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

by Jacqueline Reiter

  John looked at William’s bent head, Mahon’s torn coat, and the concern on the faces of all around, and felt something tautened to impossible lengths break inside him. His numbness abruptly gave way to searing fury, and he gladly gave himself up to it. He stood and ran out of the room.

  He heard William call, ‘John!’ but he pretended not to hear. His anger made him single-minded, his thoughts focused on the target of his frustration as surely as a compass needle was drawn to the north.

  John burst out into the street. The carriage he and William had travelled in lay smashed on the cobblestones, and several chair-poles and bloodied coshes had been abandoned by the fleeing Brooks’s men. The last of the wounded had been helped indoors and a few White’s porters were cleaning up. John paid them no heed. He kept his eyes fixed on the pedimented front of Brooks’s across the street.

  He hammered on the door with all his might. He did not expect it to open but it helped alleviate the frustration. Someone touched his arm and he turned to see his brother-in-law and Lord Sydney.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ Mahon asked.

  ‘I need to get in.’

  ‘And what will you do if you succeed?’

  ‘I’ll find some answers.’

  ‘Come away, John,’ Sydney urged, but John ignored him. He gave the door a resounding kick.

  ‘This is folly,’ Mahon said. John rounded on him and pushed his brother-in-law so hard he almost fell down the front steps.

  ‘You were there! You saw what happened!’ He pointed at the crusted blood on Mahon’s sleeve. ‘I have to know why!’

  For a moment John thought Mahon would try and stop him. Then Mahon stepped up and put his shoulder to the door. When John did not react, he said, ‘On three.’

  The weight of both men was enough to break the door on its hinges. They hurtled into the front hall of the club surrounded by dust and plaster. A Brooks’s porter came halfway down the staircase, saw John dusting off his throbbing shoulder, and launched back up again shouting for help. By the time the man’s shouts attracted assistance John had run up the stairs and into the subscription room.

  Long velvet curtains had been drawn against the darkness outside. John tugged them back. The balconied area, which only half an hour previously had thronged with jeering Brooks’s members, was empty and shrouded in night. The huge chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling had been extinguished, but recently, because the room still smelled of candle smoke. A few wall sconces cast a dim light across the empty leather chairs and card tables. Newspapers casually flung about the coffee room and half-empty glasses testified to recent activity.

  John turned. A gaggle of Brooks’s porters had followed him and watched warily, waiting for him to give them a reason to attack. Mahon and Sydney stood by, Sydney fearful, Mahon’s eyes hooded.

  ‘Where are they?’ John snarled. The porters shrank back. One of them had a smear of blood on his cheek, another had torn clothes. They had been in the fight. John felt his hand curling into a fist even as a cool voice replied: ‘Where are who?’

  It was Mr Griffiths, the proprietor of Brooks’s. He had obviously not participated in the night’s activities for his black velvet suit and powdered wig were immaculate, but his expression of hostility rekindled John’s fury.

  ‘The members!’

  ‘My dear Lord Chatham,’ Griffiths said, as though John were a child, ‘it is four o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘They were here not half an hour ago!’ John moved towards the library but found his way blocked. Behind him Griffiths said, ‘They are not here now.’

  Before anyone could stop John, he crossed the six or seven steps which separated him from the club manager. Griffiths was the heavier man, but John had the advantage of fury and surprise. He grabbed Griffiths by the lapels and shoved him against the wall.

  Griffiths’ face was an inch away, sheened with sweat. His mocking gaze seemed to ask John what he meant to do next, and indeed John did not know. He knew he must present a strange figure in his torn coat, his cut lip still bleeding; but he could not take his revenge out on Griffiths, however much he wanted to. Griffiths had condoned the attack, which was bad enough, but he was not responsible for it. John saw a porter move towards him out of the corner of his eye. He realised how impulsive and foolish he had been to rush into the bastion of the enemy, panting for revenge and laying himself so completely open to another attack.

