The Princess of Celle: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  The two girls were talking idly now of the court at Osnabrück for it was a subject that fascinated them both.

  ‘My aunt and uncle never visit us here,’ said Sophia Dorothea. ‘Sometimes I wish they would. I should love to see them.’

  ‘They are jealous really,’ put in Eléonore. ‘Celle is richer, more cultivated and more beautiful than Osnabrück; and you are more cultivated and more beautiful than any of their children.’

  ‘They have a lot and poor Maman and Papa have only me.’

  ‘Quality is better than quantity,’ declared Eléonore; and the two girls laughed.

  ‘Of course I shall not be here forever,’ sighed Sophia Dorothea. She frowned; she could not visualize a home that was not this castle. The idea of waking up in a bed which was not in the alcove and from which she could not see the mantelpiece supported by four cupids seemed impossible. But it must come, for there was a great deal of talk about her betrothal.

  ‘You’ll not be far away,’ Eléonore soothed her.

  ‘You’ll come with me when I marry.’

  ‘I shall come. We’ve said we’d never be separated, haven’t we?’

  ‘All the same I shall hate going. I wonder if Augustus Frederick would come here and live?’

  ‘Well, he’ll be the heir of Wolfenbüttel. Heirs usually live in their own castles. But it is near. You’d be home in a day.’

  ‘I’d always remember that; and if I didn’t like it, I should just come home.’

  ‘But you do like Augustus Frederick?’

  ‘H’m. He’s all right.’ Sophia Dorothea stared dreamily out of the window. ‘Eléonore, do you remember Philip Königsmarck?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He was a boy who came here once. We were great friends. He went away though. And he didn’t say goodbye properly. I wonder why.’

  ‘People come and go.’

  ‘I should have thought he would have said goodbye to me.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Long long ago. I believe he was really Sigurd. He left so mysteriously. He was handsome, very handsome; he rode a white charger …’

  ‘And he rescued you from a ring of fire?’

  ‘You’re laughing at me, Eléonore. But I’ve never forgotten him.’

  ‘You dreamed it. I don’t suppose he was any better than Augustus Frederick really.’

  ‘Do you think I did dream it?’

  ‘You do change things a little … from what they were, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I believe I do.’ Sophia Dorothea sighed. ‘The fact is, Eléonore, I never, never want to leave Celle.’

  ‘But you want to grow up, have a family of your own. You don’t want to be a child forever.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want anything to change. I used to think it never would. Birthday mornings when I wake up and think of all the secret treats they are planning, and Maman and Papa come in with all the presents … I want it to go on like that forever.’

  ‘Which it can’t,’ said Eléonore practically. ‘Oh, look, there are riders approaching the castle.’

  The two girls were at the window watching.

  ‘It’s the Wolfenbüttel livery,’ said Sophia Dorothea. ‘What message do you think they are bringing?’

  ‘They are coming to tell the Duke and Duchess that Duke Anton Ulrich is coming to pay a visit with Augustus Frederick.’

  Sophia Dorothea made a little grimace.

  ‘Their livery is not as charming as ours.’

  ‘Nothing outside Celle is as charming as inside,’ answered Eléonore von Knesebeck.

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Except at Versailles where everything is so much more wonderful even than at Celle.’

  ‘Maman was at the French Court; she was banished from it and she is happier at Celle than she has ever been anywhere else.’ Sophia Dorothea turned to Eléonore von Knesebeck and hugged her suddenly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I just thought that I am so like Maman that I shall never be happy anywhere but at Celle.’

  ‘You’re shivering.’

  ‘Yes … so I am. Is it not foolish of me? Do you know, Eléonore, I always feel like this when messengers come to the castle. I am always afraid of what messages they will bring.’

  ‘There’s nothing you need fear while you’re in Celle.’

  ‘No, of course not. There is only the old ogre and the ogress from Osnabrück we need fear.’

  ‘And they cannot touch you.’

