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

by Jacqueline Reiter

  Mary kissed the Duchess on the cheek. John took her hand. He could barely find the words, but he had to say something, anything, and hope it would carry the sincerity he truly felt but could not articulate. ‘My dear Duchess.’ What could he say? No words could convey his pain. ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘I know,’ Mary Rutland said. ‘You loved him nearly as much as I did.’

  After the vigil, John took his wife back up to their guest rooms. They walked along the castle’s stone-flagged corridors in silence. All John could think of was of how often his friend had spoken to him of his wish to rebuild his castle into a home, to bring it back to life. He had bought so many paintings while Lord Lieutenant, most of which were still crated up in the art gallery. Rutland would never get to transform Belvoir into a family home. He would never get to see his precious paintings on the walls. He would never hold his wife and children ever again.

  The personal nature of the loss sliced deeper still. Rutland had been the only man he knew who had truly understood what it was to bear the burden of a great name. It was something even William did not seem to comprehend – that a man might wish for the anonymity of mediocrity, if only to relieve the pressure of his inherited responsibilities. Rutland had paid the price of that lack of understanding.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Mary said quietly. She seemed, as always, to have read his thoughts. John closed his eyes.

  ‘I cannot help wondering what would have happened had Rutland not gone to Ireland … or if I had been able to persuade William to call him back.’

  ‘You are not responsible for your brother’s decisions.’

  He smiled sadly at her. ‘You are right, of course.’ But he suspected she knew it did not make him feel any better.

  Chapter Fourteen

  June 1788

  ‘When will you be back, my love?’

  ‘Rather late, I imagine. Do not wait with supper if I am not home by midnight.’ John bent over to kiss Mary on the cheek. ‘After a whole day traipsing through the streets of Westminster you will be famished.’

  ‘In this heat? I doubt it.’ Mary laid down her pen and caught John back for another kiss. ‘Enjoy your play.’

  ‘And good luck to you,’ John said. He started to move away but Mary pulled his lips down to hers yet again.

  ‘I think I need a little more luck.’

  He left with a grin. Mary turned back to her letter writing, and picked up her ivory-handled penknife to sharpen her quill. She and her sister were campaigning for Lord Hood, the government MP for Westminster, who was doing poorly against the Foxite candidate in a by-election. Conscious that the opposition had glamorous ladies like the Duchess of Devonshire campaigning actively, Mary had stepped forwards to bolster Hood’s cause. Making small talk with artisans did not always come easily to her, but it was pleasant to see how grateful men were for the privilege of a word with the Minister’s sister-in-law.

  Mary was about to apply her pen back to the page and finish her letter when the commotion began. First she heard shouting, then neighing and a horse’s hooves striking the road in an irregular tattoo. The shouting grew louder.

  Mary looked out of the window and gasped. Her husband’s carriage stood in the street, the door hanging open. Both horses attached to the traces reared and plunged in a desperate attempt to break free. The coachman and postilion clung to the reins, John alongside them in his Covent Garden finery. Two other servants raced out of the house to help.

  At that moment one of the horses gave a sharp kick and knocked John backwards. Mary stood, her skirts knocking her étui and several sheets of foolscap to the floor.

  She had no memory of leaving the room or going downstairs. The first thing she was aware of was running across the pavement and sinking beside her husband in a flurry of silk skirts. Some passers-by hurried over, two liveried footmen and a gentleman in a brown coat. Mary was vaguely aware of them, and of the horses still plunging and foaming on the road, but mostly her attention was focused on John’s bloodless face and rigid jaw, and his leg. The blow had knocked his knee-buckle deeply into his flesh; the silk stockings were red with blood, and the skin she could see through the torn fabric was mottled and swollen. Her stomach lurched; she forced herself to look away. ‘What happened?’

  His breathing came in shallow, irregular gasps, but he managed to reply. ‘Not sure … a bee sting, perhaps. One horse reared, then the other. I got too close.’