  He dropped his hands. Griffiths rubbed the back of his head and muttered, ‘If you or your hell-born brother ever come in here again, I will send orders to have you thrown into the street.’

  ‘Be easy,’ John ground out. ‘Neither my brother nor I intend to give you the pleasure.’

  William awaited him in the hall of White’s. His face was still bloodless but it was obvious that no physical harm had been done. John said, bitterly, ‘The birds had flown.’

  ‘What did you expect to achieve? You don’t have to prove yourself to me. I saw what you did for me this night.’ John said nothing. William’s bruised mouth twitched into an uncertain smile. ‘I know it means little to you now, but I hope this will mean more.’

  He stretched his hand out. John looked down at it; he did not know what he was expected to do. ‘I couldn’t protect you,’ he said, suddenly broken. The last of the numbness had left him and he could feel where the chair-poles had struck him, where he had absorbed the worst of the blows that had been meant for William.

  ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ John scoffed, but William shook his head.

  ‘I’m not. I could have been torn to pieces. And so could you.’

  Mahon and Sydney hung back awkwardly, then passed the brothers and climbed the stairs to the subscription room. John started to follow them but William caught him back.

  ‘John, why will you not take my hand? Are you angry with me?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Suddenly it was all too much. It was nearly five o’clock in the morning, John’s muscles ached and his head buzzed with all the emotions of the past few hours. He said haltingly, ‘It is only that when you held out your hand to me just now, it was as though what I had done – what you said I had done – seemed, almost … to surprise you.’

  William blinked. ‘After all that has happened to us both—’ He stopped. His expression sharpened with understanding. ‘But that is the point, is it not? After all that has passed of late, you thought I might have come to doubt you.’

  ‘It had crossed my mind,’ John admitted. The answer, when it came, was prompt and sincere.

  ‘You are wrong. What you did for me tonight was more than I expect of any man; but I am not surprised you stood by me. I know we have our differences, John, but I trust you more than anyone else in the world, and I did so even before tonight. Can you accept that?’

  John was ashamed to feel tears pricking his eyes. He willed his voice steady. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then take my hand.’

  This time John did.

  ****

  The two brothers returned to Berkeley Square shortly after seven o’clock, but the moment John entered his room all thoughts of sleep flew completely out of his mind.

  Mary stood at the bottom of the bed. He guessed from her expression how dishevelled he must look after the night’s activities, but the love that flooded her face at the sight of him matched the sensation squeezing his own heart until he could barely breathe.

  Mary took one of his hands and ran her thumb over his cut, bloodied knuckles, then touched the faint bruise a porter’s cosh had left on the side of his jaw. Her eyes filled with anger. He caught her hand and kissed her palm. ‘I thought you would still be in Albemarle Street.’

  ‘My father told me what happened,’ Mary said. He could tell she was trying to keep her voice steady. ‘I thought you needed me to watch over you.’

  ‘You were right.’ John lifted her chin. He could see the tears trembling on her lashes, tears of fury, fear and love. ‘I do need you, v
ery much.’

  She reached up for him at the same time that he lowered his lips to hers. For a short time, John forgot about William, the last night’s attack, the state of the ministry, forgot everything except for his beautiful wife.

  Chapter Ten

  April 1784

  John leapt out of his carriage and raced up the front stairs of his brother’s Downing Street house. The rain was coming down in earnest now; in the brief interval between ringing the bell and the porter opening the door John got completely soaked. To judge by the muddy mess obscuring the chequered floor, he was far from being the first to arrive.

  The whole house was flooded in candlelight. Every room John passed was full of people. Liveried messengers hammered up and down the stairs. A group of diplomats stood talking in French in one of the drawing rooms. Servants moved from room to room carrying wine, water and wafers.

  George Rose and Tom Steele, the Secretaries to the Treasury, sat in the library poring over election returns. Steele glanced up as John passed and smiled in welcome.

