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

by Jacqueline Reiter

  A frostiness fell instantly, as though John had pulled down the glass and brought the weather inside. ‘A discussion of my decision can only distress us both, and change nothing.’

  ‘Do you not see I need more from you than that? What you have decided may well lead to my complete public disgrace.’

  ‘What more do you want?’ William snapped. ‘You will retain a seat in Cabinet. Is that not enough?’

  ‘No,’ John said quietly. ‘It is not.’

  ‘Then what in God’s name do you want? Yes, the Privy Seal will mean a small reduction in your salary, but your Cabinet standing will be higher.’

  John shook his head. ‘The Privy Seal is a glorified sinecure. The Admiralty is not a sinecure. It is a real office, with real responsibility, and no-one will believe you have taken it from me for any reason but that you feel I am unfit for the office.’

  ‘Nobody said you were unfit for it.’

  ‘Is that so?’ John said. He crossed his arms. ‘In that case, there is something you are not telling me. Something you do not want me to know.’

  ‘I told you in my letter.’ William’s voice was strained: here was a man who was trying, very hard, not to tell the whole truth, and it was painfully obvious to one who knew him. ‘You are mistaken if you suppose I have any particular circumstance to state which has caused your removal. I must have the best government fitted to fight a desperate war; and our new arrangements, our new colleagues—’

  ‘His Grace of Portland and his friends, yes.’ John had wondered how long it would take William to mention the coalition. ‘Lord Spencer currently holds the Privy Seal, which you would have me take. Will he succeed me at the Admiralty?’

  The sound of wheels turning and horses walking filled the silence.

  ‘I have not yet devoted much thought to that,’ William hedged. ‘I—’

  ‘Who is to succeed me?’ John insisted. When William did not immediately reply, he added, ‘Come, brother, in all your avowed ruminations on my removal, you must have fixed on my replacement. What would it say about your feelings for me if you had not?’

  For a moment John wondered whether his brother would simply refuse to answer, but at length William gave up. ‘Very well. Yes. You and Lord Spencer are to exchange offices.’

  At least that explained Windham’s glee and Spencer’s awkwardness that evening. John experienced a flash of anger, but he could not deny he had expected the news. There was more behind William’s reticence that John was determined to tease out. ‘I trust you know what you are doing, giving such men control of Britain’s navy. I say nothing of Portland – he seems decent enough. I speak of men like Mansfield, who loves you little, and of Windham, who loves you not at all.’

  ‘I trust I am equal to whatever lies ahead,’ William said frostily. ‘Dundas and Grenville remain in the Cabinet, as will you, even as Privy Seal.’

  John sat back in triumph. ‘I am glad to hear you say so, William. Very glad.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘No? Very well, I shall speak plainly. You have talked much of our new colleagues. But only now have you mentioned our old ones.’ John smiled mirthlessly. ‘You took Dundas with you out of town, did you not? After my quarrel with him in Cabinet. I’m willing to bet that subject came up at least once.’

  ‘You will have to speak plainer than that,’ William snapped.

  ‘I do not think so, but if you wish … Did Dundas make me the price of his continuance in office?’ For the first time John got the impression William was truly afraid to answer. Dread shifted in his stomach but he ignored it: he needed to know. ‘Will, answer me. Did Dundas threaten resignation if you did not remove me from the Admiralty?’

  The sound of the carriage wheels turning over the cobbles filled the compartment again. William closed his eyes and nodded.

  The confirmation of John’s fears hurt more than he had anticipated. He said, coldly, ‘So, forced to choose between Dundas and me, you chose the Scottish turncoat? My blood, my name, my reputation sacrificed to keep a driveller in office a little longer?’ Inside John something burst and filled him with venom. He spat out the bitterness, each word a dart aimed at William’s heart. ‘I know the value you place on Dundas’s abilities, but even Judas would not do such a thing to his own brother.’

