Earl of Shadows: A moving historical novel about two brothers in 18th century England

by Jacqueline Reiter

  John did not answer for a moment, gauging his next shot. ‘I did not promise her I would leave. I promised her I would consider procuring an exchange. I meant what I said: it will be expensive; not many men want to serve in the West Indies.’

  ‘It will be worth it. Mama cannot afford to lose you. Neither can I.’ William bent back to the billiards table. Another of his own balls spun off into a pocket.

  ‘My word, William, you are off your game tonight,’ John remarked. ‘I’d stand more chance of losing playing against the candelabrum.’

  William did not look at him, rolling his cue back and forth between his fingers. ‘When your ship was nearly shipwrecked on its way home from the Indies we thought we could not be so unlucky as to lose you and Hetty in the same year. Now we know we were even more fortunate than that. You, Hetty and James. John, Mama would not have survived it.’

  ‘And you, as my heir, would never set foot in the House of Commons.’

  William looked at him fully for the first time and John saw the depth of his emotion: pain for Hetty and James, fear for John. ‘Do you think I care about that even for a moment?’

  ‘I am whole and well, and I promise you I will seek an exchange, whatever the cost.’ John took aim for his next shot. ‘Whatever my ambitions, I never stood any chance of military glory in this war anyway, not without serving in America – and what chance would I have of distinguishing myself in such a wretched struggle?’ He changed his aim to a different ball. ‘My place is here, in England, with you, Harriot and Mama.’

  William said nothing for a space, as though gathering the strength to ask a question. ‘You said, “whatever my ambitions”. What exactly is your ambition? You did not say.’

  ‘Must I have one?’ William frowned and John grinned. ‘Oh, I don’t know … I am easy to please. Perhaps to have a fast horse and a good pack of hounds, and to sleep till past noon every day if I wish it.’

  ‘John, you’ve spent too much time in Rutland’s company. Be serious.’

  ‘I am serious.’ John laughed at William’s moue of disapproval. ‘Very well, very well. If I must have an ambition, let it be to get married and provide an heir to the earldom. That should be easy, if I can find a pretty enough girl, that is.’ William opened his mouth and John held up his hands. ‘In all seriousness, are they not worthy aims? Unless you’d prefer me to say I wish to bring about peace with the American Colonies?’

  ‘They’re worthy,’ William said, and the smile he gave was sincere enough. ‘You can leave the peace-making to us statesmen.’

  ‘And right gladly. I’m not sure that one would have been so simple.’

  They settled back down to the game. William seemed in lighter spirits, talking about what he intended to do once he had taken his seat in Parliament. His game improved markedly too. John’s, on the other hand, declined in quality. The last exchange had thrown him more than he cared to admit. What exactly is your ambition? The question had caught him off-guard, and he was only now realising why: because he genuinely did not know the answer.

  John watched William bend over the billiards table and felt a prick of resentment. At twenty-one William was following the path that had been marked out for him from the cradle. He had always known he would one day sit in Parliament, just as John had always known he would enter the army. But for John things were different. His obligation to his father’s politics kept him from action in America. His duty to the family had brought him home early from Gibraltar, and would shortly curtail his career in the West Indies. He was the eldest son, the Earl of Chatham, and that would always colour the course of his life, for he was the head of the family and William was not.

  The Earldom of Chatham is a mark of esteem for you to wear your whole life. For God’s sake, John, be worthy of it.

  To be worthy, to do his duty: that was the summit of his ambition. What was required to fulfil it? Would he ever know if he had been successful? He was not certain, but it mattered very much to him; and perhaps that was enough.

  February 1781

  ‘My lords, Mr Pitt is on his legs.’

  The whisper travelled along the benches of the Lords as rapidly as flame. It was not clear who had started it – probably some messenger had run through the corridors and up the twisted staircases to carry the news that Lord Chatham’s son was making his maiden speech. Ever since William had taken his seat at the end of January such a summons had been eagerly anticipated, but nobody had expected it to come so soon.

