Jean Plaidy - The Princess of Celle

‘You are telling me that you propose sending for him.’

‘I have already done so.’

Sophia’s face was flushed with anger, but Ernest Augustus thrust the papers into her hand. ‘Take a look at these. Then you will see how much this fruitless journey has cost me. Then you will see that George Lewis must come back to Hanover and find a bride nearer home.’

The Duchess Sophia stared at the figures. She could have wept with rage. To her they represented the end of a dream. She realized it now; from the time her ugly little George Lewis was a baby she had dreamed of his ascending the throne of England.

And Ernest Augustus was angry. She had involved him in unnecessary expense. He would not forget this in a hurry. If he had not listened to her, George Lewis would never have gone to England to make a hole in his father’s purse and a fool of himself.

It was good to be back in Hanover, thought George Lewis. He liked London but he could never understand the people. They laughed too much and, he believed, at him. Did they find everyone amusing who did not speak their tongue and who didn’t follow their customs?

There had been one of their customs which George Lewis could follow very well.

He saw Marie at a window of the palace as he rode towards it. She was leaning out with apparent eagerness, and behind her stood her sister the Platen woman, who was becoming more and more important to his father. She was watching him and Marie, but he had little thought to spare for her.

His father greeted him grimly; he was still calculating the cost of his journey; his mother was solemn, regarding his empty-handed return as a tragedy.

George Lewis listened half-heartedly to their greeting. His mother wanted to hear all that had happened to him at the English court; his father wanted to know how much money he had spent.

A dreary home-coming, thought George Lewis, except for the fact that Marie had made herself very visible to him and had clearly implied how eagerly she was waiting for him.

The Duchess Sophia shut herself away the better to forget the tragedy; she read a great deal and wrote letters to learned friends all over Europe. She had so counted on the marriage between her son and the English Princess and could not imagine what had happened to make plans go awry. It could only be George Lewis’s uncouth manners. How she wished that one of the others had been the eldest son!

Ernest Augustus with Clara von Platen in attendance talked to his son about the English visit.

‘Bah!’ he said. ‘Let them keep the girl. There are other fish in the sea.’

George Lewis grinned. ‘She was not exactly beautiful and was very spoilt.’

‘Yes, those two girls were spoilt. Well, William knows how to tame the elder.’

‘I would have tamed the younger.’

‘Let’s not upset ourselves over that.’

‘His Highness is right,’ said Clara. ‘He would have known how to deal with this … Anne.’

George Lewis gave her a friendly leer. He guessed Marie had been discussing his prowess with her. What he liked about Marie was her lack of prudery not only in deed but in word. He guessed her sister was the same – perhaps more so.

‘You’ll have to look near at hand for a bride,’ said Ernest Augustus.

George nodded.

‘What about your cousin over at Celle?’

George Lewis’s jaw dropped. ‘Not …?’

‘Yes,’ put in Ernest Augustus impatiently. ‘Who else could be at Celle but your cousin Sophia Dorothea?’

‘Oh no …!’

‘Why not? She’s an heiress. It would be good to end our quarrels.’

‘We already inherit from my uncle.’

‘She’s a considerable heiress in her own right. And don’t forget all the possessions her mother has managed to amass.’

‘I wouldn’t want the girl.’

‘Why not? She’s a beauty.’

‘Fancy French manners.’

‘You would soon change those,’ laughed Clara.

He gave her his slow smile, but he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want the girl.’

‘You have to think of Hanover, my son, not your likes and dislikes. This English jaunt has cost me more thalers than I like to think about.’

‘Sophia Dorothea!’ breathed George Lewis.

‘Yes, think about it. But one thing to remember. Don’t let your mother know anything of this. Don’t forget how set she is on an English wife for you.’

‘She’s still mourning for the Princess Anne,’ said Clara. ‘Give her a chance to recover.’

‘Sophia Dorothea!’ breathed George Lewis and slowly shook his head.

ELÉONORE HAD BEEN uneasy all through the summer. There was a change in George William. Occasionally she would see the stubborn set of his jaw; he would disagree with her in a pointless way as though he were anxious to show her that she could not have all her own way. She was hurt, for she had never sought to dominate. Her great desire now was for the happiness of her daughter. For this reason she often invited Duke Anton Ulrich to Celle and with him came Augustus William, the boy who was now his eldest son. Eléonore’s one idea was to make the two young people the best of friends so that marriage between them would not be the shock it was to so many young people in their positions. She talked often to her daughter of her own romance and the great love which had arisen between the Duke and herself; she wanted a union as romantic and as enduring for her beloved daughter. And she had thought George William did too.

But he had become evasive; he had already postponed the betrothal; he spent more time lately shut up with Bernstorff who was a man she had never been able to respect. Perhaps George William was growing old and did not always feel as healthy as he used to. That might change him, make him a little moody.

But now the summer was passing and Sophia Dorothea’s birthday was almost upon them; she had made up her mind that on that birthday the betrothal should take place.

September was a beautiful month – the most beautiful of the year to Eléonore; and the fifteenth, that important date had always been celebrated more lavishly than any other in the calendar.