  ‘What is going on? Mary?’ Mary looked up at the sound of her name. It was Georgiana, her eyes wide. For a moment, Mary wondered what her sister was doing here, then remembered she and Georgiana had meant to go canvassing. All that seemed a world away now, and completely unimportant. She did not rise or let go of John’s hand but said, ‘George, go home. There will be no canvass today.’ A sudden epiphany struck Mary. ‘On second thoughts go and tell Wood to send for Dr Warren.’

  ‘We need a surgeon,’ the groom muttered. Georgiana groaned and Mary felt her skin burst out in sweat, but she forced her voice to remain calm.

  ‘A surgeon, then. Just go.’

  Georgiana pulled up her skirts and sprinted into the house. In the street, the coachman had finally managed to quieten the horses. Their legs trembled while the coachman crooned softly to them. Mary’s eyes kept being drawn to John’s limb. She knew without having to be told that it was broken. Only the surgeon would be able to tell her how badly.

  ****

  Wood sent for the King’s own surgeon, John Hunter. He was approaching 60, stooped and flat-faced, his drooping eyelids accustomed to hiding thoughts and emotions from his patients. With him came two large, thick-set young men in leather overalls carrying a long canvas bag. Mary tried not to look at it.

  John had been carried to an easy chair in the drawing room. Hunter squinted through round spectacles at the bruised swelling just below John’s knee. He shook his head over the buckle wound, then announced, ‘I am fairly certain, my lord, we are dealing with an oblique tibial fracture.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ John asked, his voice strained from the effort of keeping it steady.

  ‘Essentially, it means you have broken your shin.’ Even though she had known the leg was broken, Mary’s mouth still went dry. ‘The leg must be set at once. Have you any old linen about the house, my lady? Tablecloths or bedsheets perhaps?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mary said. ‘But why—’

  ‘For bandages. Send one of your footmen to cut three or four old sheets into strips and roll them round a stick. Make sure he douses them in vinegar and water first, to help them bind better.’ Mary rose and gave the order. When the footman returned with the bandages Hunter said, ‘My lady, you may wish to leave the room.’

  Mary had steeled herself to obey any order from the surgeon, but this brought her up short. ‘That is out of the question.’

  ‘I prefer to operate without women present.’ Hunter’s expression did not change but his voice tightened. ‘I find it inconvenient when they faint.’

  ‘I will not faint,’ Mary said. She risked a glance at her husband; John’s lips were thin with pain. ‘I will stay with my lord.’

  Hunter shrugged as though he had only meant to make a suggestion. He unfolded himself slowly, flexing his fingers. ‘In that case, Madam, would you be so kind as to pour your husband a glass of brandy?’

  John looked like the last thing he wanted was to let anything pass his lips. He took a tiny sip and gagged, and Mary wondered briefly whether he might vomit.

  Hunter looked dissatisfied. ‘You should drink a little faster, my lord.’

  ‘My dear sir, you are trying to make me drunk,’ John managed, with a faint smile.

  Hunter’s jaw clenched. ‘It is to save time,’ he said, unconvincingly, and Mary blanched. He is trying to get John drunk. There could be only one reason for that. She gripped John’s hand tightly, as though she would be the one to feel the pain.

  The thick-set assistant had quietly taken up station behind John’s chair. The other
stood by Hunter, who ran his broad-fingered hands up John’s bruised leg with surprising gentleness, much like Mary had seen the coachman checking the fetlocks of the carriage horses after a long journey. He gave a grunt of triumph and nodded at his assistants. Mary barely saw them move. The man behind John grasped him under the armpits and pinned him to the chair. The other assistant held John firmly around the thigh. Hunter grasped John’s calf and, to Mary’s horror, gave it a sharp twist.

  John stiffened and gave a cry. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ Mary blurted out, more in shock than anger, but Hunter ignored her. He spoke to the footman, who stood by the door, frozen in dismay.

  ‘The bandages! Quickly now!’

  The footman thrust an uneven roll of torn bedsheets at Hunter. A strong stench of vinegar filled Mary’s nostrils, turning her stomach. Hunter swiftly wound the bandages around the middle of John’s leg, up over the knee, back down to the ankles and round the foot, leaving the heel and toes uncovered.