  ‘John …’ William’s voice trembled. ‘John, listen—’

  But John was beyond listening. He knew, of course, that Dundas was William’s main ally in the Commons, that he had even more weight in Cabinet now Portland’s followers formed so large a faction there. It was the way William had treated John as a pawn on a chessboard with no weight, no voice, no opinion, that hurt the most.

  ‘Ask me to lay down my life and I will do so without demur, if it would buy you even a moment’s respite.’ Anger and humiliation choked John’s voice to a gasp. ‘But do not ask me to disgrace myself for the convenience of Henry Dundas.’

  ‘It was necessary for the good of the country,’ William protested, white-faced. It was the usual platitude and it offered John even less consolation than before.

  ‘No, Will. You have done this for the good of yourself.’

  Outside the sleet had turned to snow. It fell in silent, feathery flakes, coating the frozen cobbles in a thin white layer. The oil lamps plunged half William’s face into shadow and exaggerated the thinness of his lips, the icy glint in his eyes. ‘I do not take your meaning.’

  John smiled sardonically. ‘You talk of duty and heartache, and how much it pains you to subject me to this. Do not expect me to share your self-pity. You have made no sacrifice. You remain, in office, untouched – despite all your blunders.’

  ‘I have justified myself enough to Parliament over the past two years. I do not intend to go over it all again now.’

  ‘Nor do you need to. I have always stood by you; I have always supported you. And how have you repaid me? All I hear are rumours of my incompetence, spread by our new allies, spread by Dundas, for whom you expect me to destroy myself.’

  ‘I hope you do not think I believe such rumours?’

  ‘Even if you do not, these rumours must have influenced your decision. It must be so much easier to cut me loose than to give me a chance to prove them wrong.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ William said flatly.

  ‘Then grant me an inquiry into my conduct.’

  ‘You are mad!’

  ‘Why?’ John launched. ‘Because I wish to defend myself? You know as well as I do my dismissal will be debated the moment Parliament reconvenes. The opposition will want to know why I have been removed. In God’s name, let me tell them.’

  ‘No!’ William gasped. He took a moment to control himself, then continued. ‘I know how this will look and I am sorry for it, but please believe that I have no choice.’

  ‘You did have a choice,’ John said, quietly. ‘The fact is, Will, you did not choose me.’

  ‘I told you there would be no benefit in our debating this.’ William rapped against the slats to communicate with the coachman. ‘Stop the carriage.’

  The carriage rumbled to a halt at Charing Cross, at the foot of the empty stocks. William wrenched open the door. His leather-soled shoes skidded on the icy pavement and he only stopped himself from falling by grabbing hold of the footman who had approached to help him down. Even at this hour the area thronged with crowds of the lower sort. John shouted, ‘Have a care, William, you’ll have your throat cut.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  William launched off towards Whitehall. John caught up with him opposite the equestrian statue of Charles I and pulled him back. ‘When have I ever given you reason to doubt me? You brought me into your Cabinet because you trusted me. You even told me once that I saved your life.’

  William stopped so abruptly he nearly slipped over again. John hardly recognised his brother’s deep-toned voice in the emotional hiss that came out of his mouth. ‘I have had enough of your selfishness. Every time we argue you reel off the same cata
logue of good deeds like some Catholic running through his Hail Marys, as though they somehow atone for your past actions.’

  For a moment John felt as though the world had collapsed beneath him, leaving him teetering on the brink of a precipice. His horror seemed likely to pull him in and drown him; then anger flooded his veins and buoyed him up as the full weight of William’s words registered. William saw the fury sweep across John’s face. His hard, white expression changed instantly to fear. He held out the hand he had just wrenched out of his brother’s grip as though John had leprosy. ‘Upon my word, I am sorry, I did not mean—’

  ‘Atonement?’ John cut in. ‘What for?’

  ‘I spoke too hurriedly. I did not intend—’

  ‘What have I to atone for, William?’ John interrupted. ‘When have I ever failed you? When have I ever given you reason to suppose me unreliable?’