  John himself was surprised. When he had last asked William when he intended to make his maiden speech, William had laughed at him. John tugged Rutland’s sleeve. ‘Did I hear aright? My brother?’

  ‘Is speaking, yes. On the Bill to regulate the Civil List.’

  Several lords rose and took their leave, curious to see whether young Mr Pitt was as good an orator as his father had been. John and Rutland followed them. John felt an unaccountable nervousness, as though he himself were expected to stand and talk.

  They were not the only ones who had heard of Pitt’s intentions. The coffee houses were emptying of customers, and the crowds got denser the closer they got to the House of Commons. Somehow, John and Rutland managed to elbow their way through the mass to find a space in the House itself.

  ‘The name of William Pitt still works its magic,’ Rutland observed, before he was shushed by another member of the audience.

  The galleries above the green cloth-covered benches heaved with people. John felt the pressure weighing down on his brother from all these curious faces. He imagined what it must be like to be subject to the same scrutiny, and felt faint. He was sure it would have been the same had he given notice of a speech. He too, after all, was Chatham’s son.

  Wedged between the wall and another man, hardly able to raise a hand to touch his face, John tried to pick out his brother on the benches stacked against three sides of the tiny chamber like choir stalls. He could hear a voice, deep and pleasant in tone, speaking in a measured, calm, fluent manner. Surely that could not be William? And then he saw him, three benches back on the opposition side. William spoke calmly and firmly, in command of every word, every gesture, moving from point to point with breath-taking confidence.

  ‘The noble lord,’ William said, bowing his powdered head in the direction of Lord Nugent, scowling through a pair of spectacles on the government bench, ‘has declared that if the Bill would apply all monies derived from reductions of Crown expenditure to the public service, then he would become one of its warmest advocates. He believes, however, that the savings will be appropriated towards a fund providing for the Royal Family. This clause he claims to have found in the Bill before us now.’

  Rutland gave a deep breath and whispered wonderingly, ‘My God. He’s making an answer. He’s actually engaging in debate for his maiden speech.’

  William paused. Many men of twenty-one speaking in the Commons for the first time might fall dumb out of fear or embarrassment, but John could tell William was aware of the effect he was having and enjoying it. When Nugent said nothing, William gave a flicker of a smile and dug a copy of the Civil List Bill out of his pocket. ‘I beg leave to take issue with the noble lord. There is a clause which expressly states that monies arising from the reductions proposed will be directly applied to the public service. The only merit I can claim in competition with the noble lord is that my eyes are somewhat younger than his, but he should not trouble himself, for I will read the clause to him.’

  The House burst into laughter. Nugent went red and folded his spectacles into his waistcoat pocket. William meanwhile read out the clause to which he alluded as though he sat by the fire in the library of Hayes or Burton Pynsent. Apart from Nugent, John did not think he could see a single person William had not won over. Even Lord North himself, on the Treasury Bench with his arms crossed over his ample belly, listened with benevolent interest.

  After a further quarter hour of clear, polished oratory William sat down. Almost immediately the House and galler
ies began to buzz with excited conversation. Several oppositionists leaned over to clap William on the shoulder. Across the House Lord North nodded vigorously and several of his colleagues looked impressed. The only person who appeared unmoved was William himself, and even his cheeks were flushed. The name “Chatham” hung in the air, as though William and his great father were one.

  Rutland leaned over. ‘Was that not excellent? I know he’s no fool, but did you ever suppose Pitt would be so good?’ He belatedly caught sight of John’s expression. ‘What’s amiss? You think he did badly?’

  ‘No, no,’ John said. ‘He was marvellous.’

  Rutland beamed. ‘I agree. Nearly as good as the late Lord Chatham, in fact!’

  The present Lord Chatham smiled weakly. John was glad beyond measure William’s rite of passage was over, and glad it had been so successful. But William’s success was salt on a wound he had barely known he had. For if William was his father’s son, so was John, who would soon be forced to leave the profession his father had selected for him – at the same moment William was making his name in his.

