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

by Jacqueline Reiter

  ‘Truly? That does surprise me.’

  ‘He has his own house in Downing Street now.’ Since his brother had moved out John’s enormous Berkeley Square house, its pilastered staircase and vast open drawing rooms seemed somehow bigger, and emptier, without William’s boisterous humour to fill them. ‘Possibly it is just as well, for Cabinet members and House of Commons orators keep unsociable hours. The days when he and I slouched over the breakfast table after a night at the opera are over.’

  ‘Not, I understand, that Lord Shelburne gives Pitt a great deal to do,’ Rutland said.

  ‘Indeed. My brother often complains that Lord Shelburne is unwilling to entrust him with larger duties than counting pennies, and presiding over a department whose members have been in politics since before he was born … although he says none of them has been so impolite as to remind him of that.’

  Rutland took a flask from a groom and took a long swig from the contents. ‘So what’s keeping Pitt in town? The peace?’

  ‘That, and endless rounds of Treasury meetings, Exchequer boards and parliamentary committees.’ John raised an eyebrow and added, pithily, ‘Superintending the finances of a defeated, bankrupt nation is no sinecure.’

  ‘That I can well believe! How go the peace negotiations? Has Pitt any information from Paris?’

  John snorted. ‘You know how Lord Shelburne plays a devilish close game. William will probably get first news of peace with America from the Courier or the Morning Chronicle.’

  ‘Do you think the peace treaty will be signed by Christmas?’

  ‘Perhaps. The last of the troops have been evacuated from America, so little remains to be discussed save for the terms.’

  ‘Lord North will not let it go unchallenged,’ Rutland said. John shook his head and raised his gun. The shot loosed with a smooth kick and a sound like ripping silk.

  ‘Neither will Charles Fox. He hates Shelburne almost as much as he hates Lord North. Thank God Fox still blames North for the American war. If they ever combine, Shelburne is sunk.’

  ‘Is that likely to happen?’

  ‘God only knows. We live in interesting times.’

  The two friends walked on through the tall grass. Rutland’s dogs bounded ahead, delighted with the exercise. Rutland paused to load again. As he poured the charge down the barrel he changed the subject to one less gloomy. ‘What of your family? How is your mother?’

  ‘She is well, all things considered.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Also well, and with my mother.’

  ‘No news of Mr Eliot?’ Rutland said, taking aim.

  ‘I am sure I do not know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  John laughed. ‘Very well. He has not yet asked for Harriot’s hand, but I expect he will propose soon.’

  Rutland lowered his gun without loosing the shot. He placed it on half-cock and handed it to one of the grooms, then sat down on a nearby tree stump, settled his hands across his paunch, and looked slyly at John. ‘Speaking of proposals, what is this I hear about your being smitten with Miss Mary Townshend?’ John’s stomach muscles tightened at Mary’s name. He ran his thumb over the tooled leather strap of his gun and felt the blood rush to his face. Rutland regarded him triumphantly. ‘Do not insult me by pretending you do not know what I mean by that.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ John said. He was aware of a foolish smile spreading across his face but he could not help it. Rutland arched his eyebrows.

  ‘Well? I wish to know more about this Aphrodite.’

  ‘There is not a great deal to say.’ John thought about Mary nearly all the time, but for some reason talking about her was suddenly the most difficult thing in the world. ‘We see a great deal of each other.’

  ‘Well, then, the papers will have married you off ten times over,’ Rutland observed. He added, as though he was not greatly interested in the answer, ‘Do you love her?’

  The weight of the gun was heavy in John’s hands, still warm from the shot he had fired. He rubbed at a smear of gunpowder near the mouth of the barrel, but he had no need to search within himself for the answer. ‘She has taken my heart.’ He added, more warmly, ‘I know it must appear odd to you, but without her I am incomplete, as though she carries a part of me.’

  Rutland’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I never knew you were so sentimental, Chatham.’

  ‘I must apologise. That was foolish stuff.’