  Sophia Dorothea laughed and went back to the table; she and Eléonore von Knesebeck were sitting there together when the door opened and the Duchess came into the room. Sophia Dorothea, jumping up to greet her mother, saw at once how agitated she was.

  ‘Maman,’ she cried. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Bad news, my darling.’

  Sophia Dorothea threw herself into her mother’s arms; the Duchess stroked her daughter’s hair while Eléonore von Knesebeck stood apart uncertain what to do.

  ‘Dear Augustus Frederick is dead. He has been killed in battle at Philipsburg fighting for the Emperor. My dearest, this is a terrible blow to us all.’

  Sophia Dorothea hid her face against her mother’s bodice. She felt bewildered. Augustus Frederick … so young, so vital … dead. It was bewildering. Never to see him again … never to hear him speak.

  ‘This is such a shock,’ said her mother, stroking her hair.

  It was some time later when Sophia Dorothea thought: There will be no marriage now. I shall stay at Celle where everything is safe and happy.

  The Duke of Celle was with his chief minister, the Count of Bernstorff, in that small, very private apartment where they were wont to deal with matters of state, discussing the recent death of Augustus Frederick and what effect this was likely to have on the relationship between Celle and Wolfenbüttel.

  ‘I believe that Duke Anton Ulrich hopes that this will not change anything,’ said Bernstorff.

  ‘I do not see how we can be so close as a marriage between his son and my daughter would have made us.’

  ‘He is still hopeful, my lord, of uniting Celle with Wolfenbüttel. I’ll guess that Wolfenbüttel already has plans for the Princess Sophia Dorothea’s dowry.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ said the Duke wryly.

  ‘The Duchess has a very high opinion of Duke Anton Ulrich.’ Bernstoff laughed lightly. ‘They are sworn allies.’

  ‘We are all good friends,’ answered the Duke.

  Bernstorff lowered his eyes; he did not want to betray himself by an expression. He was excessively vain, certain of his own powers, longing to take a bigger part in the government of Celle; and although he was the Duke’s chief minister again and again he found himself in confict with the Duchess.

  The Duke was easy-going and luxury loving; all he wanted was to be left in peace. What a pleasant state of affairs that would have been – but for the Duchess. She was unlike her husband; she it was who had decided that there should be this alliance with Wolfenbüttel. It was not that Bernstorff doubted the good of that alliance for Celle; but he was not so much concerned with the good of Celle as the good of Bernstorff. What he did not care for was continually to be forced to accept the will of the Duchess. It insulted his vanity – which was the ruling passion of his life – to have to be subordinate to a woman.

  And the trouble at Celle was that the Duke so doted on his wife that he was ready to follow her advice in all things.

  What Bernstorff wanted was to acquire a fortune, become a landowner, to be supreme in his own little world. It was not easy to build up a fortune in Celle, yet but for the Duchess it might have been. A bribe here … a bribe there … and it might have been possible to build quite a fortune out of bestowing places; the easy-going careless Duke would never have been the wiser. But the Duchess was aware of what went on – and so he hated her. If he could do her harm, if he could make the Duke swerve one little bit in his devotion to her, he would feel he was making some headway. That had se
emed impossible – but now he was not so sure.

  ‘Very good friends,’ he said now; and cautiously added: ‘And I doubt not, my lord, that very soon there will be another bridegroom to replace the one we have lost.’

  ‘Which bridegroom is this?’

  ‘Duke Anton Ulrich has another son, my lord. I heard the Duchess say that he is nearer the age of Sophia Dorothea – so I am hourly expecting an announcement.’

  ‘There has been no arrangement.’

  Bernstorff permitted himself a slight laugh. ‘Oh no, my lord, but since the Duchess has so obviously made up her mind …’

  He did not finish the sentence; he had said enough. The Duke frowned slightly.

  At last he was getting home the point he had been trying to make over the last months with delicate innuendoes and insinuations.

  The Duke was beginning to understand that in the opinion of his minister he was a man subdued by a forceful wife. A henpecked husband. Madame gave the orders; the husband obeyed.

