Earl of Shadows

by Jacqueline Reiter

  As he put his hand on the doorknob he became aware of a difference in mood. He turned. William gazed emptily at a letter laid out on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Bad news?’ John said. William looked as though he dearly wanted to ignore the question, but nodded. ‘Who has refused to help you this time?’

  ‘Grafton.’ The Duke of Grafton had succeeded Lord Chatham as First Lord of the Treasury 15 years previously. He controlled several boroughs and wielded influence over several Commons members. ‘He regrets but he cannot accept of office under me.’

  It was a big blow. John watched William file Grafton’s letter into a big leather portfolio, already bulging with similar letters from other equally important members of the upper house. Only a few moments before John had thought he did not care if William stood or fell; now he wanted nothing more than to put his arms round him as though they were children again, and tell him all would be well. The words, had they come, would in any case have been a lie.

  January 1784

  Early in the new year William finally received word of his re-election for Appleby. He determined to take his seat as First Lord and Chancellor of the Exchequer on the first day Parliament met after Christmas recess. John therefore found himself riding to Westminster in a coach with William, the Duke of Rutland, and three large red despatch boxes that sat between the brothers like a barrier.

  They travelled in silence. Rutland’s plump face was white and puffy, his eyes rimmed with the red of too much drink and too little sleep. William, digging through a despatch box, looked calm enough, but he must have been dreading the mauling he could expect from Fox and North in the House. It was all John could do to remind himself that William’s predicament was of his own making.

  A light snow was falling as the carriage drew up in Old Palace Yard. Inevitably, the arrival of the youthful premier attracted a large crowd. By the time the three men reached the Commons lobby the room was filling fast. Some faces expressed deep curiosity, others hostility; very few seemed in any way compassionate.

  William’s wide grey eyes had a hunted look in them, an expression John had seen many times in the eyes of a deer as the hunting-dogs laid into it. ‘Good luck, Will.’ John stretched out his hand instinctively and, after a moment, William took it.

  ‘Be easy,’ he said. ‘It won’t be as bad as you think.’

  John tried to return his brother’s smile. ‘I heartily pray not.’

  They stood clasped together for a second that lasted an age, then William’s face rearranged itself into an expression of cold indifference. He strode towards the doors of the House, held open for him by two porters.

  Rutland arched his brows at John. ‘Well?’

  ‘He seems cheerful.’

  ‘He’s always cheerful. Shall we go in?’

  They had to jostle for space behind the Bar with other Lords and gentlemen who had not been able to find a seat. Lord Sydney was there, long-faced and anxious, and Thurlow and Gower. Robinson sat unobtrusively in a corner, waiting to see if his calculations would be borne out by the day’s vote. His last estimate had predicted a majority for William of over 30 votes following vigorous government activity over the Christmas recess. John hoped with every fibre of his being Robinson was right, but looking at the thinness of the government benches he had to doubt.

  Rutland leaned over and whispered, ‘Look at Fox.’

  John obeyed and felt dismay course through him. The determined expression on the former Secretary of State’s mobile face chilled him. Whatever William might think, the battle had not yet been won. It had not even begun.

  When the Speaker announced the resumption of the debate William rose to read a message to the Commons from the King. His getting onto his feet was clearly the signal Fox had been waiting for to open hostilities. Before the Speaker called for the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Fox also stood up.

  The low mutter that had echoed round the chamber upon William’s taking his place on the Treasury Bench petered into a sepulchral silence. Fox should have ceded the floor to William, a government minister; but he did not. John, watching with rapidly rising horror, could see Fox knew exactly what he was doing. Fox kept his eyes fixed on his opponent, thick black eyebrows drawn in a line.

  The Speaker announced, ‘Mr Fox has the floor.’

  ‘God damn it,’ Rutland breathed, as the Commons exploded with noise.

  Fox’s supporters chanted his name aloud with great glee. Someone on the government side started calling out ‘Pitt! Pitt! Pitt!’ and several people caught up the refrain, but it was a pale riposte to the shouts of ‘Fox! Fox! Fox!’ echoing off the stone pillars and low wooden ceiling. William clung to the despatch box like a drowning man. He kept his eyes fixed on the Speaker as though he hoped he might change his mind.

