by Jean Plaidy
‘After the Duchess Sophia who was our hostess for so long. It is a graceful gesture.’
‘Yes,’ said Eléonore smiling. ‘She shall be Sophia Dorothea. They are pleasant together. My little Sophia Dorothea who must have the best in life.’
‘Sophia Dorothea,’ repeated George William; and as he agreed with Eléonore in all things he did in this.
‘What a fuss!’ cried Sophia. ‘What a pother … and all for the birth of one little bastard! What are they trying to tell us? That she is not? Ha! They may tell us all they will but that cannot alter facts.’
She rode over to Celle to see the new baby.
A pretty child, she had to admit.
She herself had just had the good fortune to bear a child. ‘A son,’ she told Eléonore proudly. ‘Now you are going to be envious.’
‘No. Now that we have our little daughter we would not change her for any boy.’
An oft repeated protest! thought Sophia grimly. And an absurd one. What ambitious woman would not rather have a son than a daughter! But perhaps if the child was a bastard …
‘My little Maximilian William is a bright little fellow. I’ll swear he already knows me.’
‘I am happy for your sake.’
‘And I for yours, my dear. And the child is to be Sophia Dorothea. A good German name. You were wise in that. In fact, I begin to think you are full of wisdom.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘That is one thing of which I am rarely guilty. It is rather a fault of you French than of us English. You look surprised. But I am English, you know. My mother was an English Princess. It is sad news I have from my friends there. While this child was being born London was being ravaged by fire. It lasted four days they tell me and thirteen thousand houses as well as ninety churches were razed to the ground … and only a year ago they were suffering from the Great Plague.’
‘I had not heard the news.’
‘Why should you? You are not English, but I see that I am well informed of what is happening in my cousin’s country.’
‘I heard it said that the plague was a visitation because of the morals of the King.’
‘Morals of the King!’ said Sophia, her eyes flashing with rage. How dared the woman … this unmarried mother … how dared she have the effrontery to critize a King … and a King of England at that! ‘My dear Madame von Harburg, it is not for lesser folk to judge Kings. A king it seems must have his mistresses – as men will. One does not blame them for a natural custom.’
‘But I thought you would wish to hear what I had heard since you are always pleased to hear of England,’ replied Eléonore quietly.
Conversation was a little strained afterwards, and Sophia very soon took her leave.
She was thoughtful as she rode back to Osnabrück. We shall have to be very careful of that woman, she thought. She could be dangerous. She was always too clever, pretending reluctance in order to make herself more precious. Now she’s a tigress with a cub to fight for. She will fight.
Sophia was right. After she had left Eléonore lay in her bed thinking deeply of what she could to do make her little Sophia Dorothea the equal of her cousins of Osnabrück.
The Rival Courts
THE PEOPLE OF Celle were content with their Duke and his wife. They had naturally been a little suspicious of the foreigner at first, particularly when she appeared to be somewhat fastidious and so elegant. One glance was enough to show that she did not belong to Celle and they had resented this.
But she did not appear aware of their resentment; when she rode through the town she smiled and acknowledged their greeting in a manner which was strange but which could not fail to charm them; and during the first months of their return the main topic of conversation was the Duke and his Madame, as they called her; it was significant that later they changed that to his Lady.
Even the Frenchwoman’s strongest critics admitted that she had wrought a miraculous change in their Duke. He had ceased to be a feckless wanderer, and appeared to care so much about his little community that he rarely left it; and it was comforting to know the Duke and his family were in residence. It was a reminder of those days when Duke William the Pious had been alive, although nowadays the trumpeter did not announce meals twice a day from the tower, and affairs were conducted very differently in the castle. It was all being Frenchified but, say what one liked, that meant elegance, greater comfort and more courteous manners; and the people of Celle were adjusting themselves very happily to the new régime. Then when the child had been born there had been celebrations in which they had all joined and very soon the Duke’s Lady was riding through the town in her carriage and the little girl was with her; she enjoyed listening to compliments on the child’s health and beauty.
She had decided that there should be alterations to the old castle; and the Duke, ever willing to indulge her, had agreed. This had meant the employment of local workmen and an era of prosperity began. All those who went to work at the castle were charmed by the Lady who seemed to be interested in them and their way of life; and although she was gradually changing everything so that the Castle of Celle resembled a miniature Versailles instead of a rather comfortless German schloss, they were interested and eventually delighted. It was gratifying to think that their castle, their Duke and his Lady were different from others.
It was so pleasant merely to look at her in her silks and velvets; and the little girl who was becoming so pretty, and very like her, was a delightful creature too. The Duke doted on them both and it was easy to see that he could scarcely bear them out of his sight. How extraordinary when they considered how other Dukes kept mistresses and lived in a state of extravagant coarseness. Their Duke was a faithful husband – and his romance with the charming Eléonore was smiled on throughout the principality.
There was another delight enjoyed by the inhabitants of Celle which was denied others. Eléonore had opened a theatre in the castle and with the help of her sister Angelique she arranged that plays and musical entertainments – such as those played before Louis XIV – should be performed in Celle. And not only were the castle staff admitted but the townspeople too.
