by Norah Lofts
Christian said, “Lay them down, just as they are. We can continue later.” He laid his own cards on the table, buttoned his waistcoat and indicated to Brandt, who was nearest, to bring and hold his coat.
“Go away,” he said, “but not too far. This will not take long.”
Properly dressed, or almost, for in buttoning his waistcoat he had misjudged, he sat down, and left Frau von Plessen standing.
“Well? What is it?”
“I have taken upon myself, Your Majesty, to intercept an order. I have never done such a thing before and I trust that my breaking of a rule may be taken as proof of my seriousness.”
What order? He’d issued several that day. With the Russian Grand Duke and his woman—not quite wife, not quite mistress—arriving tomorrow, and Bernstorff’s agitation about the old Russian claim to the Duchies, the need for conciliation...he had been obliged to give a good many orders.
“It concerns, Her Majesty, Your Majesty,” Frau von Plessen said helpfully. Christian looked blank; the long session at cards and the wine had blurred his memory, at no time very strong. “The command that she should attend the banquet for the Grand Duke Alexis.”
“Oh, yes. Did you say intercepted?”
“I was afraid that Her Majesty would attempt it.”
“She must manage it. Whatever happens we must not offend the Grand Duke.”
“Her Majesty is not yet in a fit state of health. It was a very hard birth and only fifteen days have elapsed, Your Majesty.”
Christian had one of his brilliant flashes.
“I did not know, Frau von Plessen, that you had qualified as a physician.” He must remember that to tell the others; meanwhile he cackled at his own wit. And the old woman looked as though she had been slapped across the face.
Frau von Plessen was momentarily stricken and silent—not by the sarcasm, but by what was happening inside her. The loyalty to her King, part of her blood’s heritage and overlaid by a lifetime of rigid orthodoxy, of two years of making excuses for this latest occupant of the throne, crumbled into nothing as she realized that not only did she disapprove of, she positively disliked His Majesty.
“I took the liberty,” she said, “of consulting Dr. Imer. He is of my opinion.”
“He’s an old woman; and you’re another! All this fuss about having a baby.” He laughed again. “I forestalled you. I consulted the Queen Mother Juliana and she assured me that unless there were complications any woman could be up and about in a fortnight. I’m not asking her to dance a polka.” A thought flashed, another brilliant one, but it was gone before he could catch it and put it into words; that angered him and to be angry always made his head ache.
He said, waiting for the brilliant idea to return, “It’s because everybody went about saying how wonderful you were. Anyone would think you’d had the baby! You’ve got above yourself, Frau von Plessen. I will not tolerate presumption. And there is another thing...” the clever thought had returned. He leveled a finger at her and said furiously, “Don’t think I don’t see through you. There’s this quibble about whether they’re legally married, or even married at all; but let me tell you, Madame is received at the Russian Court and what is good enough for the Empress Catherine should be good enough for Queen Matilda.”
“I assure Your Majesty that that aspect of the affair had never once occurred to me. Her Majesty’s health is my only concern. She is not yet strong enough to stand to receive, or to sit through a banquet.”
He’d had enough of this.
“Her Majesty no longer concerns you in any way. You are summarily dismissed, Frau von Plessen.”
Now she looked as though someone had punched her in the belly. The dismay on her face, the sudden droop of her upright figure, merely spurred his anger and malice.
“And banished,” he said with delight. “You will be on your way out of Denmark tomorrow morning or on your way into the Blue Tower.”
The pride and conscious rectitude of a lifetime enabled her to pull herself together and to say with dignity, “I beg leave to say, Your Majesty, that my whereabouts makes no difference to my contention. Have I leave to withdraw?”
“Go to Hell,” Christian said.
She managed a perfect curtsy.
Christian, resuming the game, found first that he had forgotten the very elementary rules, and then that his luck had changed. He demanded that his friends sympathize with him for his lack of privacy, for the fantastic state of affairs where an old woman could not only intercept his order, but come pushing into his private apartments and scold him. His temper was not improved when Struensee arrived and said that he was fully in agreement with Frau von Plessen; women did get up and about—sometimes within a few days—but often enough they suffered for it later.
Struensee had now occupied the post as the King’s personal physician for six months; during that time he had minded his business, kept his eyes and ears open and studied carefully the relationship between Christian and his boon companions; Holmstrupp, the least amenable of them, the least grateful, often the least sympathetic, stood highest in Christian’s esteem; Holmstrupp, if he had wanted it, could have attained a seat on the Council; Brandt and Holcke, both politically ambitious, anxious for that honor, would never get it in a hundred years; Christian regarded them as playfellows and no more. When Christian spoke, as he did to Struensee, in confidence, about this troublesome business of the two heads, Struensee saw in it more than the complaint of a naturally indecisive person constantly called upon to make decisions, and often of two minds about them. He saw deeper. He saw that Christian was completely divided between his wish to dominate and his wish to be dominated; just as he was divided between his latent homosexuality—Knut its immediate object—and his desire to be a devil with the women, a desire inculcated and fostered by Knut. He was, in his own words, “a man with two heads” and Struensee, in whom pity sprang easily, pitied him, but not to the extent of losing sight of the thousands whose case was more pitiable; the poor among whom, as pastor’s son and as doctor, he had lived, and whose cause he could serve by gaining control of the King. For that reason alone he had accepted the appointment: he had not, as a doctor, gained the King’s confidence and, as a man, attained some influence over this so easily influenced young man, and persuaded him to think about justice and reform, then he would resign and resume his real work.