  ‘Splints,’ Hunter said. The assistant who had been steadying John’s thigh reached into Hunter’s bag and withdrew four thin flat wooden rods. Hunter continued binding John’s leg with practised hands, up and down, overlapping each strip.

  ‘It feels tight,’ John said. It was the first time he had spoken for some time.

  ‘Good,’ Hunter replied without looking up, an expression of concentration on his frog-like face. ‘If the bandages are too loose the fracture will not set properly.’ He fastened the last strip of linen with a pin then stood with a groan. ‘Well then, my lord, I reckon you have earned yourself another glass of brandy.’

  Mary watched as the footmen settled her husband with his leg elevated on a chair, a glass of brandy in his hands. John gave her a lopsided smile.

  ‘You were meant to be off canvassing,’ he said.

  Mary glanced down at her gloved hands and green and white striped gown, mildly surprised to find herself still wearing her finery. ‘I did not really want to go anyway.’

  ‘I entertained you much better, did I not?’ John murmured. He seemed to be falling asleep; Mary wondered if it was the brandy or the shock. She blinked back tears and leaned over to kiss him.

  ‘Hush, John. Don’t talk nonsense.’

  ****

  Hunter recommended complete rest to ensure the leg healed, and John was quite happy to remain on his couch. Mary cancelled her social engagements and sat with him, administering his doses of laudanum and reading to him to pass the time.

  By the third day she felt happy enough to return to the canvass for Lord Hood. She and Georgiana rode through the hot, dusty streets of Westminster, stopping to speak to anyone who might be interested in the contest, from gentlemen of quality down to joiners, tailors and shoemakers. She saw the Duchess of Devonshire out canvassing also, wearing a scarf fashioned out of fox-tails. The two of them exchanged frigid nods.

  At the day’s end Mary wanted nothing more than a bath to wash off the dirt from the city streets. She could not be sure which ached more, her head or her hip. The minute her carriage turned into Berkeley Square, however, she laid a hand on Georgiana’s arm.

  ‘What is it?’ her sister said.

  ‘Dr Warren’s carriage,’ Mary replied, with an icy twist of dread.

  She ran into the house and mounted the stairs without removing her hat, shawl or gloves. The doctor was in her husband’s bedroom. He turned to her with a solemn expression, but she did not need to hear him speak to know what had happened. One look at John’s waxen face against the bolster was enough.

  Warren sent for Hunter, who examined the wound on John’s leg in silence. Mary, standing on the other side of the room with her hands clasped as though in prayer, caught only a glimpse of the angry redness of the skin fringed with yellow. Then Hunter barked, ‘Fetch my bag. I must make a plaster.’

  Mary was vaguely aware of Hunter pressing a hot, watered-down, wax-like mixture to the injured leg, and of Warren taking a basinful of blood from John’s arm. She did not ask why: she simply sat by John’s bedside, holding his hand and bathing his brow. She had to do something to help him, otherwise she felt she might go mad with frustration and worry.

  For most of the next day the three of them fought to keep John’s fever down. Warren tried everything, from blistering to bark. Mary laid compress after compress on her husband’s head. John’s lack of response worried her. He had been either unconscious or delirious ever since Mary’s return from the canvass. Neither Hunter’s poking, nor Warren’s ministrations, drew so much as a moan from him. None of it had any effect whatever.

  At nine in the morning after a sleepless night Georgiana finally persuaded her sister to take a rest. Mary had time only to dash off a quick note to her brother-in-law in Downing Street, who had been sending up to Berkeley Square all day for news, before collapsing on her bed and giving in to a nightmare-disturbed sleep.

  She was awakened just after noon to see her sister gazing down at her with eyes round with hope. ‘Mary, listen to me. The fever has broken.’

  For a moment Mary did not know what she meant. Then the words rearranged themselves in her mind and she gasped. ‘How?’

  ‘I do not know, but Warren is more cheerful now. Come and see for yourself.’

