‘Then you should perform early in the entertainment, for the Duke may grow tired of it and retire early.’

‘Could this be arranged?’

‘I might arrange it.’

‘And shall we perform in the hall of the castle?’

‘If it is warm and sunny it will be out of doors. What will be the title of your performance?’

‘Pastorale.’

‘Fräulein von Meisenburg presents Pastorale …’

‘No … no. Pastorale Ordonnée par Mesdemoiselles von Meisenburg. You see the point is that we have just arrived from France and it is for this reason that we are given the opportunity.’

‘I shall see that you have every opportunity, Mademoiselle von Meisenburg.’

She flashed her brilliant smile at him.

‘We shall meet again,’ he said.

‘I hope that we shall,’ she answered.

When she left the castle she was elated. At last she had a friend inside – and an important once since he was the Governor of the Crown Prince.

As she stitched at her blue silk gown she thought a great deal about Frank Ernest von Platen. There was something about him that appealed to her. The weakness of his mouth perhaps. He would be malleable.

In the castle grounds the shepherdesses in their elegant French style costumes held the attention of the assembled court. The smaller of the two was very pretty indeed; her hair, piled high on her head, with a curl falling on one shoulder, was adorned with flowers; her cheeks had been delicately and expertly tinted; her eyes were very slightly blackened to make them look bigger than they actually were.

Her sister, equally elegant – perhaps more so – yet lacked Marie’s dainty charm. Her enormous dark eyes flashed brilliantly but anxiously over the assembled company.

She was thinking: We must make our mark!

While she danced – as they had been taught in Paris – while she sang in French she was aware of the impression Marie was making on the Crown Prince, who goggled at her, his mouth slightly open, his eyes lascivious. Poor Marie! thought Clara, yet rejoicing. But he was such a boy – he couldn’t be much more than thirteen. Ready to experiment, of course. But a boy of thirteen was of little use.

Clara’s eyes were on the Duke; that was why she noticed him yawning slightly. Was it failure again?

The Duchess Sophia was smiling graciously. The young women had a certain grace and she was glad of it. They spoke good French, but to hear French spoken like that always reminded her of her enemy at Celle and her thoughts slipped from her immediate surroundings to wander far afield. What would Madame von Harburg think of next? What new move would startle them? Madame von Harburg was becoming too friendly it seemed not only with Duke Anton Ulrich of Wolfenbüttel, but with the Emperor Leopold.

The two sisters had approached the Crown Prince and they were singing in their pleasant voices a song of welcome.

George Lewis liked it. Sophia watched him almost licking his lips over the younger girl. He would be another such as his father. She sighed. Well, they must have their mistresses. As long as he married the wife she would choose for him, what did it matter what mistresses he had? He was young as yet, though. Thirteen. Far too young to set up a mistress. Let him content himself at the moment with serving girls – which she believed he did. A necessary part of the masculine existence.

How hard these women were trying. Surely they weren’t trying to seduce George Lewis!

She glanced at Ernest Augustus. He was nearly asleep.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ she murmured, ‘try to look a little interested.’

‘Ah yes. Very charming. Very charming.’

What could one expect, Sophia asked herself. He was not as young as he would like to pretend to be. He still hunted for long hours; he attended to his business; and then he was awake half the night with some young girl in his bed. He had gone back again to Esther. What was it about that slut? Sophia wondered. Perhaps because she was so obviously a slut. Well, what mattered it. If it were not Esther it would be some other.

The pastorale was over. The women were taking their bows. George Lewis looked on slack-mouthed and his governor Platen and tutor Bussche were applauding wildly.

‘Some evidently enjoyed the performance more than you did,’ whispered Sophia to Ernest Augustus.

‘Excellent idea … these entertainments. Keeps them happy.’

‘There is no doubt,’ replied Sophia, ‘that it makes some among them very happy indeed.’

Back in their lodgings Clara tore off the blue satin gown.

‘So much wasted effort!’ she cried.

‘Oh Clara, how can you say that?’

‘The Duke was asleep.’

‘I thought the Prince was quite amused.’ Marie took up a mirror and studied her round pretty face.

