Jean Plaidy - The Princess of Celle

‘And why so?’

‘He seemed to me more amenable. You’ll make him dance to your tune, Sophia. I doubt whether you would have been able to have done the same with the other.’

‘Then there is nothing in the way of going ahead with the marriage?’

‘Nothing at all. I will write this day to Ernest Augustus and tell him that you will be delighted to take him to be your husband. I see no reason for delay, sister. You can begin making your preparations at once.’

He looked after his sister as she left the room.

Cold, he thought. Ambitious. But she would make a good wife for this Ernest Augustus. She was reasonable too, which saved a great deal of trouble.

Sophia dismissed her servants and sat down by her mirror studying her reflection.

So I do not attract him! she thought. He took a look at me, weakly agreed to have me, and then went away and changed his mind.

Good God! How repulsive he must find me since he is ready to throw away a large portion of his estates and his chances of ever having legitimate children – all to be rid of me.

She was not as cold as they believed her to be but as romantic as any young woman might expect to be. Before the smallpox she had not been uncomely – perhaps if he had seen her then …

But he had, when they were children, and he had danced with her and played the guitar to her and she had, in the manner of the very young, conceived a romantic fancy for him. When she had heard she was to marry him, she had been exultant; she had changed, become more feminine, dreamed of the future. And when she had seen him, although he had been cool to her and made no pretence that he was in love with her, she had continued to dream.

But he would not have her. Moreover, he was ready to pay a great price to discard her.

Very few women could have been so insulted. She should be grateful that the engagement had not been made public – but it would be known, of course, throughout all the German principalities and throughout Europe. Cousin Charles would hear … in Breda or wherever he was … roaming about the Continent, waiting for a chance to get his kingdom back. And he would commiserate with George William; he would say: ‘I understand the fellow’s reluctance. She was offered to me, you know.’

She would never forget how George William had insulted her.

But by good fortune there was Ernest Augustus and as nothing helpful could come of brooding on her disappointment, she must take what she could get.

Ernest Augustus! He had come to Heidelberg with his brother when they were boys. He was not unpleasant; he had some charm; it was merely that George William eclipsed him. Ernest Augustus had been interested in her, at that time; he would have willingly been very friendly indeed. But she had looked on him as a younger brother with few prospects and had no intention of allowing her name to be coupled with his, a matter which might work to her detriment if other suitors were being considered.

That was when she was young, of course, before her complexion had been spoilt, when her mother still hoped that she would capture the Prince of Wales.

And now he was to be her husband. He was not unlike his brother. When one did not see them together, he would appear very like him. In any case she had to make the best of him. She could endure no more delay. She wanted marriage quickly and children to make her position sure.

She must insist on her brother’s making absolutely certain that the documents were in order; and then she must receive her bridegroom as though she was just as happy to have him as his brother.

She would do it, she had no fear.

It was only in the solitude of her own bedchamber that she allowed herself to give way to thoughts of bitterness and disappointment.

Ernest Augustus came with all speed to Heidelberg and before there could be any more delays the Elector arranged that the marriage should take place.

There were balls and banquets to celebrate the event – which the Elector informed his sister in private, he could ill afford.

‘At least,’ she retorted, ‘you will be rid of me now. So this is the last expense you will have to bear for me.’

The Elector did not answer, but in his heart he knew she was right.

So the wedding took place and Sophia was not entirely displeased with her bridegroom. They were the same age; and Ernest Augustus seemed to have grown both mentally and physically since he took over his brother’s commitments. He was shrewd and ambitious; and that was what Sophia would expect her husband to be.

He assured her that he considered his brother’s defection as the greatest luck to himself. He proved to be a passionate lover and Sophia, being an ambitious woman, reciprocated, being pleased that the foundations of her life were now settled. It was not what she would have wished; she still thought a great deal about England – but of course that country was closed to her ambitions now. She had a princely husband, who was young and lusty; and she believed that when she had her children – sons to start with, to make sure of the succession – she would be a contented woman.