  ‘Mr Fox has the floor,’ the Speaker repeated, adding sternly, ‘Mr Pitt, you must give way.’

  William’s shoulders tensed, but just as it seemed the Speaker would have to call upon the Serjeant-at-Arms he sat down, very slowly. The opposition benches broke out in a roar of jubilant applause.

  William’s face was flushed, his eyes feverish. Dundas leaned over, touched his arm and whispered something, but William was not listening. He was looking at Fox, and John saw something in his brother’s eyes he had never seen there before, and shuddered.

  Fox moved that the House go into a committee to discuss the state of the nation – effectively a vote of no confidence – and launched into a stinging attack on the integrity of the new minister. Contrary to Robinson’s estimates, Fox’s motion passed by a majority of 39 votes. An attempt by Dundas to adjourn was defeated by 54.

  John and Rutland stood through it all without a word. William’s ministry seemed doomed; John watched the opposition lay into it as though enchanted by some ghastly, terrible magic. With every resolution passed against government he looked at his brother’s set face and willed him to fight: Come on, Will. Do something. At last, William stood to defend himself against Fox’s accusations of corruption.

  ‘I came up no backstairs,’ he declared, haughtily, staring at Fox as though defying him to prove otherwise. ‘I know of no secret influence. The integrity of my heart, and the probity of my public and private principles, shall always be my sources of action. Never will I be responsible for measures not my own, in which my heart and judgment do not cordially acquiesce.’

  They were brave words, and John himself was nearly taken in by them. But they were not enough. A cry went up from the opposition benches: ‘Will there be a dissolution?’

  ‘Answer the question!’

  ‘Answer!’

  ‘Order in the House,’ the Speaker interposed, but John could see he was as curious as everyone else to hear what William would do.

  What William did was to put his hat firmly on his head and turn away, as steadily and calmly as though he was not being attacked and insulted, while the opposition continued to howl ‘Answer! Answer!’ at his retreating back.

  ****

  There was no House the next day, to give everyone the chance to rest after the long debate – everyone except those closest to the government, of course. William spent much of the day in conference with his colleagues and John did not see him until the evening, when William summoned an emergency meeting at the Duke of Rutland’s house in Arlington Street.

  ‘I suppose you think I deserve everything that has occurred,’ William said, his voice hoarse from over-use, the moment John entered the room. ‘You must feel I have no-one to blame but myself.’

  ‘I would never say such a thing,’ John murmured.

  ‘Maybe not, but I know you have thought it, many times.’ John could not deny it; he said nothing and slid into his seat.

  The smell of defeat hung heavily over the room. Richmond’s bald scalp glowed under the candle-light; Camden chewed on a thumbnail; Rutland swilled the wine round the bowl of his glass of madeira, looking flushed. Dundas spoke. Like William’s, his voice was croaky with fatigue; he, too, had
shouldered much of the oratorical burden the previous night. ‘We must decide what to do should Fox bring in another motion of censure against government.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Thurlow said promptly. ‘His Majesty will reject all addresses for our removal.’

  ‘How long can we go on like this, ignoring the voice of the House of Commons?’ Sydney asked. ‘How long can we maintain our position against Fox’s onslaught?’

  ‘Indefinitely, I would suppose,’ Thurlow replied with a glare across the table at William, ‘so long as Mr Pitt remains firm in his purpose against him.’

  John looked at William. The deep rings under his brother’s eyes spoke for themselves. Dundas said, anxiously, ‘Do not forget, sir, that we have the support of the country. His Majesty has already received several dozen petitions in your favour.’

  ‘Sir.’ It was Camden who spoke up, with all the authority of his role as one of the first Lord Chatham’s most faithful followers. ‘When you formed your government, Mr Robinson presented you with estimates predicting a majority in the event of a general election. Mr Dundas is right: the nation is on your side. I entreat you to give up all notions of foolish pride and do what you must. Dissolve Parliament, sir, and call an election.’