  ‘Lord Chatham! I am willing to wager that your presence turns your brother’s good night into an excellent one.’

  ‘I take it the news continues good?’

  Steele beamed and pointed at a map mounted on a board, bristling with red ribbons pinned to every constituency won by a government candidate. ‘Sixty Coalition men have been toppled already since the election started. Robinson can’t believe it. He says we may be headed for a majority of over a 150.’

  John caught his breath. ‘Last I heard, Robinson thought we might buy our way up to 70.’

  ‘Nobody could have foreseen this,’ Steele said. ‘Fox himself may lose his seat for Westminster. He’s trailing a poor third behind Lord Hood and Sir Cecil Wray.’

  ‘Where is my brother?’

  ‘He got back from Cambridge yesterday. It is uncommon hard to find him alone nowadays, but I’m sure he will not mind your looking in.’

  As Steele had suggested, John’s face was well known and the footman guarding the door to William’s study let him in. William was at his desk. John Robinson leaned over to point out some figures, his arms full of papers. They looked up when John came in and William’s eyes lit up with unfeigned joy.

  As soon as the door closed behind Robinson, William rushed around the desk to embrace his brother. ‘I cannot believe how long it has been since we last met!’

  ‘It’s only been two and a half weeks since you moved out of Berkeley Square,’ John grinned. ‘But in that short space of time you have turned the whole world on its head. Congratulations on your election for Cambridge University, Will. Well done.’

  ‘I do not think the voters would have dared reject me,’ William said breezily, but John knew better. William had stood for one of the University of Cambridge’s two parliamentary seats at the beginning of his political career and come bottom of the poll; even now, with his high profile, his election for the notoriously independent constituency had never been a foregone conclusion. He and his friend Lord Euston had nevertheless headed the poll with their Foxite rivals far behind them.

  William poured two glasses of wine from the decanters on the sideboard. He handed one to John, who studied his brother over the rim of his glass. William’s eyes were ringed from lack of sleep and there were grooves on either side of his mouth that had not been there six months ago. ‘When did you last get a full night’s sleep, Will?’

  ‘I will not conceal from you that I would love to slip into undisturbed slumber even for a handful of hours, but I cannot complain. All the good news does more for me than a week of sleep – and what news!’ William’s face glowed. ‘Our friends are all in, most without contest. I received word from Eliot yesterday that he has been returned for Liskeard. And Wilberforce – when he went North I assumed he was going to stand for his old borough of Hull, but without telling me, he fought for the county of Yorkshire instead.’

  ‘Yorkshire?’ John was astonished. ‘Hasn’t that been held by a Rockingham candidate for years?’

  ‘Yes! And Wilberforce won!’ William cried. ‘He won! The Foxite candidate withdrew without forcing a poll!’

  William’s exuberance was contagious. John set down his wineglass. ‘I may be able to add to your stock of good news, Will, if you can bear it.’

  ‘I think I am stout enough. Be warned that if it is news of a result at the polls, Robinson has probably told me already.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’ John licked his lips. ‘Mary is – she thinks – she is almost certain she is with child.’

  Surprise, and genuine joy, filled William’s face. ‘Oh, John, that is wonderful news! When is the child due?’

  ‘Christmas, most likely. Mary thinks she is only a few weeks gone. She said it was only fitting to tell you first, since this year has also seen the birth of your ministry.’

  The rain buffeting the windows sounded loud in the silence. William fingered the twisted stem of his glass then said, suddenly serious, ‘I still remember what you said all those months ago, the day after Lord Temple resigned. You said I could not depend on my colleagues; that I had filled my departments with friends and followers of North; that I had made the biggest mistake of my life.’

  ‘Four months ago it did seem as though you had made a terrible error,’ John stammered. ‘But—’

  William cut him off. ‘I nearly resigned three times in January, after the first debates, when Fox and North were at full strength and I had nothing. I did not resign, because I knew if I could but hold firm I could not lose, not with His Majesty’s support behind me.’ He looked John firmly in the eye. ‘What troubled me most was that my own brother did not comprehend why I took the Treasury.’

