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

by Jacqueline Reiter

  He tailed off into silence, but Mary understood. This child was more than the long-awaited heir to the earldom. It was John’s fulfilment and absolution. It was a way into the future, a path away from all the unpleasantness of the past.

  ‘This time it will happen.’ She held his gaze, willing him to partake of her determination. ‘I promise.’

  She tried not to think of all the times it had not happened, and her body had betrayed her best hopes. She was all too aware that her own happiness was a fragile bridge laid across a deep quagmire of fear. So far she had not lost her footing, but she hardly dared look down for what she might see. John, however, had given himself entirely to those black thoughts. His eyes were wide and dark, his mouth twisted with the pain of doubt.

  ‘I cannot lose you,’ he said.

  That simple phrase brought her too close to the abyss of terror she was trying so desperately to avoid: the pain of her miscarriages, the fate of her sister-in-law Harriot Eliot. For his sake, however, she forced the hope into her voice. ‘You will not.’

  He snuffed the candle. Mary lay for a long time in his arms, eyes open, staring up towards the bed canopy and painting her dreams and fears in the darkness.

  ****

  Something woke her early in the morning. At first she was not sure what it was; the sun had not yet completely risen, and she had to blink to adjust her eyes to the grey half-light of dawn.

  Shadows loomed around her: the curtain hanging round the bed; the velvet canopy above, fastened to the bedframe with mahogany studs; the great red stain sticking her nightdress to her thighs.

  Only then did she feel the pain, lancing between her hips like hot steel. She doubled over with a gasp. ‘John!’ She pressed her hands to her belly as though to hold herself together. They came away scarlet. ‘John, wake up. Please wake up!’

  His eyes fluttered open. Realisation settled over his features like a film. His face was grey and his expression filled with a desolation that spoke of broken hearts and lost hopes.

  ****

  John had no desire to leave the house, but he had promised William he would attend Cabinet and Mary persuaded him he had to go. He knew his lateness would only pander to the prejudices of his colleagues who wished him no good, but he did not care. His thoughts remained half a mile away in Berkeley Square.

  The moment he opened the door to the Cabinet room all faces turned towards him, reflecting various degrees of disapproval. Windham arched an eyebrow and muttered, ‘Well, if it isn’t the late Lord Chatham.’

  William, at least, gave John a broad smile. Since John’s acceptance of the Presidency of the Council William had been almost pathetically friendly, as though the promotion had ended all awkwardness between them. ‘My lord! You are just in time. Lord Grenville is about to read the latest despatches from Lord Malmesbury in Paris.’ His face changed. ‘Brother, are you well?’

  ‘Never better,’ John snapped. He could see William was not deceived any more than the others, but to his relief his brother simply gave him a worried look and said, ‘I’m glad to hear it. Take a seat and Grenville will continue.’

  How John got through that hour he did not know. He listened in a daze as Grenville went over the peace terms Malmesbury had received from the French Directory. He watched the Cabinet discussions as though seeing through the eyes of another man, hearing with someone else’s ears. All he could think of was Mary, and those bloodstained sheets. Nothing else was real.

  The Cabinet broke up. One by one the members rose, bowed, and left. John pushed his chair back and got to his feet. William had been putting his papers away at the top of the table. He said, ‘John, stay a moment.’

  ‘I ought to be getting home.’ The last thing John wanted to do was be detained here, when Mary needed him. He did not have the energy to make conversation with William, always an exhausting experience since their quarrel.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ William said. ‘You look like death. Are you certain you are well? I received rather the opposite impression.’

  ‘I am perfectly well.’ John had intended to tell William everything but now, faced with the prospect, he found he could not do it.

  William nodded, but looked unsatisfied. ‘What is the matter then? Is it Mary?’ John blinked rapidly. William closed his eyes. ‘Is it a return of her rheumatism? I can arrange for her to see Sir Walter Farquhar if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you,’ John said, steadily. ‘But we will do very well with Dr Vaughan.’

