The Princess of Celle: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  All through the day the trumpeter on the tower was announcing the arrival of important guests. The townsfolk ran from their houses or leaned from their windows to watch the carriages rattle by. Every distinguished family was coming to the wedding, the notable exception being the Wolfenbüttels.

  In the castle there was dancing and feasting and the gaiety contrasted with the misty dampness outside. Sophia Dorothea spent a long time sitting in her apartments alone, looking out at the trees and the grey water of the moat. She kept reminding herself that there was little time left; the day was fast approaching when this dear castle would no longer be her home. Instead of a castle she would live in the Alte Palais at Hanover where everything would be different; her mother, now quiet and reconciled, had tried to learn what she could of life at the court of Hanover so that her daughter might be prepared. ‘Keep your dignity. Remember you are a Princess and none will dare treat you with anything but respect. Perhaps you will learn to be fond of your husband.’ Sophia Dorothea had nodded because she could not bear to grieve her mother by letting her know the full extent of her wretchedness. They were both acting for each other; and Sophia Dorothea knew that in the last weeks she had been sharply jolted out of childhood forever.

  Eléonore von Knesebeck was with her – a great comfort, for there was one friend from whom she would not be parted. The little Knesebeck was fiercely determined to fight her mistress’s battles.

  One must begin to count the advantages. ‘I shall be the wife of the heir to Hanover,’ Sophia Dorothea told herself. ‘I shall not be far from home. The Duke smiles at me kindly. I think he will be my friend.’

  It was only thus that she could live through the days.

  They had made her the most beautiful gown she had ever possessed; jewels were brought for her selection. She looked over them with her mother and they pretended to be interested.

  If we do not pretend, thought Sophia Dorothea, we should be tempted to go out to the moat or the river and lie down there together while the waters made a covering over our heads.

  Those were thoughts which brought a queer sort of comfort; but one knew all the time in one’s heart that one would never reach that point. Life was there – and one kept a hold of it, desperately clinging to it, whatever happened.

  The 21st November – two months since that nightmare day when everything had changed in the castle of Celle – was her wedding day.

  The bells were ringing out; the streets of the town were decorated and the sounds of laughter and music filled the castle; but the laughter was not that of the bride or the bridegroom.

  In his apartments the bridegroom sullenly kicked at a stool thinking of Marie whom these people had insisted on his giving up. How dared they presume to rule him! He would show them and their precious Sophia Dorothea that they could not do that for long. Marriage – a painful necessity. Oh well, he would get her with child quickly and his duty would be done.

  In her apartments Sophia Dorothea was dressed in her wedding gown – a beautiful figure sparkling with jewels which were gifts from her father and the uncle who would soon be her father-in-law. But as she looked at her scintillating reflection she saw only her woebegone face. The candles were still burning although it was morning, so dark was that day and at least the weather was in tune with her mood.

  She wanted to hold back time, to say: Now I am in Celle. Now I am merely the Princess Sophia Dorothea. Something will happen and this dreadful thing will not come to pass after all.

  But the hours slipped by and no miracle came to Celle that morning.

  Into the chapel she went just as the first rumble of thunder was heard in the distance and the rain began to hit the castle walls, and there was gloom outside and gloom in the hearts of the bride and her mother.

  Sophia Dorothea looked at Eléonore, calm, restrained yet tragic. Their eyes met and her mother smiled as though she were saying: ‘I shall always love you, darling. You will always be the dearest in my life; and we shall never be far apart. You are marrying this man, but his home is only twenty miles from Celle. Remember that.’ ‘Oh, Maman, Maman,’ whispered Sophia Dorothea to herself, ‘I will remember. It is all I want to think of now.’

  Her sullen bridegroom scarcely looked at her. He mumbled the words required of him; his hand was clammy and listless. He disliked this as much as she did.

  She shivered and then the lightning lit up the chapel and a half second later the thunder broke as though it would shatter the foundations of the castle. Guests looked at each other, Eléonore’s eyes were on her daughter. An omen?

  But the castle stood firm against the storm. The ceremony continued and Sophia Dorothea of Celle became the wife of George Lewis of Hanover.

  Overhead the storm grew fainter; but the rain fell relentlessly and outside it was dark as night.

  Sophia Dorothea sat at the banquet, her husband beside her. He glanced at her, summing her up. She was pretty, he could not deny it. Too slender for his tastes and she’d be finicky, he guessed, and know nothing. Still, she was pretty.

  He smiled at her and although she shivered she was glad he had at last seemed a little friendly.

  She turned from him and watched the dancing and revelry of those who could enjoy them, because, after all, they were not being married.

  In the state coach drawn by six magnificent horses, cream in colour, sat the bride and bridegroom. They had traversed the miles from Celle and were on the outskirts of Hanover; and now they were aware of the welcome that town was about to give them.

  The people filled the streets; banners had been hung from windows and sweet music filled the air.

  ‘Long live the bride!’ cried the people. ‘Oh, but she is lovely!’

  Sophia Dorothea could not help being touched by their welcome; their obvious admiration reminded her of her father’s subjects of Celle, and for the first time since she knew she was to marry her spirits lifted a little.

