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

by Jacqueline Reiter

  He wrapped his arms tightly around her. For a moment, Mary thought she might have convinced him, but then he pulled away and climbed into the carriage. ‘I hope you are correct, Mary. Truly I do.’

  Mary watched the carriage turn down Cockspur Street until it disappeared, then turned to Georgiana. Now that John was gone, the knowledge of what she still had to do filled her heart with dread. ‘Shall we go in?’

  The vestibule and grand stone staircase were empty of all save liveried porters. John’s box was halfway round the left-hand side of the theatre’s horseshoe shape on the first floor. Mary pushed open the heavy oak door and she and Georgiana slipped into the crimson upholstered seats.

  The theatre was full. The stalls thronged; nearly every box was occupied; and even the gods were crowded. On the stage the latest Italian sensation, La Morichelli, was in the middle of her aria, hands clasped before her ample bosom as she rose effortlessly to the highest notes.

  Every instinct told her just to listen to the music, but Mary had come to the opera for a purpose. She waited for the aria to finish and the applause to die down, then stood.

  Georgiana squeezed her hand. ‘Good luck.’

  Mary grinned at her over the banging of her heart against her ribs, then leaned on the carved wooden balustrade and raised her voice. ‘My lords and ladies! Gentlemen!’

  A hush fell across the crowded theatre. Down in the orchestra pit the musicians turned to peer up at Mary. La Morichelli blinked up into the light of the great chandelier.

  Mary’s name echoed about the theatre. She quailed under the scrutiny, but the thought of John emboldened her. Emotion choked her so much she had to force out her announcement: ‘Victory!’

  The company dissolved into delighted acclamation; the orchestra began spontaneously to play “God Save the King”. Mary listened to the cheering and wished John could have stayed to witness the jubilation. Lord Howe’s victory had saved John’s Admiralty. Why could John not allow himself to relax?

  ****

  Perspiration ran between Mary’s breasts and soaked into her stays. The heat from the sun was overwhelming and her side ached terribly, but she dared not complain for fear of upsetting John. She glanced at her husband’s pale face, then looked out across the cream canvas of the royal canopy towards the great ship sitting on the stocks. The ship’s black and gold paint glistened in the sun and her height dwarfed everything. The four flags she carried instead of masts – the Royal Standard, the Portsmouth and Admiralty flags, and the British Jack – danced against the clear sky.

  Three days into the royal gala at Portsmouth to celebrate Lord Howe’s victory, very little was going to plan. A storm had broken at almost the precise moment the King boarded Lord Howe’s flagship, the Queen Charlotte, drenching everyone; by some oversight the anti-monarchical slogans daubed all over the captain’s quarters of the captured ship Pompée had not been removed before the King’s visit to the vessel; and the frigate carrying the royal party around the Isle of Wight had accidentally run aground, stranding the King and Queen for several hours until the tide came in. Now the Prince of Wales was about to launch, and Mary realised she was waiting for something else to go awry. Perhaps the ropes would break too soon, or the ship would be swallowed by the waves the moment it entered the water.

  Around them every house with a decent view onto the dockyard had heads poking out of open windows. Between the harbour and the Isle of Wight stood dozens of fishing boats and pleasure-barges, all filled with spectators. Beyond them were the hulking forms of the victorious ships, Britain’s hearts of oak. Several still bore their battle scars in the form of mangled sails or broken masts; some had hastily repaired hulls, plain brown boards patched over their jauntily-painted flanks.

  The Master of the Dockyards began a seemingly interminable speech about the honour of naming the vessel after the heir to the throne, even though the Prince of Wales had chosen to remain at Brighthelmstone with his mistress rather than attend the launch. John shifted and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Mary placed a hand discreetly on his knee. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He brushed her away. Mary folded her hands in her lap and fought down her concern. The fatigue of attending the King from six in the morning to ten at night had brought on a bilious fever, and John had been nauseous since breakfast. Mary could tell by the grey sheen of his skin that the heat was not helping. ‘Is William here yet?’

