Earl of Shadows Read online

  Ever since Papa had accepted the Earldom John had known he would one day succeed to the title. As a child, he had gloried in it: the riches, the lands, the gilded coach with the earl’s coronet, the ermine robes with three black bands across the right breast. A little respect towards the future Earl of Chatham would not go amiss, he had said to William that very afternoon. And William had replied, You’re not head of the family yet.

  Papa had always seemed so strong, so powerful, so … immortal. A million miles from the limp body slumped across the bench of the House of Lords. John’s stomach heaved again at the memory. The moment Temple had turned to him in the Robing Room for instructions everything John had ever known – his role, his identity, even his name – had crumbled into uncertainty.

  Chapter Two

  May 1778

  The servants of Hayes Place waited for John at the head of the stairs. Two days after their master’s death, his father’s retainers – no, his own now – wore sombre mourning instead of their usual blue and silver livery. Their faces were shadowed in the dim light filtering through the crepe-hung windows. Not one of them met John’s eye, but bent into bows or sank into curtseys at the new Earl of Chatham’s approach.

  Papa’s valet came forwards to greet him. The old man’s grip shook as he bowed over John’s hand. He had been in the family for 30 years, and the sight of the old man who had served Papa so long and so well sent a pulse of emotion through John. ‘What will you do now, Bradshaw?’

  ‘There will always be work for me as Lord Chatham’s man,’ Bradshaw replied, deliberately omitting to mention the fact that, at 65, he was unlikely to find other employment. John hesitated, but as the new Earl his father’s household were his responsibility. If he could not help Papa’s most faithful retainers, what could he do?

  ‘I am certain my father has left you ample provision in his will. If he has not, I will arrange a pension for you.’

  He entered the library for the reading of Papa’s will. The old drop-leaf table stood unfolded in the centre of the room. Only a few years ago he and his siblings had used it as a school desk; now it was covered with large leather folios and folders stuffed with legal and financial records. Uncle Temple sat next to John’s mother, holding his sister’s hand and speaking softly to her. Lady Chatham wore her widow’s weeds. The sight of it brought the reality of his father’s death back like a knife-thrust. For the second time in a handful of minutes, John found himself blinking back tears.

  James, whose leave had been extended only out of compassion for his dying father, had already returned to his ship, but John’s brother William and sister Harriot were present. Like Temple and Lady Chatham they, too, held hands. John fought a pang of isolation at the sight. He had not yet had time to examine his own feelings at losing his father, afraid of what might happen if he did. He was the head of the family now; his mother and his siblings all depended on him. He had no time to grieve. Papa would have expected no less.

  All rose when John entered, but his eyes were inexorably drawn to the two sombre figures at the other end of the table: William Johnson, his father’s man of business, a tall, grizzled man in his early sixties; and a heavy-jowled stranger with pouched eyes.

  Johnson’s lined face wore an expression befitting the solemnity of the occasion. ‘My lord, my profound condolences on the death of your father. I heard the fleet is soon to sail to Gibraltar, and your regiment is to go with it. I take it Your Lordship will not now go?’ Decades seemed to have passed since John had raced back from Horse Guards to attend Papa in the Lords. John felt as disorientated as though the question had been addressed to the wrong person. Johnson gestured towards the stranger, who stepped forwards. ‘May I introduce Mr John Skirrow?’

  ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Pitt,’ Skirrow said.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Skirrow,’ Johnson interrupted him with a watery brown eye on John, ‘but you are no longer addressing Lord Pitt. You are addressing the Earl of Chatham.’

  Skirrow’s heavy-set face flushed with embarrassment. At the use of his new title John felt loss slice through him yet again, as though his father had died a second time. Only the need to remain strong for his mother and siblings prevented him staggering beneath the blow.

  ‘My lord,’ Skirrow began once John had taken a seat, ‘your father was my partner’s client for many years. When Mr Nuthall died, your father’s will passed into my care. I have it here.’ He laid a brown leather folder tied with red silk ribbon on the table. John expected Skirrow to open it at once, but the solicitor laid his hand on it and hesitated. ‘My lord, as you were a minor when this will was drawn up you will forgive me if I address the Countess of Chatham. Madam, was your late husband in sound mind when he made this testament?’