  Why did he not just tell William about the miscarriage? For the same reason, perhaps, that he had not told William of Mary’s pregnancy in the first place – it was a private matter between him and his wife. But that was not strictly true, because so long as John remained without a son, William was the heir to the Earldom.

  The futility of his situation rose in him like a choking, poisonous cloud. He had failed again, utterly and irreversibly. He balled his hands into fists and dug his nails into his palm until it hurt. ‘William …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Give me a command.’

  ‘What did you say?’ William hugged the despatch box as though it were a shield.

  ‘Give me a command, Will. Send me to India if you like. Just give me a command.’

  ‘John,’ William said, as though to a child, ‘it is out of the question. You cannot waste your life in battle.’

  It was what he had known William would say, but John felt deflated nonetheless, as though his last hope had been snatched from him. ‘I understand.’

  William smiled and closed the door behind him. As the latch clicked into place John felt his legs give way beneath him. He collapsed back into his chair and buried his head in his hands, as though this final blow had sapped the last of his strength.

  ****

  Mary lay on a chaise-longue in her dressing room when John came home. His heart wrenched at the misery on her face. He gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek and she closed her eyes and pressed his hand hard, but said nothing.

  Dr Vaughan turned away until he was certain John had finished greeting his wife, then rose and bowed. He was a young man of about 30, competent and trustworthy. John drew him away to the other side of the room. ‘Well, Vaughan?’

  ‘Her ladyship is comfortable, Your Lordship. She has lost a great deal of blood, but I think I have stopped the flow with an anodyne draught and a wad of linen soaked in vinegar.’

  ‘Thank God,’ John said. The haemorrhage that had followed Mary’s first miscarriage had nearly killed her.

  ‘I have left a vial of digitalis with her ladyship’s maid. A few drops may be given if the bleeding shows any signs of recurring. Otherwise tincture of opium will possibly help her sleep, which is the best thing in these circumstances.’

  John nodded, his mouth dry. ‘And the child?’

  Vaughan looked grave. ‘If only her ladyship had consented to remain abed, as I had counselled – although I confess I doubt it would have made any difference.’

  John had expected nothing less, but Vaughan’s words struck him like a blow. It was as though he was witnessing, again, Mary’s anguish and bleeding early that morning. He turned away, knowing if he did not Vaughan would see tears in his eyes. ‘If my wife has further need of your services I will send for you.’

  Once Vaughan had left John turned back to the couch. The window stood open; cold November air spilled into the room, but despite this Mary was covered only in a thin woollen blanket. Cold, John remembered, was considered one of the best ways to halt the bleeding of a miscarriage. He shivered, despite the sweat beading his brow and upper lip. These were unpleasant memories; memories he had deliberately pushed to the back of his mind; memories he was now reliving.

  The weak winter sunlight cast unflattering shadows across Mary’s face, lingering on the harsh contour of her cheekbones, the drained whiteness of her lips, the hollows under her eyes. They had lost their colour; the pupils had swallowed up the iris, so dilated were they. The gaze she gave him was empt
y of everything save pain – pain and guilt. John was transfixed by it, nailed to the spot by an agony he could barely acknowledge, let alone relieve. When he remained staring at her, unmoving, tears spilled over her lashes and traced tracks down her cheeks.

  ‘Don’t weep,’ John said, surprised at the gruffness of his own voice. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I am so sorry, John … You were right. I did too much.’

  ‘Vaughan says there was nothing you could have done.’

  Her mouth twisted, and at last John found the strength to move. He knelt next to the couch and reached out to push the hair back from her forehead. There was suddenly a lot more grey in it than he remembered.

  They sat together in silence, healing their wounds through the companionship of intertwined hands. Then Mary said, ‘Did you tell William?’

  John set his lips. ‘No.’

  ‘You should, John. He has a right to know.’

  ‘It’s none of his business,’ John said vehemently.

  ‘He’s your heir, John. Of course it is his business.’ She added, uncertainly, ‘Even if he were not, he is also your brother.’

