the Lord Lieutenant, promising the Catholics relief in return for supporting the Union. Have any such promises been made?’
John was horrified. ‘I assure you we have had weightier issues to discuss. The Cabinet has discussed the Catholics only once, and there was such a division of opinion my brother did not press the issue.’ A sudden chill entered his heart. ‘Has the King … has he heard these rumours?’ Addington looked at him and John felt the blood drain from his cheeks. The King was a staunch opponent of any relaxation of Britain’s bar against Catholics serving in army or state. ‘Good God. Does my brother know?’
‘I told you. I have not brought the issue up and neither has he.’ A pause. Addington threw a searching look at John. ‘You said the Cabinet has discussed the Catholics. Is any measure to placate them in contemplation?’
‘I cannot imagine my brother would go against the King’s wishes,’ John said slowly. ‘I can see why he might want to win the Catholics over; if they are disgruntled they will be more likely to listen to French enticements. But as the war stands it would be madness to risk the survival of the ministry on such a question.’
‘I see you and I agree on the matter.’ Addington looked satisfied, but John looked down at his half-empty wine glass with a gnawing doubt in his chest. He had spoken the truth: a healthy, self-possessed William would not venture to propose a measure the King would certainly veto. But William was not healthy. Any self-possession remaining was fragile at best, and John was beginning to wonder whether he knew William well enough any more to guess what he might do.
February 1801
The first battalion of the 4th was on the parade ground, practising drill-book manoeuvres. John, standing outside the pillared frontage of the King’s House barracks, watched proudly. Fifteen months had passed since the raw militia recruits of the 4th had faced their first battlefield. John did not know when they would serve abroad again, but when they did he knew they would perform well.
‘By companies, on the left backwards wheel!’ Colonel Hodgson called. ‘Quick march!’ Booted feet hammered against frozen ground as the men moved swiftly backwards, eyes fixed inwards towards the stationary pivot point. Each platoon halted, faced front, and dressed up to the platoon that formed the fixed point for the line. ‘Wheel up! Form line! Dress!’
‘Excellent work, Mr Hodgson,’ John called as Hodgson lowered his sword. ‘I think your men might fall out now.’
The men pulled on their gloves, twitched the collars of their coats and rubbed their arms, while indoors the womenfolk brewed enormous vats of tea. Hodgson came across the parade ground, his proud face flushed with cold and the effort of calling out orders. ‘Well, my lord? Are they not a credit to the service?’
‘They have come on wonderfully since Swinley Down last summer, and I thought they were a credit to it then.’ Hodgson looked pleased. John had initially supposed his subordinate held his abilities in contempt, but since the Dutch expedition a distant but real respect had grown between them. John was grateful the wound Hodgson had received outside Castricum had not invalided him from the army.
They went inside. The King’s House had, as the name suggested, once been a royal palace, intended by Charles II to rival the French Versailles, at least until he had run out of money. It was a grand, spacious building but its conversion into barracks had made it a maze of floors and mezzanines. John’s offices as the 4th’s colonel were up two winding flights of stairs. He poured Hodgson a glass of brandy and they drank at the window, watching the soldiers outside cradling their metal mugs.
‘When do you return to London, sir?’ Hodgson asked, after they had discussed plans for the mounting of the guard.
‘Whenever business calls me.’ John was in no hurry to return to town. He was content here in Winchester with his regiment, where his life revolved around a military schedule and the sinuous beauty of parade. ‘I am, happily, not immediately required. The Privy Council can do without a Lord President for a while longer.’
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Captain Chetham, carrying the morning’s newspapers. He laid them on the desk, then handed John a slim packet. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but this arrived by special messenger during parade.’
The packet was from William, marked “Most secret”. Dread dropped into John’s stomach like a weight. He had not heard from William for weeks. What was amiss? Had another ally made peace with France? The country had been quiet since the price of bread had dropped, but what if there had been more rioting – or worse, an insurrection?
‘Is all well, my lord?’ Hodgson frowned. John forced a smile.
‘I am certain it is, Mr Hodgson, but would you object very much to my reading this letter now? I fear it may require an immediate answer.’
