The Princess of Celle: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  So the years passed – and while Charles waited for his throne Sophia waited for a husband. There was the attack of smallpox from which she recovered, but it had left its mark on her, and her beauty was not improved.

  She was beginning to despair of ever marrying, which would mean living at the court of her brother the Elector Palatine where she was not wanted, listening and often forced to take part in the squabbles between him and his wife, the poor relation, the woman whose ambitions had gone sour, who had no fortune – nothing but her pride in her birth and a love for a far-off country which she had never seen and which was becoming a fetish with her.

  Thus Sophia – twenty-eight and desperate – prepared to offer a warm welcome to Duke George William when he came to Heidelberg to propose marriage to her.

  Her maid dressed her for the meeting. It was not a new gown; there was no money for new gowns. Her mother, wandering in exile through Europe, continually suffering poverty, short of money, could not help; nor was her brother the Elector inclined to. She had her home at his court; she must be content with that. ‘Oh, rescue me soon, George William!’ murmured Sophia. And her eyes brightened at the prospect.

  While her maid was dressing her hair she studied her reflection. Her hair was rather pretty, falling in light brown natural curls about her shoulders; when she smiled she was not without charm despite the damage done to her skin by the accursed pox. It was a pity she were not a little taller, but she made up for that by carrying herself well and haughtily – as became a princess with English blood in her veins.

  She hoped George William would be pleased with her. Not that it should make any difference if he were not. This marriage had been arranged and he would have no more choice than she would. She hoped he had not changed. He had been such a charming boy – as her cousin Charles undoubtedly was; and George William, she believed, although he had had countless mistresses, was not quite so profligate as Charles. His mistresses would not be important though, as long as he spent enough time in her bed to enable her to provide the necessary heirs – and, of course, accorded to her the dignity of her rank.

  A servant came to tell her that her brother the Elector commanded that she join him in his apartments. She knew this meant she was to be presented to her future husband.

  One last look at her reflection. If I were not pitted with the pox, she thought, I should be tolerably handsome.

  She was announced, and as she came into the apartment saw her brother with George William. George William was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen.

  As he bowed to her, she lifted her eyes to him, and felt an excitement creeping over her. This was indeed the next best thing to marriage into England.

  George William took her hand.

  ‘I find it impossible to convey my pleasure in this meeting.’

  He was suave, elegant, gallant.

  His brother, standing a few paces behind him, was quite a pleasant young man but eclipsed by the other’s superior attractions.

  George William gave no sign of the deep depression which he was experiencing.

  He had decided in that moment that marriage was even more repugnant than he had imagined – and he certainly did not want Princess Sophia for his bride.

  There was little finesse about the Elector. He knew why the brothers were in Heidelberg and so did everyone else, so why make any pretence about it? The house of Brunswick-Lüneberg wanted a wife for its Duke, and there was no doubt that he wanted a husband for Sophia. He was tired of keeping his sister; her tongue was a little too sharp for his liking, he resented her cost to his household: and he would rejoice to see her the concern of someone else.

  So he arranged that the young people should have a private interview on the very day of the arrival of the Duke and his brother.

  Duke William, accepting the unpleasant duty before him, plunged in without any preamble, seating himself beside Sophia and taking her hand. His voice was cool as he said: ‘You know for what purpose I am here?’

  There was nothing of the coquette about Sophia.

  ‘I have been told,’ she replied.

  ‘Then I trust you are not displeased by the arrangements which our families have made for us. I do assure you that if this matter is distasteful to you …’

  ‘It is not distasteful to me,’ she answered sharply.

  He was surprised, and she turned to him laughing. ‘I am not going to play the part of coy maiden. Have no fear of that. I am nearing thirty. Time is running out. If I am going to give my husband heirs I should delay no longer.’

  ‘I had thought …’

  ‘That I was in my teens? Now come, my lord Duke, you thought nothing of the sort. You knew my age as well as I knew yours. Why, as soon as a match was mooted between us, I’ll warrant you discovered all it was advisable for you to know about me … as I did about you.’