  William’s eyes were round, his teeth clenched. He looked at John as though begging him to stop. And then it hit John, with great force. “Unreliable”. He was plunged back 16 years to the library of Hayes Place, his father lying dead upstairs. “It has always been that way, has it not? Always late, always unreliable. You never think of how others might feel.”

  He took a step forwards. William took a corresponding one backwards. John saw pain in his brother’s eyes and went for the vulnerability like a hound scenting blood. ‘Good God, Will, is that what you believe? That everything I have done for you I have done, not because I am your brother, but because of a fundamental deficiency in our relations?’

  ‘I said nothing of the sort,’ William protested, without much spirit.

  ‘Is this meant to be my penance?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The Privy Seal,’ John ground out. ‘Did you think I would rush to cover myself in ridicule to offset past mistakes?’ The words tore themselves out of him, drenched in bitterness. ‘You must think I am nothing but a sentimental fool.’

  A group of onlookers had gathered behind the statue of Charles I to witness their quarrel, with all a crowd’s unerring attraction to high drama. William clearly knew it would not be long before they were recognised and their argument became copy for the next day’s newspapers. He spoke hurriedly. ‘John, listen. As far as concerns your office my hands are tied, more than I think you realise. Regarding what happened in the past, we cannot allow it to come between us.’

  ‘Then you should have let it lie,’ John snapped. ‘But since you insist on re-opening old wounds, let me tell you how I felt when Papa died and I joined my regiment in Gibraltar. I felt grief, anger, guilt – enough of each to wash away the sin of my leaving you ten times over. But it wasn’t a sin, Will. It was a mistake, and if you think it has guided my conduct for the past 16 years then you do not deserve to call yourself my brother.’

  A stricken look came onto William’s face; then there was only anger. His fingers dug into John’s arm like blades. ‘How can you talk about it as though it doesn’t signify? I had just lost my father!’

  ‘So had I,’ John said. William flinched and struck back.

  ‘You left me at my most vulnerable moment, without a thought for anyone but yourself. I knew then what I could expect from you. I learned I could never rely on you when it truly mattered. Never.’

  The words were those John had always most dreaded to hear, and yet they came almost as a relief. ‘If what I did at my worst moment means more to you than the sacrifices I made for you at my best, then I pity you.’

  William did not try to follow him any further; this last sally seemed to have nailed him to the frozen cobbles. John did not dare look at William’s face. It took all his strength to take those steps away from his brother, across the road, and out of sight and sound.

  ****

  Mary was just drifting off to sleep, huddled under the blankets, when she heard footsteps. She sat up, her heart pounding. ‘Georgiana?’

  The floorboards creaked and a shadow appeared through the gap between the door and the floor. Her husband’s voice reached her. ‘Go to sleep, Mary.’

  She pushed off the covers and shoved back the bed curtains, ignoring the chill air needling her skin through her nightgown. John was halfway to the library by the time she wrenched open the door. ‘Did you speak with William?’

  A few candles still burned in their mirrored sconces. They glinted off the silver buttons on his elegant green coat, the same coat that had made him look so handsome earlier that evening. He did not look handsome now. His face, half-plunged in shadow, was hard; cold fury blazed from him like an aura. Not once in their 11 years of marriage had John given her cause to fear him, but Mary found herself shrinking back and clutching for the support of the latch.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said.

  Mary’s breath caught. So he had lost the Admiralty. Everything about him screamed at her to drop the subject, but she knew too well what was at stake. She ran to him and took his hand. It felt dry and cold. ‘Did you argue?’

  Close up she could see the exhaustion under his anger, and the vulnerability in the downward twist of his lips wrenched her heart. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Will you speak with him again?’

  ‘I do not think there is much point,’ John said, with a sneer. Mary’s alarm deepened.

  ‘William needs you, John.’ And you need William. But her words were wasted. A lifetime of bitterness poured into John’s response: ‘He does not.’

  She dropped his hand as though it had caught fire. Another chill coursed down her spine, and she had to remind herself that this anger was not focused at her, that she merely happened to be in the way of it, catching the brunt of its acid sweep through his heart.

