The Princess of Celle: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘So charming!’ sighed the Princess. ‘So romantic! You have promised settlements that would accompany a proper marriage … you have offered a morganatic marriage … you can do no more. I am certain that Eléonore loves you.’

  ‘Are you?’ he cried rapturously.

  ‘My dear George William, how delightful it is to be in love! Oh yes, she adores you. She would make you a wonderful wife and you would be the best husband in the world. You have learned the emptiness of mere passion, the dissatisfaction which must follow lust. You are in love, and it is quite beautiful. I believe you will win in time. I will give a ball for you both which will, in a way, set a seal on your relationship. When she knows how much all of us in Breda are with our dear romantic lovers, she may relent, for she longs to, I do assure you. Oh, how she longs to! She cannot deceive me. She is as much in love with you as you are with her.’

  He kissed the Princess’s hands with fervour. She was his very dear friend. If he were not so wholeheartedly in love with his Eléonore he would doubtless be in love with her.

  ‘No more compliments of that nature, my dear,’ reproved the Princess. ‘They might reach Eléonore’s ears, and then she would think she was right after all – fascinating as you are – to hold out against you.’

  But he was grateful, he assured her. He would be grateful to the end of his days.

  It was a glittering ball and the guests of honour were Duke George William and Mademoiselle Eléonore d’Olbreuse.

  They danced together; they talked together; and made no secret of their pleasure in each other’s company.

  During the evening the Princess called them to her and told them that it made her very happy to give this ball in their honour.

  ‘I want you to know, my dearest demoiselle d’honneur, that all of us in Breda wish you well. I want you to take this as a memento of this happy evening.’

  She put a medallion into Eléonore’s hands – a picture of George William set with diamonds.

  ‘What can I say?’ cried Eléonore, deeply moved.

  ‘Say what you have to say to him, my child. And that will best please me.’

  She left them together and George William drew her to an alcove in the ballroom as he had on the first night they had met.

  ‘You see,’ he said, ‘you must say yes now. It is the wish of everyone that you do.’

  ‘I want to,’ she told him, ‘but …’

  ‘I promise you you will never regret this step, my dearest.’

  ‘I do not believe I should, but I should never be your wife and …’

  ‘There should be a marriage.’

  ‘Not legal, not binding.’

  ‘It should be binding in every way.’

  ‘And our children, what of them? I could not bring illegitimate children into the world.’

  ‘They should have every honour that I could give them.’

  ‘I do not know. I cannot say.’

  ‘But you love me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered earnestly. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Now I shall win. You cannot hold out against me. Eléonore, my dearest, say yes now. Let this wonderful evening be the happiest of my life … so far. Let it be the beginning of all my joy.’

  ‘I will give you an answer tomorrow.’

  ‘And it will be yes.’

  ‘I think so … I hope so … and alas, I fear so,’ she answered.

  That was a happy night. He was sure of success. He was already wording in his mind the settlement. There should be a ceremony in every way as solemn as a marriage service. They should never have anything to regret.

  He was the one who must regret … regret the contract he had been fool enough to enter into with Ernest Augustus. Why had he not understood then that he did not want marriage because he had never been in love, that he did not understand love before he met Eléonore!

  He was angry with himself because he could not give her everything – simply everything that she desired. Still he would make up for the one lack. She should be treated like a queen.

  Tomorrow he would call on her father. They would talk … make plans.

  He lay sleepless thinking of the next day.

  His servant was at his bedside.

  ‘My lord Duke, a messenger.’

  Those fateful words. He had always dreaded them because they invariably brought disturbing news from home.

  ‘Bring him to me, without delay.’

  The man stood by the bedside, travel-stained and weary, yet with that elation in his face which was a characteristic of those who brought exciting news – good or bad. He sensed by the solemn look this one was forcing on his face that this was bad news.

  ‘My lord Duke, Duke Christian Lewis is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ cried George William struggling up. ‘My brother … dead.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. And there is more. Duke John Frederick has seized the Castle of Celle and has declared that he will hold it against you.’

  George William leaped from his bed; fate was against him; Eléonore was on the point of relenting; and now news had come to him which necessitated his immediate return to his own country.

  He presented himself at the lodgings of the Marquis d’Olbreuse.

  ‘Monsieur le Marquis, I must speak to your daughter without delay.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly,’ replied the Marquis. ‘I will tell her you are here.’

  Eléonore came eagerly into the room, but as soon as she saw her lover she knew that something was wrong.

  He took both her hands and looked into her face. ‘My love, I have to return to Celle this very day. My eldest brother is dead and the elder of my two remaining brothers has seized my castle there, and is attempting to rule in my place. I have no choice. If I am to keep what is mine I must go at once.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you must go.’

  ‘And I still have not had your answer.’

  ‘I cannot decide … I cannot. Pray give me time.’