  Temple clicked his tongue in disapproval. The rustling of Lady Chatham’s crepe gown was the only outward indication of her emotion. ‘Yes, sir, he was.’

  As unpleasant as it must have been to ask such a question, Skirrow looked as though his ordeal had only just begun. ‘I fear there may well be difficulties ahead, particularly for you, Lord Chatham. Mr Johnson and I have been in conference for much of last night and this morning, and I regret to say … But perhaps I had better let the will speak for itself.’

  Skirrow untied the ribbon and fished a pair of spectacles out of his pocket. He cleared his throat and peered at the thick, gilt-edged foolscap in his hands. ‘His Lordship made this will in April of 1774. My Lord Temple, here present, he appointed executor. The estates at Hayes Place, Kent, and Burton Pynsent, Somerset, and all revenues derived thereof, pass to the Countess and second Earl of Chatham jointly. All remaining provision concerns the three youngest children. The Honourable William Pitt is left a sum of £15,000. Lady Harriot Pitt receives £10,000. The Honourable James Pitt inherits £5,000.’

  John had known it would take all his strength to sit through Papa’s final wishes unmoved. As Johnson read he felt shock dawning, but not for the reason he had anticipated. Fifteen thousand! Ten thousand! He had no idea how much money his father had had at his death, for Papa had never spoken of such things, but £30,000 …! It was a fortune.

  He licked his lips and forced himself to ask the inevitable question. ‘How easily will these …’ he swallowed back the word “enormous”, ‘… these sums be raised?’

  His words fell into deep silence. Skirrow looked at Johnson, who turned to Lady Chatham. ‘Madam, was it not a condition of your husband’s last loan that his eldest son be informed at his majority of the extent of the debt he stood to inherit?’

  John stared at his mother. She ducked her head away from his gaze and fixed her eyes on her gloved hands. ‘I did mean to tell him, sir, but I did not find a suitable moment. My husband’s health has been poor for many years, and my first duty was to him. I am sorry.’

  Johnson shook his head. ‘Well, it cannot be helped. I am afraid, Lord Chatham, that you and I must talk privately on the full extent of your father’s debts.’

  ‘The legacies?’ John pressed, as though prodding at a wound. Johnson’s lips lengthened.

  ‘The legacies stipulated in your father’s will were to be paid from his estates at Hayes and Burton Pynsent. Burton is heavily mortgaged, and the revenues from the estate will merely pay off the interest. As for Hayes …’ Johnson paused, picking his words. ‘Your father sold the house and repurchased it at great expense. He was forced to take out a number of loans to do so, and has taken out more since to underwrite improvements to the property.’

  ‘What manner of loans?’

  ‘The last sum amounted to just over £10,000.’ The enormity of the sum felled John in his seat. Johnson must have seen the look on his face, for he said, ‘Do not despair, my lord. Parliament intends to pay off the bulk of your father’s debt, if a vote in the House of Commons next week goes through. There is also talk of settling £4,000 a year on the Earldom of Chatham, which will enable you to maintain the dignity of the title.’

  The implication of
that was not lost on John. ‘Without the pension I could not do so?’ Johnson said nothing. The leaden sensation in John’s stomach intensified. ‘What if I sold Hayes?’

  ‘If you were to sell for more than £20,000, you might cover the immediate interest payments on the loans.’

  ‘Then it is impossible to fulfil my father’s dying wishes,’ John concluded. His own voice sounded calm but distant, as though the words were spoken by someone else.

  ‘Not impossible, my lord. With careful management, you may expect to pay off the legacies over a period of years – say 30, perhaps 20 if you are frugal.’

  By now John was inured to bad news and it no longer had the power to shock him. He still could not look at William and Harriot, to whom he was now so heavily indebted; nor could he look at Temple, in case he turned out to be a creditor. That left him with nobody but his mother, but she was too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

  Johnson and Skirrow took their leave, bowing solemnly. William approached John, but all John could think of was of how much he was now indebted to his brother. That £15,000 would have allowed William to pursue the political career Papa had planned for him. William will continue my fight in the House of Commons. A bitter taste came into John’s mouth. He turned away to find his mother hovering anxiously.

