Earl of Shadows

by Jacqueline Reiter

  Whatever the Bishop’s business was, it was clearly a burden to him: he wore a weary, worried expression. ‘The answers to your questions are connected. Mr Pitt has already seen Lord Mulgrave and Mr Rose, and is expecting Marquis Wellesley at four; but everyone else has been turned away so that Mr Pitt does not over-exert himself.’

  ‘I see,’ John said, feeling more confused than ever. William would have to be very ill indeed to submit to enforced rest less than a week before the meeting of Parliament. ‘Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘He is taking an airing in his carriage with Lady Hester Stanhope.’

  ‘Well, I am glad he seems to be feeling better!’ The Bishop smiled, but humourlessly, as though in spontaneous reaction to John’s words. ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘It depends on the nature of your business.’ John frowned; the practice of interrogating Cabinet ministers before allowing them into William’s presence was nothing if not novel. The Bishop raised his hands. ‘I do not ask for Cabinet secrets, my lord. It is merely that Mr Pitt invited me to Putney to transact his business until he is better recovered.’

  John opened his mouth to say he had been misunderstood, then the full force of the Bishop’s words struck him. ‘I do not think I heard properly. Did you say transact his business?’

  The Bishop looked sharply at John, as though searching for the answer to an unspoken question, then opened the door to the drawing room. ‘I think, my lord, you had better take a seat.’

  John stepped past the Bishop. Before it had been converted into lodgings, Bowling Green House had been an inn devoted to the illegal practice of cock-fighting, and several of the rooms still bore signs of their convivial past. This drawing room was vast enough to hold 50 people or more. At one end of the room stood an enormous stone-fronted fireplace, capable of providing heat to a large company of people. The Bishop drew up two chairs before the coal fire. John took one of them, his fists resting on his knees. The Bishop took the other.

  Tomline seemed suddenly disinclined to speak, as though he had not thought properly ahead and did not know how to begin. His pouched brown eyes darted nervously about him at the ceiling, out of the window, then down at his clasped hands. At length, he said, ‘You know, of course, that Mr Pitt returned from Bath three days ago, having found the waters ineffective.’

  ‘I understand he intends to remain here until he has shaken off the gout.’

  The Bishop hesitated, as though he wanted to make a correction to John’s statement. ‘When he arrived here, the first thing he did was consult with Sir Walter Farquhar. At Mr Pitt’s request Sir Walter summoned two other physicians, Dr Baillie and Dr Reynolds, for another opinion. All three agree that Mr Pitt ought to rest as much as possible.’

  ‘Rest!’ John interrupted, aghast. ‘How can he rest? Parliament meets in six days!’

  ‘Since rest is what he needs,’ the Bishop continued, ignoring John, ‘rest is what he must get. If he cannot see you today, I will send a messenger to you tomorrow if he is better.’

  John wondered for a moment if Tomline was trying to give himself an air of exaggerated importance, but he dismissed the suspicion immediately: the Bishop’s drawn face suggested he did not relish his task. John narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you mean to keep His Majesty’s Minister uninformed of public affairs?’

  ‘No. I wish to keep him from dwelling on subjects which are liable to distress him. I refer to the upcoming trial of Lord Melville, and the recent defeats on the continent.’

  ‘Whether it causes him distress or not, he will have to know eventually.’ The Bishop made the same convulsive smile he had given earlier when John had made his flippant remark about William’s health, and John got the unpleasant feeling there was something he was not being told. ‘If you must know, I have a letter to deliver to Mr Pitt from His Majesty, and a few words of a private nature to tell him. There should be no need to touch on politics at all.’

  He was interrupted by the sound of a carriage coming to a halt on the gravelled area outside. John saw concern cross the Bishop’s jowled face. ‘If you will excuse me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Bishop closed the door behind him. John heard footsteps crunch across the gravel and several low voices. He heard his niece, Lady Hester Stanhope, saying, ‘We had to turn back at the end of the common. A little too much perhaps.’

  Another voice chimed in with a lowland Scots burr: Sir Walter Farquhar, William’s physician. ‘Perhaps we ought to fetch a chair.’