  ‘But instructive,’ Rutland said. ‘Although I advise you to leave the eloquence to your brother. He’s much better at it than you are.’ He stretched, then took his gun back from the groom. ‘Well then, Chatham, I had better take advantage of you in your bachelor state, for I doubt very much you will wish to spend time with rakehells like me when you are respectably married off; but you are my closest friend, and I look upon you as family. Please believe how sincerely glad I am for you.’

  ‘I know,’ John said, touched by the warmth and sincerity of Rutland’s words. Rutland took John’s hand with his free one.

  ‘I mean it, Chatham. You have had a hard run of it since your father’s death. I know better than most how hard it is to exist in the shadow of famous relatives. I very much hope this represents a turn in your fortunes for the better.’

  Chapter Five

  February 1783

  ‘Tomorrow, gentlemen, His Majesty’s Government will lay the preliminaries of peace before both Houses of Parliament.’

  Lord Sydney’s jowled face was uncharacteristically solemn as he made his announcement. John glanced quickly round Sydney’s Albemarle Street drawing room, which was full of government supporters. Lord Shelburne sat by the door. William stood nearby, a tight expression on his long face.

  ‘I will now read out the Address,’ Sydney continued. He cleared his throat and read: ‘We move that a humble Address be presented to His Majesty, to express our satisfaction that His Majesty has laid the foundation for a treaty of peace with the United States of America, which we trust will ensure perfect reconciliation and friendship between both countries.’

  The phrase “United States” appeared to draw away all the air in the room. Even the fire seemed to burn lower. Sydney licked his lips and went on.

  ‘We assure His Majesty that we shall diligently turn our attention to a revision of our commercial laws and endeavour to frame them upon such liberal principles as may best extend our trade and navigation.’

  The only sound that could be heard for a few moments was the crackle of paper as Sydney folded the Address back into his pocket with trembling hands. Every member of the government looked as though Sydney had just read them their death sentence. Even William chewed on a thumbnail and looked preoccupied. He made brief eye-contact with John and shook his head.

  ‘I see little to disagree with,’ one of the backbenchers said after a space. ‘The sentiments are loyal enough.’

  ‘You think the Address will pass unopposed?’ Lord Shelburne rose from his chair. His deep, melodious voice sounded like silk, smooth but cold. ‘I wish I agreed with you.’

  ‘We will have a hard struggle tomorrow,’ Sydney agreed grimly. ‘Those who resigned after the death of Lord Rockingham will make their voices heard, and Lord North cannot be expected to approve any treaty that condemns his war policy. The terms we have managed to secure are as favourable as we can expect, but we are a defeated nation. America has taken all our territory – from the Great Lakes to the Mississippi River; they have taken our fishing rights in Newfoundland. The opposition will fasten on all this, and will no doubt say we have been too generous in returning territories to France and Spain.’

  ‘There is worse,’ another voice spoke up: Henry Dundas, Treasurer of the Navy and Lord Advocate of Scotland. Dundas’ deep-set brown eyes were grim under his sandy brows. ‘Today I received word from Lord North. He and Charles Fox have come to an accommodation.’

  The room burst into incredulous, horrified noise. John gaped with the rest of them. Charles Fox, scion of t
he Rockingham interest, ally himself with Lord North, the author of the American war? John threw a look at his brother and knew immediately that William was as shocked as he was. William stared at Dundas as though begging him to announce he had spoken in jest.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Shelburne put in. His complexion was grey from lack of sleep, his eyes deeply pouched. ‘It is almost beyond belief, is it not? Fox and North together – this very same Fox who once called North “the most infamous of men”. But the prospect of toppling our government and scrambling into office has put an end to all that. Against both parties in conjunction the ministry cannot hope to stand … and Mr Fox knows it.’

  The meeting broke up. Shelburne’s supporters bowed and left. The next day’s debate promised to be long and acrimonious, and John guessed most of those present wanted an early night in preparation for a sleepless one on the morrow.

  ‘Fox and North,’ Eliot groaned, his voice brim-full with despair, as they waited for their carriages outside Sydney’s house. ‘Can you credit it?’

