Even the Frenchwoman’s strongest critics admitted that she had wrought a miraculous change in their Duke. He had ceased to be a feckless wanderer, and appeared to care so much about his little community that he rarely left it; and it was comforting to know the Duke and his family were in residence. It was a reminder of those days when Duke William the Pious had been alive, although nowadays the trumpeter did not announce meals twice a day from the tower, and affairs were conducted very differently in the castle. It was all being Frenchified but, say what one liked, that meant elegance, greater comfort and more courteous manners; and the people of Celle were adjusting themselves very happily to the new régime. Then when the child had been born there had been celebrations in which they had all joined and very soon the Duke’s Lady was riding through the town in her carriage and the little girl was with her; she enjoyed listening to compliments on the child’s health and beauty.

She had decided that there should be alterations to the old castle; and the Duke, ever willing to indulge her, had agreed. This had meant the employment of local workmen and an era of prosperity began. All those who went to work at the castle were charmed by the Lady who seemed to be interested in them and their way of life; and although she was gradually changing everything so that the Castle of Celle resembled a miniature Versailles instead of a rather comfortless German schloss, they were interested and eventually delighted. It was gratifying to think that their castle, their Duke and his Lady were different from others.

It was so pleasant merely to look at her in her silks and velvets; and the little girl who was becoming so pretty, and very like her, was a delightful creature too. The Duke doted on them both and it was easy to see that he could scarcely bear them out of his sight. How extraordinary when they considered how other Dukes kept mistresses and lived in a state of extravagant coarseness. Their Duke was a faithful husband – and his romance with the charming Eléonore was smiled on throughout the principality.

There was another delight enjoyed by the inhabitants of Celle which was denied others. Eléonore had opened a theatre in the castle and with the help of her sister Angelique she arranged that plays and musical entertainments – such as those played before Louis XIV – should be performed in Celle. And not only were the castle staff admitted but the townspeople too.

Yes, the people of Celle were pleased with the state of affairs at the castle; George William was forgiven his earlier neglect and it was not forgotten that his reformation had been brought about by this charming Frenchwoman.

During the five years since the birth of Sophia Dorothea, while she had been gradually winning the approval of her husband’s subjects, she had given birth to other children who had not lived and it became evident that Sophia Dorothea was going to be an only child. This necessarily meant that all her devotion was given to this girl – and because George William followed Eléonore in everything, he also adored the child almost to idolatry.

There was one element of unhappiness in Eléonore’s life; she had known it would be thus and it was the very reason why she had withstood George William’s pleading for so long. Loved as the little girl was, she was illegitimate, and this fact was going to bar her from making the brilliant marriage which Eléonore wanted for her.

As they sat on the terraces, or wandered arm in arm through the gardens, this was the continual theme of their conversation. Again and again George William reproached himself for his impulsive act in signing away his birthright; again and again Eléonore assured him that he must not blame himself.

‘Regrets are useless,’ she said. ‘We must plan. Fortunately you did not give everything; and you are richer now than any of your brothers. Money is very useful, my dearest. We must use it to buy the best for Sophia Dorothea.’

A kinsman of George William’s, Anton Ulrich, Duke of Wolfenbüttel, had written telling them that he proposed calling on them and was bringing with him his son Augustus Frederick who was sixteen. He thought they might have interesting matters to discuss.

‘It can mean one thing,’ said Eléonore. ‘He wants a betrothal between Augustus Frederick and Sophia Dorothea.’

George William agreed that if this were so, it was an excellent proposition, for Wolfenbüttel was a senior branch of the House of Brunswick; and if Duke Anton Ulrich was contemplating marrying his son to their daughter, it could only mean that he was ignoring the little girl’s illegitimacy.

‘You would agree?’ he asked.

‘It would be an excellent match. I should want her to be happy though … as we are. I would never wish her to marry against her will, however brilliant the match.’

George William leaned towards her and kissed her. The servants had grown accustomed to these gestures of affection; they thought them odd in a German Prince, but regarded them as the French influence, and in any case they were an outward sign of that harmony which it was to the advantage of all to maintain.

