Jean Plaidy - The Princess of Celle

‘You would soon change those,’ laughed Clara.

He gave her his slow smile, but he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want the girl.’

‘You have to think of Hanover, my son, not your likes and dislikes. This English jaunt has cost me more thalers than I like to think about.’

‘Sophia Dorothea!’ breathed George Lewis.

‘Yes, think about it. But one thing to remember. Don’t let your mother know anything of this. Don’t forget how set she is on an English wife for you.’

‘She’s still mourning for the Princess Anne,’ said Clara. ‘Give her a chance to recover.’

‘Sophia Dorothea!’ breathed George Lewis and slowly shook his head.

ELÉONORE HAD BEEN uneasy all through the summer. There was a change in George William. Occasionally she would see the stubborn set of his jaw; he would disagree with her in a pointless way as though he were anxious to show her that she could not have all her own way. She was hurt, for she had never sought to dominate. Her great desire now was for the happiness of her daughter. For this reason she often invited Duke Anton Ulrich to Celle and with him came Augustus William, the boy who was now his eldest son. Eléonore’s one idea was to make the two young people the best of friends so that marriage between them would not be the shock it was to so many young people in their positions. She talked often to her daughter of her own romance and the great love which had arisen between the Duke and herself; she wanted a union as romantic and as enduring for her beloved daughter. And she had thought George William did too.

But he had become evasive; he had already postponed the betrothal; he spent more time lately shut up with Bernstorff who was a man she had never been able to respect. Perhaps George William was growing old and did not always feel as healthy as he used to. That might change him, make him a little moody.

But now the summer was passing and Sophia Dorothea’s birthday was almost upon them; she had made up her mind that on that birthday the betrothal should take place.

September was a beautiful month – the most beautiful of the year to Eléonore; and the fifteenth, that important date had always been celebrated more lavishly than any other in the calendar.

This September should be the most lavish of them all, decided Eléonore. She would invite the Wolfenbüttels to the celebration and the people of the town would crowd into the castle and its grounds to enjoy the festivities and to hear the good news that Celle and Wolfenbüttel would be joined together forever in friendship because of the alliance between the Crown Prince of Wolfenbüttel and the Princess of Celle.

She went to her daughter’s apartments where Eléonore von Knesebeck and Sophia Dorothea were laughing together over some secret joke.

Fraulein von Knesebeck immediately became serious and bobbed a curtsy when the Duchess appeared. Eléonore said: ‘The Princess will send for you when you may return.’

Sophia Dorothea smiled at her mother. ‘You sound a little serious, Maman.’

‘Just a little,’ Eléonore agreed. How lovely the child was! she thought. But a child no longer. Sophia Dorothea’s young body was in bud, ready to burst into bloom. What a beautiful woman she would be. A Princess, well educated, of courtly manners, she would turn Wolfenbüttel into a little Versailles – not a travesty of one as some of these German princelings had provided for themselves, but one of which Louis himself would not disapprove. She was more French than German – versatile, charming, graceful and gracious. May she be happy, prayed Eléonore.

‘You will soon be sixteen, my darling,’ she said.

‘But you would not look so grave if you had come to ask me whether I should prefer a ball to a play.’

‘No, that is no matter for gravity; and we shall decide it soon. It is this, dearest: You are not a child any more.’

‘I am glad you realize it, Maman. You have been inclined to treat me as one.’

Eléonore in a sudden burst of tenderness held the girl against her. ‘It is because you are so precious to me.’

‘I know. I know. Is it this marriage you want to discuss?’

Eléonore nodded.

‘I thought so. It is to be soon?’

‘Well, as we said, you are no longer a child. We should announce your betrothal on your birthday and the marriage should take place soon afterwards.’

‘And I shall have to leave Celle?’

‘My dear – Wolfenbüttel is only a few miles distant. You will be a constant visitor here and I there. You don’t imagine I would allow anyone – even your husband – to keep us apart.’

‘No, Maman. I don’t. But husband …’ Sophia Dorothea shivered. ‘I don’t like the word.’

‘My darling, but you like Augustus William?’

‘Yes, I like him. He’s very agreeable. He’s very kind and says he adores me.’