  ‘I disagree with Lord Camden,’ Thurlow growled as soon as Camden had finished speaking. ‘The quality of Mr Robinson’s estimates may be most accurately gauged by his prediction that, yesterday, you would find yourself in the majority. All you must do, sir, is hold firm. Mr Fox may bluster all he wishes; but his words have no power so long as you retain His Majesty’s confidence.’

  John suspected that was easier for Thurlow to say than for William to believe, fresh from a drubbing at Fox’s hands. John’s gaze met Rutland’s. Charles rolled his eyes and reached for the decanter again.

  William stared at the table top with empty eyes. John wondered whether his brother would end up agreeing with Camden. At that moment, remembering as he did the previous night’s debate, John would not have blamed him.

  Thurlow seemed to have come to the same conclusion. When William did not respond, he snorted, pushed his chair back from the table and fumbled in his pocket for pipe and tobacco.

  The screech of chair legs on the polished floor roused William. He glanced across at his brother, to John’s astonishment. Worried that William would try to engage him in a discussion in which he had no place, John also rose from the table and went to pour himself a glass of brandy.

  As he grasped the neck of the decanter he heard William speak. ‘You say we have the country with us?’

  Dundas said, ‘Aye. Many of the petitions His Majesty has received in your favour come from the largest, most representative boroughs. With the aid of the King’s influence we may find you a majority sufficient to defeat Fox and North.’

  John bit his lip and sipped his brandy. Next to him Thurlow faced the window and puffed aggressively on his pipe, black brows drawn together in disapproval. At length William spoke. His voice was still exhausted, but there was a spark of contrariness in his tone that made John turn. ‘If we have the country with us, then my way forward is clear. There will be no election.’

  Thurlow choked on his smoke. His coughing was masked by an explosion of agitation from the table. Lord Carmarthen waved a manicured hand. ‘What is this folly? If you do not dissolve we are all lost!’

  ‘Look at yourself,’ Lord Sydney said. ‘You can hardly stand. Fox will have you on your knees in a fortnight.’

  ‘The Opposition expects me to dissolve,’ William explained. ‘Mr Fox will accuse me of planning a corrupt election to bolster my government. Each day that passes without one will rob his argument of its power. A delay will allow more petitions in favour of my government to arrive from the country, and allow His Majesty to exert his influence on my behalf.’

  Dundas looked worried. ‘If you go to the polls now you will not lose in standing, for all will acknowledge you have tried your best.’

  ‘My decision stands. We still have business to secure – the Mutiny Act, the Supplies. They must be passed or government cannot go on.’

  ‘Fox and North will never let you pass those measures and you know it,’ Sydney warned.

  ‘They may try to stop me,’ William said, and with those six quiet words John again felt the chill he had experienced when he had seen his brother face Fox in the Commons for the first time.

  That evening John and William stayed to dine with Rutland. They ate in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. When the servants came to take away the tablecloth for dessert William was summoned outside by a message from the King, leaving John and Rutland alone.

  Rutland had started drinking at some point in the afternoon and had not yet stopped. John watched his old friend pour himself an unsteady glass of claret; if Rutland’s hand was shaking, then he must have drunk more than any normal man could bear.

  Rutland replaced the decanter. His eyes were pouched and red-rimmed and the expression in them did not match his smile. ‘Has William told you the good news?’

  ‘What good news?’ John wondered whether Rutland was mocking him, for there had been precious little good news recently. Rutland reached for some grapes, and found the bowl on the third attempt.

  ‘We shall shortly be parting company. I’m being sent to Ireland.’

  For a moment the words did not quite penetrate. ‘Ireland? What do you mean?’

  ‘Lord Northington has sent in his resignation,’ Rutland said. ‘Not unexpectedly, as he was Portland’s Lord Lieutenant, but it left a vacancy. Pitt judged I was the man to fill it.’