‘But,’ went on Eléonore, ‘I am pleased that Anton Ulrich should make the suggestion. We shall consider it with pleasure.’

He laughed indulgently. How like this Eléonore – who, in law, had no standing, whose beloved daughter was illegitimate – to talk of considering an offer from a German Duke who was of a senior branch of the Brunswick family.

The sounds of arrival were in the courtyard. How calm she was, how unhurried!

When Anton Ulrich appeared she rose to greet him with the grace of a Queen; and Anton Ulrich who had been prepared to dispense with certain ceremonies in the circumstances, found himself quickly reverting to them.

‘Welcome to Celle,’ said Eléonore.

Anton Ulrich presented his son – a pleasant youth who was completely captivated by the beautiful Eléonore and unable to hide the fact.

‘We are honoured that you should visit us,’ said George William.

‘We have heard such accounts of the court you hold here that we could no longer stay away.’

It was indeed a little court, thought Anton Ulrich. The banquet was not only magnificent but tastefully served.

He noticed that although the lackeys still wore the Celle livery – yellow stockings, blue coats trimmed with grey lace, and gold or silk buttons according to their rank – as they did in the days of William the Pious, they looked different. He suspected their liveries might have been new for this visit. Yes, George William of Celle was a rich man; they must get round this matter of the daughter’s illegitimacy in some way for the child – bastard or not – would inherit all this wealth which could be put to good use in Wolfenbüttel. Moreover, it was always advantageous when principalities were joined, and even the estates which remained George William’s allied with theirs would make one very powerful unit.

The table talk was elegant and although the German dishes were served there were others – rather mysterious but far more pleasant to look at than sauerkraut and smoked sausages and the usual red cabbage, ginger and onions. There was wine – French wines too – as well as the cloudy beer they drank so much in Germany.

And after the banquet there was a theatrical performance in which the Lady and her sister took parts – as did the enchanting little Sophia Dorothea. A precocious child, Anton Ulrich noted, as children were apt to be who were very certain that they were doted on.

‘An excellent entertainment,’ he said. ‘Why, cousin, you’re a regular little King in this court here in Celle.’

‘It’s a good life,’ admitted George William, ‘and I ask no other.’

When Anton Ulrich found himself alone with George William and Eléonore he came to the point of his visit.

‘Your daughter is a child as yet but you will wish her to marry early. I thought we might consider the advantages of a match between our children.’

‘Augustus Frederick is ten years older than Sophia Dorothea,’ pointed out Eléonore.

‘A mere nothing, my dear cousin. She is bright and intelligent beyond her years. She will be ready for early marriage.’

‘You suggest that we should examine the advantages,’ went on Eléonore. ‘There is no harm in doing that.’

Anton Ulrich glanced at George William. Did he then allow his wife to manage his affairs? It seemed that he did for he was nodding his assent to all that Eléonore said.

‘It would please me very much to see a marriage between our houses. Your daughter would acquire rank and I’ll be perfectly frank, cousin, I doubt not that she would bring with her a good dowry.’

‘All that we have will be hers one day,’ admitted George William solemnly.

‘Well then, let us consider these matters.’

As they talked a flush appeared beneath Eléonore’s smooth skin. This could mean only one thing. Duke Anton Ulrich did not regard Sophia Dorothea as illegitimate, for by the German law a prince of a sovereign family could only marry a princess or a countess.

Did this mean that this was how Sophia Dorothea was regarded throughout Germany? Did it mean that the morganatic marriage was regarded as a true one?

It was too much to hope for. Anton Ulrich needed the wealth Sophia Dorothea would bring. But the betrothal must be accepted, Eléonore decided; and it must be soon, for the future of Sophia Dorothea depended on it.

When they were alone in their bedchamber she spoke to George William about the importance of this.

‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that Anton Ulrich expects us to do something about having our daughter legitimized. Augustus Frederick could not marry her unless she were. I fancy he was telling us that by the time she is marriageable this must be done.’