  Mary peered towards the royal canopy. The King and Queen were surrounded by court attendants and several of their children, the princes in miniature Windsor uniforms, the princesses in white dresses with gold sashes. Mary saw Admiral Howe (the diamond hilt of the sword he had received in recognition of his victory glinting at his waist), the governor of Portsmouth, and officials from the Admiralty and Navy Boards, but of William there was no sign. ‘No,’ she said, and John sighed. Mary did not know exactly why, but William’s continued absence was worrying her husband.

  The Master of the Dockyards sat down at last and the Governor of Portsmouth began another speech. Mary snapped out her fan just as John stood and pushed past the gentlemen and ladies surrounding him. Astonished at the breach of etiquette, Mary followed.

  She caught up with him beside a pile of barrels stacked outside a warehouse. From here the bowsprit of the new ship with its effigy of the Prince of Wales in his garter robes was partly concealed by the surrounding buildings. Mary tugged her husband’s arm. ‘John, honestly, what is amiss? Please return to your seat before someone notices you are gone.’

  John ignored her, drawing in deep breaths. Suddenly he leaned against one of the barrels and retched.

  For a moment Mary was too startled to react, but then instinct took over. She put her arm round John’s shoulders to shield him from sight. He did not vomit, but she could tell he was putting all his effort into holding back the urge. At length, he straightened and wiped his mouth. Mary stood back with her arms crossed till his breathing steadied. ‘Better?’ He nodded and tucked his handkerchief away. ‘Do you think you can return to your seat?’

  John opened his mouth to answer, but shut it when someone called out: ‘Lord Chatham!’

  Henry Dundas emerged from one of the dockside houses. His face was reddened from three days of following the royal party round the dockyards. ‘Not seasick, my lord? Or should I say land-sick?’

  He chuckled at his own joke. Mary took a defensive step closer to her husband. John swallowed convulsively; tension radiated from him like heat from a brazier. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you not with the King?’

  ‘I think I should go back,’ Mary muttered, but John seized her by the wrist. He did not look at her, but she sensed he needed her support in the presence of his enemy.

  ‘I wanted to make sure the blacksmith was ready to receive Their Majesties later this afternoon, when the royal party visits the smithy to see the new ship coppered. And yourself?’ Dundas added, as though he had not just seen John trying desperately not to vomit. John’s face had gone grey again, and Mary wondered whether he might be sick after all, but he managed to compose himself.

  ‘Stretching my legs.’ Dundas raised his sandy eyebrows but said nothing. He started to walk away; to Mary’s astonishment John called him back. ‘Have you seen my brother?’

  ‘Mr Pitt? No. Parliament must have claimed him.’

  ‘At the end of June? You know better than I how thin the Commons is this close to the recess. Something must have kept him.’ Dundas shrugged. Mary listened tensely. John’s voice was low and hurried; she had to strain to hear him. ‘When I left London, I heard all sorts of rumours about how my brother intends to consolidate his government. Are those rumours true? Is my brother about to coalesce with the Duke of Portland?’

  The Duke of Portland was Fox’s former political leader, but the two had separated after the French revolution. Portland and his sizeable parliamentary following had been operating independently for some time. ‘I think you had best ask Mr Pitt yourself.’
/>
  ‘Dundas, I beg of you. I know my brother makes no decision without your advice, and I am your colleague in Cabinet. I have a right to know whether I am likely to continue in that capacity.’

  Behind them the crowd cheered. For a long moment, any response Dundas might have made would have been lost in the huzzas ringing out from the dockyards. When at last he could make himself heard Dundas said, with an ironic twist that made the hairs rise at the nape of Mary’s neck, ‘Do not fret, my lord. Your brother will not let you go just yet.’

  ‘So there is to be a coalition?’ John pressed.

  ‘I am not saying that is what has kept Mr Pitt in London, but I suppose there is no harm in telling you that yes, Mr Pitt hopes the Duke of Portland and his friends will join us.’