  Mary could see the change in him immediately. John was lucid for the first time in 24 hours, propped up in bed with his injured leg elevated on a pillow. His lips were white from blood loss and chapped from fever but he managed a smile when he saw his wife. She lost him then in the tears that blurred her vision; she had only an impression of sweat-streaked skin as she leaned over and kissed him.

  ‘How do you fare?’ she said, and nearly laughed at herself because of the stupidity of the question. John squeezed her hand as strongly as he could.

  ‘Much better for seeing you.’

  ‘I have barely left your side,’ she said, and John lifted her hand to his lips.

  ‘I know. Warren told me.’

  Warren gave him a sleeping draught and Mary held John’s hand until he drifted into calm, feverless rest. Once he was settled, and Warren had left, she sat down at her writing desk to write another letter to William. Messengers had been dashing between Berkeley Square and Downing Street all day, but she wanted her brother-in-law – who was also her husband’s heir – to know John was out of danger.

  The moment she drew paper towards her, however, the full import of what had nearly happened finally caught up with her. The words chased themselves round her head without making sense. She laid the pen down and pressed her hands together to stop them trembling, then got up and paced to the window. She leaned heavily against the sash window-frame and drew in great heaves of breath to steady herself.

  Warren and Hunter had both said they believed her husband would recover, but she had seen, all too clearly, the reality of John’s mortality written on their faces. She had once told John he would not lose her; until now she had never properly faced the prospect of losing him. She gazed out of the window at the sun-drenched Square, drew her fichu closer round her shoulders and shuddered.

  Chapter Fifteen

  July 1788

  John lay against the pillows of the sofa and focused his gaze on the moulded cornice above him. He had been staring at it for above half an hour now. He had picked out every golden glitter, every chip, every peel of plaster. It was stupendously dull, but it was preferable to listening to Georgiana and Lady Sydney’s conversation.

  ‘… and Lady Courtown said to the Queen, “Feverfew and ginger are sovereign for gout, did you not know?” whereupon Her Majesty called for some to administer to the King. I gather he felt much better for it afterwards.’

  ‘Aunt Courtown knows this well, for poor Lord Courtown suffers terribly from gout …’

  The doorbell tinkled distantly. John shifted on his couch. Mary was out canvassing again and, on the misguided supposition that John wanted constant company while chained to his sofa, she had asked her mother and Georgiana to sit with him. John was fond of hi
s mother- and sister-in-law, but he was having trouble suppressing the increasingly desperate urge to gag them.

  ‘… Frances is just turned 16, so next year will be her first season, and— oh!’

  Georgiana dropped her sewing, and she and her mother stumbled to their feet. John cried out in relief. ‘William!’

  ‘Still on your sofa?’ Every time he came to visit William seemed to be enjoying affrontingly good health. He looked fresh and cheerful, his high cheeks flushed with colour. ‘You mustn’t take advantage of us, John. Your leg must be as sound as ever by now.’

  ‘If you ever have the misfortune to break your leg, I’ll remind you of that.’

  ‘Fear not! I’m not such a fool as to stand within kicking range of a rearing horse.’

  Lady Sydney and Georgiana left the brothers alone. John waited till the door closed behind them before saying, with absolute sincerity, ‘I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your appearance just now.’

  William’s lips twitched. ‘Townshends talking you to death?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Look upon it as penance for giving us such a fright.’

  Despite the flippancy of William’s remark, his concern was plain to see. Three weeks had passed since John’s severe illness but the break ached terribly, the wound remained inflamed, and John had not yet rid himself of a low, persistent fever. William caught John’s gaze and the humour dropped from his face.

  ‘I thought we’d lost you, Johnny,’ he said in a muffled voice, and John swallowed hard to ease the lump in his throat. William had not called him “Johnny” for years.

  ‘Has the Minister not got better things to do than visit his sick brother’s bedside?’ John asked, to break the tension.

  ‘This and that.’

  “‘This and that?”’ John repeated, with a raised eyebrow. William looked sheepish.