  She smiled and waved her hand as she had at home and the people were enchanted with her.

  It was a good marriage, they said, because it united Celle and Hanover and this enchantingly beautiful girl was bringing much needed wealth to Hanover.

  ‘Long live the lovely Princess!’ they shouted.

  Clara watched the arrival from a window of the Alte Palais.

  She was angry because her sister Marie had received orders to leave, and although her husband was to become a Baron, and she of course, would revel in the title of Baroness, she was foiled because her sister would not be able to guide George Lewis.

  He would have no mistress for a while! That meant of course no important mistress. And Marie – sister of Clara – had received marching orders.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she had said to Marie. ‘Why should you? Once that Celle creature is here we shall know how to deal with her. I do not see why we should allow her to dictate to us. I will speak to Ernest Augustus as soon as I have a chance and you shall stay, rest assured.’

  So Marie had disobeyed the order to leave and now stood with her sister at the window to watch the arrival.

  Here they came – in the state coach with its cream-coloured horses, her lover, George Lewis, and his bride. Marie drew aside the hangings and leaned out of the window as Sophia Dorothea was stepping from the coach, George Lewis awkwardly helping her out. Now they had turned to come into the palace and George Lewis looked up and saw Marie. So did Sophia Dorothea. And in that moment, instinctively she knew.

  She turned to one of the attendants and said: ‘Who are the ladies at the window?’

  She was told that they were Madame von Platen and her sister Madame von dem Bussche.

  Calmly she entered the castle.

  ‘Welcome to Hanover,’ said the Duchess Sophia who had returned a little ahead of the married pair to Hanover that she might be there to receive them when they arrived.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sophia Dorothea haughtily, ‘but I see that what was promised has not been carried out.’

  The Duchess Sophia
was startled. The young bride seemed to have acquired a new authority.

  ‘I regret that you should have cause to complain,’ said the Duchess, ‘but pray tell me to what you refer?’

  ‘I am told that Madame von dem Bussche is in the palace although it was arranged that she should leave before I arrived.’

  ‘So she is still here!’ The Duchess Sophia looked angry. ‘I regret this. But she shall be gone before the hour is out.’

  Sophia Dorothea bowed her head and requested to be shown her apartments, and to these the Duchess Sophia personally conducted her.

  In her room Marie von dem Bussche was feverishly preparing to leave.

  ‘This is disastrous!’ she cried, between her sobs of anger. ‘I thought you said …’

  ‘I had no opportunity to speak to Ernest Augustus,’ replied Clara. ‘You should not have stood at the window. Then no one would have known you were here.’

  ‘She would have discovered in time. I thought you said she was a stupid girl whom you would be able to handle.’

  ‘She is merely not so stupid, but I shall be able to handle her!’ replied Clara grimly.

  ‘And then …?’

  ‘You shall come back and hold your old position with him. Don’t fret. She’ll not satisfy him. He doesn’t want a French doll however pretty. He wants a lusty woman.’

  ‘So you think everything will be … as it was… .’

  ‘Give him a little time with his bride. Then you shall come back. I’ll see to it. Madame Sophia Dorothea will have to learn who rules this court.’

  Clara said goodbye to her sister and then went down to the banquet hall where she would be presented to the new bride – not, of course, as her father-in-law’s mistress, but as the wife of his first minister.

  Sophia Dorothea listened to the wheels of the coach which were carrying her. husband’s mistress far away. It was her first little triumph.

  And George Lewis? He was far from prepossessing; he did not fill the rôle of romantic hero; but in his clumsy way he was not unkind; and he was far from being the ogre of her childhood.

  She must accept her new life. The happy childhood was over. But when she sat at her window and looked out in the direction of Celle she thought of her mother who would certainly be thinking of her at this moment; only a few miles separated them; and soon perhaps she would have a child of her own.

  This was not the happy marriage she had dreamed of; life had changed abruptly and cruelly; but with each new phase the shock grew less acute.

  When I have a child, thought Sophia Dorothea, perhaps I shall not mind so much.

  ‘Mirror, Mirror on the Wall’

  SOPHIA DOROTHEA WAS surprised how quickly she became reconciled to her new life. It was not that she fell romantically in love with her husband – far from it. She found him quite crude and coarse; but the rough awakening to the knowledge that she could not have all her own way had strengthened her, had made her realize a toughness in her character which no one – least of all herself – had expected.

  Hanover was very different from Celle – less elegant, but more extravagant. The morals at Celle had been set by the Duke and his Duchess – the faithful husband and wife who had lived in perfect harmony until George William had suddenly decided it was time he exerted his authority in the important matter of his daughter’s marriage. Fidelity in marriage had been the custom. It was natural that the court of Hanover should in the same way reflect the morals of its ruler. Ernest Augustus, the sensualist, with his maîtresse en titre and the minor members of his seraglio, set the fashion at Hanover as George William and his Duchess did at Celle. This was the shock Sophia Dorothea had to face.

