A cold, desperate stillness came upon him, dousing the frantic urgency that had powered him until that moment. The anger he had focused on Farquhar and Tomline for obstructing him crumbled in his heart. He had no-one to blame but himself.
‘You said he has prayed. Is he, then … will he …?’
He tailed off, but clearly saw the answer to his unspoken question in the Bishop’s ashen face. The hollowness inside dug a little deeper.
He found his voice at last. ‘Answer me one question. Did Wi— did my brother ask you to keep me away?’
‘I give you my word he would greet you with open arms.’
Still John was not satisfied. He said, ‘You know I will have to see him eventually.’
‘And so you shall.’ Tomline rose and walked to the door. He turned to John with one hand on the latch. ‘Come back later, my lord. You can do nothing here at present. I will summon you when Sir Walter and I feel it would do Mr Pitt more good than harm to take you by the hand.’
John looked at Tomline, then at the open doorway. He knew a dismissal when he heard one, but he had to make sure. ‘Promise me I will see him, Bishop.’
‘You have my word,’ Tomline replied.
It was all John was going to get. This was a battle he could not win, and he had no desire to create a scene, not while William lay ill upstairs. Leaving felt like surrender, but so long as William was alive there was hope, and so long as John had hope, there was time.
****
John passed two carriages going the other direction as he turned down the Portsmouth Road, and recognised their livery. One was Castlereagh’s, another Mulgrave’s. He did not feel better knowing they would also be turned away when they arrived at Putney.
He stared out of his carriage window at the moving landscape and tried to think calmly. It was difficult. He had been on the outside of his brother’s life for so long, looking in with the eyes of a stranger. It had not always been so, and perhaps that was the only shred of comfort he had: even 12 years ago the story would have ended very differently. John had never forgotten his brother’s words when William had offered him the Admiralty. You are my brother, you are my friend, and I trust you with my life. What had gone wrong?
He and William had spent so much time looking backwards, they had never devoted any thought to what was to come. There had always been tomorrow to make amends, but now there would be no more tomorrows, only yesterdays, and the bitter memories that came with them.
It was the Duke of Rutland all over again. Instead of waiting for William to ask for the help he was too proud to request, John might have given it freely. He might have stopped William destroying himself with drink. He might have saved a life. For the first time the reality of his brother’s situation, and his own, hit him with its full force. Pain surged through him and he inhaled so sharply the breath stuck in his throat.
The journey took a couple of hours on the frosty roads, but the carriage still entered St James’s Square far too soon for John’s liking. His house rose out of the mist, tall, white and austere, just one classical exterior out of many along the pavement. He stumbled up the front steps to his house, feeling sick and wanting nothing more than to be alone, but he had reckoned without Mary, who met him on the threshold of the library.
‘John.’
She wore a plain linen day-gown, her hair beneath its lace cap brushed free of powder. She looked just as ill as she had done at the Queen’s birthday drawing room; when she saw her husband’s expression her pale face grew paler still. John said, ‘You should rest.’
She shook her head and clutched her shawl. ‘I must speak with you.’
John had never felt less like talking, but he followed his wife into the library. She pulled a chair closer to the fireplace and gave the coal in the grate a half-hearted prod with the poker. The fire’s orange glow cast long shadows across her face, exaggerating the rings under her eyes and the grooves round her mouth.
‘Sit down,’ Mary said.
John hesitated, then drew up a chair. Whatever Mary had to say, he supposed they might as well do it quickly. ‘I expect you’re about to tell me Harriot Hester eloped with her penniless colonel.’
This was not the time for feeble jokes, and John regretted his words the moment they had escaped his mouth. Mary blinked and he saw that she was twisting a worn cambric handkerchief in her hands, her face streaked with tears. A sudden doubt seized him; it was as though lead weights had dropped into his stomach. Fear filled his veins as fast as lightning. Surely it could not be – he had seen no messenger overtaking him on the Putney road. ‘Have you heard from Putney? Is he dead?’ She shook her head and the fear gave way to such strong relief John felt weakened by it. ‘Thank God. Thank God.’
