Jean Plaidy - The Princess of Celle

They left Heidelberg – first for Hanover and then settled at Osnabrück; and it was here that Sophia was able to give her husband the joyful news that she was pregnant.

Sophia lay on her bed, and those who served her believed that she would never leave it. She had calmly awaited this event all through the difficult months of pregnancy; and now she was battling not only to give birth but for her own life.

As she lay between spasms of agony she thought of the past, of her hopes, of her dread that she would never marry and make a destiny for herself and her children. It could not end like this.

‘I’ll not allow it,’ she told herself as she lost consciousness.

She heard the cry of a child and joy enveloped her, taking away her pain, leaving her limp and exhausted but triumphant.

‘The child?’ her lips moved, but no sound came.

And then – infinite joy – someone spoke. ‘A boy … a healthy boy.’

She lay lightly dreaming; then she was was aware of someone at her bedside. It was Ernest Augustus.

‘Sophia,’ he said, and his voice seemed far off. ‘We have him. We have our son.’

‘So!’ she whispered. ‘Then you are well content?’

‘You must lie quiet. It has been a trying time.’

‘But he is well … he is strong …’

‘Listen. He has a good pair of lungs, they tell me. He’s trying to tell you now.’

‘Show me,’ she whispered.

And he was brought to her and put into her arms.

The pain had been worthwhile, she thought. Gloriously worthwhile. This was the meaning of life. She would scheme for this child, plan for him; her first born.

They called him George Lewis.

GEORGE WILLIAM WAS restless. He had no desire to return to Venice. He was free to go where he would, for Ernest Augustus and Sophia were doing their duty for the Guelphs. They now had two sons, George Lewis was healthy, although excessively ugly, and little Frederick Augustus had joined him in the nursery.

It was amusing to watch Ernest Augustus as a father and head of the house. How he had changed! He no longer looked up to George William as he once had. He was the ambitious man on the alert to establish the position he had won by taking his brother’s place, anxious to make little George Lewis’s inheritance a worthy one.

He had recently succeeded to the Bishopric of Osnabrück, that See which was founded by Charlemagne. It was a strange selection, but the Treaty of Westphalia had decreed that the Prince Bishops of Osnabrück should be alternately Roman Catholic and Lutheran; and that the Lutheran Bishop should be chosen by the chapter from the house of Brunswick-Lüneberg. Thus was Ernest Augustus selected, and as it was an office bringing with it power as well as riches he had been delighted to accept. He had immediately moved his family to the Castle of Iburg and decided to make this his headquarters.

He was enjoying life. I should have made him pay me for what was done, mused George William. He made no sacrifice.

They were growing apart. Ernest Augustus was so much the married man, George William the confirmed bachelor. The only quality they shared was their deep sensuality, for although Ernest Augustus was married he was by no means a faithful husband. He did his duty by Sophia, giving her every opportunity to bear children, but it was not to be expected that one woman could satisfy him. He was determined to live his own life and made it clear that while every respect was paid to Sophia by his subjects, while she might rule the household as chatelaine, he must be allowed to go his way. Sophia understood this; she never complained at the mistresses he took; she had control of the children and the household, and was queen in her domain. Very well, she would not ask for the impossible.

So Ernest Augustus had done well. He even managed to travel a little – although not too far, nor did he stay away too long. He could see that George William was doing himself no good by his constant absences. He liked hunting, eating, drinking and sleeping with women. While he could get these and beget a family he was content.

Not so George William. Restlessly he flitted about the Continent until eventually he came to Breda, which had become known as the home of exiles, for in this pleasant town they congregated and lived recklessly and hopefully, as exiles will.

There was a royal set in Breda – exiled Princes and Princesses, Kings and Queens and the nobility who had reasons for wanting to leave their native countries, settled there. Some were rich; many were poor; and those who might not be able to compete with the rich hostesses of the Court of Restored Royalty in England or that glittering opulence of Versailles, set up house in Breda and contented themselves with offering hospitality to persons who, at the moment, were in the shadows but full of hope of returning to power, in which case they might remember the friends of their needy days.

Sophia’s mother, the ex-Queen of Bohemia, had stayed at Breda; so had Charles Prince of Wales who had now returned to England where, he had said, he was greeted so warmly that it must have been his own fault that he had stayed away so long.

Through the streets the carriages of the once-great or near-great rattled; ladies dressed in the latest French fashions acknowledged the greetings of gallant gentlemen as their carriages passed along. Every day seemed to be the occasion for some brilliant ball or masquerade. The people of Breda were proud of their foreign population which had brought such prosperity to the town.

George William was welcomed. He was no exile but came purely for pleasure; his servants found a worthy lodging for him and in the first few days he received a message from the Princesse de Tarente inviting him to a ball.

George William was delighted. Breda soothed him; here was grace and charm which might have come straight from Versailles. It was different from Venice. The climate was not so clement; the romantic canals and the delight of a masque which ended in St. Mark’s Square was missing; but there was an excitement about Breda which Venice lacked; and he felt his spirits rising. As his servants dressed him for the ball he knew that he had been wise to hand over everything to Ernest Augustus. Freedom was worth anything.