  ‘You heard Mr Dundas,’ John said.

  ‘He’s gambling for office,’ William observed. ‘Only time will tell if he has judged the stakes well enough.’

  William’s face was grey: as the highest-ranking government orator in the Commons, the weight of the government’s defence would fall on his slender 23-year-old shoulders. John gave his brother a worried look. In his opinion William did not look well, and he was all too aware of how frail his brother had been as a child. Could he withstand the strain of supporting Shelburne’s government? The previous summer’s celebrations on William’s coming to office seemed so far away now, blown away by the cold February wind.

  ‘Will you be able to stop Fox?’ John asked. The moment of tense silence that followed his question worried him; normally William was breezily optimistic, but his confidence seemed to have buckled beneath Dundas’s startling revelation.

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘I am certain you can,’ John said, but secretly he doubted it.

  And he was right to do so. The Address on the peace was read on the 17th and 21st of February amidst a riot of publicity, for the downfall of a ministry always attracted the biggest crowds. They were not disappointed. The House of Commons sat at four in the afternoon and did not rise till seven next morning. Charles Fox and Lord North’s unholy alliance put the government in a minority of 17, and even the most inspired, most desperate eloquence from William could not counter it.

  Shelburne retained the seals of office, but he had lost the peace and the confidence of Parliament. His ministry was as good as over.

  ****

  ‘What is going on, Will?’ John asked the minute he and Harriot stepped across the threshold of his brother’s official Downing Street house. ‘Has the government fallen? Why have we been told nothing?’

  ‘I am afraid you will hardly believe me when I tell you I do not know,’ William said with an air of frustration. ‘I do have one piece of news: Shelburne resigned yesterday.’

  John had been expecting that and so was not taken aback by the news, but Shelburne’s resignation left William in a difficult position. John looked anxiously at his brother, half-afraid to hear the answer to his question. ‘Do you retain the Exchequer?’

  ‘Until further notice, yes. I have not been told to relinquish it, at least not yet.’ William’s expression hardened. ‘But I will not serve under Fox and North.’

  John led Harriot up the cantilever staircase. He had been staggered at his first sight of Downing Street’s enormous pillared rooms with their painted fireplaces, moulded ceilings and glittering chandeliers, but familiarity with the building had stripped away much of its grandeur. It consisted of a four-storey townhouse and a three-storey stately home inexpertly tacked together. Staircases went nowhere, doors opened into brick walls, and the older part of the house dripped with damp. Many of the floorboards bowed so that the furniture, beautiful and gilded as it was, had to be propped up on wedges. Half the house had been shut up for maintenance since William had moved in, and John wondered whether his brother would not be glad to get out before the place collapsed about his ears.

  One other guest waited for them: Edward Eliot. John had expected the evening’s dinner to be a family affair, but when he saw Eliot kiss the back of Harriot’s hands he remembered only Eliot’s lack of a declaration stopped the young man falling under the description of kin.

  The sounds of Downing Street preparing for dinner filled the silence. The recently restored kitchens below stairs were no doubt a noisy mess of cooks and scullions dressing meat and arranging dishes ready to bring to the dining room. From the vast study overlooking the gardens came the sound of footmen packing up William’s trunks, boxes and papers ready for the inevitable move.

  William poured them all a drink of brandy and raised his glass to John. ‘Well, brother, I would drink to the prospect of my becoming your lodger once more.’

  ‘So long as I have a house you will always be welcome there,’ John said.

  ‘Do you not find it odd that Lord Shelburne has remained so quiet?’ Eliot asked. Harriot laughed bitterly.

  ‘Would it not have been more amazing had His Lordship communicated with anybody?’

  ‘Certainly Shelburne’s closeness is typical of the man,’ William said. ‘When we met in Cabinet he told us that he had resigned, and that we should know more by and by. But lest I disappoint you in your expectations, he gave us no hint of who was to succeed him.’

  ‘Who do you think will succeed him?’ John said.

  ‘The Duke of Portland, under the thumb of Fox and North?’ Eliot suggested, and William smiled humourlessly.