He was naturally a blunt, outspoken man and within a week had realized that where formality and ceremony and exaggerated respect were concerned, Christian had a split mind; in public he reveled in the exacting of servility; in private, with his friends he permitted and even encouraged great freedom of conduct; though here again he was unpredictable, quite capable of calling Brandt or Holcke sharply to order. Never Holmstrupp. Struensee realized that he lacked four assets possessed by the ex-page: he was no longer in his first youth, thirty-one, he was not conspicuously handsome, he made no appeal—Thank God!—to Christian’s streak of perversity, and he was without Knut’s single-minded, deadly self-interest. But he could serve the King as Knut could not, by promoting his health and alleviating his ills, and he could offer a domination, warmer in tone, wider in scope, less frustrating than that exercised by the younger man.
On this evening, when Struensee made his remark about women being up and doing, Christian repeated his sarcasm to Frau von Plessen.
“I did not know, Johann, that you had been appointed as physician to the Queen.”
“Nor did I,” Struensee said with a look of bright interest. “Since when?”
Christian’s ill-humor fled; he cackled.
“If the old woman had said that, I might have forgiven her. As it is I sacked her.”
Any dismissal of the high and mighty was pleasing to Knut. Struensee thought, Another injustice! But I am not yet in a position to make effective protest. Brandt and Holcke, the one with a great friend, the other with a sister in need of a near-sinecure, well-paid, were all attention. Brandt—with years of leisurely good breeding
behind him—was about to ask if Christian had a replacement in mind and then steer talk around to his candidate. Holcke jumped in ahead and said, “My sister would make an admirable Mistress of the Robes. She’s quite stupid.” He spoke as though it were a joke.
They all laughed. Holcke said,
“It is a better recommendation than it sounds. Frau von Plessen was clever. Her salon was a hotbed of political talk.”
“If I’d known that, she’d have gone sooner. Very well Conrad. Let my chamberlain have her name and I’ll make the appointment official tomorrow.”
With a couple of laughs and one of those instant decisions which so delighted him, between him and his annoyance Christian felt better and the game went on, Struensee now taking a hand. Christian began to win again. Nobody took much notice when, Holcke having made an error in tactics, Brandt said, “Stupidity must be a family failing.” Raillery, an exchange of insults just made inoffensive by a grin, was common coinage in this closed circle. Presently Brandt said something in so soft a voice that only Holcke heard. Holcke said, “That I will take from no man,” and jumped up and aimed a blow at Brandt, a blow that fell short because Brandt leaned so far sideways that his chair overturned. He was on his feet in a second and attacking Holcke. In a moment it was clear that this was not one of those playful scuffles in which Christian—but never Knut—sometimes indulged. There was some blood. Knut, feeling sick, averted his eyes and sedulously gathered the scattered cards.
Christian said, “Stop it!” in a voice of genuine authority, but neither man heard him. Struensee got up, took them, one in the right hand, one in the left, by their collars, pulled them apart and held them so, like a couple of puppies, calmed by the cutting off of breath which the pressure on their windpipes provoked. Holcke struggled and kicked, then gave in; Brandt raised his hands, tore away his shirt and neckcloth, wriggled free of his coat and hit Struensee in the mouth. Struensee threw Holcke away and, with his right hand thus freed and with blood streaming over his chin, fended Brandt off.
The evening, begun with an old woman who said frankly that she had taken upon herself to intercept an order, had ended with this disgraceful exhibition—in his presence. He had said “Stop it,” and they had taken no notice. On every side his authority was being thwarted. This was intolerable.
Of the fight itself he had had only a blurred, imperfect view; the far edge of the card table was the limit of his clear vision, and sometimes even to see that was a strain.
He said, “Stop it, or I shall call the guard. Now, line up in front of me. This behavior I will not tolerate; who struck the first blow?” Nobody answered. Which was the first blow? The one that missed its mark or the one that went home?
Both Christian’s heads were at work and one of them was too concerned with the necessity of hiding the fact that he did not see well. He knew that Struensee had ended the scrimmage; and Struensee was dabbing at his mouth with a bloodstained handkerchief.
“Who hit Johann?”
There was a little silence. Then Brandt said, “I did. Conrad cheated, I told him so and he aimed a blow at me. I hit him back. The doctor fellow interfered and I hit him.”
“I did not cheat,” Holcke protested in a very peculiar voice; the pressure on his windpipe had affected it. “Enevold accused me and I resented it.”
“It was,” Christian said, “a brawl in my Presence.” He looked at the two men; Holcke a bit ruffled but still properly dressed and trying to excuse himself; Brandt in a torn shirt, no coat and still defiant, calling Johann the doctor fellow...
Christian drew himself to his full height and in his most official voice sentenced Count Enevold Brandt to banishment...