This September should be the most lavish of them all, decided Eléonore. She would invite the Wolfenbüttels to the celebration and the people of the town would crowd into the castle and its grounds to enjoy the festivities and to hear the good news that Celle and Wolfenbüttel would be joined together forever in friendship because of the alliance between the Crown Prince of Wolfenbüttel and the Princess of Celle.

She went to her daughter’s apartments where Eléonore von Knesebeck and Sophia Dorothea were laughing together over some secret joke.

Fraulein von Knesebeck immediately became serious and bobbed a curtsy when the Duchess appeared. Eléonore said: ‘The Princess will send for you when you may return.’

Sophia Dorothea smiled at her mother. ‘You sound a little serious, Maman.’

‘Just a little,’ Eléonore agreed. How lovely the child was! she thought. But a child no longer. Sophia Dorothea’s young body was in bud, ready to burst into bloom. What a beautiful woman she would be. A Princess, well educated, of courtly manners, she would turn Wolfenbüttel into a little Versailles – not a travesty of one as some of these German princelings had provided for themselves, but one of which Louis himself would not disapprove. She was more French than German – versatile, charming, graceful and gracious. May she be happy, prayed Eléonore.

‘You will soon be sixteen, my darling,’ she said.

‘But you would not look so grave if you had come to ask me whether I should prefer a ball to a play.’

‘No, that is no matter for gravity; and we shall decide it soon. It is this, dearest: You are not a child any more.’

‘I am glad you realize it, Maman. You have been inclined to treat me as one.’

Eléonore in a sudden burst of tenderness held the girl against her. ‘It is because you are so precious to me.’

‘I know. I know. Is it this marriage you want to discuss?’

Eléonore nodded.

‘I thought so. It is to be soon?’

‘Well, as we said, you are no longer a child. We should announce your betrothal on your birthday and the marriage should take place soon afterwards.’

‘And I shall have to leave Celle?’

‘My dear – Wolfenbüttel is only a few miles distant. You will be a constant visitor here and I there. You don’t imagine I would allow anyone – even your husband – to keep us apart.’

‘No, Maman. I don’t. But husband …’ Sophia Dorothea shivered. ‘I don’t like the word.’

‘My darling, but you like Augustus William?’

‘Yes, I like him. He’s very agreeable. He’s very kind and says he adores me.’

‘So you find him acceptable?’

‘I would rather stay as we are, but I know I have to marry, so since that is so I’d as lief take Augustus William as anyone.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘You know when they were talking about the Princess Anne and George Lewis … Maman, I felt so sorry for her and that made me almost love Augustus William.’

Eléonore laughed. ‘I am glad of anything that makes you love him. He is good and you will be happy with him. Girls can’t stay young and with their mothers all their lives.’

‘More’s the pity.’

‘You won’t think that when you have your babies.’

‘Ah … babies!’ murmured Sophia Dorothea.

Eléonore took her daughter’s hand and said softly: ‘You see, my love, I want to talk to you about this. I’m going to persuade your father to agree to the announcement of the betrothal on your birthday. I feel a little uneasy … I don’t know why … unless it is because I hate losing you. But I won’t of course when you marry Augustus William. He is like a son to me even now, and his father has always been my good friend.’

‘So it is to be soon after my birthday then.’

‘Yes, but say nothing to anyone, even to little Knesebeck as yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just have a feeling that it is better not.’

‘Maman, when I marry, Eléonore von Knesebeck will come with me, won’t she?’

‘Of course if you wish it.’

‘I do wish it. It would be good if you could come too.’

Eléonore laughed. ‘My darling, your husband would say he was marrying your mother as well as you. Moreover, what of your father?’

‘He would never be able to do without you.’

‘I shall pray,’ said Eléonore solemnly, ‘that you are as happy in your marriage as I have been in mine.’

Why was she uneasy? She was not sure. Sophia Dorothea was not really unhappy about her forthcoming marriage; she accepted the fact that she had to marry and the Crown Prince of Wolfenbüttel was of her age, a good-looking boy, in love with his bride-to-be. Two young people like that would be happy; and when the children came, Sophia Dorothea would wonder how she could ever have thought the life at Celle offered her all she wanted.

She would speak to George William without delay. She went to his study and entered unceremoniously as she always did. George William was in deep colloquy with Bernstorff who looked up in astonishment at her. Why? Did he expect her to petition an audience with her own husband? She had been accustomed to seeing George William rise to greet her with pleasure and, no matter who was with him, invite her to take a share in their discussions, to listen courteously to all that she said.

George William had risen; he took her hand and kissed it – as tender as ever.

‘We have a little business to finish, my dear.’

She was mildly astonished. It was a way of telling her that in her presence the business could not be conducted.

‘I will see you later;’ she said gravely; and she was aware of the smug expression in Bernstorff’s face as he stood there waiting for her to depart until he could resume his chair.

She passed out of the study frowning.

Yes, there was a change; and she was uneasy.

What business did her husband and his minister discuss from which she must be excluded?

She chose the time to broach the subject when Bernstorff could not interrupt them. In the connubial bed she was safe; and there George William was the lover he had always been.

‘I want to settle this matter,’ she told him. ‘The time is getting close.’

‘Time?’ he said gently, sleepily.

‘The birthday will soon be here.’

‘Ah, the birthday.’

‘I have invited Duke Anton Ulrich and his family to the celebrations … naturally.’