  He laughed. She had a ready tongue.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is little for me to say but: Will you marry me?’

  ‘And nothing for me to answer but: I will.’

  ‘So the matter is settled then?’

  ‘To your satisfaction, I hope.’

  ‘It is the successful conclusion to my mission. I had not thought to complete it so soon.’

  ‘Then, my lord Duke, have you nothing more to say to me?’

  He took her hand and kissed it. His kiss was cold; and remembering all the stories she had heard of him she knew how different it might have been.

  He was telling her that it was a marriage of convenience and she would not be expected to ask for more. This was surely not the way he behaved with his Venetian mistress.

  And why? Because he felt no passion for pock-pitted Sophia, because he was proposing marriage only because his family insisted that he should?

  Sophia was greatly attracted by him. She was longing for marriage, to be the mother of children, to attain the rank and dignity which was denied her in her brother’s court. If her bridegroom were not pleased with her, she was with him.

  The marriage contract had been signed. There was one condition. George William had explained to the Elector Palatine that he could not consider marrying immediately because he had affairs to settle, so he wished that his betrothal to Sophia should not be made public just at this time.

  The Elector, afraid that any disagreement might mean he had his sister back on his hands, was amenable, and George William took his leave of his bride-to-be and with Ernest Augustus left Heidelberg.

  Ernest Augustus did not like to see his brother so downcast.

  ‘Oh come, brother,’ he said, ‘it’s not so bad. You’ll soon get her with child and when she has produced your son, you and I will go off on a little jaunt together.’

  ‘I have no great fancy for her,’ admitted George William.

  ‘Well, ‘twill not be necessary to. Cheer up. You must be in good spirits in Venice.’

  ‘Venice!’ cried George William.

  ‘The soon-to-be-married man should have his final bachelor carousal.’

  George William turned to Ernest Augustus and they began to laugh.

  ‘Come on! To Venice then!’ cried George William.

  ‘There to forget the future while we revel in the present.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll revel, for I have a notion, brother, that if I am married to that woman nothing will ever be the same again.’

  It was not even the same in Venice.

  Signora Buccolini surveyed him with suspicion, as he did her. He believed she had been taking lovers during his absence.

  He was changed, she told him. He was remote. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘You are in love with someone,’ she accused him.

  ‘No,’ he cried. ‘I’m not. I wish to God I were.’

  Such a cryptic remark did not ease matters; there was an attempt to recapture the old passion, but it would not come, and the bedchamber of the beautiful Signora seemed to be haunted by the Princess Sophia.

  He could not stop thinking
of her. She came between him and his passion. How could I ever make love to her? he asked himself. Other princes did in such marriages. But he was different. He was at heart a romantic; he was a man of taste and elegance.

  Oh, God, he thought, I could never make love to that woman!

  Marriage! The thought of it haunted him.

  ‘I would do anything … anything,’ he told Ernest Augustus, ‘to escape it.’

  Little Lucas, his son, was his only consolation during those days. The boy was growing up – proud and handsome; he asked questions about his father’s – country. George William guessed that his mother had been talking to him too freely – perhaps putting the questions into the child’s mouth.

  All the magic had gone from Venice. The flower-decked gondolas seemed tawdry, and the canals smelt unpleasantly. Even the women had lost their mystery; they were very little different from the German women. And he suspected his mistress was unfaithful to him.

  In any case he was no longer in love with her. He had returned hoping to start again where he had left off. It was a mistake.

  He awoke one early morning to find his mistress missing; he was waiting for her when she crept in before daybreak.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what I suspected is true.’

  ‘And why should you think I should remain faithful to you? Have you been faithful to me?’

  He said: ‘I did not ask for fidelity while I was away. But now I am here you prefer another man.’

  ‘Oh, you and your fine stories of your rank and greatness in Germany! Germany! What of Germany? And where is the money you promised me for your son?’

  ‘Our son will be cared for, never fear.’