  ‘I meant to tell you,’ she said, ‘but your father never could bear to talk of money, and you know his state of mind of late …’

  ‘I know,’ John muttered. Lady Chatham put a hand on his arm. Her fingers in her black gloves grasped him, too tight.

  ‘I pray you never know the misery of seeing one you love destroyed from within.’

  ‘I understand, Mama.’ And he did – but did she? An hour ago he had been planning pensions for Papa’s faithful servants. How naïve he had been. Did she know Papa had frittered away his children’s inheritance for the sake of a few more acres, a new wing for Burton, another carriage for six more thoroughbreds to draw? Did she realise Harriot might never have a dowry suited to her rank, that William and James would struggle to live as gentlemen? That he, John, bore a title as hollow, as empty, as ridiculous as if his earl’s robes were of straw and his coronet of paper?

  Of course she did. He could see it in the lines on her face. She opened her mouth to continue but John could not bear any more excuses. He disengaged himself from her and walked as steadily from the room as his shaking legs would allow.

  Once out of sight he broke into a run, down the stairs and through the connecting passage to the nursery wing where he and his siblings had grown up. He burst into the chamber that had been his as a boy, pulled back the curtains and raised the sash. The estate, with its lakes, cedars and beech trees; the oriental carpet beneath his feet; the great mahogany bed with its green brocade hangings – all had been purchased with money his father never had. John had been born at Hayes, and had always loved it. Now he felt himself hating it.

  He parted the hangings, sat on the bed and pushed his trembling hands between his legs. He was twenty-one years old: his father was dead and the world he knew lay in fragments. He wanted to live up to Papa’s expectations, but he could not do it. He had never been able to do it. He took a deep breath of the room’s stale air and tried to catch a hint on it of his childhood. He wished with all his heart that he was still ten, and that he could enjoy the innocence of plain John Pitt again.

  ****

  When John returned to the library half an hour later he found William and Harriot at their mother’s side. Harriot held Mama’s hand and William touched her arm. At the sight John felt the void in his own heart fill with loneliness and despair. His mother and siblings had each other to rely on; but he, placed unexpectedly in a position of obligation to them, had no-one.

  William looked up and saw John watching. ‘Is Uncle Temple gone?’

  ‘Yes. He said he would write with the outcome of the debates on Papa’s debts.’

  ‘That is unnecessary,’ William said. ‘I will attend the debates in the gallery myself.’

  William’s words betrayed his assumption that John’s remaining at Hayes was a foregone conclusion. John’s sense of entrapment swelled until he could hardly breathe. He said, ‘I imagine you will not wish to leave Mama and Harriot alone at Hayes.’

  ‘I won’t be leaving them alone. Surely you will remain here with them?’

  ‘I hardly need remind you the convoy to Gibraltar departs in a few days.’

  Harriot dropped her mother’s hand. William stepped back as though John had struck him. ‘You cannot intend still to go?’

  Lady Chatham, too, was startled. ‘John, you are head of the family. I grant you much of the work to be undertaken can best be done through Mr Johnson and Mr Skirrow, but the estates must be examined, the servants paid, the funeral arranged—’

  John felt his breath constrict more and more with every word. He cut in desperately. ‘Parliament has voted for a public funeral. The arrangements for that are already out of my hands.’

  ‘But who will be Chief Mourner?’

  The memory of his brother pushing him aside in the Prince’s Robing Room to take Papa’s hand cut into John’s mind unbidden. ‘William can do it,’ he said, more bitterly than he had intended, and his brother flinched.

  Harriot’s hooded blue eyes, so similar to John’s own, turned to her older brother in contempt. ‘William is 19. You cannot expect him to take your place.’

