Earl of Shadows Page 5

  ‘I do not think Georgiana is prettier than you,’ John blurted out, and felt himself go red instantly. Mary looked startled, but not displeased.

  ‘My father is a good, kind, clever man, but often speaks without thinking. Sometimes tonight he spoke as though you were not there. Had I been you I do not think I would have held my tongue; but you did, for Mr Pitt’s sake.’

  ‘Hardly matter for admiration,’ John noted dryly, and Mary gave him a curious look.

  ‘I think you were very generous. You were the highest-ranking guest and my father spent almost the whole evening ignoring you. I’d say you had every right to feel slighted, and yet you ceded your right to prominence to your brother without protest.’

  She turned away as though she felt she had said too much. John could see nothing but the fringe of her dark hair, a few loose wisps trembling in the cold breeze. He knew he would probably regret what he was about to say, but he was so amazed to find his innermost thoughts articulated aloud by her that he could not help it. ‘Of course I am happy for my brother. Parliament has long been his aim and I am delighted he did so well; but I cannot but wish …’ He tailed off, unable to finish.

  ‘I could see it was not easy for you,’ Mary prompted.

  John drew a deep breath to steady himself. ‘No. It was not easy.’

  ‘When you make your first speech, they will—’ Mary said, but John laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘They will not.’ Mary was stunned into silence by the self-deprecation in John’s tone. He tilted his head back up to look at the stars. ‘Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had William been the eldest son, and I the younger. Would Papa have lavished as much attention on my education as he did on William’s? Would I be the toast of London’s political salons now?’

  ‘Do you want to be?’

  John shuddered at the thought. ‘No. And that is the oddest thing, because I still resent William’s success, even though I would not want it myself.’ He gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘I always suspected he was the better man of the two of us. What I just said probably confirms it.’

  ‘I do not agree,’ Mary said.

  ‘But it is the truth.’ The agony he had been keeping inside all evening was spilling out now, almost beyond his ability to stem it. ‘I always knew it would be difficult to follow my father, but at least when I came to Parliament everyone knew who I was. Now they all look through me as though I’m not there. William has stepped ahead of me and I’ve fallen into his shadow. Everyone is talking as though his arrival in Parliament is nothing but a return home. And I? I belong nowhere. I have no presence, no role, nothing but a name, and even that is more William’s than mine now.’

  ‘And yet despite all this you still toasted William’s success with a glad heart.’

  ‘Of course I did,’ John said. ‘He is my brother.’

  Mary turned to him in palpable amazement. ‘You truly do not see it, do you?’ she said at last. ‘You truly do not understand why I find your sacrifice so admirable.’

  ‘What sacrifice?’ John frowned, genuinely confused. Mary drew a long, shuddering breath.

  ‘You said you had no role. You are wrong. Your role is to know when to step back and allow others to shine in your stead. A thankless role, perhaps, but one that takes the most strength, and deserves the most applause.’

  ‘Strong?’ John snorted in derision. ‘Even if I were, nobody else would believe it. Nobody sees me, not with my brother around.’

  ‘I see you,’ Mary said.

  John stared at her again, more sharply this time. She looked alarmed at her own words, but moved one of her hands slightly apart from the other and nudged his gently. It was no more than a brief tremble of a touch, but coupled with what she had said he could not have been more amazed if she had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

  A tapping on the window above broke the spell. Mary withdrew her hand as though scorched. They both looked up to see Lady Sydney waving at them to summon them inside.

  ‘I think my father and your brother have come to the drawing room,’ Mary said. She gave John another smile that, this time, John returned. ‘We should join them.’

  John nodded and helped Mary back inside. He knew he was going back to Sydney’s unbounded raptures over William, but he no longer minded. For the first time in a long while he felt he had an ally, someone who understood him.

  Chapter Four

  July 1782

  The queue of carriages for entry to the landward entrance of Vauxhall pleasure-gardens stretched down Kennington Road, the shadows of their bored occupants – gauze-wrapped women in expansive hats, men in powdered wigs and evening finery – still perceptible in the dusk light. Mary cast an eye over them from the ferry and felt glad she and her family had come by river.