  ‘I will tell him. Only give me time to come to terms with it.’ Her hand in his felt heavy, as though she did not have the strength to lift it. ‘When I saw William I asked him for a command.’

  She pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘A command? Whatever for?’

  ‘I only wanted to see what he would say.’ John set his teeth together, hard. ‘He said no, of course.’

  Mary stared at him for a moment then said, ‘Is this because of what Lady Liverpool said?’

  ‘No, no, not at all.’

  ‘John,’ Mary said, and he knew she did not believe him. ‘John, listen. It matters not what people say. You are worth so much more than the Privy Seal, even the Presidency of the Council. William knows it too.’

  John listened in silence. Mary looked at him and he could see she was wondering if he had heard her words. He had heard every one, but he was not sure they mattered any more. He felt hollow, as though the last of his hopes had fled or died. ‘You are right. It does not matter what people think. It stopped mattering long ago. Whatever I do, whatever I say, nobody sees and nobody hears. He has my destiny in his hands, and he may do what he wills with it.’

  ‘No, John, no, that is not what I meant.’

  ‘I know.’ John was perilously close to tears now. He had wanted a glorious title, an estate unencumbered by debt; his father’s extravagance had denied it to him. He had wanted to remain at the Admiralty; William had taken it away. He desired an heir to carry his name to the next generation, but it was not to be. He shook his head. He would not admit defeat, not on that. ‘We will try again, Mary. We have to try again.’

  ‘Try again?’ she repeated. John nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

  ‘When you are better, we will take you to Bath, or Buxton. You will drink the waters and regain your strength. Then we will try again, and next time all will be well.’

  Mary finally guessed his meaning. She drew a long, ragged breath. ‘John …’ She took his hand back into hers, her touch full of regret. ‘There will never be another chance.’

  Still John could not look at her. To do so would be to admit defeat. ‘Did Vaughan tell you that?’

  ‘He did not need to tell me. I know.’

  John raised his eyes to hers at last. He had started out as the comforter, but now it was Mary who drew him close and held him, as a mother might to do a child, while the tears he had kept back for so long – tears for Mary, for the child that would never be, and for himself – finally began to flow.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  September 1799

  ‘Battalion!’ John’s voice echoed across the parade ground on Barham Downs, and the captains of the companies picked up the refrain. ‘Form square!’

  For a short, busy space the warm September air was filled with sound as the 4th Regiment of Foot carried out their colonel’s order. ‘Quick march! Halt! Dress!’ The hasty tramp of feet, the metallic rattling of shouldered muskets, the slapping of leather cartridge boxes against wool-covered thighs created a militaristic symphony as the men formed their square in perfect time.

  Most of them had been recruited from the militia, and almost all still wore their militia uniforms rather than the 4th’s blue facings, but after a month of intensive drilling they were starting to move like proper regulars. John was especially proud because today they were in august company: the Prince of Wales had come to give the battalion its new colours, and John’s brother and Dundas were here to watch.

  ‘Present arms!’ John cried. The battalion’s musicians stepped out, followed by two ensigns carrying the Colours. On the right was the Royal Colour – the Union flag with the royal insignia surrounded by the Garter; on the left the Regimental Colour – deep blue with the royal insignia and three lions surrounded by tiny purple roses. The musicians led the Colours around the square then stopped in front. The flutes and trumpets ceased to play; the drummers held their drumsticks level. The enormous silk flags snapped in the breeze.

  The Prince of Wales moved forwards on his black charger. The heir to the throne had responded to the occasion with theatrical gusto: he wore the extravagant black uniform smothered in silver lace of the 10th Prince of Wales’s Light Dragoons, cut to flatter his portly figure. ‘Lord Chatham, tell your men to stand easy,’ he said in his soft, high-pitched voice.

