Mary wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and murmured into his ear. ‘Does Mary, Countess of Chatham not return your kisses so sweetly as Miss Mary Townshend?’
His face cleared instantly. ‘Perhaps we should put it to the test.’
He cupped her chin and kissed her again. In an instant her world narrowed to the sensation of his lips against hers and her father’s elegant drawing room, with all its inhabitants, was lost to her.
Mary kept her hand in John’s as the guests came over to congratulate them. Her father and mother led the way, smiling broadly. Lady Sydney kissed John on each cheek and Lord Sydney pumped his hand up and down, unable to say anything other than ‘Well done, Chatham, well done indeed,’ as though John had just won Mary in single combat. Last came William and Harriot. Harriot slipped her hand through her new sister-in-law’s arm and William clasped John’s hand with genuine pleasure. ‘My congratulations.’
‘Marriage suits you,’ Harriot observed. Her eyes were like John’s: they had the same almond shape, the same shade of greyish-blue flecked with brown, but Harriot’s were full of mischief. ‘Why, you nearly look handsome.’
‘Only nearly?’
‘As far as I am concerned you look splendid,’ William said. ‘Lady Chatham too.’ Mary glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see John’s mother there, then realised William was talking about her and felt the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘Congratulations, my lady. Welcome to our family.’
‘Too late to change your mind I’m afraid,’ Harriot put in.
‘I don’t think I want to,’ Mary said, with a coy glance up at her husband. John smiled back and dropped a brief kiss on her lips.
‘I am glad to hear it!’
Harriot and William laughed, but Mary detected strain in his voice. When he was not paying attention, she looked at him more carefully, peeling away the silver-lined coat, the pomaded, curled hair, the aura of quiet gentility and pride he wore like a cloak, and thought: He is as nervous as I am. She wondered if she was the only one to notice, for even William and Harriot continued to mock him as though they did not see his jaw tighten further with each joke.
Mary felt as though she could see him better than anyone else in the room, as though her love were a filter stripping away everything but the raw thoughts and emotions that made him John. She took his arm and he turned to her with a smile she was beginning to recognise belonged only to her. The connection between them felt more than physical, as though if Mary withdrew her arm she would still be holding him, even if they were hundreds of miles apart.
****
Upstairs, Lady Sydney unpinned Mary’s voluminous gown with its shimmering silver thread. Harriot and Georgiana tackled the hoop and the stays, then retreated with a parting grin. Lady Sydney picked up a lacquered hairbrush and began brushing Mary’s hair out of its back-combed, powdered mass.
Mary peered at herself in the mirror. She wore nothing but a fine cambric chemise; the prospect of coming before John like this was at once intoxicating and terrifying. She made eye contact with her mother in the mirror. Lady Sydney spoke reassuringly. ‘Not long now. Lord Chatham will be waiting for you.’
A thrill of excitement raced up Mary’s spine. ‘What must I do, Mama?’
‘Whatever he asks. He is your husband.’
My husband. One question had needled at Mary’s mind ever since she had started thinking seriously about the wedding night. How do I know this is John’s first time as well as mine? She had led a sheltered upbringing, but one on the fringes of the court, and she knew from hearing the servants gossip how few men came untouched to their wedding bed. As much as she wanted to ask, however, she could not, certainly not to her mother. She kept her mouth closed and prayed silently and desperately she would not disappoint him.
The bridal bedroom had been carefully prepared. The bed and walls were hung with fresh damask roses, all releasing their heady perfume into the warm evening air. John was there already, wearing a shirt that hung down to his knees. Mary noticed his long, muscled legs and the triangle of skin visible at the base of his throat. Something shifted, not unpleasantly, at the base of her spine. The sensation intensified when he caught sight of her and smiled.
‘Good evening, Lady Chatham,’ he said, and she felt herself blush.
‘Good evening, Lord Chatham.’
John put his candle on the side table and they climbed into bed. They faced each other without touching, eyes wide in the semi-darkness, then John reached out gingerly and put his arms around her. They lay like that for a while, accustoming themselves to the sensation of their bodies in such close proximity. Under John’s nightshirt his muscles were tense. Mary realised with a shock that he was as shy of her as she was of him.