  Her father helped her step down from the boat. For a moment all Mary could think about was placing her feet in the right place without her hip giving way, for Georgiana had helped her select the most beautiful cream-coloured satin and the thought of trailing it in the muddy shallows made her shudder. Once safely on solid ground she raised a hand to her hair to check it was still pinned up securely. She did not usually take such pains with her appearance, but today she wished she were prettier.

  As though Georgiana had read her mind Mary heard her whisper: ‘Do not worry, you look perfect. He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.’

  ‘Who is he, exactly?’ Mary muttered back, looping her hand through her older sister’s arm. Georgiana elbowed her gently.

  ‘Only a certain officer our father has invited this evening, in the hopes that some of the company at table might catch his eye.’

  ‘George!’

  ‘No he in particular, then.’ Georgiana winked. ‘I have said nothing.’

  They showed their season tickets and passed through the entrance gate at the manager’s pavilion. Vauxhall’s legendary thousand lamps guided their path as the natural light fled. Violins, flutes and cellos trilled from the orchestra pits concealed in the undergrowth, filling the air with invisible music. Guests enjoyed a discreet cup of tea in the alcoves around the Rotunda, in full view of the large ornamental fountain. Liveried waiters bustled from table to table, taking orders, bringing wine and food.

  The rest of their party awaited them in an alcove painted with scenes depicting Odysseus and Circe. Lady Harriot Pitt sat between her brothers, listening with parted lips and great attention to the conversation of William’s friend Edward Eliot. She was so engrossed that she did not notice the Sydneys until they were only a few feet away. ‘Lord and Lady Sydney!’

  ‘Many congratulations, my dear sir.’ Mary’s father clasped William by the hand with genuine admiration. William’s eager face was flushed with his usual odd combination of pride and self-consciousness.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I accept them, although I suspect being a member of Lord Shelburne’s government will be far from a sinecure.’

  ‘Chancellor of the Exchequer!’ Lord Sydney said, in some wonder. ‘At twenty-three! My dear sir, I had hoped you and I would one day be colleagues in office ever since you first opened your mouth in the House of Commons. I never knew it would happen so soon.’

  ‘Come and join us,’ William said, gesturing towards the rest of the alcove. ‘Harriot will be glad to see you. I think Mr Eliot’s been boring her.’

  Mary had not received that impression at all, but she was no longer looking at Harriot, or Mr Eliot, or Mr Pitt. She had seen plenty of the Earl of Chatham over the last few months: he had acquired a commission in the 3rd Foot Guards, a London-based regiment, and he and his brother had taken a house in Berkeley Square close to Albemarle Street. Even so Mary always felt a thrill at the sight of him, as though every meeting was their first.

  Lord Chatham’s frizzed hair showed dark even through the abundant powder, much of which had fallen onto the tall collar of his elegant woollen coat. His heavy-lidded blue eyes returned Mary’s scrutiny with approval. Their gazes met and he gav
e a slow smile that sent a warm shudder warmth through her. She blushed, but kept her eyes fixed upon him. Nothing in the world would have persuaded her to look away.

  ‘How is the beauty of Albemarle Street?’ John murmured into her ear.

  Mary had never considered herself a flirt, but she felt one eyebrow rising as though of its own volition. ‘Georgiana is well. You may ask her if you like.’

  John laughed, and his sideways glance at her stirred a strange mixture of admiration and yearning in her stomach. ‘I shall make a note to ask her later.’

  As though she had heard her name, Georgiana spoke from across the table. ‘Have you made any great speeches, Mr Pitt?’

  ‘Hardly any, I am afraid,’ William confessed, ‘great or poor.’

  ‘Come now, do not be modest, Pitt,’ Mary’s father said. ‘Your speech on parliamentary reform was much acclaimed.’

  ‘Perhaps, but we lost the vote.’

  ‘Only by twenty votes. That’s the closest reform has come to passing in nearly a generation. Even your father never succeeded so well.’