  ‘So far he has had to rely on his mother rather than his father … albeit she is a woman of no standing and he is a Prince. Who is going to keep him when you go back to your Germany? Tell me that. Oh, I’ve heard rumours. There’s going to be a marriage. I know. And then we shall not see our precious Duke again in Venice. He will be living cosily with his lawful wife in his German castle and I shall be forgotten, and Lucas with me.’

  ‘It is true that I have to go back home, but I’ll leave a settlement for you.’

  ‘And the boy?’

  ‘I’ll take him back with me.’

  He had spoken without thought. How could he take the boy back to his new wife and say: ‘This is my son!’ He was becoming impetuous. He spoke without thought. This was what came of being forced into marriage.

  ‘Go as soon as you like,’ she snapped. ‘Or as soon as you’ve made your settlement. And take the boy with you. You owe it to him.’

  He was astonished. He had expected a passionate quarrel and the even more passionate reconciliation; but there was no doubt of it: she had her new lover and she wanted to be rid of the child. It was a sign that their relationship was at an end.

  I am betrothed to a woman who does not attract me, thought George William, and I must go back to Celle with my little Venetian bastard.

  Rarely had he felt so depressed.

  He returned to bed and lay thinking. There was a way out of his predicament.

  When he rose from his bed that morning he knew himself for a desperate man, and he was going to take desperate action.

  He dressed carefully, and went out into the sunshine. He stepped across the terrace and down to the water’s edge, signing to his boatman.

  Along the odorous waters of the canal, through the disenchanted city to the establishment of his brother, Ernest Augustus.

  Sleepily satisfied. Ernest Augustus lay in the sun on the terrace of his palazzo but he started up when he saw his brother, realizing from his expression the seriousness of his mood.

  ‘Where can I talk to you in private?’ demanded George William.

  ‘Here. Why, brother, what has happened?’

  ‘We might be disturbed here. We might be overheard. This is of the utmost secrecy.’

  Ernest Augustus led the way into a room; after locking the door, he drew the blinds, shutting out the bright sunlight.

  ‘I cannot go on with the marriage,’ declared George William.

  Ernest Augustus shook his head sadly.

  ‘I know you think you have heard this before. But you have not. I have made up my mind. I will not marry Sophia. In fact I won’t marry at all.’

  ‘You must. There’s no way out of it.’

  ‘There is. That’s what I want to talk to you about. You shall marry Sophia in my place.’

  ‘I!’

  ‘Pray don’t stand there looking stupid. I said you shall marry her – if you will. And why should you not? As long as one of us marries, as long as one of us produces the heir … what does it matter?’

  ‘But you are betrothed to Sophia.’

  ‘I think I must have had this in mind even then, because I insisted the betrothal should not be made public knowledge just yet. Listen to me, brother. You shall take my place at the wedding.’

  ‘I could not afford to marry.’

  ‘You could if I made over certain estates and money to you.’

  ‘And you would do this?’

  ‘Ernest Augustus, if you would but take this woman off my hands I will do much for you. Brother, for my sake … do this.’

  Ernest Augustus was thoughtful. Take his brother’s place. Step up from the youngest brother to the head of his house – for that was what he would be if he produced the son who would inherit the family estates. Christian Lewis had a sterile wife; George William would not marry; John Frederick would not be allowed to, either … and he, Ernest Augustus would have the honour of fathering the heir of Brunswick-Lüneberg.

  But suppose at some time George William did marry?

  He shook his head, but George William had seized him and was shaking him gently to and fro.

  ‘You must save me from this woman.’

  ‘There are too many complications.’

  ‘Nonsense! What complications?’

  ‘I’m the youngest.’

  ‘Our father was the sixth of seven sons and yet he became head of our house.’

  ‘That was agreed on by all his brothers when they drew lots.’

  ‘It shall be agreed on between us all … in just the same way.’

  ‘Would you swear never to marry?’

  ‘I would swear it.’