  It was not very pleasant, and it was clear that the Duke disliked it.

  That little touch of resentment should be fostered. It could grow big.

  John Frederick, Duke of Hanover, was drunk. There was nothing very unusual in this; his attendants had often seen him stagger from the table and stand at the window of his palace and look out on the grounds with admiration.

  ‘Louis would have to admire that …’ he often muttered.

  Louis XIV had no more devoted admirer throughout Germany than John Frederick of Hanover. Hanover was in truth a petit Versailles for he had been quite slavish in his imitation.

  In his gardens he had erected statues and fountains; many foreign guests filled the court; he had even become a Catholic, which delighted Louis so much that he had given him a pension.

  When he was very drunk John Frederick would talk of my friend the King of France with maudlin tenderness.

  His subjects accepted this attitude with phlegm. The entertainments were amusing; and there was always plenty of beer to drink. In fact the only German characteristic John Frederick seemed to possess was his love of beer; and only when he was drunk did he revert to old habits and then he would throw off his French manners and those about him felt that he was one of them.

  He sat one evening over supper drinking as usual, talking of his adventures in Italy and how such and such was done at the French Court; and suddenly he grew tired and said he would retire to bed.

  His attendants sprang to help him for it was clear that he was still in a state to need their help; and as he stood up, his glass still in his hand, he fell sprawling across the table.

  Before they could get him to his bed he had died.

  ‘So,’ said the Duchess Sophia, ‘John Frederick is dead. At least he died like a good German – with a glass in his hand. And because he is dead, Hanover is ours.’

  It was true. John Frederick had left no male heirs and because George William had signed away his birthright, Hanover with all its riches fell to Ernest Augustus.

  Sophia was delighted. There was no point now in staying in little Osnabrück. The court moved into the Hanover Palace with as little loss of time as possible.

  ‘Hanover is yours,’ said Clara, lightly running her fingers over her lover’s body. ‘Now you will have a setting worthy of your state.’

  ‘I’ll admit,’ Ernest Augustus told her, ‘that it is going to suit us better than Osnabrück.’

  ‘The Duke of Hanover!’ cooed Clara. ‘I fancy you will like that title better than Bishop of Osnabrück.’

  ‘I was never meant to be a Bishop.’

  ‘So, my dear, it would seem.’

  ‘Nonsense, the Popes had their ladies.’

  ‘They were wise men.’

  ‘And self indulgent.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  He was silent for a while savouring her caresses. He was becoming more and more devoted to Clara. She was different from any other woman he had known.

  ‘George Lewis will have to leave the army now,’ said Ernest Augustus.

  ‘Oh yes, he must certainly be present when you are crowned Duke of Hanover.’

  ‘He is growing up. Scarce a boy any longer.’

  ‘In a year he’ll be twenty-one.’ Clara was thoughtful. When George Lewis came home he would be a power in the land.

  When Clara called at her sister’s apartments, Marie greeted her warmly; her husband was receiving many favours due to the fact that Clara had become Ernest Augustus’s mistress; and Marie who had always obeyed her sister, knew that she must do so even more zealously than ever.

  ‘I see all is well with you,’ said Clara, ‘and that you are enjoying the married state.’

  Marie nodded, and Clara regarded her complacently. She was very pretty. Far prettier, thought Clara, than I could ever be. But I have something more useful. Brains, the ability to see ahead and grasp the advantage before it is too late and someone else has seen it and taken it.

  ‘John is a good husband?’ asked Clara.

  ‘Very good. We were lucky to go to the fête as we did and meet our husbands …’ Marie stopped, wondering what the relationship between Clara and hers could be at this time, for everyone knew she was Ernest Augustus’s mistress.

  ‘Very lucky,’ agreed Clara. ‘But luck is seizing opportunities, and it doesn’t stay with you because you are special favourites. Oh no. You have to work for it.’

  ‘You have worked very hard, Clara.’