  William looked pleased. Eliot broke away from his flirtations with Harriot and gave his friend a prod in the arm. ‘He wasted it all on that one speech. I can vouch he has spoken nothing but nonsense since.’

  ‘You think you could do better?’ Harriot teased. Eliot gave her a fond look.

  ‘I wouldn’t presume. Your brother is the best pedlar of nonsense in the country.’

  ‘Now he is a minister he will have plenty of opportunity to speak more frequently,’ Lord Sydney said, benevolently. ‘I’d say we shall hear young Mr Pitt very often, since he is virtually the only high-ranking minister in the House of Commons.’

  ‘It will not be easy,’ William observed, although in Mary’s opinion he did not look displeased at the prospect of the challenge.

  ‘I daresay it will not,’ Lord Sydney nodded. ‘This may be your last night of leisure as a private citizen, sir. Enjoy it, for you may not find yourself at liberty again until we have secured peace with America.’

  Mary privately agreed. She knew the situation well, from overhearing her father’s conversations with other politicians and scouring the morning newspapers in his study. Persuaded Britain could ill afford to lose America’s trade and friendship after a major war, and reluctant to grant full independence without a single concession, Lord Shelburne wished to make trade and defensive pacts a fundamental part of the peace process with the rebellious colonies. Lord Rockingham’s followers, however, preferred cutting all ties and focusing on the continental war with Spain and France. Rockingham’s death a few weeks previously might have left them leaderless, but they were still acting as a bloc, and had uniformly refused to take office under Shelburne. Rockingham’s most talented protégé, Charles Fox, had made it clear he would openly oppose the new ministry in the Commons.

  Yet despite the severity of the situation, Mary’s father still looked optimistic. He reached across and patted William on the shoulder in an avuncular fashion. ‘You will rise to the challenge. You are your father’s son.’

  ‘My lord, you flatter. Lord Shelburne has only called me to office because his government is weak, and he needs my Pitt name to strengthen it.’

  There was a chorus of protest. Lord Chatham’s low, deep voice made itself heard above the others, drowning them out. ‘No, William, that is not true. Why, had Lord Shelburne simply wanted a great name to buttress him in office, he might have asked either of us – but he chose you.’

  William blushed. ‘Had Shelburne offered you a government post, John, I would have no hesitation in supporting you now, as you are supporting me.’

  ‘But he did not,’ John said. To Mary’s ears, his nonchalance when he spoke those words did not entirely ring true, but the sincerity behind what he said next moved her. ‘I’ve told you before, William. Politics is not my ambition. I do not begrudge you this opportunity, not in the least. Lord Sydney is right. You are Papa’s son, and worthily so.’

  John raised his glass and William grinned back in response. Mary watched Lord Chatham with a sense of admiration she was accustomed to feeling in the presence of the two brothers. John was right: Shelburne’s offer of office might have belonged to either of them. But if John was disappointed, or jealous, he was hiding it very well. Mary had seen so much evidence of John’s self-effacement since her father’s dinner to celebrate William’s election to Parliament, but it never stopped being any less amazing to her – particularly as nobody else seemed to realise the scale of the sacrifice he was making, least of all John himself.

  John met her gaze over the rim of his glass and smiled. Mary felt the blood rush to her cheeks and glanced away in confusion. She spent the next few minutes staring at her lap, winding the ribbon from her hat around her forefinger, but when she risked glancing up John was still looking at her. His gaze warmed her pleasantly, despite the evening chill.

  They were interrupted by the first strains of a minuet drifting across from the Rotunda. Georgiana, whose attention had quickly strayed from the earnest politics of the conversation, clapped. ‘Time for dancing! I can try out my new slippers!’

  William invited her to partner with him, and Eliot approached Harriot with a similar request. Mary watched them leave. She knew what was going to happen next even before John Chatham stood beside her.

  His eyes were dark in the flickering light of the oil lamp. For all his outward poise, he was as awkward in her company as any schoolboy. The thought at once pleased and terrified her. ‘Will you do me the honour of a dance, Miss Mary?’