  ‘No,’ a third voice said, a hollow, exhausted voice John did not at first recognise as his brother’s. ‘I have enough strength remaining to assault the stairs.’

  John leapt to his feet as the door reopened, but the Bishop closed it so quickly he saw nothing in the hallway but the tail of a coat and the flash of a white stocking. Tomline’s face seemed more lined than it had been before he had left the room, but he forced out the same strange smile he had given several times already and said, ‘Mr Pitt has returned, but I am afraid he is too tired for visitors. Perhaps it is best if I take your letter and give it to him myself.’

  John had been expecting something like this from the moment the Bishop had shown him into the drawing room. Tomline’s sanctimonious air was beginning to annoy him. He said, sharply, ‘My dear Bishop, I have a private family matter to discuss with Mr Pitt. Withholding the information from him may produce the most serious consequences.’

  Tomline looked worried for a moment, then said reluctantly, ‘If you will wait a moment, I will ask upstairs.’

  He left the room. John settled back in his chair and waited to be summoned. The clock showed that it was only three o’clock, but already the trees at the end of the garden were silhouetted against a coal-coloured sky. John listened for a while to the sounds from upstairs: creaking boards, muffled voices, the occasional hollow cough. A maid came in, curtseyed to John, and lit two branches of candles with a taper.

  The Bishop did not reappear. John chose a well-thumbed book of Horace’s poems off the bookshelf, drew up the candelabrum and sat down to read, but the longer it took for someone to come and fetch him the less he found himself capable of concentrating on the Latin text. He knew very well his business was not urgent, but he was damned if he was going to be kept waiting like some common back-bencher.

  He snapped the book shut with an oath, glanced angrily at the clock, and went upstairs.

  At the sound of his approach one of the doors opened instantly, and the Bishop of Lincoln’s head appeared. At the sight of John, he opened his mouth indignantly. ‘My lord, you promised—’

  ‘So did you,’ John replied, and pushed past.

  The candles in the sconces bathed the small room in a warm glow. William’s valet stood by the bed, holding a bowl and a towel. Sitting in a wicker chair was a grizzled, heavy-jowled man John knew to be Sir Walter Farquhar. He held a watch in one hand and took William’s pulse with the other. William lay on a green striped chaise-longue, holding a cup of amber liquid. His coat, waistcoat and lace stock had been removed and three or four buttons at the top of his shirt undone.

  Farquhar was speaking, insistently, as though coaxing a reluctant child. ‘It is an egg mixed in brandy. You really must drink it, sir. It will give you strength.’

  ‘I do not think I can.’ William’s voice was strained, as though his throat were constricted.

  ‘You must drink,’ Farquhar repeated, with all the emphasis of simplicity.

  William forced the cup to his lips. The Bishop, who had entered the room after John, said in warning, ‘Doctor …’

  Farquhar looked up from his patient and saw John. Fury crossed his face. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘I have come to see my brother,’ John said, his eyes on William.

  William’s translucent, bruised eyelids fluttered open and focused on John with difficulty. ‘Is it urgent?’

  Two months had passed since John had last seen his brother. He knew William had not drawn much benefit from the
Bath waters, knew it had taken him three days to travel to Putney, but nothing had prepared him for this. John had come expecting to find the Minister; he found himself face to face, unexpectedly, with his brother, his face radiating pain, his voice weak and insubstantial.

  Shock robbed John momentarily of speech. He fished in his pocket and brought out the King’s packet. ‘I have a letter for you.’

  ‘It can wait.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ John said, reluctant to give up his advantage now that he was in the room, ‘but I also wish to speak with you.’

  William closed his eyes, as though it was too much effort to keep them open. He seemed to concentrate on some inner turmoil for a moment. Farquhar said, ‘My lord, I must ask you to leave.’

  ‘Are you not even going to read your letter?’ John pressed, ignoring the doctor. He knew perfectly well the King’s note contained nothing vital, and yet it had become, suddenly, terribly important that William should read it. John’s mind shied away from the implications of his apparent inability to do so. ‘Are you afraid it will contain news of another Ulm, another Austerlitz?’

  William’s brow contracted. ‘John, please …’

  ‘My lord,’ the Bishop of Lincoln cut in, but John paid him no heed. Rage flooded his veins and he did not know how to account for it, or how to stem it.