Hodgson retreated to the other side of the room and studied the volumes in John’s bookcase. John moved to the window and broke his bro
ther’s seal. The fading light glinted off the gold edging of the thick-laid paper.
‘My dear Brother, I have been wishing to write to you every day this week, but this busy time has left me not a moment to dispose of. We have both experienced enough times of difficulty to be prepared for anything, however unexpected. I am sure, therefore, that the best thing I can do is to put you at once in possession of the facts.
You left town before we had resumed Cabinet consideration of the Catholic Question. We have discussed it two or three times in the past weeks. As you seemed to have no decided bias in your mind, I did not propose to you to come up at a time when I knew it to be inconvenient. In any case the majority opinion seemed in favour of repealing the laws by which Catholics or Dissenters are excluded from office or Parliament.
At a recent Levee, however, the King’s language was so strong and unqualified as to show that his mind was made up to go to any extremity rather than consent to such a measure. Intimations to the same effect from other quarters left me in no doubt of the imprudent degree to which the King’s name was committed on a question not yet even regularly submitted to him.
Under these circumstances, with the opinion I had formed and after all that had passed, I had no option but to submit my resignation.’
An involuntary exclamation slipped from John’s mouth. Hodgson looked up from the book in his hands. ‘My lord? Is anything the matter?’
John ignored him. The paper creased under the pressure of his fingers. There were no blots, no corrections, not even any light inky finger-prints. He could only guess at how many drafts William must have gone through before sending this polished, bland, impersonal copy.
‘No option but to submit my resignation.’
A buzzing filled John’s ears. He stumbled to the desk, pulled out a chair and sat down. His confusion, bewilderment and shock slowly coalesced into a hard ball of anger. He pulled the brandy decanter towards him and drank a glass down. After a moment, he poured a second glass and gulped that down too. The anger solidified, and grew.
Hodgson shifted uncomfortably. ‘Should I go, my lord?’
John had almost forgotten Hodgson was there. His hand tightened into a fist and he came to a decision. He had spent too long living in uncertainty, out of control of his own life. He owed it to himself to face William once and for all. John raised his head and Hodgson’s eyes widened at the sight of his expression.
‘It appears I was wrong,’ John said. ‘I am needed in London after all.’
****
The servant in Westminster livery threw open the doors to the Speaker’s drawing room and announced, ‘Lord Chatham.’
John found Henry Addington by the window overlooking the elegant riverside gardens. A hard frost had shrouded each bare branch in white, and a thin mist from the Thames gave the view an unworldly aspect. The new Prime Minister’s handsome face bore deeper lines and his eyes were ringed from lack of sleep, but Addington was plainly resolved to meet his new responsibilities with determination, and John thought it would not be amiss to have a fresh, healthy hand at the helm for a change.
The moment Addington saw John he came over and took his hand. ‘My lord! You have travelled swiftly to London.’
‘I left the same day I wrote to you. My congratulations, Addington. I could not think of a better man to succeed my brother.’
‘Many would disagree,’ Addington said lightly. John said nothing. Addington might have been Speaker of the House of Commons for 11 years, but he was still a doctor’s son and his sudden elevation to the Treasury and Chancellorship of the Exchequer – the posts William had held for 17 years – had provoked considerable derision. ‘Many thanks for your kind letter, Chatham. I am pleased you have decided to remain in office under me. Too many of your colleagues have submitted their resignation.’
‘I am no proponent of Catholic relief,’ John said. ‘There is no reason why I might not remain.’
‘And much reason why you might. Pitt has repeatedly expressed his intention to lend my administration all the support that he can, but your remaining will give the doubters confidence in his intentions.’ Addington laughed. ‘After all, Pitt’s own brother would hardly stay on without his approval!’
John smiled thinly and said nothing.
****
‘I will not conceal from you that the last few weeks have been difficult. Thank God you came so quickly. It has been …’
William stumbled into a quavering silence. John gazed rigidly at his plate, its elegant blue china design more than half-obscured by slices of venison, and waited for his brother to regain his composure. It was as though the mask of the Prime Minister was slipping, and William was as shocked as anyone else to discover what lay beneath.
