Collision Course

“That’s close to the truth.” Pitt was drumming his fingers. “I’ve been too trusting. They’re hiding their ambition behind the king’s skirts.”

Grenville took a swig of Brandy. “They’ve rather got you over a barrel, Billy. You can’t run opposition to your own ministry—especially when you sit for a Pocket Borough of the king’s minister.”

The bleak clouds of gloomy retreat were clearing for William. “Rename it, dear Cousin Georgie. Call it ‘resistance’. They’ve convinced the king and flattered themselves they can run England from the House of Lords. They’ve no need of the House of Commons. They’re never going to let us into the Cabinet unless forced. Giving you and Lyttelton second-tier posts were table scraps to quiet the Cousinhood dogs.”

Pitt worked at the paymaster office in Whitehall most of the summer while the invitations piled in for his company at country seats. He chuckled at the duke’s tenacity when he received one from Newcastle, but couldn’t resist George Lyttelton. Lyttelton had a master plan to remodel Hagley House and he wanted to run it by William.

Worchestershire was verdant with August rains and the early fall weather was heavenly. The fine company spent hours sprawled in chairs under the mighty red oaks, sipping fine wine and munching walnuts, while discussing the latest books, estate plans for Hagley Hall, and garden, and the state of the nation. Lyttelton’s genius was a magnet. Accomplished statesmen and literary icons piled through the Hagley House gates with all the enthusiasm of Opening Day. Sir Bolingbroke and Doctor Johnson were regulars. Henry Fielding had read his first manuscript of Tom Jones to Pitt and Lyttelton right here under these magnificent trees. And William delighted in the company of architect Sanderson Miller, who was putting the final touches on a plan for Hagley’s new gothic-influenced renovation. Pitt poured over the plans with Lyttelton. He reminisced with Miller. He’d installed a strawberry bank at Miller’s country estate. “Its flourishing, Billy. But what about the trees?” He’d promised to augment an area of wood. He re-promised. He’d get to it. The week at Hagley House was health to the soul.

Great Britain was in full autumn dress —the ultimate elixir, when William next dined with Grenville in London. “I’ve developed a new Master Plan for the Cousinhood,” he told George over butter-herbed pheasant stuffed with onions and apples. “I received Lyttelton’s approval and covet yours.” Grenville’s large expressive eyes were attentive “There are two pillars of power: the king’s favor and the people’s favor. You know which one is available to the Cousinhood.”

Grenville laughed. “Power to the people.”

Pitt raised his tankard. “Blessed liberty, dear Georgie!” Grenville clicked. “To the novelty of English liberty! Even the common man has inalienable rights––and exerts power when he joins with others.” They drank to that. “The Cousins need a broader base. In order to force ourselves onto center stage, we must intentionally bring in new support.” They clinked their tankards again.

“Along those lines,” Grenville said, “Thomas Potter has requested we support his friend, John Wilkes, for sheriff of Buckinghamshire. I know Potter would not be a person whose companionship we would normally relish, however, perhaps…”

“Yes. Tell him, yes. If we screen out debauched rakes, we’ll be shutting the door on half the Englishmen.” Pitt sipped the last of his Port and checked his pocket watch. “Frankly, I admire Sir Robert Walpole’s befriending of the mob.” He looked around for the waiter. “It’s after my hours.”

“There’s something else,” Grenville said urgently. Pushing back from the table, Pitt halted. George looked pathetic puppy again. “It’s nearly October and you haven’t been to Wotton.”

William had slipped away for four days planting fir trees for Sanderson Miller, before he’d felt the gout coming on again. He’d detoured to Astrop Wells and become stuck in his dungeon there for several weeks. “I must return to Bath for a few more treatments before Parliament opens. Then I intend to visit my cousin, John Pitt, and literary blue-stocking friend, Mary Wortley Montagu…Lord Bute’s mother-in-law.”

George’s dejection deepened.

“According to the new strategy,” Pitt smiled. But there was no cheering Grenville. “Whatever is the matter?”

“It’s Hetty,” he whispered. Their sister, Hester II, was the only Grenville girl. She was younger than her brothers— maybe, fifteen years younger than William. He thought of her as his kid sister too. She’d grown up often in their company at Wotton and Stowe. Pitt pictured her: maybe thirty now, a stately young woman with flowing auburn hair. She enthralled over politics with The Cousins, was bright like George, a true wit. And a horse woman. Pitt adored her. He pictured her mounted gracefully on a chestnut gelding. “There’s something wrong with Hester?!” He felt a stab of fear. George looked away. “Pray tell, she’s not ill?!”

“In love.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, dear friend,” Pitt chuckled. But Grenville’s face said not. “Least you despise the suitor?” Hester had had three or four suitors––men of high station and character. “Simon Truelove? I thought she spurned him?” George remained silent, examining his silverware as though he’d never seen a fork. “He surely has the perfect name,” William rambled, “and the perfect family.” He paused as Grenville sulked. “No sensible man would spurn Hester!” Pitt was suddenly furious. “I’ll have his head!”

“It’s you, Billy.” George put down the fork. “It’s you alone that our lovely Meg pines for, and grows old alone for. Elizabeth says she’ll not speak to me again until I fail to persuade you to come.” There was a pause. “She knows you never plan to marry, Billy. But, I guess, unrequited love is only tolerable in the beloved’s presence. That’s what Elizabeth says––and Jane Hamilton fully concurs.”

Pitt was thunderstruck. The Grenvilles were way above the Pitts in social stature. And he was an old confirmed bachelor with awful health…. “I’m the object of dear Hetty’s affection?” He swallowed a knot of emotion in his throat.

George nodded.

“How could I have been so blind?”

“And I.”