Earl of Shadows Read online

  Earl of Shadows

  Jacqueline Reiter

  © Jacqueline Reiter 2017

  Jacqueline Reiter has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the author

  Chapter One

  April 1778

  John checked his pocket-watch as he crossed Cavendish Square and quickened his pace. It was nearly noon already and he had promised Papa he would not be late.

  He reached the rented townhouse on Harley Street and tugged at the bell until the porter let him in. John hammered up the stairs to his room, tossed his scarlet coat onto the back of a chair and threw off his officer’s sword. The clatter of the polished brass hilt on the floor brought Wood to the door. ‘Lord Pitt?’

  ‘What’s the time?’ John groaned, hopping on one foot as he tugged his boots on.

  Wood had been John’s valet since John was a child. He spoke promptly, as though he had known John would ask and had checked a clock beforehand. ‘A quarter to 12, my lord.’ John swore under his breath as he battled his buttons. ‘Shall I assist you?’

  John shook his head. He was going to miss the appointed hour and felt a swell of anxiety at the thought of what his father would say. Not that Lord Chatham was likely to notice when he had William by him. John wondered whether he would find Papa better than he had been, and dread shifted in the depths of his stomach.

  It was nearly half past 12 by the time John wove his way through the queue of sedan chairs, chaises and coaches clogging the expanse of Old Palace Yard. The coffee houses clinging to the crumbling frontage of Westminster Hall swarmed with customers, most awaiting the debate on the Duke of Richmond’s motion regarding the state of the nation.

  ‘John!’

  The cry cut across the babble of voices. John turned to see his brother elbowing through the crowds. William was easy to spot, for even at 19 he towered half a head above the next tallest person. His long face glistened with anxiety. John could see at a glance that all was not well, and his chest clenched.

  ‘You did not come, so I went to find you,’ William said by way of greeting. He grasped John firmly by the upper arm and dragged him through the archway into Westminster Hall. ‘The debate will begin soon.’

  The brothers jostled through the Court of Requests and pushed through airless corridors, the ancient floorboards creaking underfoot. Both had often accompanied their father to the House of Lords, and the labyrinthine corridors of Parliament were familiar to them. Only the crowds kept them from making swifter progress. The debate on Richmond’s motion was a big draw, but the prospect of a speech from Lord Chatham had attracted the crowds in earnest. Everyone wanted to hear William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, victor of the old wars and scourge of France, decry American independence.

  ‘Papa said noon,’ William said as they went. ‘Are you incapable of keeping an engagement?’

  John took in William’s tight expression and knew there was no point reminding him of General Boyd’s last-minute summons to his aides-de-camp, or that the convoy was due to carry him to Gibraltar in less than a month. He wondered whether William truly expected him to place military duty below his obligations to his father. He also wondered why he felt guilty for not doing so. ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘Do you seriously expect me to congratulate you for turning up at all?’

  ‘I don’t expect congratulations for anything,’ John snapped, ‘but since you mention it, a little more respect towards the future Earl of Chatham would not go amiss.’

  ‘If you want my respect, keep your appointments. You’re not head of the family yet.’

  John’s irritation flared, but he suppressed it with practised effort. This was familiar sparring ground between them, and had been ever since they had been small, when John’s status had been the only advantage he had to wield over his favoured and startlingly precocious sibling. Today he could tell William’s heart was not in it. His brother’s jaw was tense, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. John softened immediately. He did not like this duty any more than William did. ‘Is Papa no better?’

  A pause. ‘Worse, I think.’

  ‘Did you not try to dissuade him from staying?’

  ‘Of course I tried,’ William said, and John immediately knew the severity of the situation. If William had been unable to persuade Papa to return home, then nobody else stood a chance.

  The stillness of the Painted Chamber struck John immediately in contrast to the hubbub outside. Sunlight poured through the long, recessed windows and projected diamond patterns onto the walls, once covered in colourful frescoes but now hung with tapestries depicting scenes from England’s past. John’s father sat near the empty fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand. His gouty feet, swathed in linen, were propped on cushions. Behind stood John and William’s brother James, carrying Papa’s crutches and wearing an anxious look. Nearby was Charles, Lord Mahon, husband of John’s sister Hetty, his sparse black hair unfashionably bare of powder. Mahon flashed John an eloquent look.

  The reason for Mahon’s warning stood a few paces away: John’s uncle Richard Grenville, Earl Temple, his heavy-lidded grey eyes aflame with anger. ‘For the sake of my sister and your children, Chatham, go home to Hayes. Why are you even here?’

  Chatham’s hook-nosed profile pierced the shadow of his curled wig. ‘Did you think I would stay away, today of all days?’ He raised the glass to his lips. He had to use both hands to steady it. Once the bells of every church in England had rung to celebrate the victories he had masterminded as Secretary of State: Guadeloupe, Quebec, Minden. Broken and ill, his once-brilliant mind shattered, Chatham was a shadow of his former self. His stumbling repetitions pierced John to the heart. ‘I had to come. I had to.’