It had been, in a way, a quite exciting and satisfactory evening.
Frau von Plessen walked back, every stairway, every corridor a narrowing tunnel, leading to the one end, penurious exile. Go to Germany and teach French; or to France and teach German?
She went back to the apartments, so loved, so carefully ordered, hers no more. Whose? Bridgit was still tidying the bedroom. So little time it took for a way of life to be destroyed; a walk, a few sentences exchanged and all was over.
“Begin to pack,” she said to the startled girl. “Call the others and set them to work. Everything in these rooms that belongs to me must be packed and ready to be removed by seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Under Bridgit’s puzzled gaze, Frau von Plessen thought of transport—no more carriages available, summoned by a mere word. With a sickening little jolt as she realized the significance of the order, she told Bridgit also to send a page to bespeak a hired carriage.
But under it all she was concerned for the Queen. Their friendship, born of a bruise, matured by a year of mutual respect, and sealed over the childbed, had never been one of ostentatious manifestations. Caroline had given her a brooch to celebrate the birth of the Crown Prince, and she had said, “If my own mother had been with me she could not have done more.” Frau von Plessen had replied, “It was Your Majesty’s example that inspired my fortitude.” But there was a bond, and the breaking of it—particularly when she heard of the circumstances—would pain the Queen. Women in lactation should not be upset. She could think of no way of guarding Caroline from the blow, but she might delay it for a little and she could evade the perilous business of saying a permanent farewell. She went in search of Countess Holstein and Fräulein von Ebhn.
“I have been dismissed—and banished,” she told them simply. “The reason we need not discuss; you will know all tomorrow. But if Her Majesty were not told, for as long as it is possible for a secret to be kept in this place, I think it would be as well. I propose to tell her that I am about to take a short holiday. When the truth reaches her—if you are careful—I shall be far away. A fait accompli,” said Frau von Plessen, “is always easier to accept. And now, where are the keys?”
The key to the jewel coffer was immediately available; those of the clothes closets which lined the Queen’s Wardrobe were never used, and had to be hunted. But they were found, and holding them in her hand Frau von Plessen went to Caroline and asked leave to absent herself for a few days on a small holiday.
“You need it,” Caroline said. “You look quite exhausted, Frau von Plessen. Look, his hands are beginning to curl; like little shells; like rose petals.”
She has the child, Frau von Plessen reflected; and although God’s will had in the last hour become difficult to understand, she thanked Him that this had happened after and not before the birth.
“I trust that Your Majesty and His Royal Highness have a good night,” Frau von Plessen said. “I will now go into the Wardrobe and see that all is in order.”
The keys, the keys, where were the keys?
What a beginning for Frau von der Luhe, the new Mistress of the Robes, appointed in the morning, on duty within an hour, faced with blank incomprehension from Her Majesty, who had not, it seemed, been told that she was expected to receive the Grand Duke or to take her place at the banquet table; faced with sullen inertia from the two ladies in waiting, both of whom resented her appointment over their heads;
and every closet door, every chest and coffer in the Wardrobe locked. And no keys.
The keys lay at the bottom of the Sound, tossed out by Frau von Plessen as she rattled by in the hired carriage. She had lost her post, her pension, her right to live in her own country because she had said what she believed to be true—that the Queen was not yet strong enough to take part in a public function. Neither dismissal nor banishment had changed her mind.
Of course, she realized, as the ill-sprung carriage bumped along, they would use axes.
They used axes. It all took time and time was in short supply because even when Her Majesty understood the order—so mysteriously mislaid—she said that the baby came first and must be fed. She said she could be dressed in ten minutes, and her hair took only another ten, Alice was quick and clever.
Caroline had not, since the birth of her baby, been fully and
formally dressed; and for one shattering moment it seemed that she could not be so on this important evening, for when the axes had done their work the character of Frau von Plessen’s final duty was revealed. Not one garment was fit for immediate wear. The damage was not vast, or malicious, seams neatly slit, frills and flounces removed, gathers loosened. And from every pair of stays the laces had been removed.
After a long day of uncomfortable travel and an almost inedible meal at a public table, Frau von Plessen went to a hard bed in an inferior room in what was, at best, a poor inn. Caroline sat beside Christian at the banqueting table and he eyed her with distaste. The puffiness of pregnancy had not yet wholly receded from her face and neck; her gown, borrowed from Fräulein von Ebhn who was nearest in size, was not grand enough to befit a Queen on such an occasion, nor did it fit its present wearer, slightly too short, slightly too large everywhere except across the bosom, where it was too tight.
He believed that she had been just a trifle late and arrived with some signs of haste upon her, in this unbecoming gown, her face badly arranged, on purpose, to shame him, or to show how much of her earlier, impeccable appearances had been due to the overseeing of Frau von Plessen. Or perhaps it was all some typically female rebuke to Madame who was so perfect that she did not seem to be flesh and blood at all; she could easily have been one of those porcelain figures which the Copenhagen factory was beginning to produce from models made in Dresden. (Her toilette, from first to last, had taken three hours.)
He wanted to hurt her and presently that head of his which was cleverest of all heads suggested the perfect way.