  Only now was John beginning to realise just how far his little brother had already outstripped him.

  ****

  That night Rutland treated the entire subscription room of White’s to several bottles of the cellar’s most distinguished vintage of burgundy wine, raising a toast to “his new pet orator”. ‘I always wanted to tell my grandchildren I brought William Pitt back to Parliament,’ he announced. ‘Mr Burke told me himself our young friend was not a chip off the old block, but the old block himself. Chatham redux!’

  ‘Chatham redux!’ the others echoed, their eyes turned to William. John, leaning against one of the window seats, swilled the wine around in his glass and downed it in silence, but nobody paid him any heed.

  The next evening John and William went to dine with Thomas Townshend, Lord Sydney. Sydney was an old associate of their father who had served him well over the years. His country house, Frognal, was close to Hayes, and the Pitt and Townshend children had grown up together. John had met with Sydney several times in Parliament over the last few months, but he had not seen Lady Sydney or the children since before his father’s death.

  He was under no illusions as to why he and his brother had been invited now, but old ties could not be ignored. The two of them arrived at Albemarle Street shortly after five. Sydney was a solidly built, fleshy man with twinkling dark eyes and a ready smile. He and his wife Elizabeth greeted the two Pitt men as though they were part of the family, which was not surprising as they had known them since they were barely out of the cradle.

  The youngest Townshend children stayed only to make a brief bow before going back to the nursery, but Georgiana, Mary and John, the three eldest, accompanied their parents to dinner. John Townshend was soon to go to Cambridge, and spoke with William about the university. Georgiana prattled to John about a new spaniel she had acquired; John smiled and nodded but found her relentless stream of inane conversation rather tiresome. In contrast, her younger sister Mary said very little, and kept glancing at him across the table.

  Sydney kept an excellent table: game from his Frognal estate coupled with tender lamb and a magnificent pie. The party had hardly sat down before Sydney turned to his guests. ‘I am delighted to see both of you tonight, particularly as we see so little of Lord Chatham since he has been serving abroad.’ He nodded at John, who acknowledged the compliment, then turned eagerly to William. ‘As for you, my young orator, I cannot tell you how pleased I was with your speech. You were every inch the man your boyhood promised you would be.’

  John guessed he would be no longer required in this conversation. He drained his glass and began ladling some sauce onto his meat. Across the table William laid down his knife, a blush creeping across his cheeks. ‘I am glad my speech found favour with you.’

  ‘I know of no-one with whom it did not find favour,’ Sydney said. ‘Parliament has been waiting since your father died for a successor worthy of his memory. Here you are at last, and his own son, no less.’

  John fumbled the ladle and a splash of sauce landed on the table. He mopped at it with his handkerchief. Miss Mary handed him hers without a word.

  ‘It has long been my ambition to follow in my father’s footsteps,’ William said.

  Sydney beamed. ‘I know. I told Lady Sydney only this morning how I remembered your father taking you to the stables at Hayes, setting you on a coach block and making you address the horses in their stalls as though they were Members of Parliament. What did you think, Chatham?’ John froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘I saw you there behind the Bar. Was it not the most perfect maiden speech you have ever heard?’

  John considered the question. ‘If I am to be perfectly frank, it is so far the only maiden speech I have ever heard.’

  ‘But was it not sublime?’ Sydney pressed him.

  ‘I thought it very good, yes.’

  ‘Very good? It could not be bettered! How many young men would throw themselves into the midst of a heated debate in getting on their legs for the first time? It was splendid, Pitt, splendid!’ Sydney stood up. He refilled his glass, raised it and looked William directly in the eye. ‘Had your father been here he could not have been prouder. As it is, I tell no untruth by saying he is back at Westminster at last. To your health, sir, and your father’s memory. May Lord Chatham live on through his son!’