They left Heidelberg – first for Hanover and then settled at Osnabrück; and it was here that Sophia was able to give her husband the joyful news that she was pregnant.

Sophia lay on her bed, and those who served her believed that she would never leave it. She had calmly awaited this event all through the difficult months of pregnancy; and now she was battling not only to give birth but for her own life.

As she lay between spasms of agony she thought of the past, of her hopes, of her dread that she would never marry and make a destiny for herself and her children. It could not end like this.

‘I’ll not allow it,’ she told herself as she lost consciousness.

She heard the cry of a child and joy enveloped her, taking away her pain, leaving her limp and exhausted but triumphant.

‘The child?’ her lips moved, but no sound came.

And then – infinite joy – someone spoke. ‘A boy … a healthy boy.’

She lay lightly dreaming; then she was was aware of someone at her bedside. It was Ernest Augustus.

‘Sophia,’ he said, and his voice seemed far off. ‘We have him. We have our son.’

‘So!’ she whispered. ‘Then you are well content?’

‘You must lie quiet. It has been a trying time.’

‘But he is well … he is strong …’

‘Listen. He has a good pair of lungs, they tell me. He’s trying to tell you now.’

‘Show me,’ she whispered.

And he was brought to her and put into her arms.

The pain had been worthwhile, she thought. Gloriously worthwhile. This was the meaning of life. She would scheme for this child, plan for him; her first born.

They called him George Lewis.

GEORGE WILLIAM WAS restless. He had no desire to return to Venice. He was free to go where he would, for Ernest Augustus and Sophia were doing their duty for the Guelphs. They now had two sons, George Lewis was healthy, although excessively ugly, and little Frederick Augustus had joined him in the nursery.

It was amusing to watch Ernest Augustus as a father and head of the house. How he had changed! He no longer looked up to George William as he once had. He was the ambitious man on the alert to establish the position he had won by taking his brother’s place, anxious to make little George Lewis’s inheritance a worthy one.

He had recently succeeded to the Bishopric of Osnabrück, that See which was founded by Charlemagne. It was a strange selection, but the Treaty of Westphalia had decreed that the Prince Bishops of Osnabrück should be alternately Roman Catholic and Lutheran; and that the Lutheran Bishop should be chosen by the chapter from the house of Brunswick-Lüneberg. Thus was Ernest Augustus selected, and as it was an office bringing with it power as well as riches he had been delighted to accept. He had immediately moved his family to the Castle of Iburg and decided to make this his headquarters.

He was enjoying life. I should have made him pay me for what was done, mused George William. He made no sacrifice.

They were growing apart. Ernest Augustus was so much the married man, George William the confirmed bachelor. The only quality they shared was their deep sensuality, for although Ernest Augustus was married he was by no means a faithful husband. He did his duty by Sophia, giving her every opportunity to bear children, but it was not to be expected that one woman could satisfy him. He was determined to live his own life and made it clear that while every respect was paid to Sophia by his subjects, while she might rule the household as chatelaine, he must be allowed to go his way. Sophia understood this; she never complained at the mistresses he took; she had control of the children and the household, and was queen in her domain. Very well, she would not ask for the impossible.

So Ernest Augustus had done well. He even managed to travel a little – although not too far, nor did he stay away too long. He could see that George William was doing himself no good by his constant absences. He liked hunting, eating, drinking and sleeping with women. While he could get these and beget a family he was content.

Not so George William. Restlessly he flitted about the Continent until eventually he came to Breda, which had become known as the home of exiles, for in this pleasant town they congregated and lived recklessly and hopefully, as exiles will.

There was a royal set in Breda – exiled Princes and Princesses, Kings and Queens and the nobility who had reasons for wanting to leave their native countries, settled there. Some were rich; many were poor; and those who might not be able to compete with the rich hostesses of the Court of Restored Royalty in England or that glittering opulence of Versailles, set up house in Breda and contented themselves with offering hospitality to persons who, at the moment, were in the shadows but full of hope of returning to power, in which case they might remember the friends of their needy days.