  ‘I don’t,’ John protested, trying to remain calm. ‘I know I have responsibilities to you, but I am under orders—’

  ‘General Boyd would have released you from them!’ William finally found his voice. John had not seen so much emotion on his self-possessed brother’s face since their father had fallen ill. ‘Many disasters might befall you in Gibraltar, should Spain join the war. You may never come back. Your first duty now is to your family … to us.’ John said nothing, silenced by William’s uncharacteristic outburst. ‘Papa took the Earldom of Chatham as a gift from a grateful King and a loving populace. For God’s sake, be worthy of it. It is the one thing Papa asks of you.’

  Stung, John said unevenly, ‘Papa is dead. He asks nothing of me.’ William’s face drained of colour and John cursed his clumsiness. ‘I only want to make my name.’

  ‘You are Earl of Chatham! You have the greatest name in England!’

  ‘No,’ John shouted, giving in at last to his anger and fear. ‘You have received England’s most famous name. All I have inherited are debts.’

  His words echoed in silence. Harriot braced her hands on Lady Chatham’s shoulders, her face tense. William’s grey eyes were wide. Suddenly his gaze hardened. ‘How could you be so selfish? But then it has always been that way, has it not? Always late, always unreliable. You never think of how others might feel. I will not allow you to load your troubles onto my shoulders. You cannot abandon us all because you are jealous of me.’

  ‘I already told you,’ John insisted, white-faced. ‘All I want to do is make Papa proud.’

  ‘As you correctly observed,’ William hissed, ‘Papa is dead.’

  ‘That is enough!’ Lady Chatham leapt between her sons as though to stop them physically attacking each other. ‘How can you quarrel with your father lying dead upstairs?’

  The reminder that their father’s body still lay in the great bedroom where he had drawn his last breath shocked both brothers into silence. John realised he was trembling. William turned to Lady Chatham, his chest heaving. ‘Tell him he cannot go, Mama. Tell him.’

  Lady Chatham looked wordlessly at her eldest son. John fancied there was a shade of guilt underlying her grief, guilt that her omissions, as much as Lord Chatham’s extravagance, had placed John in such an impossible position. To his relief, he saw she had no intention of stopping him. She gave William an apologetic glance and said, ‘John, are you certain?’

  ‘I am, Mama.’ He added, more for his benefit than anyone else’s, ‘I must go.’

  He saw that she comprehended him, as William did not. She kissed him
once on each cheek. Her breath trembled as though she fought tears. ‘God be with you, my son.’

  Harriot led her mother out. Left alone, John turned back to William. He had no wish to part with his brother on bad terms. ‘Will, I am sorry, but I have to go. I need to know what this all means for me – for us. You must understand—’

  ‘I do understand, too well,’ William interrupted. ‘And I hope you understand that I will not forgive you for this.’

  The door thudded closed behind him. John, crushed by the bitterness in William’s tone, could not find the words to call him back.

  Chapter Three

  June 1779

  ‘We could make a surprise of it.’ The Duke of Rutland leaned back against the velvet upholstery and tugged off his gloves. ‘We will have to leave the coach elsewhere; my panelling might give us away. But just think of when your mother will come into the drawing room to find you waiting!’

  ‘I don’t want to startle my mother into a fit. Besides, she already knows I am coming.’

  ‘You, Chatham, are dull. Although I am impressed you remembered to give her notice of your return to London. Either Gibraltar has matured you, or you are an impostor.’

  John could not help laughing, although the prospect of facing his family again after the way he had left them did not amuse him at all. But that was Rutland for you. Barely a fortnight had passed since he had succeeded to the dukedom on the death of his grandfather, but in or out of mourning, he was utterly incapable of remaining serious.

  Charles was a steadfast friend who could be trusted with anything; not for nothing had John made his way immediately to Rutland’s house on Arlington Street after disembarking at Dover. Rutland was also close to William, and knew more of the two brothers’ history than any other person. He was the son of the famed Marquis of Granby, whose largesse to the men he had commanded in battle had enabled many of them to start new lives as tavern-owners. Everywhere Rutland went, he was likely to see a public house named ‘The Marquis of Granby’ in his father’s honour. Rutland knew what it was like to be a hero’s son; John often wondered whether it was this that bound them together more than anything else.