‘Oh yes you do. We’ve hinted it, haven’t we? You wanted it as much as I did … or if you didn’t you’re more of a fool than I take you for.’

‘Do you mean that you’ve been with …’

‘With His Highness, yes.’

‘You have …’

‘I have.’

‘Clara!’

‘My dear little shocked husband, you are now a cuckold. Don’t look outraged. It’s a pleasant thing to be as you will learn. The best thing to be if you can’t be a noble Duke or Prince or King is a cuckold, as many a man throughout the world has come to realize.’

‘Clara, I’m horrified.’

‘You don’t appear to be. I can see the speculation glinting in your eyes and well it might. Why do you think I married you? I married you for this. Now listen to me, Platen. We are going to make our fortunes. I’ll make you the richest man at this court. I’ll make you the Bishop’s chief minister. I will, I tell you. You should go down on your knees and thank me for this night’s work.’

He was staring at her and she laughed.

Weak! weak! she thought. And excited. At last he is discovering he has ambition. He was afraid of it before – but now he has someone to tend it for him … he really is rather excited.

Despicable! she thought.

Then: Thank goodness. It means we shall not be plagued by petty irritations.

In the schoolroom with its windows overlooking the moat, Sophia Dorothea sat with her attendant, Eléonore von Knesebeck, idly glancing at the books before them.

Eléonore von Knesebeck had become her greatest friend; and although she was a few years older than Sophia Dorothea she was less precocious; she had a pleasant face without beauty; and she and her family were very happy that the young Princess had taken such a fancy to her. Sophia Dorothea had felt the need of a friend near her own age and Eléonore von Knesebeck filled that need perfectly. As her father was one of George William’s councillors it had been agreed that Eléonore should share Sophia Dorothea’s lessons and that the friendship between the two girls should be encouraged.

Since the little Knesebeck had come to her apartments Sophia Dorothea had found life much more interesting, for her friend was more in touch with the world outside the castle than she herself could be and there was nothing she enjoyed so much as startling Sophia Dorothea with news of it. It was from Eléonore von Knesebeck that Sophia Dorothea learned so much about the court of Osnabrück, and that enchanted castle ruled over by the ogress had grown more realistic but none the less sinister. Sophia Dorothea now knew that Clara von Platen had become the Bishop’s mistress-in-chief and everyone at the court was a little afraid of her; she knew that George Lewis, the Crown Prince, was a little monster who was like his father in one way only – and that he indulged this trait with the serving girls in his father’s household. She knew that the Duchess Sophia was a tyrant in her own way, ruling apart from Ernest Augustus.

Sophia Dorothea liked to listen and shiver ecstatically; and to be thankful for her beloved parents and peaceful Celle.

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 seemed 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.