  Rutland’s news settled in the depths of John’s mind like ice congealing on wintry ground. For William to send the affable, pleasure-loving Rutland away to Ireland …! Ireland, which only two years ago had threatened to burst into rebellion, where Catholic and Protestant were constantly at loggerheads, abject poverty was widespread, and absentee landowners controlled a Parliament as riddled with corruption as could be imagined!

  Rutland saw his expression and interpreted it correctly. John fancied there were tears pricking Rutland’s eyes before he closed them and drained his glass. ‘I know. I would guess my days of ease are over.’

  ‘When—’ John’s voice cracked. He took a sip of wine and started again. ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘By the end of February. Maybe the start of March.’ Rutland raised his eyes to John with a rueful smile. ‘My father always wanted me to make something of myself. I suppose I should be grateful to William for giving me the chance.’

  John could think of nothing to say. Rutland was his closest, dearest friend. The thought of losing him was a hollowness he could barely acknowledge. He looked at Rutland’s wine-saturated face and thought, with sudden certainty: He cannot do it. But Rutland would do it, for William, who wanted a friend in an office as important as that of Ireland’s Lord Lieutenant; William, who had chosen the most loyal, but least strong, man for the task.

  At that moment, William returned. He did not seem to notice the tone of the silence between John and Rutland, but resumed his seat without a word. He reached out for a handful of raisins and chewed thoughtfully, then said, ‘John …’ John had been trying to avoid his brother’s gaze, but at this summons could no longer do so. William’s eyes were wide and dark; he spoke like a child seeking the confirmation of an adult. ‘Did I make the right decision in postponing a dissolution?’

  ‘Naturally you did,’ John snapped. He had no desire to reopen this discussion and focused his attention on the business of reducing some empty nutshells to crumbs. Rutland drunkenly proffered the claret jug and William held out his glass to be filled. For a moment or two the only sound in the room was of wine running richly against crystal.

  William sipped his wine and said, ‘I can count on your support, can I not?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Rutland replied at once, but John knew the question had been mostly directed at him. He could feel the despair in William’s searching gaze; angry though he stil
l was at the situation William had placed them all in, he could not conquer his instinctive urge to help. William was too committed. He had to see the struggle through, to victory or defeat. Shakespeare’s lines came to John’s mind:

  If he fall in, good night! or sink or swim:

  Send danger from the east unto the west,

  So honour cross it from the north to south,

  And let them grapple.

  And yet he did not know how to form the words. He did not know whether William would believe him if he told him all would come right in the end, for John barely believed it himself.

  He saw William’s eyes widen with the lengthening silence and said, hurriedly, ‘I hope you know you can always rely on me.’

  ‘I do,’ William replied, but the pause that preceded his words told John much more than the half-murmured tone in which they were spoken.

  Chapter Nine

  February 1784

  John had to admit William’s gamble not to dissolve rapidly paid off. Every day Fox drew out the Commons debate until the small hours of the morning, trying to wear William down with insults and accusations, but every day that passed without an election robbed Fox’s fulminations of their power. The trickle of pro-government petitions sent to the King in favour of his plucky young premier rapidly became a flood. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the full influence of the Crown was brought to bear on parliamentary waverers. The Coalition majority, once over a hundred, now hovered uneasily close to single figures.

  At the end of February the Aldermen of London voted William the freedom of the City. To mark the occasion there was to be a grand procession from John’s house to the ceremonial dinner at Grocer’s Hall, and William asked John and their brother-in-law Lord Mahon to accompany him.

  By the time the Aldermen arrived in their scarlet cloaks and jewelled collars the crowd of spectators in Berkeley Square had swelled to such proportions that the dignitaries had to push through them to reach the front door. Mary was spending the evening with her parents in Albemarle Street, and the moment he saw the size of the crowds John was glad she was out of the way. He, William and Lord Mahon had difficulty pushing their way to the carriage, and when they got in a group of burly men unhitched the horses and hoisted the wooden struts onto their shoulders. They took an hour and a half to reach the Poultry, followed by a trail of Aldermen, Marshals, Constables, standards carried by young boys in white and pink cockades, and an entire orchestra of trumpets, clarinets and kettle drums.