It was not yet dawn. The wind had died down; the leaves were no longer beating against the windowpane. The fire in the grate had burned down almost to the end; a few embers smoked gently on the plate. Someone had left a branch of candles on the table. John picked it up and held it over the bed. William’s eyes were closed, his chapped lips parted, his brow furrowed as though he were having an unpleasant dream. His hands had knotted themselves around the counterpane, and he lay twisted as though to escape the pain. For all that, he looked like a child who had just dropped into an exhausted sleep.
John put the branch of candles back on the table and wiped his sweaty palms against his coat. As he did so he heard a muffled sob from the recesses of the room. ‘Who is there?’
He grabbed the candelabrum and brandished it at the shadows. Curled up on a chair with his knees drawn up under his chin was the 17-year-old James Stanhope.
John had so completely expected to be alone that the sight of the boy startled him. His first instinct was to be angry, but then he saw how upset James was and the emotion evaporated. John put a hand on his shoulder and felt James start at his touch. ‘Come away, James. You should not be here.’
James’s light hair was plastered to his forehead with tears. He did not look at John, but nor did he look at the form on the bed. ‘I’ve been here all night, watching. I … he …’
The boy’s eyes strayed too close to the bed. He trailed to a halt. John squeezed his shoulder. ‘They are looking for you downstairs. You should go to them.’
Another tear coursed down James’s cheek and he cuffed it away. ‘I can’t. I don’t want to leave him.’
You left me at my most vulnerable moment, without a thought for anyone but yourself. The memory of the words sliced through John’s mind, as sharp as a sword-thrust – the echo of that day nearly 30 years ago, when he had made his choice and run away from his responsibilities and from William, who had needed him more than John had ever wanted to admit. He had spent the rest of his life trying to make amends for his error, all while fearing the release forgiveness might bring, for he had spent so long holding onto his pain it had almost become part of himself. Now it was too late.
The realisation tore through John’s numb shield so violently he gasped for breath. He looked at the bed and felt something in his heart give way, as though everything he had possessed, and lost, had been brought home to him with the force of a hammer-blow.
But there was one last service he could perform for his brother, even if William would never know of it. He fought down his emotion and turned to James. ‘You go. Do not worry. I will sit with him.’
At that moment, they both heard James’s name being called again from downstairs. The boy looked questioningly at John, then unfolded his legs and slipped out of the room. He paused at the door, but then he was gone, and John was alone.
He went to one of the windows and opened it. The breeze that struck his face was cold, but not freezing. John turned back to the bed. His brother’s gaunt profile lay silhouetted against the candlelight. The flickering of the flame made it look like he was breathing.
‘I won’t leave you again, Will,’ John whispered. ‘I give you my word.’
He drew up a chair by the window. He remained there, arms folded on the windowsill, until the shadows started to recede and the servants came in to lay out William’s body.
Chapter Thirty-one
February 1806
‘One of my prebendaries at St Paul’s has found 47 poor men, one for each year of Mr Pitt’s life, who have agreed to take part in the procession. They will need serge cloaks, and black staffs.’ The Bishop of Lincoln’s voice sharpened. ‘They will also need, eventually, to be paid.’
John looked down at his clasped hands. Lost in his own internal world, he broke into Tomline’s monologue only to nod or grunt to suggest agreement to arrangements he was incapable of grasping fully. ‘Of course.’
The Bishop had clearly expected more, but went on. ‘As it is to be a public funeral, at public expense, we may be able to source their payment from the parliamentary grant voted to pay off Mr Pitt’s debts. If not, we may have to pay them from our own funds.’
‘Naturally.’ John was heavily in debt himself, but it was too much effort to argue.
‘As for the order of service, I will be taking part in the procession, so I have asked the Bishop of London to deliver the sermon. Have you any preferences as to texts? I thought the anthems sung for the late Lord Nelson might be appropriate.’
That got a reaction. John looked up, startled. ‘The same service? Will that not seem odd?’
‘I rather think it apposite,’ Lincoln replied, primly. ‘Particularly the closing text: “His body is buried in peace; but his name liveth evermore”.’
John returned the Bishop’s challenging stare for a moment, then looked away. He knew what Tomline was doing. It was as though the real William had been replaced by a fictional one, the gallant knight who had saved his country and died at his post. John knew he ought to stop this nonsense; a public funeral would rob him of his right to grieve, as though he were expected to mourn the loss of the public man more than the loss of a brother. And yet he did not feel he had the strength, nor, perhaps, the right, to protest.
His only defence was to close his mind to the grief, and the guilt. He spoke at last, his voice bland with tiredness. ‘If you consider it good, I have no objection.’
‘Would you like to make any alterations to the procession? I sent it to you yesterday.’
John had not even opened the letter. ‘It will do.’
‘It would help me greatly if you would give me some comments,’ the Bishop said, pointedly, but John waved a hand.
‘I have faith in your judgment.’
For a moment he thought the Bishop would argue with him. John knew Tomline thought his reluctance to help with the funeral was little more than indifference, and that the Bishop considered him lazy and selfish. John did not care; it could not make him feel worse than he already did. Tomline tightened his lips and bowed. ‘I have an appointment with Garter King of Arms this afternoon. I shall inform you of any decisions.’