  ‘John Frederick would have to swear the same.’

  ‘He shall swear it.’

  ‘And Christian Lewis would have to agree.’

  ‘My dear brother, have no fear. This shall be done in such a way as shall give you no qualms … no fears of the future. Marry this woman and you shall have the means to settle yourself and start a family. You shall be the head of our house, I promise you.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Ernest Augustus, ‘it will be necessary for us to return to Celle without delay. There we will draw up the documents, for much as I trust you, brother, this is a matter which must be signed and sealed, and our brothers must be present at the signing-sealing ceremony.’

  George William clapped his brother on the back. ‘You are become a man of affairs already.’ Then he embraced him. ‘How can I thank you! It is as though a great burden has fallen from my shoulders.’

  In a few days’ time the brothers left Venice and travelled northwards, little Lucas Buccolini going with them. George William was planning to put him with foster parents; his education and future would be well looked after; his name would be changed – perhaps to Buccow – because it would be a handicap to the boy to go through life with an Italian name. He should have a place in his household, but that was for later. At the moment George William must give his mind to settling this little matter; and once Ernest Augustus was married, he, George William, would go off on his travels again. It would be different though. He would miss Ernest Augustus; and he would not want to return to Venice. Yes, everything would be a little different, for Ernest Augustus had already changed. He carried his head a little higher; he gave orders to his servants in a more peremptory
manner; he had acquired a new dignity even before he took on his bride and his new estates.

  Christian Lewis was thoughtful.

  ‘I see no harm in it,’ he said. ‘Ernest Augustus is willing to take over your responsibilities and if you will agree to his terms then, for the love of our house, let us get the terms settled without delay. We are no longer children and this marriage should take place as soon as it can be arranged.’

  ‘I will prepare my statement at once,’ said George William.

  ‘There is one point that you have not considered,’ added Christian Lewis. ‘What of the lady? How will she take the change?’

  George William agreed this was a matter which would need delicate handling. ‘A pity,’ he said, ‘that we did not come to this arrangement before I made the proposal. Never mind. It’s not a man she wants but marriage. You must admit that our young brother is a fine figure of a man.’

  ‘Let us hope that she thinks so,’ added Christian Lewis with a smile.

  ‘We will get the matter settled; then she shall be informed and Ernest Augustus can go to his nuptials.’

  ‘You understand all you are giving up?’

  ‘I understand absolutely.’

  ‘You may regret.’

  ‘I shall always remember that the price I paid for freedom was worth it.’

  In his study George William was writing his renunciation of marriage.

  ‘Having perceived the necessity of taking into consideration how our House of this line may best be provided with heirs and be perpetuated in the future; yet having been and remaining up to the present date both unable and unwilling in my person to engage in any marriage contract, I have rather induced my brother, Ernest Augustus, to declare that, on condition of receiving from me a renunciation of marriage for myself, written and signed with my own hand, in favour of himself and his heirs male, he is prepared forthwith and without delay to enter into holy matrimony, and, as may be hoped, soon to bestow the blessing of heirs on people and country, as had been agreed and settled between him and myself; and whereas my brother, Ernest Augustus, for reasons before mentioned has entered into a marriage contract with Her Highness Princess Sophia, which contract he purposes shortly to fulfil so I, on my side, not only on account of my word given to and pledged, but also of my own free will and consent, desire to ratify and confirm the aforesaid conditions to my aforementioned brother and promise, so long as the said Princess and my brother continue in life and in the bonds of matrimony, or after their decease leave heirs male, that I neither will nor shall on any account enter into, much less carry out, any marriage contract with any person, and with nothing else than to spend what remains to me of life entirely in caelibatu, to the extent that the heirs male of the aforementioned Princess and my brother in whose favour this renunciation is made, may attain and succeed to the sovereignty over one or both of these our principalities. For the same and truer assurance of all which conditions I have, with my own hand, written and signed this renunciation and sealed it with my seal, and thereafter handed it over with all due care to my brother’s own charge and keeping.’