While she dreamed one of her maids brought her more flowers and would not say who had sent them.

‘They have been gathered from the gardens,’ said Sophia Dorothea. She knew it was the page. How bold! How daring! But then Sigurd and Philip Königsmarck were bold.

A note fell from the flowers; she laughed and read it. It said that the writer would die for her. ‘He’s already told me that,’ she said. She was the most beautiful creature in the world and he only lived to serve her. He signed his name boldly.

‘Well,’ said Sophia Dorothea. ‘He is a very bold young man.’

But she kissed the note and slipped it into a drawer. Then she went down to join her parents.

When the Emperor had granted the legitimization of Sophia, Ernest Augustus had agreed with Duchess Sophia that they must be more watchful of what went on at Celle. ‘For you may depend upon it,’ pointed out Sophia, ‘French Madame will not stop at this.’ Ernest Augustus had agreed, and as a result they had planted spies in the castle of Celle. A maid here, a page there – all occupied in moderately menial tasks so that they would call little attention to themselves. One of these – a maid who had been posted to the apartments of Sophia Dorothea – was quickly aware of the devotion of the romantic page; the woman saw the flowers delivered, saw Sophia Dorothea with the note – for it had not entered the girl’s head that she could have any enemies in her father’s castle and she was very careless – and immediately she was alone in the room the maid went to the drawer into which Sophia Dorothea had thrust it. She read it but put it back, and then went to the person who could cause most trouble: the Countess Ruess.

Angelique pounced triumphantly on the note and carried it to her sister.

‘There, you see. That is what is going on.’

‘Where did you find this?’

‘In your daughter’s apartments.’

‘You mean you …’

‘I found it. Let it rest there. You should rejoice that I did so, for now you can no longer be blind.’

Eléonore summoned her daughter, and showed her the note.

‘Oh, that is from one of the pages,’ Sophia Dorothea explained.

‘But he is telling you he is in love with you!’

‘Oh yes,’ said Sophia Dorothea.

Eléonore looked in horror at this beautiful girl. ‘But my darling, do you not know what this means?’

‘It means that he would die for me. He says so.’

Innocence! thought Eléonore. Absolute innocence! But there was need to protect her.

‘If ever anyone in the household – or anyone else for that matter – writes a note such as this to you, you must bring it to me at once.’

‘Yes, Maman.’

‘There! Do not look so worried. It is over. But remember in future that you must tell me what is going on. Have we not always shared everything?’

Sophia Dorothea threw her arms about her mother. ‘Oh yes, Maman; and we always will.’

‘Now, my precious, that is well. Think no more of this.’

‘And if he sends more notes you want me to bring them to you? I hope you won’t scold him, Maman, because he is really a very good page.’

‘He will send you no more,’ said Eléonore.

She ordered that the page was to be put into one of the castle dungeons until it was decided what should be done with him.

After a few days he was banished from Celle.

‘It is better,’ said Eléonore, ‘that this affair should be forgotten as soon as possible.’

But meanwhile the spy had reported the incident to Osnabrück.

Duchess Sophia was delighted to hear of the scandal.

‘But is this not exactly what we should have expected from them?’ she demanded of Ernest Augustus.

He merely shrugged his shoulders. ‘I would expect it from any. It is the way of the world.’

Acid retorts sprang to the lips of Sophia, but she silenced them. Ernest Augustus was willing to treat her with respect so long as she acknowledged him the head of the house; she was prepared to do this as long as she had her way where she wanted it; but to achieve this she must work to some extent underground. He liked to follow his masculine pursuits – hunting, travelling a little, eating, drinking, fornicating; but at least he was growing more and more shrewd as the years passed by; yet he could never feel the venom she did for his brother’s wife. He thought George William had been a fool, and still was over the woman; but he had no desire to indulge in blacking the characters of Eléonore and her daughter.

Eléonore was clever; the child was pretty by all accounts and it was the most natural thing in the world that a page should fall in love with her. As long as that fool of a brother of his didn’t try to take anything back that he had forfeited, Ernest Augustus was willing to live at peace and without rancour.