It was a splendid ball and he was received effusively by the Princess.

‘My dear, dear Duke!’ she cried, holding out both hands to welcome him. ‘What a pleasure this is! We are almost related now. You were indeed a wicked one to refuse my niece. You look astonished. Did you not know that the Duchess Sophia is my niece?’

‘It is impossible. I had thought you might be sisters.’

‘Now you would flatter me. Or has marriage aged dear Sophia so much? I hear she has two splendid boys! How happy the dear Bishop must be! And you … oh no, you are a born bachelor and still determined to remain one. I hope you are not contemplating a short stay in Breda. We are two Germans, remember. After all, I am only French by marriage. But you will meet some delightful people … delightful …’

She was ready to greet the next guest and he passed on. Such enchanting women! He danced; he flattered; and it was like a hundred other balls he had attended until he found Eléonore.

She was tall and her dark hair, which was very abundant, was piled high on her head, although one curl was allowed to fall over her shoulder; she had a dazzling complexion and sparkling dark eyes; and George was struck by her air of dignity, which was rare in one so young, and of modesty which was even more rare.

She spoke German as a foreigner speaks it and he knew from her accent that she was French.

The Princess had presented him to her.

‘Take care of my little demoiselle d’honneur,’ she said, ‘and she will see that you are well cared for as it is your first visit to us and we want it to be the forerunner of many.’

Perhaps she was being a little mischievous. Perhaps she was thinking of his reputation for indulging in amorous intrigue, and Eléonore’s for virtue; but she as well as these two were astonished at what happened that night.

They danced together and they talked. Those who knew George William well would have been surprised, for his manner had changed. Into his voice there had come a gentleness which had never been there before. There was a complete absense of innuendo in his remarks; he was not planning the quickest route to the desired goal. Not that she did not delight him; she did, as he had never been so enchanted; but from the first moment of their meeting this was an adventure such as he had never indulged in before. He took her to an alcove lightly secluded by foliage where he said they could talk in comfort. He wanted to know why she was in Breda, how long she had been there, how long she intended to remain, what had brought her there.

‘I was at the Court of France,’ she said, ‘but we are Hugue nots.’

‘Exiled then?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘And you long to return?’

‘Not as things are. It would not be wise.’

‘So you live here in the Princess’s household.’

‘She has been so good to us.’

‘To you … and others?’

‘To my family. My father and my sister Angelique.’

‘They should have called you Angelique,’ he told her. ‘It would have suited you. Though I prefer your name. But perhaps any name which was yours would become beautiful simply for that reason.’

‘You like to pay compliments.’

‘And you to receive – although I know you must grow weary of them.’

‘I like best the truth,’ she said.

‘Perhaps I may meet your father and sister.’

‘I am sure they would be delighted. My father is Alexandre d’Esmiers, Marquis d’Olbreuse.’

‘Do you think he would be pleased to receive me?’

‘He is always delighted to receive friends of the Princesse de Tarente. She has been so good to us. To have many friends helps to soothe the … mal du pays.’

‘And you suffer from that?’

‘A little. Though perhaps not so much as my father. It is easier to leave your home when you are young. I think he often dreams of Poitou. He would love to go back. But how can he? His estates were confiscated after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes when Huguenots were persecuted by the Government.’

‘That must have been sad for your family – but I can only be glad because it has brought you here.’

She was quite enchanting, and after the first shock of being with the most beautiful and attractive young woman he had ever met he began to wonder how soon he could make her his mistress.

He was too experienced to make a false step; he knew very well that he would have to be patient. He was prepared for a little delay, but because of that, the culmination would seem all the more worthwhile when it was reached.

He went warily through the evening – yet as though in a dream. And when he said farewell to the Princess he had made no assignation with her charming demoiselle d’honneur, not being sure how this should be done.

‘I trust,’ said the Princess, a little slyly, ‘that Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse looked after you?’

‘Admirably,’ he answered.

‘I am so pleased. You look as though you have really enjoyed my little ball.’

‘So much,’ he answered fervently. ‘As I never have enjoyed a ball before.’

She laughed and tapped him with her fan. ‘I am delighted. Then my little Mademoiselle did her duty. She is such a good and virtuous girl. I knew I could trust you with her … and her with you.’

Two days later he presented himself at the Princess’s house and begged for an audience with her.

Once more he was received graciously. He looked about him for a sign of Eléonore. There was none.

‘You are contented in Breda?’ asked the Princess.

‘I am not sure. It has occurred to me that I should not give myself entirely to pleasure while I am here.’

The Princess raised her eyebrows and asked what he had in mind.

‘My education in languages has been rather neglected, I fear. I have been thinking that while I am staying here it might be a good opportunity to remedy that in some way.’

‘Oh? What language did you wish to learn?’

‘French. I was wondering if you could suggest a teacher.’

‘I doubt not I could find you one. Some old nobleman – an exile from France, very short of money – might be glad to earn a little.’

‘You have many French friends with you here in Breda.’