William’s confusion was eloquently reflected in the chaos that surrounded him. The brothers had found it difficult to sit down to dinner until the late hour of seven o’clock because of the constant coming and going of visitors. Downing Street was filled with crates, valises and suitcases being packed full of furniture, crockery and linen. Piles of folios stood stacked in the hallway, and John had seen William’s two secretaries, Joe Smith and John Carthew, hastily stuffing papers into boxes. The last time John remembered seeing Downing Street in such chaos had been February 1783, when William had received his first offer of the Treasury. So much had happened, so much innocence lost, since then.
‘It has been,’ William finished at last, ‘the hardest experience of my life. And it is not over. His Majesty has accepted my resignation, but he has not yet requested my seals.’
‘If you still have your seals, you need not turn them in,’ John said, managing with effort to remain dispassionate.
‘The King has offered Addington my place, and Addington has accepted. I cannot ask Addington to step aside.’
William reached for more wine. Addington’s prohibition of more than one decanter at dinner had not done any good, and the effect of William’s escalated drinking was visible in the trembling of his hand as he poured. John watched him drink, then looked away. Once he might have passed comment, but he was long past caring. ‘Many would argue Addington’s kindly nature suits him better to the Speaker’s Chair.’
‘You know as well as I do Addington is perfectly fitted for his new office.’
‘He is intelligent, he is capable and he has the King’s support,’ John said shortly, ‘but to be frank, William, I cannot comprehend how Addington’s fitness for office became a matter of public discussion in the first place.’
William said nothing for a space, concentrating on keeping his hand still to pour himself another glass. ‘You must see the King’s stand on the Catholic matter gave me no choice but to resign. I told you not to try to change my mind.’
John’s fingers tightened around the silver handle of his knife. The Catholic matter! William seemed to think it answered all questions, whereas it merely gave birth to more. ‘I am not trying to change your mind. I am merely telling you what everyone else has no doubt told you already, clearly to no avail: that in times of war, famine and unrest your government is more valuable than the remote possibility of relief for Ireland’s Catholics. You owe the nation better than this. You owe the King better than this.’
‘I deeply regret that His Majesty has anything to reproach me for,’ William said, ‘but I could have pursued no other course. If the French have any opportunity to inflame opinion against us in Ireland they will not hesitate. Another rebellion would ruin us.’
‘And your resigning over a triviality will not?’
‘The situation of the Irish Catholics is not trivial. I told you—’
But John was in no mood to discover what it was William had told him. He felt he was on a circular path, taking him round and round without progress. It was time to launch off into the unknown. ‘Oh, have done, William! Save your breath. Even I can see this has nothing to do with the Irish Catholics.’
‘Nothing to do with them?’ William’s deep voice trembled with anger. �
��You think I am resigning because I want to?’
‘I do not know why you are resigning,’ John said. He wiped his lips with a napkin so hard his lips stung. ‘I do not much wish to find out, even if you were to tell me –which I doubt you are capable of doing. You are out. Addington is in. The French are still winning the war, the people continue to starve, and you clearly do not care a whit.’
‘John … John, stop speaking. Be quiet!’
‘Why? Because I’m telling the truth?’ John did not know why he was speaking like this. Perhaps it was the wine, for William had always had a first-rate taste for alcohol. He did feel a bit inebriated, but only because he spoke directly from the heart. ‘I owe you no lip-service. You are no longer my Minister.’
‘I never asked for lip-service. I do not even ask for your understanding. I ask only for your support, and I thought when you came to town you had come to give it to me.’
John became suddenly aware of the servant standing behind William’s chair and listening with every sign of eagerness. Knowing this was one conversation he wished to remain private John snapped, ‘Take away the plates. We are finished.’
The man looked disappointed but gave him a stiff bow, balanced the plates carelessly on one arm, and left the room.
‘You seem to think I have come here because of you,’ John continued when they were alone. He stood. ‘You have done nothing but tell me all evening why you have resigned; what you feel you owe to everyone in the current circumstances. I’ve no doubt you believe you are acting selflessly for the Irish Catholics, and for our friend Addington, but I don’t want to talk about them any more. I have no intention of talking any more about you at all.’
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