  John looked like his worst fears had been realised. ‘I presume my brother will have to be generous in the disposition of offices.’

  ‘Mr Pitt would not abandon his friends,’ Dundas said, with a curl of his lips.

  ‘Normally I would agree with you, but I know several of the Duke’s friends have been spreading rumours about my … my … unfitness for office.’ Dundas was silent. ‘I know how strong this coalition will make us in Parliament. No doubt Portland and his friends know it too. What if they decide to make me the test of my brother’s sincerity?’

  Another cheer went up. Dundas glanced towards the dockyards, then rested his eyes contemptuously on John. ‘My lord, I give you my word there is no talk of a change at the Admiralty. You have Mr Pitt’s full confidence, although I am damned if I know why.’

  John narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Dundas gave a low bow and walked away.

  Mary released her breath. She never enjoyed being in Dundas’s company, but at least now she knew why John had been so anxious when Howe’s victory should have chased away all his fears.

  She took his hands. ‘My love, listen to me. Mr Dundas’ opinion does not matter, but he is right about one thing. You are William’s brother. He will not sacrifice you for the sake of the Duke of Portland.’

  John’s cold gaze was fixed on Dundas’s back. ‘Perhaps not for Portland,’ he murmured, and Mary shuddered at his tone. There was nothing John hated more than to be held in contempt. She did not think she would ever forget the mocking tone of Dundas’s voice, or the murderous look on her husband’s face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  November 1794

  Despite the November chill, a large crowd had gathered outside Burlington House to boo at ministers as they arrived for Cabinet. The radical John Thelwall was being tried for high treason for daring to suggest Britain’s Parliament ought to be reformed. Two other men, Thomas Hardy and John Horne Tooke, had just been acquitted of the same crime. The mob clearly felt all three men had been unjustly maligned. They pressed forwards around John’s carriage and hissed.

  John peered out of the window. Among the men with open-toed shoes and the women with stained aprons and greasy bonnets he could make out a few silver buttons, even the glint of a shoe-buckle. The artisans and shopkeepers, the wealthier disenfranchised, were openly opposing government now. The last two summers had been dry, the winters harsh. If the seasons did not become more temperate there would be famine to add to heavy war taxes and rising prices. Two years into the war there was little to show but broken alliances and an enemy who now threatened an invasion of Britain’s own shores.

  Someone recognised the crest on the carriage door; John heard his name. ‘Lord Chatham!’

  ‘The minister’s brother!’

  ‘What say you to Hardy’s acquittal, Your Lordship?’

  ‘Let’s see if we can make the minister’s brother cheer.’

  The coachman shifted on the block. His voice came through the slats. ‘What shall I do, my lord?’

  ‘Take your time.’ John waved a gloved hand. ‘Only do not run any of them down.’

  Darkness was falling by the time John’s carriage passed through the archway into Burlington House’s icy cobbled courtyard. Several carriages stood here already and John knew he was probably one of the last to arrive. Even so, he took his time climbing the grand staircase. He was in no hurry for this Cabinet meeting, his first since returning to London after a lengthy holiday to shake off a recurring stomach complaint.

  He could feel the unease in the air as he pushed open the door to the Duke of Portland’s oval library. William had finalised his coalition with the Duke and his followers over the summer, but ten years of bitter opposition died hard. Had John been an impartial observer he would have laughed at the way the old hands –William, Grenville and Dundas – huddled together on one side of the room, while Portland and his adherents clustered opposite.

  ‘Lord Chatham.’ The Duke of Portland bowed; he was a handsome middle-aged man whose bearing breathed aristocracy and breeding. ‘I trust the mob did not molest you? Your health is improved? Mr Pitt tells me you have been ill.’

  ‘I am much better for some country air,’ John said, woodenly. Portland took the hint and resumed his seat. Across the table, Lord Spencer, Lord Fitzwilliam and William Windham watched John carefully. These men had spent much of the last year spreading tales of his getting drunk, sleeping late and neglecting his office. John knew it, and could tell they knew he did.