  He sighed. Then he fervently kissed her hand. ‘I shall be back,’ he told her. ‘As soon as the affair is settled I shall be with you. But I want you to take these documents. You will then have no doubts of my feelings for you.’

  ‘You have no need to give me further proof. I know. If only I could reconcile all that I have been brought up to believe is right with what you are asking and what I desire!’

  He embraced her tenderly.

  ‘You will in time,’ he said. ‘As soon as I have settled this unfortunate matter I shall come to you or better still you must come to me. Now … I must leave you.’

  Within a few hours Duke George William was riding out of Breda, and when she studied the documents he had left her, Eléonore saw that he had settled on her his entire fortune in case of his death.

  She wept, horrified at the thought that he might be going into battle against his brother.

  If it were not for the thought of the children they might have, she would have written to him at once telling him that she would come to him as soon as he sent for her. Because of that thought, she wavered still.

  Strife within the family was an evil thing. All the brothers agreed to this; but John Frederick had declared that he would be revenged on his brothers for passing him over for Ernest Augustus without consulting the family. In the past brothers had agreed to draw lots and rely on luck; but George William had acted in a high-handed manner and bestowed Sophia and all the change implied on the youngest brother. For this reason John Frederick had revolted. Moreover, George William was bringing the family into disrepute. He was never at home. First it had been Venice – and now Breda. It was time he was taught a lesson.

  But when George William came riding back with all speed to Celle, John Frederick had no wish to take up arms against him and agreed that such problems as theirs should be discussed round a council table; but George William must understand that if he were to be allowed to rule his little principality he could not satisfactorily delegate authority to others; he must be present h
imself. These long residences at foreign places must come to an end.

  George William saw the wisdom of this. He must settle down. As it happened it was just what he wanted to do … with Eléonore.

  If she would come to him, if they could set up house together, he would ask for nothing more but to live quietly for the rest of his days in his own land.

  The brothers met. The death of Christian Lewis meant that there were prizes to be passed round; and as a result of the conference George William became Duke of Celle, John Frederick Duke of Hanover, while Ernest Augustus remained the Bishop of Osnabrück. They were all satisfied – even John Frederick.

  Now, thought George William, all that remained was to go back to Breda and bring Eléonore home to Celle.

  His ministers shook their heads with disapproval when he said he was returning to Breda.

  ‘My lord,’ it was pointed out, ‘if you left now John Frederick would claim what he did before. You would lose Celle, for although the people prefer you as their Duke your perpetual wanderings displease them. They want you to rule them, but only if you do so in person.’

  ‘It would be a short stay, I do assure you.’

  ‘It would be dangerous to leave now. You must stay at least a year before you wander abroad again.’

  George William was in despair. Eléonore was still unpersuaded; and it might be that only he could do the persuading.

  He wrote to her at once explaining the position. There was a short delay before her answer came back, telling him that he must forget her; for she had suffered from the smallpox and her beauty was gone. He could not love her now, and she prayed that he would put her out of his mind as she was trying to put him out of hers.

  Her beauty gone! He pictured her with her dazzling complexion ruined, the soft skin pitted in that disfiguring way which ruined so many who would otherwise be beauties. He wept; he mourned; and after a day or so he knew that he wanted Eléonore whether she was beautiful or not.

  He wrote and told her so.

  The Princesse de Tarente wrote to him. They missed him in Breda but they had heard that his affairs at home were no longer giving him reason for anxiety. Poor Eléonore was wretchedly unhappy. ‘She loves you, my dear Duke, do not allow yourself to believe otherwise. Do not believe what she tells you, for she is trying to make it easy for you to do without her. In spite of her sadness she is as beautiful as ever. She has the loveliest complexion in Breda. It breaks my heart to see her so sad, and I am sure you do not wish to break my heart, my dear.’

  He smiled when he read the letter.

  So Eléonore was lying to him … for his sake … to make it easier.

  He was determined on two things: to have Eléonore and Celle.

  He decided on a visit to Osnabrück. After all, Ernest Augustus had always been his friend and Sophia seemed satisfied with her fate, so perhaps she did not hold the jilting against him.

  He would ask their advice and help.

  Sophia received him graciously. How handsome he is! she thought. Being a little drawn, a little thinner, does not detract from his charm.

  He went to the nursery and saw the children. George Lewis was almost five, Frederick Augustus four – and both were healthy boys.

  ‘What do you think of my sons?’ asked Sophia, watching him closely for a trace of envy.

  ‘You are fortunate. My brother is delighted, I am sure.’

  ‘From what I hear you are not pleased now that you renounced your rights. Is it true that there is a lady in Breda whom you would like to marry?’

  ‘It is true. I want to have a good talk with you and Ernest Augustus about her. I think you can help me.’