Clara slapped it out of her hand. ‘You little fool,’ she said, ‘what good was that? He’s a baby. What good will he be?’

‘He’ll grow up.’

‘So will you … and so will others. I tell you there is not a chance in this place. We’ll get out. I shall speak to Father about it right away.’

‘Where should we go?’

‘Somewhere where they are more appreciative of our talents.’

‘I hear that at Celle the Duke is only appreciative of his wife and daughter.’

‘I was not thinking of Celle.’

‘Where then?’

‘I shall have to think. One thing I do know is that this place is no good to us.’

Their father came into the room. ‘My dear daughters,’ he said, ‘you were magnificent.’

‘You would appear to be the only one who thought us so.’

‘Nonsense. I heard nothing but talk of you both.’

‘Much good that will do us.’

‘You have made an excellent impression. For what more could you hope?’

‘That I had been able to keep the Duke awake.’

‘He is much occupied with affairs of state.’

‘A large part of his affairs are conducted in his bedchamber.’

‘Well, what do you expect?’

‘That he might have spared a glance for us. Surely we are a little different from his fat German sows?’

‘Hush Clara.’

‘I will choose when I am to be silent.’

The Count quailed before his daughter’s anger. It was recognized in the household that Clara ruled it; and it had been so for the last five years.

‘The Duchess seemed to like your performance,’ suggested the Count placatingly. ‘It might be that she will offer you a place …’

‘Because we dance and sing well? I doubt it … I very much doubt it. Listen. We must start thinking very seriously. Osnabrück is of no use to us. We must move on. We have wasted enough time already.’

‘I doubt we should have the money to pay our debts.’

‘Debts! We shall have to leave without, then. I am not going to stay here … wasting my time.’

A servant at the door had already scratched twice unheard.

Clara turned to scowl at the woman. What had she overherd? What had they said about their debts? This was maddening – quite frustrating.

‘These were left by messengers from the castle, Mademoiselle,’ she said.

Clara snatched the packages.

One was addressed to herself, the other to Marie.

Clara opened hers first, still retaining Marie’s.

Inside was a brooch set with small gems – a pretty glittering thing. There was a note with it. Would she accept this small token of a big admiration? He had listened entranced to her performance. He had never been so enchanted in his life. He trusted that he might call on her. It was signed Frank Ernest von Platen.

Laughing, Clara opened Marie’s. There was a brooch a little like the one Platen had given her, with a similar message of admiration and hope for a meeting in the near future. This was signed John von dem Bussche.

Clara threw the gifts and the letters on to a table. Marie and the Count ran forward to look at them and Clara watched them in silence.

They turned to her expectantly and she said: ‘Well, we set out to capture a Duke and a Prince. Our efforts have not entirely been lost. We have our consolation prizes.’

The Count said: ‘And you still plan to leave Osnabrück?’

‘No,’ said Clara, smiling. ‘I think I should like to stay a while in Osnabrück.’

It was not, of course, what she had hoped for; but she did not despair.

There was an old proverb she had learned in France. Petit à petit les oiseaux font leurs nids. She must remember it. Platen was besotted. He had never known anyone like her. And Bussche felt the same for Marie. Clara was energetic; she discovered all she could about these men. The fact that they were in charge of the Princes should give them influence at court, and that was very desirable, providing of course they had the wit to use it. This she doubted. Platen was a weakling, and weakness she despised, for it was a fault of which no one could accuse her. But there could be occasions when weakness in a husband might be one of his greatest assets, and it was often the best possible arrangement when an ambitious wife had a pliable husband. Platen was longing to be her friend, and Marie was being interestedly courted by his friend and fellow governor Bussche. There was no mistaking their intentions.

The Count timorously asked his daughter what she thought of this situation.

Clara replied: ‘It is not one I planned. It has happened. But I don’t think for one moment that being a married woman will be a hindrance to my plans … rather a help.’

The Count stared in astonishment at his daughter. So she was still aiming at ultimate power.

‘Platen believes that he will have no difficulty in finding a place in the Queen’s household for his wife.’