Jean Plaidy - The Princess of Celle

‘I see.’

Clara laughed at him. ‘It’s one way of storming the castle.’

A few months after the sisters had performed the pastorale in the castle grounds Clara married Platen and Marie, Bussche.

From that it was an easy step to the household of the Duchess Sophia; and as it was one of his wife’s dearest wishes that she should become one of the maids of honour, as soon as a place was vacant, her doting husband procured it for her.

Thus was near-failure turned to success; and Clara could begin the real business which had brought her to Osnabrück.

SOPHIA DOROTHEA AWAKENED early and stretched luxurfously in her bed. It was a golden September morning – and her birthday.

For weeks there had been hushed whispering in the castle; her parents had exchanged glances when certain things were mentioned and she knew they were thinking of the pleasant surprises for this day. The servants had been bustling importantly for weeks; exciting smells rose from the kitchens; and the people in the town called their greetings to her when she rode out with her father or mother – and even they seemed to be sharing in the fun.

It was comforting; it was delightful – in fact it was the happiest thing in the world to be Sophia Dorothea of Celle.

Her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world; her father was the most indulgent father; and she was their adored and only child. Sometimes she wished that she had brothers and sisters, but if she had of course she would have lost a little of her importance. Would it have been worth while? That was one of the problems of Sophia Dorothea’s world. There had been occasions when the household had been hushed; when she had believed that there might be a brother or sister; but all this had come to nothing and here she was – reigning supreme – the little Queen of Celle, as they called her in the town.

There would be entertainments at the castle all day. Everyone must know what an important day it was. The day on which was celebrated the birth of Sophia Dorothea.

Sophia Dorothea laughed; she gazed at the mantelpiece supported by four cupids; there had been a time when she was very small when she had believed that they were actually holding it there; she used to lie in bed and wait for them to move, wondering whether the mantelpiece would come crashing to the ground. Her mother had explained that the cupids brought love. There was certainly love in the castle. They all loved each other so dearly – Papa, Maman and Sophia Dorothea. There never had been such love as they shared – so Maman said; and because of it they would be happy ever after.

‘For ever and ever,’ sang Sophia Dorothea.

She slipped out of the bed in the alcove and padded across the room, through the open door to the schoolroom. Her apartments consisted of three rooms leading out of each other – bedroom, schoolroom and parlour. In the schoolroom were two large windows and she loved to kneel and look out to the lime trees and the moat. The moat was to make them secure, Maman had said, secure from the wicked uncle and aunt at Osnabrück who did not love them.

Sophia Dorothea enjoyed shivering at the thought of the wicked uncle and aunt of Osnabrück; it gave real meaning to the security of Celle and made the love of her parents so much more precious.

There was going to be a ball today; she knew because of what was being done in the ballroom. Perhaps beyond the moat down in the wooden houses of the town people were waking and saying: ‘Do you know what today is? It’s the seventh birthday of Sophia Dorothea, the little Queen of Celle.’

And they would put on their best clothes and come to the castle, and she would be with Papa and Maman and everyone would smile and call greetings in German. She liked French better because she always spoke it with Maman when they were alone; but of course she must speak German sometimes.

Voices from without. It was too early yet. But the door was opened and there was Maman, her arms full of parcels and behind her Papa with his equally full.

They came into the apartment.

‘So she is out of bed!’

She hid behind the curtains and then leaped out on them. They had thrown their parcels on the bed and Maman had lifted her in her arms.

‘Happy birthday, my darling.’

‘Happy birthday, my darling Maman,’ answered Sophia Dorothea; for Maman had said they would always share everything – joys and sorrows, so it was equally her birthday.

Eléonore had to control her emotions as she looked at this child who grew more beautiful every day. Her hair was black, her eyes large and sparkling; her face a perfect oval, her skin so smooth and fresh; but it was more than that – a grace, a charm, a daintiness, which Eléonore assured herself was entirely French.

She loved this child so fiercely that her affection for George William seemed almost insignificant by comparison.