‘My thanks.’
The Bishop paused. ‘Farquhar tells me Lady Chatham continues ill?’
‘She is rather better today,’ John said, woodenly.
‘Good. Please pass on my good wishes.’
John remained at his desk for a long space after Tomline left, hands clasped, staring at nothing. There was a difficult decision to be made, and he did not want to face it until he had to. The sound of the Bishop’s carriage rolling away revived him. He rose and tugged the bell-pull.
The servant who appeared was in deep mourning, as were all the members of John’s household. The usual livery had been replaced with black woollen clothes, black stockings and black shoe-buckles. John looked dispassionately at him. ‘Has Lady Chatham asked for me?’
‘No, my lord. Miss Townshend is with her.’
‘Thank you. Tell Miss Townshend I will come by shortly.’
John spent a few moments putting papers into piles on his desk, flicking dust off the folios. He no longer had official duties to distract him. William’s Cabinet had met only once after his death to agree they could not continue without him. On the 1st of February, Lord Grenville had kissed hands as First Lord of the Treasury, with Fox as his Foreign Secretary. John had lost his office and the handsome salary that went with it. He and Mary had been forced to move, quickly, into a much smaller house on Dover Street, for he could no longer afford St James’s Square.
At least it would be some time before the duns worked up the courage to knock on the door of a house in deep mourning. The period for the loss of a brother was six weeks; three had already elapsed. Whether he would have cause to extend that period of mourning further John did not know.
****
Mary lay in blackness. The windows, hung with mourning crape, were shuttered completely. A few candles burned in the fixtures, but otherwise
all was gloom. It suited her. Somewhere beyond the boundary of her blackened room she was vaguely aware of the world continuing to turn, but nothing could affect her here, shut up safe in her bedchamber. Cutting herself off was the only way to keep her heart and mind from bursting with pain.
Georgiana and Harriot Hester took turns to hold her hand, trying to persuade her to talk, but she did not rise to the temptation to reply. If she remained silent, perhaps they would leave her alone. If she remained silent, perhaps they would not notice if she slipped away and never returned.
She heard a knock at the door, and a voice. ‘How is she?’
‘Awake,’ Georgiana said. ‘Sir Walter’s laudanum draught worked. The fever has not returned, and she passed a good night.’
‘Will she see me?’
The curtains round the bed parted. John. Black made him look sallow; he had always looked most handsome in bright, elegant colours. Mary raised her head briefly and he smiled, but she did not have the strength to meet his eyes. She dropped her gaze again to the back of her hands. Her dry knuckles and bitten nails seemed unconnected to her, as though they belonged to someone else.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek, and she flinched. Go away. He seemed inexplicably unable to read her thoughts. Instead he sat beside her and took her hand. She hated being touched, but there was no point fighting him, so she let him hold it, hoping he would understand from her stillness how much she wanted to be left alone. Go away. Go away. Go away. He stayed.
‘Georgiana tells me you passed a good night,’ he said. ‘I am glad of it. All I want is for you to recover.’
Every day he followed the same pattern, sitting by her side, holding her hand, and telling her everything that had happened. He told her he loved her, and that he missed her. She supposed he hoped that, one day, she might give him a reaction. She tried to close her ears. Just go away, John. If she listened, she might give in to the despair, and she dreaded what would happen if she did.
‘The Bishop of Lincoln came this morning,’ he said. ‘Some difficult decisions have to be made about the funeral. I do not know where to put Lord Grenville in the procession. He ought to be with the family, yet I think William would have preferred him to have a greater role. But Grenville disagrees. I think he feels he does not deserve it.’
Mary’s fingers lay unclenched in John’s hand. Go away. Stop talking. But as always, he continued to talk, to fill the silence that was her buffer, her security.
‘I have not heard from Lady Hester Stanhope. I think she is still upset we did not offer her a home with us. Perhaps I ought to have done, but I did not think it appropriate when you were so ill. We might ask her when you are better, but I doubt she will accept.’
Mary turned her head further away on the pillow. John said nothing for a space and she thought he had finished. She was wrong. He stroked her hand for a moment, then continued.
‘I confess I find it hard to pay attention to the funeral arrangements. Three weeks have passed and I still do not know for certain he is gone.’ He paused to steady his voice. ‘The Bishop of Lincoln feels I am taking it too easily, and suspect I do not care; but I hope you know otherwise.’ He hesitated, his forefinger describing a light circle on the back of Mary’s hand. ‘I hope, too, you will understand my decision not to attend the funeral.’
Mary’s eyes snapped open. She remembered, from a time before the black fog descended over her mind, John telling her how much his failure to attend his father’s funeral had cursed his life. His decision to go to Gibraltar instead, he said, had been the origin of all his troubles with William. Now he was going to shirk his responsibilities a second time. Even in death he could not stop himself failing his brother.
How could he do it? Had he merely said it to elicit a reaction? But no, his tone had been perfectly sincere. Dear God, he means it. Why was he so determined to punish himself? Did he not see how he had already destroyed himself – how much he had destroyed her, his own wife?