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Nervous?’
‘No.’ Mary’s voice came out muffled. After a hesitation, she corrected herself, ‘A little.’
‘You don’t have to be.’
She bit her lip, then blurted out, ‘Harriot says you have left a string of broken hearts all over the world.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t believe everything Harriot says.’ John kissed her again, then gently untied the ribbon holding her cap in place. His touch sent flickers of flame across her skin. He undid her braid and laid out her long, dark hair on the pillow. There were glints of gold in the depths of his eyes; he did not take them off her for a moment as he pulled at the string of her chemise and slipped it off her shoulders.
He guided her fingers to the buttons of his nightshirt and helped her ease it off him. Her eyes widened at the sight of his dark chest hair and his lips twitched at her obvious astonishment. He smiled reassuringly, brought his mouth down onto hers and rolled her gently onto her back. She let him do it, waiting for him to tell her what to do, tensed for the moment she knew could not be far away.
He seemed to have lost all trace of his former nervousness; his kisses were firmer, his touch lighter, swifter, more sure. Her body tingled as he cupped her chin then traced a line down her neck, between her breasts, across her stomach and below her hips. Her own fear began to melt away into a riot of sensation. She shuddered and dug her fingers into his skin. He kissed her ears and throat and she followed his lead, amazed at how pleasurable it was, how intoxicating it was to feel him so close, to smell the sweat and the desire on him.
The longing at her core focused to a sharp ache, so intense she was almost relieved when he kissed her long and lingeringly, pushed her hair back from her face and said, ‘Ready?’
She caught her breath, then buried her face into his shoulder and nodded. The fire between her hips overrode her fear, but she still could not help closing her eyes involuntarily when he shifted on top of her. She felt his lips curve as he kissed the corner of her eyelid and eased himself in. She gasped in discomfort, but then she felt herself opening inside like a flower, every inch of her body alive with wonder and love.
They lay entwined for a while after they had finished. The candle had burned down to nothing, and Mary gazed up into darkness. This, then, was the end of the journey she had begun on Albemarle Street’s terrace when John had shown her his heart. He was like a child who had yet to find himself. She felt a wave of love for him, and the intensity of it robbed her of breath.
As though he sensed her sudden swell of emotion John’s arms around her tightened. ‘You see? You had no need to be afraid of me.’
‘I wasn’t afraid of you,’ Mary said, and John laughed.
‘What were you afraid of, then?’
Mary did not respond for a moment. With one innocuous phrase, John had brought back all her doubts. The unspoken question she had swallowed back from her mother remained in her mind. She was certain now she knew the answer: John’s caresses, his ability to bring her pleasure with the lightest touch, all of it spoke of experience. The realisation had much the same effect on her as plunging into a cold bath.
John rolled onto his side. ‘Mary, what is wrong? Did I hurt you?’
‘No
!’ She hoped the promptness of her response would convince him. ‘You were very gentle.’
‘Too gentle, perhaps? You think I found no enjoyment in it? It was the best experience of my life.’ Experience. Mary’s mouth went dry. There, she had it from John himself. She was just another experience. John leaned over to kiss her and she twitched her face away automatically. ‘Mary, please, tell me what is amiss.’
‘Nothing,’ Mary said, but she knew she was being unfair. She did not want theirs to be the kind of marriage where secrets were kept: she wanted their union to be true and open, forged on the hard iron of trust. She rolled over to kiss him fiercely, possessively. ‘There is only this. I love you so very much. I cannot express how proud I am to be your wife, but all this is new to me, whereas you have done it all before …’
She tailed off into silence, but John had understood everything Mary could not bring herself to say. ‘I told you not to believe a word Harriot says. Mary, I will not trifle with you. Tonight is not the first time I have lain with a woman.’ She blinked at the frankness of his admission, but then he kissed her and her last doubts melted away. ‘I promise you it is the first time I have given a woman my love … and that she has, and always will have it all.’