‘I am here too,’ said George William. ‘Happy birthday, my dearest.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’

She loved him very much but she did not share with him as she did with Maman. She could love only one person best.

‘And what were you doing out of bed?’ asked George William with mock sternness.

‘I was having a look at a birthday morning.’

Then they laughed together and sat on the bed opening the parcels.

There was a ball in the evening to celebrate the occasion, and Sophia Dorothea would open it with her partner.

She would remember all the steps taught her by her dancing master, who would be watching with apprehension; but he need not worry. She loved to dance.

Her partner was a tall boy – the most handsome boy she had ever seen, she decided.

He held her hand lightly and he had smiling eyes. She was glad he was a partner.

The others were falling in now – Papa and Maman dancing together; and Aunt Angelique with her husband the Comte de Reuss. Sophia Dorothea did not love Aunt Angelique greatly; she was not as beautiful as Maman and inclined to be a little resentful of all the devotion that was showered on her young niece. Sophia Dorothea had heard Aunt Angelique refer to her as une enfant gâtée.

She was not spoiled. Maman did not think she was – nor did Papa – and Sophia Dorothea was sure they knew far better than Aunt Angelique. She wondered if her companion thought so.

‘Do you?’ she asked forgetting that she was speaking her thoughts aloud.

‘I did not quite catch …’

‘Do you think I am a spoilt child?’

‘I do not know you well enough, but that I hope to remedy. If you are not, which I am sure is the truth, that is because you are too sweet-natured and sensible to be; and if you are – well, then it is the fault of others.’

Sophia Dorothea’s laughter rang out. ‘What funny things you say.’

‘I am glad they amuse you.’

‘You do not live in Celle?’

‘I am going to for a time.’

‘What is a time?’

‘One year … two years … three perhaps.’

‘That I shall call living in Celle. I am pleased.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I like you. You shall always’ dance with me when there is a ball.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do I dance well?’

‘Most excellently.’

‘What are you, besides a dancer?’

‘A soldier.’

‘Have you come here to fight?’

‘To learn to fight and … other things.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, because it is a custom in noble houses for sons to be brought up away from home.’

‘Then you will live here? You will be as my brother.’

She put her head on one side and smiled at him. Another one to love her, to spoil her? She was pleased. ‘This is the happiest birthday of my life,’ she announced.

The dance was over and she must take her partner to her mother; she wanted Eléonore to know how very happy she was.

‘But first,’ she said, ‘I must know your name, for how can I tell my mother who you are if I do not know?’

‘It is Königsmarck,’ he said. ‘Philip Christopher Königsmarck.’

‘Come,’ she said, and slipped her hand in his. ‘I will show you to my mother.’

Eléonore was looking for her and she cried: ‘Maman, look. This is my new friend.’

The days were more exciting. Sophia Dorothea would run to the window as soon as she was awake and see if Philip Königsmarck were in the grounds of the castle. If he were he would wave to her. They rode together; he told her about Sweden and it was interesting to hear of countries other than France, of which her mother talked so frequently, and Italy, which came so often into her father’s conversation.

Philip told her of the great family of Königsmarck and how they were known throughout Europe as great soldiers.

Life had become more exciting since that seventh birthday when she had first met Philip.

It was Angelique who was responsible for what happened. Sophia Dorothea did not know this or her dislike for her aunt would have turned to hatred.

Angelique came to her sister’s apartments one day and said: ‘Eléonore, I should like a word in private with you.’

Eléonore looked in surprise at her sister and asked what was troubling her.

‘Sophia Dorothea,’ answered Angelique.

Eléonore turned pale. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, don’t distress yourself. She is well enough … too well perhaps. I passed her in the stables a few moments ago with that Königsmarck boy. It was that which made me decide I must speak to you.’

‘What are you talking about, Angelique?’

‘Has is occurred to you that Sophia Dorothea is somewhat precocious and that Königsmarck is sixteen years old … almost seventeen?’