  John felt his blush deepen. He glanced self-consciously around the room, at the fitted bookcases with their leather-bound volumes, the classical busts, Downing Street’s elderly flock wallpaper. William paused then continued. ‘When I was first asked to form a government last year, I would have been a puppet minister with Shelburne pulling the strings. When Lord Thurlow came to me again a few months later he made it clear Lord Shelburne was not involved. The offer came directly from the King. It was exactly what I wanted, and might never be offered again. I had to accept it, John.’ A note of uncertainty entered his voice. ‘Do you see?’

  William’s grey eyes were anxious. He looked so young, his powdered hair and dark clothing failing to add much authority to his appearance. A sudden urge to protect his brother overwhelmed John; he suppressed it, for he knew William would have been offended by it.

  A knock on the door interrupted them. Their short time alone was drawing to a close. John looked at William’s worried face and said, ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’

  ‘Because I did not think you would believe me.’

  There was another, more insistent knock at the door. John rose, but he had one more question. ‘What has changed?’

  At that William’s pale, tired face split into an enormous grin. He spread his arms as though to embrace the room in which they sat, the building that surrounded them, and the atmosphere of victory that increased with every breath they drew. ‘Everything!’

  Chapter Eleven

  May 1784

  Mary surfaced at intervals. Most of the time she felt like a vessel foundering in a sea of pain. Her hands were as translucent as the finest, whitest paper, and everything around her seemed permeated with the metallic stench of blood.

  She was aware of little beyond the fragile world of her own body, although she knew she had lost the baby; an aching emptiness had replaced the warmth of growing life. She was so tired, and she longed to close her eyes and escape the agony of loss in welcoming darkness. She was falling away, the waters closing over the prow of her sinking ship, shutting off all sound and sensation.

  Except one thing kept her tethered: a hand rubbing hers as though to massage back the life she felt draining away. At first it was little more than an irritation, like a fly buzzing around her head in
her sleep, but it needled at her, drawing her back to the light. The hand was attached to a shadow, which resolved itself slowly into a face that reflected her pain as though absorbing it through the touch of his fingers.

  John.

  His touch alone kept her from disappearing. She knew she could not leave him, not now, not like this. Mary reached out from the shadows for him with all the strength she had remaining. She could see his love and his need for her shining in his face like flame, and for it – for him – she would do anything.

  Chapter Twelve

  July 1786

  Breakfast at the Lord Lieutenant’s hunting lodge in the Phoenix Park was always served sumptuously for guests. There were three different kinds of cold meat, salads, bread, wafers and cakes, all laid out on fine china plates. As had happened nearly every day since John’s arrival in Dublin, the Lord Lieutenant’s place was empty. Only the Duchess of Rutland waited for him at table, dressed in a plain linen morning dress, a cap covering most of her chestnut curls. Her eyes were fixed on the plate of fruit in front of her, but she glanced up when John took a chair opposite.

  ‘Is the Duke not breakfasting?’ John asked, reaching for a slice of bread. ‘Has he got business at the Castle?’

  ‘I presume so,’ the Duchess replied, and John winced at the bitterness of her tone.

  They breakfasted in silence. The Duchess picked at the fruit on her plate but nothing passed her lips. John chewed mechanically on a slice of cold chicken and studied Mary Rutland from the corner of his eye. He had once fancied himself half in love with Rutland’s beautiful Duchess, and hardly knew what to make of the silent shadow sitting across from him. It was as though the two years Mary Rutland had spent in Ireland since her husband’s appointment as Lord Lieutenant had transformed her into a different person.

  The door crashed open and the Duke of Rutland stumbled in. The Duchess jumped at the abruptness of his entry but her face was emotionless when Rutland kissed her cheek. John could not help noticing she held her rigid body away from her husband.