‘So you find him acceptable?’

‘I would rather stay as we are, but I know I have to marry, so since that is so I’d as lief take Augustus William as anyone.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘You know when they were talking about the Princess Anne and George Lewis … Maman, I felt so sorry for her and that made me almost love Augustus William.’

Eléonore laughed. ‘I am glad of anything that makes you love him. He is good and you will be happy with him. Girls can’t stay young and with their mothers all their lives.’

‘More’s the pity.’

‘You won’t think that when you have your babies.’

‘Ah … babies!’ murmured Sophia Dorothea.

Eléonore took her daughter’s hand and said softly: ‘You see, my love, I want to talk to you about this. I’m going to persuade your father to agree to the announcement of the betrothal on your birthday. I feel a little uneasy … I don’t know why … unless it is because I hate losing you. But I won’t of course when you marry Augustus William. He is like a son to me even now, and his father has always been my good friend.’

‘So it is to be soon after my birthday then.’

‘Yes, but say nothing to anyone, even to little Knesebeck as yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just have a feeling that it is better not.’

‘Maman, when I marry, Eléonore von Knesebeck will come with me, won’t she?’

‘Of course if you wish it.’

‘I do wish it. It would be good if you could come too.’

Eléonore laughed. ‘My darling, your husband would say he was marrying your mother as well as you. Moreover, what of your father?’

‘He would never be able to do without you.’

‘I shall pray,’ said Eléonore solemnly, ‘that you are as happy in your marriage as I have been in mine.’

Why was she uneasy? She was not sure. Sophia Dorothea was not really unhappy about her forthcoming marriage; she accepted the fact that she had to marry and the Crown Prince of Wolfenbüttel was of her age, a good-looking boy, in love with his bride-to-be. Two young people like that would be happy; and when the children came, Sophia Dorothea would wonder how she could ever have thought the life at Celle offered her all she wanted.

She would speak to George William without delay. She went to his study and entered unceremoniously as she always did. George William was in deep colloquy with Bernstorff who looked up in astonishment at her. Why? Did he expect her to petition an audience with her own husband? She had been accustomed to seeing George William rise to greet her with pleasure and, no matter who was with him, invite her to take a share in their discussions, to listen courteously to all that she said.

George William had risen; he took her hand and kissed it – as tender as ever.

‘We have a little business to finish, my dear.’

She was mildly astonished. It was a way of telling her that in her presence the business could not be conducted.

‘I will see you later;’ she said gravely; and she was aware of the smug expression in Bernstorff’s face as he stood there waiting for her to depart until he could resume his chair.

She passed out of the study frowning.

Yes, there was a change; and she was uneasy.

What business did her husband and his minister discuss from which she must be excluded?

She chose the time to broach the subject when Bernstorff could not interrupt them. In the connubial bed she was safe; and there George William was the lover he had always been.

‘I want to settle this matter,’ she told him. ‘The time is getting close.’

‘Time?’ he said gently, sleepily.

‘The birthday will soon be here.’

‘Ah, the birthday.’

‘I have invited Duke Anton Ulrich and his family to the celebrations … naturally.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Dear Sophia Dorothea, she is reconciled to Augustus William although not anxious to leave her home. We should consider that the greatest compliment she could pay us. My dearest child! I have always been concerned for the time she should leave us. I knew what a wrench it would be for her. We have been so happy together, have we not?’

‘Very happy,’ agreed George William.

‘And I pray that she will be too. I trust Anton Ulrich as I could very few people, I am so fond of Augustus William and he is of Sophia Dorothea. Who could help it? I am so relieved that she should marry so close to us. We shall be able to keep an eye on her … it won’t be like losing her.’

George William stirred uneasily; he was glad of the darkness. How on earth could he approach the matter of a match with Hanover? He thought of George Lewis that uncouth young monster – crude and coarse … and their dainty little Sophia Dorothea in such hands. The project seemed impossible here with Eléonore. And the child was reconciled to marriage with Augustus William. How could he say to Eléonore: But a match with Hanover would be so much more advantageous. Of course it would, but not to Sophia Dorothea. Eléonore would never consider it.