He closed his eyes to stop the world spinning, surprised at the vehemence of his own reaction. The veil had been whipped away from his eyes and he had seen, so clearly, the prospect he knew now to be inevitable. He pressed his hands together to stop them shaking. A moment later Mary put hers around them, as though to protect them.
‘So he is dying,’ she said.
It would have been too easy to give into the lie, to shake his head, to wrap himself in the comforting fiction that William, though ill, was not yet in extremis. But he could not; he owed it to Mary, his brother and himself to face the truth. He said, simply, ‘Yes.’
Mary’s eyes widened and she gave him a reproachful look, as though he had killed William with his own hands. Then she drew a long, shuddering breath and burst into tears.
Each sob was another knife in John’s heart. He knew he was not the only one who had the right to care about William’s situation, but he could not bear to see Mary’s distress. ‘He is not gone yet. There is still time—’
‘Time for what?’ John did not really know; the words had slipped out meaninglessly. The numbness that had settled on him at Putney was finally giving way to the burning agony of grief. A sweep of sadness settled over him, followed by the anger that had been his mainstay throughout the years of estrangement: directed, this time, not at William, but at himself. ‘I suppose you find it strange that I am so disturbed at the prospect of losing him.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I confess I do. William and I have been estranged so long. I’ve lost count of the number of times I wished I did not have a brother.’ Mary watched him through her tears. She no longer looked reproachful, only sad, but John had no use for her pity. ‘It seems my desire is to be granted.’
‘It does not matter what you thought then,’ Mary said, unsteadily, wiping her eyes with the inside of her wrist. ‘What matters is what you want now.’
‘No. I have never mattered. As long as I can remember I have been William’s brother; I have never really been anything else. Without him I am nothing but the Earl of Chatham, landless and debt-ridden. It diminished my father and God knows what posterity will make of me.’
‘You are not merely William’s brother,’ Mary corrected him, with a glint of emotion. ‘You are also my husband.’
Fondness pierced his grief, suddenly, unexpectedly, as warm as though she had wrapped him in her embrace. ‘I will always be that, it is true. I will always be that.’
They sat with clasped hands in silence. The feeble glow from the fire played on the lines of Mary’s face, touching on the grey at her temples, the half-dried tears in her eyes. They had been married 22 years. The memory of that happy summer ceremony came with difficulty to John on this cold, dark January day, and yet it nudged at his thoughts. It had been the last summer of innocence, the summer before William took the Treasury. William’s 24-year-old face swam before his eyes, already wearing the cautious, shaded expression that later became habitual. I will do my duty, Your Majesty.
William had more than kept his word to the King. But what of William’s duty to John, the head of his family? What of John’s duty to William? John’s thoughts splintered on the rocks of his guilt, a guilt that transformed his grief and anger into a debilitating exhau
stion that seemed likely to drown him.
Mary saw the grey shadows cross his face. She released his hands. ‘John. You must return to Putney.’
He had known she would say this; he also knew it was impossible. ‘I cannot. They will not let me in.’
‘You said there is still time. Are you telling me you want to wait until there is no time left?’
John opened his mouth to explain, but it was too much trouble even to think about his reasons. They existed and that was all he needed to know. He knew he was admitting defeat, and he hated himself for it, but he was not in control of his life; he never had been. ‘It is not so simple.’
‘No?’ Until now there had been nothing in Mary’s voice but sadness. Suddenly, there was an edge. ‘I think it is perfectly simple. You’re more like William than you will ever admit, despite your protestations to the contrary – so stubborn, so proud! You are afraid to go to him because you think he might forgive you.’
‘No, Mary,’ John murmured. ‘It’s not like that at all.’