  John gave the order. The men stood with arms curled around their muskets, hands clasped, right foot slightly behind them. The Prince removed his feathered busby. ‘Men of the 4th! It affords me the highest satisfaction to present this gallant and distinguished corps with their Colours. Nothing but a blameless accident could have deprived you of those you possessed before.’ A few years previously the officers of the 4th had been captured at sea by a French privateer. The Colours had been dropped overboard to prevent them being taken. ‘I now replace them, certain there is not a regiment in His Majesty’s service that will ever support and defend its Colours with more valour.’

  ‘Three cheers for His Royal Highness!’ The Prince of Wales bowed to John as the men called out three ringing huzzas.

  The battalion paraded before the Prince before returning to the encampment spread across the grassy expanse of Barham Downs. As far as John could see were tents, canvas flecks against the green of the fields, arranged in rows by regiment and company. John’s brigade consisted of 3,000 4th and 1,000 men of the 31st; together they formed just under half of the troops waiting here for orders to sail to Holland.

  Sixteen thousand British troops were already marching south from the northernmost Dutch point of Helder. Twenty thousand Russian troops were to join them, and John’s men, too, would soon sail across the sea. An allied force of nearly 45,000 men would march on Amsterdam, the heart of Holland, restore the exiled House of Orange, and flush the French out of the so-called “Batavian Republic”.

  John dismounted by the large fly tent overlooking the camp. The new Colours had been placed on either side of it and flapped in the breeze. A table had been laid out with refreshments, and some of the senior officers stood conversing with the Prince of Wales and his entourage. At John’s approach the Prince of Wales turned to him with a smile on his boyish face. ‘Well, Lord Chatham, d’you suppose your men will be pleased with their new Colours?’

  John bowed deeply. ‘Your Royal Highness, my men are sensible of the honour you have done in presenting the new Colours in person. They will fight a hundred times more fiercely in defence of them.’

  ‘You do your men an injustice. They seemed keen enough even before my paltry little speech.’

  John knew the Prince well enough to catch the hint in that last sentence. The courtier in him rose to the challenge. ‘Sir, I would hardly call it paltry. Your speech was eloquent and apposite.’

  The Prince smiled at the flattery and handed John a glass of claret. ‘I am glad to see you wearing your scarlet again, Chatham. It has been t
oo long.’

  John replied noncommittally, ‘I am happy for the opportunity to serve, sir.’

  ‘You know I would join you were I permitted to do so,’ the Prince said with a sideways glance, and John supposed if any man might understand his frustration at being kept by his brother from serving so long, then it was the Prince of Wales, who had repeatedly been refused permission to fight abroad.

  The Prince began talking to someone else and John steeled himself to join his brother and Dundas. They must have been on their fifth or even sixth glass of madeira, and their faces had acquired a ruddy hue not entirely attributable to the heat. They turned, unsteadily, at John’s approach. John and Dundas exchanged frigid bows, but William’s smile of welcome was genuine. ‘Why, here is the brave soldier himself. I was telling Dundas how you once saved a ship carrying you from the West Indies.’

  ‘I would not say I saved it exactly,’ John protested. William clapped him on the shoulder and pressed a glass into his hand.

  ‘You said you spent several nights bailing water from the lower decks.’

  ‘I and the other 11 officers on board, yes. Not to mention the captain and crew. I can hardly claim sole responsibility.’

  ‘So it is true?’ Dundas peered at John with new respect. ‘You had a lucky escape, my lord.’

  ‘As did I,’ William laughed. ‘Had my brother drowned I would have been Earl of Chatham at 20 and never set foot in the House of Commons!’ John stiffened at this reminder of the obligation he was under to his brother and heir apparent, but William was oblivious. ‘You see, Dundas, my brother is quite the hero. With men like him in command, how can we fail? To the capture of Amsterdam!’

  John, suddenly superstitious, placed his glass down without tasting it. ‘Is that toast not a little premature?’

  ‘I for one am allowing myself to hope,’ William said. He handed his glass to a servant to be refilled. ‘With French forces tied up by Marshal Suvorov in Italy, and the Dutch people bound to rise in favour of the House of Orange, you cannot but succeed.’