Yes, the people of Celle were pleased with the state of affairs at the castle; George William was forgiven his earlier neglect and it was not forgotten that his reformation had been brought about by this charming Frenchwoman.
During the five years since the birth of Sophia Dorothea, while she had been gradually winning the approval of her husband’s subjects, she had given birth to other children who had not lived and it became evident that Sophia Dorothea was going to be an only child. This necessarily meant that all her devotion was given to this girl – and because George William followed Eléonore in everything, he also adored the child almost to idolatry.
There was one element of unhappiness in Eléonore’s life; she had known it would be thus and it was the very reason why she had withstood George William’s pleading for so long. Loved as the little girl was, she was illegitimate, and this fact was going to bar her from making the brilliant marriage which Eléonore wanted for her.
As they sat on the terraces, or wandered arm in arm through the gardens, this was the continual theme of their conversation. Again and again George William reproached himself for his impulsive act in signing away his birthright; again and again Eléonore assured him that he must not blame himself.
‘Regrets are useless,’ she said. ‘We must plan. Fortunately you did not give everything; and you are richer now than any of your brothers. Money is very useful, my dearest. We must use it to buy the best for Sophia Dorothea.’
A kinsman of George William’s, Anton Ulrich, Duke of Wolfenbüttel, had written telling them that he proposed calling on them and was bringing with him his son Augustus Frederick who was sixteen. He thought they might have interesting matters to discuss.
‘It can mean one thing,’ said Eléonore. ‘He wants a betrothal between Augustus Frederick and Sophia Dorothea.’
George William a
greed that if this were so, it was an excellent proposition, for Wolfenbüttel was a senior branch of the House of Brunswick; and if Duke Anton Ulrich was contemplating marrying his son to their daughter, it could only mean that he was ignoring the little girl’s illegitimacy.
‘You would agree?’ he asked.
‘It would be an excellent match. I should want her to be happy though … as we are. I would never wish her to marry against her will, however brilliant the match.’
George William leaned towards her and kissed her. The servants had grown accustomed to these gestures of affection; they thought them odd in a German Prince, but regarded them as the French influence, and in any case they were an outward sign of that harmony which it was to the advantage of all to maintain.
‘But,’ went on Eléonore, ‘I am pleased that Anton Ulrich should make the suggestion. We shall consider it with pleasure.’
He laughed indulgently. How like this Eléonore – who, in law, had no standing, whose beloved daughter was illegitimate – to talk of considering an offer from a German Duke who was of a senior branch of the Brunswick family.
The sounds of arrival were in the courtyard. How calm she was, how unhurried!
When Anton Ulrich appeared she rose to greet him with the grace of a Queen; and Anton Ulrich who had been prepared to dispense with certain ceremonies in the circumstances, found himself quickly reverting to them.
‘Welcome to Celle,’ said Eléonore.
Anton Ulrich presented his son – a pleasant youth who was completely captivated by the beautiful Eléonore and unable to hide the fact.
‘We are honoured that you should visit us,’ said George William.
‘We have heard such accounts of the court you hold here that we could no longer stay away.’
It was indeed a little court, thought Anton Ulrich. The banquet was not only magnificent but tastefully served.
He noticed that although the lackeys still wore the Celle livery – yellow stockings, blue coats trimmed with grey lace, and gold or silk buttons according to their rank – as they did in the days of William the Pious, they looked different. He suspected their liveries might have been new for this visit. Yes, George William of Celle was a rich man; they must get round this matter of the daughter’s illegitimacy in some way for the child – bastard or not – would inherit all this wealth which could be put to good use in Wolfenbüttel. Moreover, it was always advantageous when principalities were joined, and even the estates which remained George William’s allied with theirs would make one very powerful unit.
The table talk was elegant and although the German dishes were served there were others – rather mysterious but far more pleasant to look at than sauerkraut and smoked sausages and the usual red cabbage, ginger and onions. There was wine – French wines too – as well as the cloudy beer they drank so much in Germany.
And after the banquet there was a theatrical performance in which the Lady and her sister took parts – as did the enchanting little Sophia Dorothea. A precocious child, Anton Ulrich noted, as children were apt to be who were very certain that they were doted on.
‘An excellent entertainment,’ he said. ‘Why, cousin, you’re a regular little King in this court here in Celle.’
‘It’s a good life,’ admitted George William, ‘and I ask no other.’
When Anton Ulrich found himself alone with George William and Eléonore he came to the point of his visit.
‘Your daughter is a child as yet but you will wish her to marry early. I thought we might consider the advantages of a match between our children.’
‘Augustus Frederick is ten years older than Sophia Dorothea,’ pointed out Eléonore.
‘A mere nothing, my dear cousin. She is bright and intelligent beyond her years. She will be ready for early marriage.’
‘You suggest that we should examine the advantages,’ went on Eléonore. ‘There is no harm in doing that.’
Anton Ulrich glanced at George William. Did he then allow his wife to manage his affairs? It seemed that he did for he was nodding his assent to all that Eléonore said.