  ‘You cannot rest on that couch forever! How will any business get done?’

  ‘I am trying,’ William said, peevishly. ‘Only give me time.’

  ‘You have no time!’ John shouted. ‘Parliament opens in six days!’ William shook his head weakly and turned away. Fury and fear lodged in John’s throat; without thinking he grabbed William by the shoulders. ‘Look at me!’

  Shock sliced through him the moment his fingers made contact. Through the fabric of his shirt William was skeletally thin. Even as that thought dropped into John’s mind, William looked him in the eyes for the first time. John reeled from the pain and suffering he saw there. He recoiled from his brother as though stung.

  ‘My Lord Chatham,’ the Bishop of Lincoln said, breaking the ensuing silence. ‘I really think you ought to come downstairs.’

  Tomline’s expression was solemn but there was no anger in it. John glanced back at William. His brother had put the glass of egg brandy to his lips again with much concentration and a heavily furrowed brow. His wrists were bony and his hands shook. Panic filled John’s veins, suddenly, incomprehensibly.

  The Bishop accompanied him to the drawing room and pressed a glass into John’s hand. Hardly knowing what he was doing John took a sip; warmth rushed to his lips and down his throat, but still he felt numb. Somewhere on the fringe of his consciousness were the thoughts he knew he would eventually have to consider, but he was not yet ready for them. He turned to Tomline, who had resumed his seat by the fire. ‘Why did you not tell me he was like this?’

  ‘I thought Mr Pitt would not be able to see you,’ Tomline said regretfully.

  ‘So you thought I might leave and spare you the need to inform me of my brother’s situation!’ A pulse of anger ripped through John’s numbness. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘He was supposed to be getting better. Farquhar said the gout had gone—’

  He was interrupted by the door crashing open. As though he had heard his name Sir Walter Farquhar stormed in, his long face grey with fury. ‘What the devil were you trying to achieve with your grand entrance, sir?’

  ‘I was not aware of my brother’s situation,’ John said, stiffly. ‘If you had let me know sooner, perhaps I might have come prepared.’

  Farquhar’s blue eyes widened. ‘Mr Pitt is a sick man, as you must have realised. It took all my effort to persuade him to go to Bath. If your antics have undone all my good work—’

  ‘I am certain Lord Chatham meant no harm,’ the Bishop intervened, unexpectedly, in John’s favour. ‘I believe he was simply shocked when he realised the severity of Mr Pitt’s condition.’

  John did not expect that to mollify Farquhar, but he was startled by the vehemence of the doctor’s response. ‘There is no reason for over-reaction! Mr Pitt has been very ill but he is getting better. There is nothing more to it, Bishop.’

  The Bishop looked doubtful. ‘I do not know if you—’

  ‘You do not understand!’ Sir Walter interrupted, and John suddenly saw the pallor of Farquhar’s skin, the sheen of sweat on his upper lip: the doctor was terrified. ‘I have told you over and over again. There is no organic damage, and you know as well as I do how quickly Mr Pitt can recover from the most serious illnesses.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Tomline said, shaking his head. ‘There is no need for organic damage. Mr Pitt can keep nothing down. How is he to recover strength?’

  ‘Mr Pitt has recovered in the past from worse attacks than this. What he needs more than anything else is rest and quiet.’ Farquhar turned his burning gaze back onto John. ‘So I would be obliged if Your Lordship would refrain from repeating your little performance.’

  ‘I am sorry, I did not know—’ John began, but Farquhar did not wait for him to finish. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  The Bishop said nothing for a moment, visibly shaken. John drained his glass of brandy in silence. He was disturbed by the fear he had seen in Farquhar’s face, and did not want to think too much about what it might portend.

  He put the empty brandy glass down on the mantelpiece and wiped his clammy hands against his waistcoat. ‘I am sorry. Truly sorry.’

  ‘Do not fret overmuch,’ the Bishop said, abruptly but not unkindly. ‘I expect you did less damage to Mr Pitt than Lords Castlereagh and Hawkesbury did yesterday when they came to discuss the situation in Europe.’