  ‘There must be no complacency. Every day Ernest Augustus relies more and more on me.’

  ‘And Frank?’

  ‘Frank! Don’t be so absurd. He gets as much out of this as anyone, so of course he is content.’

  Marie opened her blue eyes very wide. After all the years we were together and I tried to instil a little sense in her, thought Clara in exasperation, she is still an innocent.

  ‘It is your turn, now dear,’ went on Clara.

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘That’s what I said. The Crown Prince is coming to Hanover for the coronation.’

  ‘I expected he would.’

  ‘You can depend upon it that some clever woman at the court will know how to get her talons into him.’

  ‘He likes women, so …’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good point. He’ll be important. He is nearly twenty-one; and that means that he will have a say in government. He’ll be brought up to rule. Now will be the time. He must be with us. I wouldn’t want someone working against me in Hanover.’

  ‘You think he will?’

  ‘No, because he’ll be stopped.’

  ‘You’ll stop him?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse. How can I when Ernest Augustus is my affair. George Lewis will be yours.’

  ‘Mine! I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t be so childish. You’re very pretty so it’ll present no difficulties … He’ll be willing enough. And it isn’t to be the affair of a night or two either. You must see to that.’

  ‘But Clara …!’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent. You knew that we came to Osnabrück to make ourselves agreeable.’

  ‘But there is John …’

  ‘He will understand as Frank does. Believe me, Frank thought he should protest at first. I soon silenced him and he saw where his own advantages lay. I’ll deal with your John if you can’t yourself. But not a word until it is a certainty. Now when the Crown Prince comes to Hanover you must be ready. You must give him no chance to stray elsewhere. He is young and therefore may be impressionable. Be prepared.’

  ‘Clara …’

  Clara took her sister by the wrist and twisted her arm quite gently, but it was a reminder of punishments inflicted when Marie was a child, and meant that she must go on obeying Clara as she always had, for to disobey could bring unpleasant consequences.

  Marie was weak and without morals. Such an adventure as was being suggested had its interest, and if she need not worry about her husband’s reactions, and if she could e
njoy an intrigue and feel that she was helping her family, she was not really averse to the idea.

  George Lewis was riding sullenly towards Hanover. He had no wish to return there. He knew that he would dislike court life and the court of Hanover would necessarily be so much more grand than that of Osnabrück. Dancing, mincing in and out of levies, playing the courtier!

  George Lewis uttered a coarse expletive. Being so much with the army had made him coarse. But he was at home with his soldiers and popular enough with them for he was at his best in camp where men had come to respect him; he was intrepid and never asked of his soldiers what he would not do himself; in fact he was always one to take the first and biggest risk. He could be relied on, although he was so young, and he was known to be just. That was the life for him. Even his father had complimented him when he had fought at Consarbrück. And Maestricht and Charleroy were battles with which he was remembered.

  On the battlefield he was a leader of men; he knew it and they knew it; and his vanity was gratified. It was only when he was at court, with people who fought each other with words, that he was at a loss and the brave soldier became an uncouth boor.

  To hell with their clever phrases, their tricky jokes. He wanted none of that. He liked to sit on a bank surrounded by men, eating sausages and black bread and talking about the battle: how it had been fought, how it might have been fought; where they had shown cunning; where they had faltered; talking too of the women they would have. That was a man’s life. No dancing in the French fashion; no titillating conversation, no hiding behind fans, showing shocked surprise as though it were not known towards what end everything was leading. A waste of time, thought George Lewis. Why indulge in that? There was the woman and the man. They both knew for what purpose they were together. Therefore get on with it without preamble. He had no doubts of his abilities in actual performance; it was all the stupid gyrations, all the overtures and innuendoes, all the advancing and retreating, all the pretty manners, in which he failed.

  And why worry about that, for of what use were they? They were all directed towards the same end and if it could be reached without bother, why go through them like performing animals?

  That was what George Lewis told himself when he rode to Hanover. There would be plenty of women and that was all that mattered.