  John raised his glass with the rest but wished Sydney had chosen different words. He did not begrudge Sydney’s comparing William to their father, but Sydney did not seem to remember that another of Chatham’s sons had already been at Westminster for over a year.

  Sydney had clearly not read John’s mood accurately. He refilled John’s glass and said, ‘Would you name the next health, Chatham?’

  John blinked into his glass. His mind raced. He knew Sydney was only doing his duty in naming him as the highest-ranking person at table, but he knew very well everybody would expect him to drink to his brother. Tonight was William’s night; to judge from William’s performance, every night henceforth would be his night. John supposed he was just going to have to get used to it. He was fair enough, and loved his brother enough, to give William his due.

  John rose, forced a smile and said, ‘To the orator.’ A slight pause; he felt something else was needed to persuade William of his sincerity. ‘Our father would be proud.’

  William beamed, and John immediately felt better for having made the effort. The others at the table echoed the toast. Everyone looked at William save for Miss Mary, who watched John over the rim of her glass of wine and water.

  ****

  Sydney’s footmen cleared away the remaining dishes. The silver plates, centrepieces, bowls and tureens were removed and the tablecloth taken away. The polished walnut surface of the table glistened in the candlelight. Decanters were arrayed on the sideboard and fruit, nuts and sweetmeats arranged in dishes on the table.

  After the loyal toast the ladies retired to the drawing room. John could see Sydney already preparing himself to quiz William and felt a sudden need for fresh air, certain that he could not last out the evening unless he managed to clear his head. ‘Might I take a quick turn in your garden?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sydney said. ‘Are you not well?’

  ‘A headache, that is all. I will return shortly.’

  Leaning on the stone balustrade looking down into Sydney’s narrow townhouse garden John felt a little better. The air was crisp but dry, and with his coat pulled about his shoulders he did not feel the cold. The light from the house behind cast his shadow past the ornamental water-feature into the depths of the garden. John stared through the clouds of steam pooling from his mouth and nerved himself to re-join Sydney’s uninhibited adulation of his brother. He had known it would be like this, and had thought he would not mind. He was disturbed to find that he did mind after all, and rather angry at himself for it.

  The creak of the tall French door warned him he was not a
lone. Sydney must have sent a footman down to see if he needed any assistance. He turned to dismiss the man and found himself unexpectedly face to face with Miss Mary Townshend. She still wore the pink satin gown she had worn at dinner, but she had pulled on a fur-lined pelisse on top of it. She said nothing, but blinked to adjust her eyes to the darkness.

  John did not feel like making conversation, particularly when the topic was likely to be his brother. ‘Should you not be in the drawing room with your mother?’

  ‘I saw you here and thought you might need some company.’ She jerked her head up at one of the windows on the first floor. ‘If it’s my reputation you fear for, my mother is just above us and can see you as well as I could.’

  She stepped out onto the balcony and came towards him. She stumbled on one of the steps down to the balustrade and he thrust out his arm to steady her. ‘I can be so clumsy,’ she said with a shy smile, but her fingers dug into his upper arm for support. A memory came to him from his youth of Lady Sydney writing for herbs from Hayes’ kitchen garden to make compresses for little Mary’s hip and knee. He could not recall if she had had a childhood accident or not, but now that he thought about it he could see she walked with a noticeable limp.

  She leaned next to him on the balustrade and drew in a few long breaths. A few chestnut strands of her hair had come loose from her braided chignon and danced in the breeze. He had vague recollections of her as a slim, pale child with dark hair and solemn blue eyes, practising dance sequences or playing blind man’s buff. A glance at the curve of her hips and swell of her breasts, just visible under the pelisse, was enough to show John she was no longer a child. How old was she now? Seventeen? Eighteen? She glanced up and he became aware he was staring. He blushed and looked down.

  ‘I much admired what you did for your brother tonight,’ Mary said at last.

  That was unexpected. John tried to remember doing anything other than bite his tongue all evening. ‘What did I do exactly?