  The mention of the War and Home Secretaries gave John a sickening jolt. Ill though he was, William still headed a ministry that was due to face a hostile political assault in six days. ‘Will my brother be well enough to attend Parliament?’ The Bishop looked at him. John’s mouth went dry. ‘Will he have to resign?’

  ‘We will think about that when the time comes.’

  There was a great deal in that sentence left unsaid. John saw his unspoken thoughts reflected in the Bishop’s drawn face, and felt the swell of cold fear.

  The silence was broken by the sound of painful retching from upstairs. Clearly the egg in brandy would provide no nourishment. John saw Tomline’s distress; his fear intensified. Only that morning he had been fretting about the possibility that his niece might elope with an unsuitable man. He would have given anything to have only that to worry about again.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  January 1806

  The day of the Queen’s birthday, Saturday the 18th of January, dawned frosty and grey. John rose that morning and calmly dressed as though nothing was wrong. The newspapers were full of desponding accounts from Putney, but he drew normality about him like a cloak, trying to block out all acknowledgment that William might be in danger. It was easier that way – for now, at least.

  ‘Is it appropriate for us to go?’ Mary asked at breakfast, toying with her buttered toast listlessly without taking a bite. John paused mid-mouthful.

  ‘Why should it not be?’

  He held her gaze for a moment, daring her to say the words. Her eyelids flickered and she looked down at her plate. She did not look well and John felt a pang of guilt, but before he could apologise she had risen from the table and left the room.

  A thin sleet was falling by the time John helped Mary negotiate her large hooped skirts out of the house. Despite the weather the city was in a state of celebration: all the public buildings and churches were hung with the union flag. As John walked through the crenellated red brick entrance of St James’s Palace with Mary on his arm he could hear the loud report of artillery in St James’s Park firing 61 blanks, one for each year of Queen Charlotte’s life.

  Court instructions were not to light candles for anything less than a ball, and it was difficult to make out the company in the winter gloom. The Grand Council Chamber
was full of people. The Queen’s birthday was one of the most important dates in the calendar of royal pageantry, but drawing rooms were never so crowded as at times when ministries were under threat.

  John remarked on the number of oppositionists present, like vultures waiting for the kill. ‘I do not think I have seen Richard Sheridan at court in nearly 20 years. As for our supporters, there are not as many as I would have expected.’ He peered around, thinking of all the drawing rooms he and Mary had attended over the years. So many of the faces of William’s first ministry were missing or gone. Mary’s father was long dead, struck down by apoplexy six years ago. Thurlow and Richmond were too old and infirm to make a regular bow at court. Henry Dundas, Lord Melville could not appear whilst under the shadow of impeachment.

  Time was moving on. The faces here were of the new generation; but there were some notable absences.

  ‘Lady Hester Stanhope,’ John said. His eyes still searched the throng, increasingly desperate. ‘She is not here.’

  Mary looked relieved that she would not to have to submit to Lady Hester’s biting tongue, but John felt his anxiety rising. The minister’s hostess could not miss the Queen’s birthday drawing room, and he had hoped to acquire news from Putney from her.

  ‘Perhaps she is late,’ Mary said.

  ‘Perhaps.’ John craned his neck again, then drew back with a sharp breath. ‘Oh, good God.’

  ‘What is it?’ Mary hissed, but John had already schooled his face into what he hoped was an impenetrable mask as his cousin pushed through the crowds towards them. Grenville was the last person John wanted to talk to, but it was too late to pretend he had not seen him. He steeled himself for the ordeal.

  ‘Lord Grenville.’

  ‘Lord Chatham. Lady Chatham.’ William’s former Foreign Secretary, now Fox’s ally and head of the political opposition, bowed to John and kissed Mary’s hand.

  An awkward silence fell. John saw Mary looking up curiously at him, waiting for him to say something, but he was too busy trying to work out how to make the exchange as brief as possible without seeming rude. Grenville had changed since John had last seen him. He had always been a small man, but now he was getting plump, and what little hair he had left was streaked with grey. He looked as uncomfortable as John felt, and when he spoke his voice was strained. ‘I wished, my dear cousin, to congratulate you on your appointment as commander of the Eastern District.’