‘It would please me very much to see a marriage between our houses. Your daughter would acquire rank and I’ll be perfectly frank, cousin, I doubt not that she would bring with her a good dowry.’
‘All that we have will be hers one day,’ admitted George William solemnly.
‘Well then, let us consider these matters.’
As they talked a flush appeared beneath Eléonore’s smooth skin. This could mean only one thing. Duke Anton Ulrich did not regard Sophia Dorothea as illegitimate, for by the German law a prince of a sovereign family could only marry a princess or a countess.
Did this mean that this was how Sophia Dorothea was regarded throughout Germany? Did it mean that the morganatic marriage was regarded as a true one?
It was too much to hope for. Anton Ulrich needed the wealth Sophia Dorothea would bring. But the betrothal must be accepted, Eléonore decided; and it must be soon, for the future of Sophia Dorothea depended on it.
When they were alone in their bedchamber she spoke to George William about the importance of this.
‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that Anton Ulrich expects us to do something about having our daughter legitimized. Augustus Frederick could not marry her unless she were. I fancy he was telling us that by the time she is marriageable this must be done.’
‘If only I had not been such a fool …’ sighed George William, sitting on the bed and staring at the tips of his boots.
Eléonore sat beside him and slipped her arm through his. How often had she heard him say those words! He meant them sincerely; but this situation demanded more than words.
‘There is one who, would he but give his word, could make it possible for us to marry.’
‘You mean …’
‘Your brother Ernest Augustus.’
‘But …’
‘We would take nothing from him. We might even pay for his consent. That should attract him. If he would release you from your promise not to marry, that is all we would ask – and if he did release you, then nothing would stand in our way. We could marry, Sophia Dorothea would be legitimized … and that is all we would ask.’
‘You think he would?’
‘Not easily. He would have to be heavily bribed, I doubt not. But your brother the Bishop is very … bribable.’
‘Do you propose that I should go and talk to him? My dearest, I have hinted it a thousand times.’
‘No, let us send Chancellor Schütz. He is a loyal minister and will make a good ambassador. Let him sound your brother, and if we fail …’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if we fail … oh, my love, how could I have been such a fool!’
‘You were not a fool. How much worse it would have been if you had married Sophia.’
‘God forbid.’
‘How much more difficult our position would have been then. No, do not reproach yourself, my love. What is done is done. It is the future with which we have to concern ourselves. And if this fails then we will try something else. If I have to plead with the Emperor himself, I intend to have my daughter recognized as legitimately yours.’
‘You will succeed, my love. Do you not always?’
Eléonore was determined to, and soon after Anton Ulrich rode away from Celle, assured that Sophia Dorothea would be legitimized by the time she was of marriageable age, and that George William’s wealth which was increasing year by year, would be hers, Schütz left too, and his destination was Osnabrück.
Sophia was seated with her six maids of honour embroidering an altar cloth, for she had never approved of idleness. One of the maids read aloud as they worked, for, decreed Sophia, although the fingers were busy the mind should also be occupied.
In actual fact she was paying little attention to what was read, for her thoughts darted from one thing to another. Was the allowance of one hundred thalers given to these maids of honour too much? The household accounts which she examined herself w
ere always a shock to her. The tirewomen, the chambermaids and the maids of honour … to think of a few, were so costly. And then, more so than ever, the gentlemen of the household. That was Ernest Augustus’s affair, but this was one characteristic they shared; they both deplored the high cost of the household. But since George had returned to Celle and set up his elegant Frenchified court there, the court at Osnabrück must have some standing.
It was perfectly easy to see, Sophia had pointed out to Ernest Augustus, that George William wanted visitors to go to his castle and think of him as the head of the house. And since they would find Celle so much grander than Osnabrück, they would begin to get it into their heads that Celle was the leading court of the house of Brunswick. Hence, Osnabrück must vie with Celle – and a costly business it was. Cupbearers, chamberlains, gentlemen-in-waiting – and the thalers mounting up.
In addition there were the nursery expenses. Over the last years the inhabitants of this important part of the household had increased. George Lewis, now eleven years old, and Frederick Augustus aged ten, had been joined by Maximilian William, now five, Sophia Charlotte, three, and Charles Philip, two. They must have their governors, tutors, fencing masters, dancing masters and pages as well as their attendants.
Thalers, thalers, whichever way one looked, thought Sophia.
She sighed and said: ‘That’s enough.’
The maid of honour who had been reading, promptly closed the book and Sophia, setting aside her needlework and signing to another of the maids of honour to put it away, left them and went to the nursery.
She was rather anxious about that eldest son of hers. He was intelligent enough, but so unattractive. His brother Frederick Augustus was charming in comparison and Sophia secretly wished that he had been the elder.
She found George Lewis, instead of sitting at his lesson books, directing a campaign across the schoolroom table – his brother Frederick Augustus in the role of opposing general. Little Max William and Sophia Charlotte had evidently been assigned other rôles in the campaign and, poor little mites, they did not appear to be enjoying them.