  It was amazing to her that the Duchess Sophia could tolerate her husband’s infidelity with such unconcern; she did not hide this amazement which naturally irritated the Duchess who was always delighted to point out Sophia Dorothea’s lack of knowledge of Hanoverian court custom. Life at Celle had been simple with George William and Elénore living so constantly en famille. It was very different at Hanover where precedence had to be observed and where it seemed to Sophia Dorothea it was a greater crime to bow to someone who was only considered worthy of a nod than to seduce someone’s wife or husband.

  The Duchess Sophia could not forget that this young girl was the daughter of her old enemy; and she did all she could to discomfit her.

  But in spite of this animosity there were compensations, the chief of which were the young people whom she discovered to be her cousins.

  There was Frederick Augustus, about four years older than herself, who told her that he wished he had been the eldest son that he might have married her; he certainly had more grace of manner than his brother George Lewis – but then he could scarcely have had less. There was Maximilian William, about her own age – a boy of charm and mischief who showed her very clearly right from the beginning that he was ready to be her friend. The girl cousin Sophia Charlotte was some two years younger and very interested in the clothes her new sister-in-law had brought with her. Charles Philip was friendly, too, and so were the young ones, Christian and Ernest Augustus.

  So after having been an only child Sophia Dorothea had the experience of finding herself a member of a large family – and this was agreeable.

  There were times though when she was homesick and wanted to cry herself to sleep – and would have done but for the presence of George Lewis. Sometimes when she was alone with Eléonore von Knesebeck she would shed a few tears and they would talk of Celle where everything was so much simpler and yet more beautiful; then Sophia Dorothea would write a letter to her mother and tell her that she was getting along better than she expected yet how she longed to be with her!

  But each week brought a softening of the pain as the life of Hanover became imposed on that of Celle. She would find herself laughing over Maximilian’s tricks, or enjoying the envy of Sophia Charlotte.

  There were days when nothing special happened. Then she would write letters or in her journal for her two favourite pastimes were writing and dressing up. She would lie late in bed and, after George Lewis had left, Eléonore von Knesebeck would come in and they would talk together often of Celle. They would work on their embroidery together, read a little; and of course the task of getting Sophia Dorothea dressed took a long time. She was learning to fit in with the ceremonious behaviour; she would go down to dinner with Eléonore von Knesebeck to accompany her and a page to lead the way, and would take her place at the head of the table in accordance with her rank and often earn the stern looks of her mother-in-law because she had smiled at someone who was not of high enough rank to deserve a smile from the wife of the Prince of Hanover.

  But the little mistakes she made – usually by being too friendly to the humble – endeared her to most members of the court. And after the great midday meal when she often took an airing in her coach she would smile prettily at the people who came out of their houses to see her go by, and if the Duchess Sophia was shocked by her friendliness, the people were not.

  They cheered her; and they were growing fond of her. She was the prettiest creature to come out of the court – and none of the paint and powder so lavishly used by the so-called beauties could compare with her natural charms. She was young and fresh; she was elegant and charming. It raised her spirits to know that she could charm these people as she had her father’s subjects at Celle.

  When she rejoined the company in the great hall for supper she would behave in a manner with which even the Duchess Sophia could not find fault; she danced exquisitely and even took a turn at playing the card games which were so popular.

  Everyone was saying that George Lewis could not have found a more charming or more suitable wife.

  Sometimes the court moved to Herrenhausen which was a little schloss in the country set in the midst of a charming park. The Duchess Sophia loved Herrenhausen and went there whenever she could; here the French custom of performing pastorales and fêtes champêtres was in vogue; and as the winter pa
ssed Sophia Dorothea took her part in these entertainments.

  Opposite the Alte Palais was the Leine Schloss where the most important functions were held, as this old castle was more imposing than the Palais. Here Sophia Dorothea had her own apartments and it was while she was there with the coming of that new year, a few months after her marriage, that she believed herself to be pregnant.

  Looking out at the limes and acacias, which made the banks of the river Leine so lovely in the spring, she thought that her child would bud and blossom with them; and that when the child was born she could be happy again.

  Thus Sophia Dorothea began to be reconciled to her new life.

  There was one who watched the progress of Sophia Dorothea with suppressed fury. Clara, now Baroness von Platen, had had a shock. In the beginning she had believed that she would have no difficulty in dealing with the newcomer. A foolish frivolous young girl, she had called her; a silly child who thought of nothing but pretty clothes and admiration; who hadn’t the wits to placate her husband, the heir of Hanover.

  I will soon put her in her place, Clara had promised herself. Marie shall come back and we shall be as we were.

  But the girl was not as she seemed. For one thing she had been well educated under the supervision of her mother and was far more knowledgeable in languages and the arts than Clara could ever be.

  And what use are they? asked Clara. I could show her things she had never dreamed existed.

  Clara laughed at her own thoughts. She was a witch, said Ernest Augustus. She was skilled in the art of eroticism as no other woman he had ever known – not in France or in Italy. She could always surprise him. Thus she kept her hold on him.

  If he accused her of infidelity she would retort: ‘Well, how am I to practise that I may appear perfect with you if I cannot make use of others?’

  And that amused him. Ernest Augustus could forgive anyone who amused him. Besides, he was too much of a man of the world to expect fidelity from such a skilled woman as Clara.