  The Cabinet opened with a discussion of the state of the war. Windham had spent some weeks shadowing the forces in Holland, Britain’s second attempt to send military aid to the continent under the Duke of York. The Austrians and Prussians had been pushed back by the French beyond the Rhine, leaving York’s men trapped behind the frozen river Waal. Windham described the poor state of the men – badly clothed and low on ammunition, forced to live off the land and the slender generosity of the locals. ‘One thing is abundantly clear. Our forces can do no good where they are, as they are, under such a commander.’

  Silence greeted Windham’s assessment. William drummed his fingers on the table-top. The treason trial acquittals and a string of continental disasters had deepened the shadows under his eyes and hardened his expression. His cheeks were full of colour, more due to wine than health. ‘I think we are all of one mind. The troops must be recalled.’

  ‘The King will not be pleased,’ Grenville observed. John was not certain whether he meant it as an objection or as a statement of fact. William inclined his head.

  ‘As much as it may pain His Majesty, we have no other option. All that remains is to arrange for ships to bring His Royal Highness home. My Lord Chatham?’

  John had hoped to remain unnoticed, but William gave him no choice but to respond. ‘Of course, sir, transports will be sent as soon as possible, although given the lateness of the season I cannot guarantee when that will be.’

  Dundas drew a deep breath and growled, ‘There are such things as tide charts. I suggest Your Lordship consults them.’

  John stiffened. William, alert to the change in mood, stepped in promptly. ‘I have every confidence in the Admiralty Board.’

  ‘Just so long as they learn from past mistakes,’ Dundas said, and John felt the blood drain away from his face at this pointed insult.

  But John had not forgotten the dressing down he had received from William after his outburst the previous year over Toulon. His fears for the French port had proven well founded, but John did not think that fact would help him if he became embroiled in another argument. ‘The Board will do its best, assuming all other departments work with us.’

  In his desperate effort to keep his temper he had forgotten how half the criticisms surrounding the Dunkirk campaign had fastened on the inability of the Ordnance and Admiralty to cooperate. The Duke of Richmond looked furious. ‘I take it that hint was for me?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ John protested, aghast. ‘I meant only that transporting troops puts pressure on several different departments, which must work harmoniously to ensure success. This has not always been the case; but the blame in no way falls upon Your Grace.’

  Richmond subsided, half-mollified, but to John�
�s horror Dundas leapt into the breach, his Scots accent thickened with anger. ‘Who, then, did you intend to mark out with your comment? Perhaps you intended it for my department?’

  ‘You misunderstand!’ John snapped. Suddenly he would much rather be outside in his carriage, surrounded by a hissing mob, than here in Portland’s elegant library, unfairly assaulted by his colleagues. ‘I merely passed comment on a lack of cohesion in matters where cooperation is of the greatest importance—’

  ‘Where is this lack of cohesion?’ Dundas cut in.

  ‘Mr Dundas,’ William said, warningly. Dundas pointed at the Duke of Portland.

  ‘I trust you cast no aspersions upon our new allies? It is unfair to attack men who have followed their principles and joined with us, particularly when you have made no effort to acquaint yourself with them.’

  ‘I said nothing of the s—’ John began, then bit off his own sentence. ‘Your meaning, sir?’

  ‘I meant,’ Dundas said balefully, ‘that you have spent most of the autumn away from London. But then it has always been so. The minute Parliament rises, off you go to avail yourself of country sport.’

  The unjustness of that half-staggered John, who had been virtually the only Cabinet minister to remain in town the previous year. ‘This from the man who spent last summer potting partridges while the Duke of York’s men died!’

  ‘So it was I, then, you meant to single out?’

  ‘Mr Dundas!’ William interposed, more loudly this time. John, aware now of the thinness of the ice beneath his feet, said nothing.