  ****

  John did not reappear all night. Mary lay alone in their great bed, remembering how terrified she had been when he had first taken office – terrified he would be swallowed whole in the vicissitudes of public life. Now that her fears were becoming reality, she refused to see him cast aside without fighting. She stared into the darkness as the hours crawled past and felt her despair solidify into determination.

  At dawn she dressed and choked down a cupful of coffee. She stopped outside the library, but not a sound came from inside. She knew better than to suppose John was asleep.

  She and her maid walked swiftly to Downing Street. She had never approached her brother-in-law on her own account before, and even accompanied by a servant she did not know whether it was strictly proper, but she had to try. Seeing John in such distress filled her heart with bleakness.

  It was still early, but Mary was relieved to see lights burning on all floors of Downing Street, and to hear the bustle of activity from the enormous kitchens. William’s secretary was too astonished to protest when she asked for him to send his master to the drawing room. Minutes later William himself came in.

  Mary stopped tugging nervously at her gloves. The mixture of relief and anger at the sight of him almost overpowered her. Relief, because he was going to give her a chance to say her piece; anger, because he had always had the power to hurt her husband more than anyone in the world, and last night had used that power.

  ‘Lady Chatham.’ William bent over her hand. Mary was pleased to see he had deep rings under his eyes. She had never been able to read her enigmatic brother-in-law’s thoughts, but love for John made her bold; she swallowed, and lifted her chin.

  ‘Mr Pitt. I must ask a favour.’

  The coldness in his eyes intensified, but he smiled. He was getting over his surprise at finding her in his house, and re-establishing control over himself. ‘Of course, dear Lady Chatham. Anything for you and yours.’

  Mary’s hands tightened into fists. If William thought he was going to sweep her aside as a woman petitioning for her family he would soon find the stakes had risen too high. ‘I do not know what happened between you and my husband last night. I am not certain I wish to find out. But I do know you have his reputation, his very self, in your hands.’

  ‘If you wish me to
keep your husband at the Admiralty, you must know nothing would give me more pleasure, but it is impossible.’

  ‘I realise there have been engagements made.’ She forced herself to meet William’s steely gaze. ‘But to dismiss him now, without a defeat or scandal, without any apparent reason, is too cruel.’

  ‘The arrangement will be so discreet that—’ William began, but Mary was ready for him.

  ‘Your discretion will look like avoiding confrontation. My husband has been attacked for over a year now. You know how much he values his dignity and reputation.’ William looked at her. There was nothing for it; she would have to plead. She closed her eyes and threw all her love into the task. ‘I ask only that you wait, William. Three months; six. No more than that. But to remove him now, with no chance to defend himself, will destroy him.’

  He blinked at the use of his Christian name, but otherwise Mary felt she was talking to a statue. He said, in a strained voice, ‘Lady Chatham, I cannot.’

  William’s gaze was level and piercing, but there was something distant in it, something she could not touch. She realised she had her hands clasped before her as though begging. She unlinked them.

  Mary had known John and William since childhood. She had always felt John, shackled to the Earldom, was less certain of his identity, whereas William had always known who and what he was. And yet, as much as they quarrelled, the brothers complemented each other perfectly. Mary did not fully comprehend their bond, but she respected it.

  This went beyond a quarrel. This was a dagger in the heart of their brotherhood. She refused to believe William did not see it; she refused to believe his heart was so much cast into stone he did not care.

  She stepped forwards and saw a flicker of doubt in her brother-in-law’s grey eyes. ‘What I most love in my husband is his ability to set himself aside, to think only of his duty to others. But in this, Mr Pitt, you have thought only of yourself, and for that I will never forgive you.’

  She turned from him and left before the trembling of her hands gave her away.

  ****

  The Admiralty clock chimed three in the morning, and for the third night running John was wide awake to hear it. He brought the candelabrum closer and glared at the half-empty decanter before him until it blurred.