  ‘You would have done better to remain at home,’ Temple said, quietly. ‘I know Hester would not have let you go without a struggle.’

  ‘She does not understand. I lavished my health in the effort to secure America for England, only to watch Lord North stumble into this useless, wasteful, stupid war. But stupid or not, we must fight to the finish. It is a matter of life or death.’

  John suppressed a shiver and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. Beneath his fingers, Chatham jumped, as though a shot had been loosed by his ear. ‘Papa, William and I have arrived.’

  ‘Pitt.’ Papa’s smile transformed him into the doting father of John’s childhood who had romped through the fields searching for butterflies and delighted in his sons’ Latin compositions. But as always there was a doubt there, a nugget of criticism. Papa pinched
John’s plain brown sleeve. ‘Why are you not wearing your regimentals?’

  Another pang of guilt. ‘I did not want to be recognised.’

  Chatham sniffed; he had always enjoyed the pomp of fame, never travelling without his coach-and-six with eight liveried footmen in tow. ‘A shame. I wish to show the world that, if my day is past, my sons will save England’s future. Pitt in the army; James in the navy; and William will continue my fight in the House of Commons.’

  ‘I agree your sons are all of them fine young men,’ Temple said. ‘I agree with you even more strongly that your day is past. You made Europe tremble and the world take notice, but that was 20 years ago. Now, you will only make them laugh.’

  ‘How dare you, sir!’

  ‘I dare because I care for your family.’ Temple pulled John sharply towards him. John could feel his uncle's gnarled fingers trembling round his arm. ‘If you cared for them, too, you would give this up. Pitt is but 21. What do you think he would rather preserve – America, or his father?’

  ‘Uncle,’ John protested, horrified, but Temple ignored him.

  ‘Pitt is as much a patriot as I am!’ Chatham shouted, but he could not maintain the strength of his fury. He groaned and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead as though his head ached. ‘He knows I must defend what I believe to be right.’

  John’s gaze crossed William’s. His brother’s eyes were wide in his pale face. Nobody here had any doubt Chatham was unfit for debate; only Chatham himself seemed not to see it. William had failed to persuade him to return home, but John was the eldest son: surely Papa would listen to him? John licked his lips and said, ‘Papa, Uncle Temple is right. I – I think you should go home and rest.’

  ‘You too?’ Chatham said, the fatherliness he had shown only moments before dropping away, replaced by naked disappointment. John stammered to a halt, but his father moved on. ‘I have come for a purpose and no man alive will prevent me fulfilling it. Not His Grace of Richmond, whose motion I am here to oppose. Not Lord North, His Majesty’s so-called Minister. And certainly not you, sir,’ to Temple, ‘openly supporting the lunatics who are losing my colonies; nor you, sir,’ to John, the betrayal in his tone tearing the boy’s heart, ‘who know how important this is for me.’

  Tears of humiliation rose to John’s eyes and he fought them, trying to remember his father was ill. Beside him Temple said, ashen-faced, ‘My dear friend, what you have said proves you are not yourself. Go home, I beg you.’

  ‘And have you lose my colonies while I am gone?’ Chatham roared, and again John noted he said “my colonies” as though they were his personal property. Chatham planted his hands on the armrests of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. James scurried forwards with the crutches. John moved to help but Chatham waved him away and beckoned William and Mahon instead. William threw his brother a helpless look but obeyed Papa’s summons. John could do nothing but stand back, cheeks flaming, as William took his place.

  With nothing to do, John and James went to watch the debate by the empty Throne of the House of Lords. The steps beneath the red silk canopy thronged with spectators pushing and jostling for space, but a respectful path to the front opened for the eldest son of Lord Chatham. The high vaulted ceiling and the walls hung with tapestries depicting the defeat of the Armada resounded with hundreds of excited voices. Journalists stood by, paper at the ready, pens tucked behind their ears and inkpots in their pockets.

  The instant Chatham entered, the entire House rose in a spontaneous gesture of respect. They remained standing until Chatham lowered himself into his seat and William and Mahon joined the others by the Throne. John’s heart raced and he was beginning to regret not eating anything since breakfast. He met the gaze of his younger brother. William looked frightened, but the moment their eyes met his lips jerked into a half-smile, as though in apology. John returned it, but knew many of those present would have noticed the second son doing the duties of the eldest. Did they wonder why?

  He did not have time to dwell on it, for the debate began immediately. The Duke of Richmond rose first, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight from the irregularly-placed wall sconces. His eyes rested uneasily on Chatham as he spoke. The British force in America had been smashed at Saratoga. Now that France had entered the fray on America’s side, with Spain and Holland likely to follow suit, cutting ties with America and focusing on the European dimension was the only way to retire with dignity.

  Lord Weymouth answered for North’s government. The Lords had heard Richmond out in silence, but now they fidgeted impatiently; Weymouth, aware his audience was not with him, wrapped up fast. John’s heart clenched as his father struggled onto his flannelled legs. Papa’s voice, as thin and insubstantial as a whisper, barely reached his ears.