But Sophia did not intend to forget the incident. It could, she believed, do some harm to the family at Celle, for when people were in a delicate position it was always easier to besmirch them than if they were living normal and conventional lives.

Sophia declared that since Sophia Dorothea’s mother was merely the Madame of the Duke, it was not to be wondered at that the girl showed herself to be indiscreetly promiscuous.

She eased her annoyance by writing to the Duchess of Orléans. ‘What a pity that we ever asked that clot of dirt to our court. If we had not George William could not have brought her to Celle. We could have found some other catin for him who would have known her place. But never fear. Give Mademoiselle Sophia Dorothea a little while and she will provide us with something to talk of. She is a little canaille. You will see.’

Sophia could trust the Duchess of Orléans to spread the story of the page, embellishing and garnishing it to give it a more shocking flavour.

And so the story which Eleónore had been at such pains to keep secret reached the ears of Anton Ulrich.

‘It is time Sophia Dorothea was married,’ was his comment.

But here was a dilemma. Sophia Dorothea had been legitimized, but still her parents were not properly married. This seemed a serious drawback in the eyes of Anton Ulrich and he rode over to Celle to discuss the matter.

Seated in the apartments of George William and Eléonore, Anton Ulrich looked out past the lime trees to the moat and said: ‘I do not think the Emperor would deny the permission. Already he has shown himself friendly to you both.’

‘There is Ernest Augustus to consider,’ pointed out George William.

‘But if it was the Emperor’s wish and he was to lose nothing by the marriage, I do not see how he can object.’

‘We could try,’ suggested Eléonore.

‘And,’ said Duke Anton Ulrich, ‘if I added my pleas to yours, and explained the circumstances to him, I do not think he would deny us what we want.’

‘And my brother …’ began George William uneasily.

‘Well, we might try the Emperor first; and if we get his consent, then we can begin to consider where your brother comes into this.’

‘Let us try it,’ cried Eléonore with shining eyes.

Duke Anton Ulrich turned to her; he respected her drive and determination far more than he did her husband’s. George William, he decided, had grown soft over the years. He was more enamoured of peace and quiet than perhaps it was good for a man to be.

Anton Ulrich’s suggestion proved a good one. The Emperor had no desire to put anything in the way of the marriage, providing the two brothers could work out an amicable solution.

Ernest Augustus sat long with his lawyers. It was difficult to oppose the marriage since the Emperor was agreeable; but he was going to see that his interests were well looked after.

Messengers went back and forth between Osnabrück and Celle, and at last a document was drawn up in which Ernest Augustus agreed that George William should be joined in holy matrimony with Eléonore von Harburg, the Countess of Wilhelmsburg; and that their daughter should bear the arms of a Princess of Brunswick-Lüneberg.

But there was uneasiness at Osnabrück as great as there were rejoicings at Celle, where the most elaborate arrangements were made for the celebrating of the wedding.

And there in the church at Celle amidst glittering ceremony George William led Eléonore to the altar; and they were solemnly married.

Duke Anton Ulrich, with an important following from his own court, was present; so was the rather bewildered Sophia Dorothea, who was enjoying an experience denied to many – being present at her parents’ marriage.

Everyone was happy and Eléonore radiant; she had achieved success at last. Her daughter a Princess; herself a legitimate wife.

When she saw the children together – her beloved daughter and Anton Ulrich’s son – she exulted. Anton Ulrich had proved himself to be a good friend to her and when the houses of Celle and Wolfenbüttel were joined they would be far more powerful than the court at Osnabrück.

Even on such a day she must recall her enemies and when she thought of them it was not Ernest Augustus whom she dreaded but Sophia.

But this was a day for rejoicing. A day of triumph and perfect happiness.

Her triumph was even greater when the Emperor Leopold came to the neighbourhood and Eléonore was presented to him. He was charmed by her; he was delighted with her success; and he bestowed upon her the title of Duchess of Celle.

Now she had everything. There was nothing more to fear. She was invulnerable; no one would dare cast slights at her again.

But the Duchess Sophia was going to lose no opportunity of keeping the newly created Duchess of Celle where she, Sophia, considered she belonged.