‘Is it not? Forgiveness cannot be commanded at will, John. It is one of the scarcest commodities in the world. It is the most difficult of gifts to give – and it is even more difficult to accept.’ She stood up, her face full of love and exhaustion, as though her words took the last of her strength. ‘I cannot help you any longer, John. It matters little what William did to you, or you to him. No crime is worth the punishment you are meting out to yourself. Go to him, and make amends.’
Edward Eliot’s words in the saloon at Burton Pynsent came to John, borne by a sweep of desolation. He said, ‘I must forgive myself first.’
He saw his absolution in the emotion reflected in her eyes. She placed her hands round his and looked at him as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. ‘It is the same thing.’
****
After John left Mary remained standing in the middle of the library. She heard horses’ hooves, and the carriage-wheels grinding over the cobbles as it carried John back to Putney once more. She had achieved her purpose, but she felt worse than if she had failed. Her head flamed and she could barely breathe.
‘Mary?’ The door opened to admit Georgiana, untying the ribbon of her hat and pulling off her gloves. ‘Did I just see Lord Chatham’s carriage? Is he going to Putney? Is Mr Pitt worse?’
‘I—’ Mary began, but choked off. Emotion coalesced into a hard, painful mass in her throat. She started to tremble. Even though there was no chair behind her she sat down, heavily, on the floor, in a pool of linen skirts.
Georgiana ran to her side. The minute her sister pressed a hand to her head Mary felt the tears come, silently, effortlessly, without a sound. Through them Mary saw Georgiana bite her lip. ‘Oh, Mary … Mary, don’t. Please don’t cry.’
‘I’m going to lose him.’
‘Who? Mr Pitt?’
‘John,’ Mary whispered.
Georgiana frowned, and Mary lowered her head onto her sister’s shoulder. She did not want to think of what would happen if John did not reach Putney in time.
****
For the second time that day John’s carriage turned down the lane leading to the lamp-lit windows of Bowling Green House. He still had no idea how to persuade Lincoln and Farquhar to let him in, nor did he know what he would find when – if – they did so.
Then he caught sight of Charles Stanhope, Lady Hester’s second brother, pacing up and down at the gate, apparently unaware of either the cold or the falling darkness. When Stanhope saw John’s carriage he rushed towards it and halted the horses.
For a moment John thought Charles was trying to keep him away, and frustrated anger rose unevenly within him. One look at Charles’s tear-streaked face turned the fury instantly to ice.
Chapter Thirty
January 1806
‘I must see him, Bishop.’
‘I do not think it will do any good, my lord.’
‘I only want a moment,’ John said. He felt hoarse from repeating the same words all evening. At least he could see the Bishop’s refusals were devoid of conviction: he was going through the motions and that was all. ‘You promised.’
‘I did promise,’ Tomline agreed heavily, ‘that is true.’
He ran his hands through his close-cropped grey hair. He was only six years older than John, but looked like he had aged 20 in the space of only a few hours. John could see Tomline was not entirely with him and it frightened him. Since Charles Stanhope had stopped the carriage in tears John had, at least, discovered that William was still alive, but that his illness had progressed more swiftly than anticipated. More than that he could not establish.
The door opened to admit Sir Walter Farquhar. Tomline rose, but John was too quick for him. His only chance of gaining admittance to William was to secure permission from one or the other of these men. Tomline had proven unwilling, so John would have to work on the doctor. ‘Sir Walter, I beg of you.’
Farquhar looked even worse than the Bishop. Despite the cold weather he was not wearing a coat, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. ‘Back already?’
‘I told him it was not wise,’ the Bishop said. Farquhar focused his unfriendly eyes on John for a moment, and John braced himself for another rejection, another brick wall erected in his path. To his surprise, it did not come. The doctor said, ‘Why not? It can’t do him any harm now.’
They had moved William into a much larger chamber, with windows on three sides looking onto the garden and heath. Big as it was, the room was warmed to an oppressive degree and reeked of sickness. John did not care. He did not see the table by the fireplace covered with cups, lances and hot irons. He saw nothing but William, lying on the bed with his head thrown back against the bolster, so thin he hardly made an impression on the blankets covering him.