‘I know,’ Mary said. She felt the warmth of his hand against her cheek and cupped it with her own.
‘We have been married less than a day and already you know me better than any other person. I may have a great title, but you remind me of who I truly am. You alone can do that.’
‘I just don’t like the thought of sharing you,’ Mary murmured, her words muffled against his shoulder.
‘I am your husband. There are some transgressions a wife should not be asked to forgive. If you ever feel I am neglecting you, that I have forgotten your happiness, you may remind me of this conversation. You have my word.’
‘I don’t need your word. I only need you.’
‘That you have, I promise you.’
She smiled and let him take her in his arms.
****
‘Stop fidgeting, Mary!’ Georgiana snapped. ‘Stay still or you’ll never be finished! Surely you realise this is the most important day of your life?’
‘More important than my wedding day?’ Mary said, then gasped as her maid tugged at the laces running up the back of her stays.
‘Think of it, Mary. The last time you went to court you were not even a peer’s daughter. Now you will outrank half the women in the room!’
‘I do not want to think of it, thank you.’ Mary steeled herself for the next effort from her maid. The prospect of appearing at court half-terrified her, but John had been planning their official presentation as a couple for weeks and she knew her husband needed to make a show.
The maid tied the basket hoop round her waist and Georgiana helped Mary into the heavy silver brocade petticoat. ‘Almost finished,’ her sister soothed as Mary staggered under the weight of the fabric. ‘Nearly there.’
Mary gazed anxiously at her reflection as the maid pinned the gown to the embroidered stomacher. Her chestnut hair had been frizzed and pulled as high as it could go, powdered and strung with pearls. Three ostrich feathers bobbed towards the ceiling, matched by a pair of lappets stretching halfway down her back. An enormous amethyst necklace – a wedding present from her husband – hung above her breasts, which thanks to her maid’s ministrations were crushed into her ribs.
‘There.’ The sincerity of Georgiana’s smile brought tears to Mary’s eyes. ‘You look beautiful.’
Mary stared again at her reflection. She thought the tall headdress made her neck look scrawny, and she fancied she looked like nothing more than a frightened girl dressing up in her mother’s best clothes. ‘I hardly recognise myself.’
‘So long as Lord Chatham does,’ Georgiana said, and Mary choked down a flicker of anxiety at the prospect of facing John looking like this.
‘I only hope he won’t laugh.’
Lady Sydney put her powdered and feathered head through the doorway. ‘May I come in?’ She glanced at her second daughter, pursed her lips in approval, and held out her arm. ‘Come to the drawing room. Your husband has arrived.’
The words “your husband” were still more than enough to send a rush of warmth through Mary’s queasy stomach, but it was nothing compared to the feeling she got upon entering the drawing room. John wore his regimentals – scarlet with blue facings edged in glittering gold lace. The moment his eyes found hers he gave a slow, uneven smile. A short while before Mary had been worried she looked like an overdressed frump; now she knew she was the most beautiful woman in London. Behind John his sister Harriot, dressed in a pink and taupe mantua, arched her eyebrows.
John leaned over and pressed his lips briefly and encouragingly to Mary’s. ‘There is no need to fret. The King will fall in love with you the moment he claps eyes on you.’
‘I’m not fretting,’ Mary lied, and John’s lips jerked spasmodically.
‘Neither am I.’ Contrary to his assertion, however, Mary fancied her husband was as green as a country actor experiencing his first night at Covent Garden. It surprised her, but she was beginning to realise there was more beneath his mask of poise than he showed to the world. She wondered whether John knew himself how heavily the great title he carried bore upon him.
‘Lord and Lady Courtown are just arrived,’ Lord Sydney said, just as the door opened and Mary’s aunt and uncle came into the room, followed by Georgiana in her silver gown. John bowed to them, then glanced around the room and frowned.
‘Where’s William?’
‘He only got in from Brighthelmstone this morning,’ Harriot said blandly.
‘I told him to be here on time.’
‘And he made the journey specially, John. Don’t worry, everything will be perfect. William will be there.’