  ‘My lords. I thank God that I have been enabled to come here this day, to perform this duty. I am old, and infirm, and have one foot … more than one foot in the grave.’

  The tightness in John’s chest intensified as his father went on speaking. It was worse than he had feared. Chatham’s mind wandered and he stumbled from sentence to sentence. The lords sat through it all without interruption, without, it seemed, even drawing breath.

  ‘I will not consent to the dismemberment of this ancient and most noble monarchy. Let us make one effort for America’s sake. If we must fall, let us fall like men.’

  John willed every muttered word out of his father’s mouth, straining with every nerve as though he could lend his father his own strength. By the time Chatham sank back into his seat, John felt as exhausted as though he himself had spoken. One glance at his brothers’ grey faces told him they, too, had experienced a similar ordeal. But it was not yet over.

  The Duke of Richmond looked as though he would rather do anything but debate with a man plainly unfit to defend himself, but courtesy obliged him to respond. He did so as gently as possible. ‘The name of Chatham will ever be dear to Englishmen; but the name of Chatham cannot perform impossibilities. It cannot gain victory without an army, without a navy, and without money.’

  Richmond sat down. Chatham made to stand, but had considerable difficulty getting up. Even from across the room John could see something was wrong. Papa made a noise and staggered. He swayed, and would have fallen had the Duke of Cumberland and Lord Fitzwilliam not caught him.

  Sudden coldness stung John’s eyes and stole the breath from his mouth. Every detail of the scene pierced his mind with the precision of a knife: the colourful tapestries, the faint light from the high windows, the prostrate form of Lord Chatham staring sightlessly up at the vaulted ceiling. Then, as though time had finally caught up with the tableau, the house exploded into chaos. John felt himself shoved against the Throne by spectators crowding forwards for a better look. Even the journalists stopped scribbling and peered.

  Chatham lay motionless in the arms of Cumberland and Fitzwilliam, Lord Temple gripping his hand. Lord Stanhope rushed in with a bottle of salts. Lord Townshend raced past shouting for water. He was closely followed by Lord Camden: ‘Strangers out! Get out!’

  The crush eased. John leant against the padded arm of the throne as the world spun around him. He felt someone grip his arm and turned to face William.

  ‘My God, Will,’ John gasped, ‘Papa—’

  William dropped John’s arm and shoved his way towards their father. John left Mahon and James behind the Throne and followed. The peers stood aside respectfully as they passed.

  Chatham’s face was white. The muscles in his neck stood out like cords and he stared in confusion at the men moving about him. John hung back, too horrified to move, but William sank down by Papa’s side so abruptly his knees made a cracking sound against the wooden boards. He pressed Papa’s hand but Chatham’s eyes stared blindly, without recognition.

  Lord Temple said, ‘We should take him away from here and fetch a doctor.’ He glanced up and John realised Temple waited for his orders. A new horror took root. In all the confusion he had not realised the full imp
ort of his father’s collapse. So long as Papa was incapacitated he, the eldest son, must make any necessary decisions. The shock of seeing Papa fall returned, like a physical blow.

  ‘Yes, yes … a doctor,’ he muttered.

  Lord Shelburne ran out of the room to find one. At John’s nod four peers carried Chatham into the Prince’s Robing Room. John followed, feeling helpless but unwilling to leave his stricken father.

  Chatham lurched back to consciousness just as the doctor arrived. John moved forwards the moment his father’s eyelids started flickering but William was there first, rushing past John to take his father’s hand. Chatham’s face was lopsided as though the seizure had loosened the muscles in his left side, but he gave a soft, crooked grin at the sight of his second son and tried to speak.

  ‘Hush, Papa,’ William said, his eyes filled with tears, and John came to stand by him. Before he could say a word, however, the doctor turned to William and said, as though he were addressing the eldest son, ‘Dr Richard Brocklesby at your service, sir. I saw you carry Lord Chatham to his seat earlier. His Lordship has come round well, but I am anxious to have him moved to a quieter location. If you give the order, I will accompany him to his coach.’

  John realised his mouth was open as though to speak. He shut it. William turned to him in embarrassment. Brocklesby’s florid face flushed more as he realised his blunder. ‘My apologies, sir. I assumed …’

  ‘It doesn’t signify,’ John stammered. He glanced back at his father. Chatham lay against a cushion with his eyes closed. His loose fingers had twined themselves round William’s as though his son’s touch were the only thing rooting him to life. John felt the knots inside tighten further as the accumulation of responsibility pressed down on him like an unbearable weight, exacerbated by an unexpected and disorientating stab of loneliness.

  A sickening rush of saliva filled his mouth. He turned away and pushed past James, who was just approaching. William shouted his name but John was deaf to all but his inner turmoil. He shoved through a crowd of reporters waiting in the lobby for news, cut a swathe through the people thronging the passageway and bowled out of a side-door into the riverside gardens. He drew deep breaths to steady himself, but the coal-filled air was laced with the unsavoury stench from the Thames and did nothing to refresh him. John raced down the five steps to the gravelled path, skidded to a halt behind the shrubbery and vomited into the undergrowth.