John quickly discovered what Farquhar had meant. Perhaps six hours ago he might have been lucid, but now William was only barely conscious. For ten agonising minutes John held his brother’s fever-hot hand, watched the rapid pulse at his throat, and waited for a sign that William had re-entered the room. He waited in vain. Occasionally William shifted and moaned, but his words were always nonsense; his eyes, when they opened, remained unfocused and empty of recognition. All John could do was watch helplessly, waiting for a reaction he knew would never come, yet as long as he was here he would not give up hope. Only when he felt his grip gently prised away from William’s loose fingers did John stop staring at his brother’s face and look up, blearily, into Tomline’s.
He followed the Bishop downstairs in a dream. Tomline pressed a glass into his hand; John drank mechanically, without tasting. His numbness had returned. He knew it would not last, and that he would long for it long after it had worn out, but right now he wished he could feel something, anything, to make the situation seem real. Even now, after everything he had said and seen, it did not seem possible that it could be over. But it was, or at least it would be soon.
Tomline’s lined face was full of sadness, but also a surprised benevolence John had not seen there before. Had the Bishop truly believed John did not care about William’s fate? The brief pulse of anger, however, sputtered and died. Tomline had every right to think John did not care. Until only a few hours ago, John had believed it himself.
‘I am truly sorry, my lord,’ Tomline said. ‘Had I realised how quickly your brother’s illness would progress I would not have turned you away this morning.’
John could easily believe the Bishop was sincere. In any case he had had enough of blaming others for his own predicament. ‘I know.’
‘I should make sure Lady Hester is supporting herself well enough. Shall I call your carriage?’
John knew he had no further place here, not now William was given over. He was in the way; and yet leaving seemed entirely the wrong course of action. He gazed down at his linked fingers and, beyond them, the buckles on his shoes. ‘I would prefer to remain, in case my brother regains consciousness.’
He did not believe for a moment that
his brother would come round and he could tell Tomline knew it. This time John did not resent Tomline’s palpable astonishment; he was beginning to realise how much like indifference his anger with William must have seemed to those not in the secret.
‘Very well,’ Tomline said at last. ‘I will inform you if there is any change in Mr Pitt’s condition.’
Tomline never did return, but John did not mind. In truth, he was hardly aware of what was going on. At certain moments time seemed hardly to pass, while at others it seemed to leap forwards in bounds. He never could recall what he did that night. Perhaps he sat in his brother’s striped green easy-chair, watching the fire burn to ashes in the grate and listening for sounds from upstairs. Perhaps he read a book; occasionally he became aware that he had one in his hands, but he never remembered reading a line. Candle after candle burned to a stub in the fixtures. Servants paraded back and forth, going about everyday business as though it were not past midnight. At some point one of them laid out some bread, meat and cheese on a table by the window. John ignored it, even though he had not eaten since breakfast.
The later it got the fewer demarcations there seemed to be in John’s mind between reality and unreality. He’s awake, he’s asking for you. He could hear movements on the landing: people tiptoeing as though afraid to be heard, Farquhar’s low voice, hoarse with fatigue. I’m sorry. Forgive me. But no-one ever did come to fetch John.
Even so, he did not completely give up hope until after four o’clock when a dishevelled and unshaven Farquhar threw open the door. The doctor’s face was grey with fatigue. He stared at John without really seeing him, then walked away in silence.
John rose. There were new sounds coming from upstairs, more steps, more whispered conversations, the distant tinkle of bells, and the responding hammer of feet. John climbed the stairs slowly, as though in a trance. He could hear someone calling out for Lady Hester Stanhope’s brothers, Charles and James. Lady Hester’s door was closed, but John’s dispassionate gaze caught the Bishop of Lincoln collapsed in a chair, staring blankly at the candle flame.
Earl of Shadows: A moving historical novel about two brothers in 18th century England Page 33