‘He had better be. Lady Chatham, it is time to go.’ Mary blushed at her title, and John brushed her fingers against his lips. ‘The drawing room starts at noon and we cannot wait for my brother any longer.’
Mary stepped out of the house and gasped. Three carriages were drawn up in the street, and two sedan chairs carried by servants wearing the Chatham blue-and-silver livery. Mary threw a glance at John, who gave an embarrassed smile. ‘Sedan chairs for your mother and Lady Courtown, and carriages for the rest of us.’
‘We’ll make a grand appearance,’ Mary said, taking in the thoroughbreds pawing the dusty ground and the grooms clinging to the back of the upholstered compartments.
‘I certainly hope so.’
Mary started to reply, then looked more carefully at John’s own carriage at the head of the procession. Her vision clouded.
‘Ah, so you noticed I had the panels painted,’ John said. ‘See here?’ He took her hand and ran it over the shiny new crest on the yellow door. Three yellow spots on a black background on the right; three blue scallop shells on the left, surmounted by an earl’s coronet. Mary’s fingers traced the outline and felt her heart beat faster. John leaned so close she could smell the scent in his hair powder. ‘Our crest, Mary, yours and mine. Does it not look handsome?’
‘It’s perfect,’ Mary said, finding her voice at last.
‘I’m glad you think so.’ He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a brief squeeze, then opened the door of the coach. ‘Now let us show it off at St James’s.’
The drawing room had not yet begun when Mary and John and their entourage arrived. Mary blinked at the sight of the crowds that met her eyes. The King’s dislike of the Duke of Portland’s ministry was well known, as was his hatred of Lord North and Charles Fox, the Home and Foreign Secretaries of State. Because of this, the government did its best to whip in support to court events. Men who had hardly attended a single drawing room throughout the American war were conspicuous in their best finery. Lord North’s rotund figure moved genially through the crowds, Charles Fox by his side.
The windows had been thrown open to relieve the heat from the press of bodies clad in
heavy silks and brocades. Ladies retreated to the edge of the room and waved their fans in a desperate attempt to shift the turgid air. Mary was surprised at how many ladies there were, for the Queen was in daily expectation of the birth of her fifteenth child and had not left Windsor Castle for weeks.
She felt John’s anxious gaze on her and she stopped fiddling with her fan to smile at him. Instantly the corners of his eyes crinkled in response. She blew him a kiss and he choked on a ragged breath of air.
‘Careful,’ he murmured. ‘If you do that again I will not be held responsible for my actions.’
‘Are you threatening me, my lord?’ Mary murmured back.
‘No, but I believe you are trying to seduce me.’
‘I hope I do not have to try.’
She saw his pupils dilate and she wondered if he would embrace her then and there, but then he pulled away with an expression of annoyance. ‘William!’
The former Chancellor of the Exchequer moved towards them, flushed and sweaty in his dark blue coat. He pumped John briefly by the hand, then grinned at Mary. ‘If it isn’t my favourite sister-in-law!’
‘She’s your only sister-in-law,’ John pointed out, adding, with an edge, ‘You’re nearly late. Where have you been?’
‘Brighthelmstone, as you well know, since you sent me that note threatening me with instant death if I didn’t hurry back to London to assist in your peacock-like display of rank and privilege. Lady Chatham, you look lovely.’ William ignored John’s thunderous expression and kissed Mary on each cheek. ‘I apologise for my brother. He’s always morose when he thinks he might be mocked. I am sure, however, you will give me credit for my sincerity when I say you have never looked so beautiful.’
‘Stop making love to my wife,’ John said, nudging William with his elbow. William nudged him back.
‘I only state facts as I see them.’
At that moment there was a sharp knock and a cry of ‘the King, the King’ from the pages at the door. Suddenly all Mary could think of was the tightness in her stomach and the sweat beading her brow. The laughter and conversation that had filled the chamber from plush carpet to moulded ceiling gave way to a flurry of panic as the crowd tried to form a wide enough circle for everyone to be accessible to His Majesty.
Earl of Shadows: A moving historical novel about two brothers in 18th century England Page 8