  ‘Who else? There is no alternative.’ He hesitated then continued, like a child prodding at a sore limb. ‘The coalition between Fox and North means any new government will face the same forces that outvoted Lord Shelburne. The only chance of success would be to split the Coalition … and what do Fox or North have to gain by parting from each other so close to their goal?’

  John rose to refill his glass. He paused by the decanters to look out of the darkened window at the garden below and Horse Guards beyond, the dark outline of the golden clock just visible through the blackness. The sound of the doorbell echoed through the floorboards. A few moments later a footman came in bearing one of the red leather boxes through which the King corresponded with his ministers of state. William eyed it in irritation. ‘What in God’s name does His Majesty want with me now?’

  ‘Does he require an answer?’ John put down his glass. William pulled a face and unlocked the box with a key he kept on the watch fob at his waist.

  ‘I suppose I had better find out.’

  The box was empty save for a small piece of paper folded into an envelope and sealed. John peered over his brother’s shoulder as William broke the seal. He saw two lines, hurriedly written in the King’s angular handwriting and signed ‘GR’.

  ‘His Majesty requires me to attend him at St James’s,’ William said at length, throwing the paper back in the box and snapping the lid closed.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Now.’

  The clock on the mantelpiece struck six. The smell of roasted partridge drifted up from the kitchens. John saw his own thoughts etched on his brother’s face. With a flippancy he could hardly have felt William said, ‘It seems His Majesty may want to invest a new Chancellor of the Exchequer after all!’

  ‘Shall we wait for you?’ Harriot asked.

  ‘I shan’t be away more than an hour.’ He smoothed down his waistcoat and buttoned up his coat. ‘Start dinner without me.’

  Dinner was a subdued affair. The prospect of the end of the government hung over it like a cloud, and John hardly tasted the food that came up from the kitchens. He, Harriot and Eliot spoke of a variety of inconsequential things, but not politics. Up until William had left for St James’s they had spoken of nothing else; the confirmation that William would soon have to give up his office and his house had turne
d the subject sour.

  The evening stretched on and William did not reappear. The clock struck nine, ten, eleven. John fingered his glass and wondered why the King was keeping William so late. The street fringed a conglomeration of stews and brothels, and the King’s Head and Axe and Gate taverns at the entrance to the cul-de-sac attracted a host of unsavoury types. One glance at Harriot and Eliot’s tight faces told him they were having the same thoughts.

  When the clock struck midnight John walked over to the window and peered outside. A thin sleet had started to fall and the oil lamp hanging from the wrought-iron arch cast a dim light over the cul-de-sac.

  ‘I should be going,’ Eliot said, at last, but made no attempt to get up.

  ‘What do you suppose has happened?’ Harriot asked.

  John was about to reply when a movement caught his attention. A tall, familiar figure walked briskly to the front door, his way illuminated by the torch of a link-boy. Relief swept through John and only then did he realise how much he had feared for his brother’s safety. ‘Here he comes at last.’

  A few minutes later William came upstairs, still brushing the damp sleet from his hair. The others leapt to their feet the moment he walked in.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Harriot said, coming forwards and taking his hands. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you had been set upon by cutpurses.’

  ‘Mighty poor form of His Majesty to keep you from your dinner for so long,’ Eliot said. ‘We kept you some partridge, but it will be cold by now.’

  ‘I take it we are addressing the late Chancellor of the Exchequer?’ John proffered his brother a glass of wine. When William did not immediately take it, or even respond, John peered at him more closely. William returned his scrutiny with wide, dark eyes in a pale face. That was the moment when John, with a lurch, realised the issue was much more serious than simply resigning the seals.

  ‘Good God,’ Eliot stammered, having evidently reached the same conclusion. ‘Pitt, what has His Majesty said to you?’

  William collapsed into a chair as though his legs could no longer support him. Harriot and Eliot exchanged an anxious glance. John pressed the glass of wine on William again and this time he took it. He drained the wine in several convulsive gulps.