  ‘Help you? You need help to persuade the lady?’ Sophia’s laugh was a little harsh. So he is in love! she was thinking. He could not contemplate marrying me. He preferred to give up his rights to escape me. And now if he is as enamoured of this French creature as rumours say, he is feeling he acted a little hastily. He is wishing he had thrown me over without bothering to find a husband for me!

  She could have hated him – if he was not so handsome, so much more charming than Ernest Augustus, if she had not decided when she had heard she was to marry him, to fall in love with him.

  ‘You will hear what I have to suggest?’

  ‘The contracts stand firm,’ she replied grimly.

  ‘Naturally. I did not mean in that way. George Lewis is all attention.’

  ‘He is an intelligent child.’

  ‘Two intelligent children! Lucky Sophia! Lucky Ernest Augustus! I am sure you will want to help me to be happy.’

  George Lewis was holding up a wooden sword.

  ‘Uncle,’ he said, ‘I shall be a soldier.’

  George William lifted the boy in his arms. What an ugly little fellow he was, but his eyes were bright.

  ‘We will go to war together, nephew.’

  ‘I shall come too,’ piped up Frederick Augustus.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Come,’ said Sophia, ‘dinner will soon be served. And afterwards we shall talk together.’

  They left the nursery and George William went to his apartments in the palace.

  They are contented, he thought; Sophia owes me no grudge and Ernest Augustus should be very grateful to me. They will help me.

  They had eaten well of sausage and red cabbage with ginger and onions – a dish to which, during his sojourns abroad, George William had grown unaccustomed.

  He thought longingly of the French cooking at the table of the Princesse de Tarente. But he must not think of Breda – only as to how he could bring Eléonore out of it.

  He noticed that every time he saw Ernest Augustus, his brother was changing. He was getting gross with too much good living – greasy German food, and the heavy ale they drank. He hunted frequently, travelled occasionally; and took his choice of the women of his court. A typical ruler, thought George William. How different his own life would be with Eléonore!

  And Sophia? She was dignified, never forgetting her royal blood, and as long as everyone else remembered it she did not care that her husband was blatantly unfaithful. She ruled the household and would never allow any of his mistresses to attempt to dominate her. She was the woman supreme in the castle; and as long as Ernest Augustus granted her that, he could go his own way. Now of course she was hoping for more children. Two were not enough; for this reason Ernest Augustus must spend certain nights with her.

  It was an amicable arrangement and Ernest Augustus was pleased with his marriage.

  Sophia kept her feeling to herself, which was as well, for George William had no idea of the emotions he aroused in her, and when she said that she wanted to help him, he believed her.

  When they were alone together he explained the situation to them both.

  ‘A pity she is a Frenchwoman,’ said Ernest Augustus. ‘I never trusted the French.’

  ‘Oh, come brother, we know the French have been our enemies. But that is not the fault of Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse and her family. Why, they are exiles from France. Louis has had them driven out. That should make you friendly towards them.’

  ‘You think that we can help you?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘Yes, by inviting her here. Treat her with respect. If you did so she would understand that, in spite of the circumstances, she was being given all the honours that would be due to my wife.’

  ‘She would not be your wife,’ put in Ernest Augustus quickly. ‘That is quite out of the question.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ replied George William wearily. ‘I have sworn that I will not marry. But I could marry … morganatically. You could have no objection to that.’

  ‘The documents would have to be very carefully drawn up.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  How time changed people! thought George William. Here was Ernest Augustus, wary and suspicious; and a few years ago he would have done anything in the world to please his adored elder brother.

  ‘Well, should we ask her here?’ said Er
nest Augustus to Sophia.

  She was pleased that he bowed to her decision in matters such as this; it was payment for refusing to hear the giggling and other noises which came from his bedroom.

  ‘We shall have to consider this,’ she said slowly. ‘To take her under our protection might be misconstrued.’

  ‘How so?’ demanded George William.

  ‘Oh, it is easy to make trouble. Look how John Frederick almost succeeded in snatching Celle from you. If you had not returned when you did who can say what might have happened.’

  ‘You must do this for me,’ insisted George William. He laid his hand on her arm.

  She was conscious of the hand there – yet successfully she hid her reaction.

  How he pleads for her! she thought angrily. He pleads for her as eagerly as he rejected me!

  ‘We will consider,’ she said coolly.

  ‘And you will give me your answer … when?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I shall expect you tonight,’ Sophia told Ernest Augustus. ‘There is this matter to discuss.’

  He nodded. It was time they slept together again, and he had no other project in mind for the night.

  In her bedchamber he sat on the bed watching her.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I think we should invite this woman here.’

  ‘You would be prepared to do that?’

  ‘I think it would be good if he lived with his mistress. That is all she can ever be, of course. We must make sure of that.’

  ‘Naturally it is all that she can be. I have his signature on the documents.’

  ‘I saw a look in his eyes tonight. Ambition, I said. And I fear ambition.’

  ‘But he has signed the documents. I have them under lock and key.’