Her voice was cracked and hoarse from lack of use. ‘Who, then, will be Chief Mourner?’
It was the first thing she had said to him in days. John raised his hand and stroked her cheek. She flinched and he pulled away, as though afraid she might retreat into herself again if he persisted. ‘I do not know. All I know is I cannot go.’
‘Why not?’
‘There is so much to do. William’s debts, for example. Parliament has voted £45,000 towards them, but it isn’t enough, and he wanted his servants paid double wages. I don’t have time to go. Perhaps it is best if I don’t.’
Even in her distracted state she knew he was not telling her the truth. She pushed herself up against the pillow. Unlike the rest of the world she knew how much of a sacrifice he would be making by missing the funeral. Everyone else would assume he was too lazy to attend, and cared too little. It could not be true. There had to be a reason. ‘Why, John?’
For a moment he did not reply. Then he said, ‘Do you remember our wedding night?’
It was so shocking a non-sequitur that Mary could say nothing but, ‘Yes?’
‘I gave you my word I would never place my happiness before your own.’ His voice grew muffled. ‘I broke it. You have stood by me through everything. You told me what I needed to do to make things right with William, but I was so wrapped up in my troubles I listened to nothing but my own anger. I put too much upon your shoulders, Mary. I am sorry.’
The pain in his voice chipped away at her defences a little more. She murmured, ‘Why are you telling me this now?’
‘Because I now understand what is important.’
‘I thought William’s funeral was important.’
‘It is,’ he admitted. ‘But you are more so.’ He finished with a gasp, ‘I love you, Mary. I cannot leave you. What will I do if you are gone when I return?’
She tilted her head against the pillow, and as she fastened her gaze on his for the first time since William’s death the tears formed in his eyes. He made no attempt to restrain them and they fell, unevenly, on the counterpane, tiny dark discs soaking into the fabric. He truly would do it for her. William was gone, but John was determined to give Mary a reason to remain. This time he was determined to act before it was too late.
He still gripped her hand in his, as though to let it go would be to release her for good; but Mary knew, now, she did not want to be released. He still needed her, and she him, for he alone had the power to close the void inside her, if she let him.
But neither of them could heal their wounds unless John laid his ghosts to rest. She could see he knew it as well as she did; all he waited for was her permission, and her forgiveness.
‘I will still be here,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
He kissed her forehead and gathered her into a firm embrace. It had been so long since she had let anything but misery touch her that Mary was almost surprised to feel the beating of his heart through his black woollen coat.
Chapter Thirty-two
February 1806
The drums began beating at half past 12. Their muffled sound, and the shrill, mournful music of fifes and trumpets, echoed around the barrelled roof of the old House of Lords as Lord Camden draped the folds of the heavy mourning cloak over John’s shoulders. It seemed incongruous that the unwarlike, peace-loving William should be laid to rest to the sound of a military band, but there was a very unreal feel to the procession slowly building up. The ceremony had been designed for the burial of a medieval war-baron.
Camden finished draping John’s velvet robes and stood back to admire the effect. ‘There, I think we are ready.’
‘I imagine it will be a good few minutes before we are called up,’ Lord Westmorland said. Camden shrugged.
‘It is as well to be ready. Is everyone in place?’
Camden moved down the procession, making sure nobody had moved out of the order prescribed by the heralds. Several hundred people were taking part in the ceremony, so many people, in fact, that the participants had been divided bet
ween ten different rooms scattered across the Palace of Westminster. Here in the old House of Lords, in addition to John, Camden and Westmorland, there were six Assistant Mourners, twenty-five close friends and family, and a half-dozen members of William’s last administration.
A loud sob came from the other side of the chamber. Lord Mulgrave, William’s last Foreign Secretary, had been weeping on and off all morning and now reached for his handkerchief again. John wished Mulgrave would pull himself together. Not only were his tears making John feel wretched, but he had overheard several whispers comparing Mulgrave’s emotion to his own lack of sentiment.
Nothing could be further from the truth. John had never felt worse. Every detail of the funeral seemed to have been calculated to make him feel ten times as much pain. Arranging to gather here, in the old House of Lords, made sense, for from here he and his companions could move most easily into their place in the cortege, but he could not forget that he and William had watched their father struck down by a fit in this very room.
William’s coffin, like their father’s, had lain in state in the Painted Chamber for two days, beneath a canopy decorated with the family crest and surrounded by 200 wax candles. John had stood before the ebony casket and brushed his hands over its polished surface times without number. He could not convince himself his brother lay under that glossy lid, could not believe he would never see him or hear his voice again. It was impossible to make anything of it. This was the funeral of a statesman; it was not a funeral for a brother, and John did not feel he had been given a proper chance to say farewell.
John longed for William to be here, to make a flippant comment and break the atmosphere even by a degree, but it was impossible. He had to bear the pain, as he would have to live the rest of his life: alone – or nearly alone, for the thought of Mary, recovering slowly on her sofa in Dover Street, kept him going when he thought his heart might well break.
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