  She remembered from when they were small how much he loved dancing. They had occasionally been partners then, learning their steps under the watchful eye of the dancing-master Monsignor Gallini. Mary could remember admiring the graceful way he moved through a figure long before she had grown aware of the ties weaving them together. She longed to accept his offer, but after three quarters of an hour of sitting still her hip ached powerfully. She did not think she could walk as far as the Rotunda, let alone dance a half-hour set. ‘I would very much like to, my lord, but I dare not.’

  She saw in his disappointment how much he had been looking forward to the dance. For a heady moment she wondered whether she should change her mind and take the risk, but then his mouth twitched into a smile and he dropped back into his seat. ‘Then I shall stay and keep you company.’

  ‘Do not let me keep you from the dance,’ Mary protested. John moved his chair closer.

  ‘I had much rather stay here with you,’ he said. He took her hand and she felt a flood of excited emotion at his touch. It was the first time he had taken the liberty and she was too surprised, and too pleased, to take it back.

  They sat for a few minutes without talking. Mary dearly wanted to tell him how much his forbearance while everyone paid court to William impressed her, but she could not find the words, and in any case she suspected John would take it amiss. His pride was a fragile, but very real, part of him; she could almost see it beneath his skin, pulsing through his veins like electricity.

  ‘Does your hip pain you very much?’ John said, at length. ‘Have you considered visiting Bath, or Tunbridge Wells? Or one of the seaside towns? My father would take us to Lyme when we were children. Sea bathing did wonders for his gout.’

  ‘Perhaps a visit to a spa might help but Dr Warren’s advice mostly seems to be to bleed me half to death, then plunge me into cold water and feed me camomile tea till I am sick.’

  ‘Does it help?’

  ‘Help? Heavens, no. But I have developed an undying hatred for camomile tea.’

  ‘Then I shall make sure to serve you only coffee,’ John said, and grinned. Mary grinned back.

  ‘I find your attitude refreshing. My aunt Courtown whispers about my lameness and talks in euphemisms as though I might drop down dead from it at any moment. You treat it as the fact it is, and I like that, truly I do.’

  ‘I am glad,’ John said.

  He did not let go of
her hand. The evening was cold and Mary was shivering, but the warmth of his touch through her gloves stilled her shaking. She could smell the lemon from his hair powder and see the hint of darkness on his chin where he had shaved that morning. She could hear her parents talking on the other side of the table, but they seemed suddenly far away, as though they lived in a different world and she and John were alone, bound by a nameless bond neither yet completely understood.

  September 1782

  John followed Rutland through the long grass, his gun resting on his shoulder. About them the rolling land stretched for miles, broken on the horizon by copses of beech and elm. Here in the sporting field John’s world did not stretch far beyond the whistling wind, the calling birds and the warm gun in his hands. A fortnight’s shooting at Belvoir Castle in the company of his friend Rutland never failed to chase the cobwebs from his mind.

  A brace of partridges flew into the air in a burst of feathers. John and Rutland discharged their shots and two birds fell.

  ‘Might we expect your brother here any time soon?’ Rutland enquired while the two grooms collected the kill. He poured powder down the barrel of his gun from the inlaid powder-horn at his waist and rattled the ramrod up and down with a practised hand. ‘It would be a shame if he did not come. I have not seen him for some weeks.’

  John sighted along the polished barrel of his gun. It was a beautiful piece, Italian-made, its mottled walnut stock smooth and firm against his shoulder. ‘You will perhaps be surprised to hear it, but neither have I.’

  ‘Truly? That does surprise me.’

  ‘He has his own house in Downing Street now.’ Since his brother had moved out John’s enormous Berkeley Square house, its pilastered staircase and vast open drawing rooms seemed somehow bigger, and emptier, without William’s boisterous humour to fill them. ‘Possibly it is just as well, for Cabinet members and House of Commons orators keep unsociable hours. The days when he and I slouched over the breakfast table after a night at the opera are over.’