by Jean Plaidy
Clara’s eyes were on the Duke; that was why she noticed him yawning slightly. Was it failure again?
The Duchess Sophia was smiling graciously. The young women had a certain grace and she was glad of it. They spoke good French, but to hear French spoken like that always reminded her of her enemy at Celle and her thoughts slipped from her immediate surroundings to wander far afield. What would Madame von Harburg think of next? What new move would startle them? Madame von Harburg was becoming too friendly it seemed not only with Duke Anton Ulrich of Wolfenbüttel, but with the Emperor Leopold.
The two sisters had approached the Crown Prince and they were singing in their pleasant voices a song of welcome.
George Lewis liked it. Sophia watched him almost licking his lips over the younger girl. He would be another such as his father. She sighed. Well, they must have their mistresses. As long as he married the wife she would choose for him, what did it matter what mistresses he had? He was young as yet, though. Thirteen. Far too young to set up a mistress. Let him content himself at the moment with serving girls – which she believed he did. A necessary part of the masculine existence.
How hard these women were trying. Surely they weren’t trying to seduce George Lewis!
She glanced at Ernest Augustus. He was nearly asleep.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ she murmured, ‘try to look a little interested.’
‘Ah yes. Very charming. Very charming.’
What could one expect, Sophia asked herself. He was not as young as he would like to pretend to be. He still hunted for long hours; he attended to his business; and then he was awake half the night with some young girl in his bed. He had gone back again to Esther. What was it about that slut? Sophia wondered. Perhaps because she was so obviously a slut. Well, what mattered it. If it were not Esther it would be some other.
The pastorale was over. The women were taking their bows. George Lewis looked on slack-mouthed and his governor Platen and tutor Bussche were applauding wildly.
‘Some evidently enjoyed the performance more than you did,’ whispered Sophia to Ernest Augustus.
‘Excellent idea … these entertainments. Keeps them happy.’
‘There is no doubt,’ replied Sophia, ‘that it makes some among them very happy indeed.’
Back in their lodgings Clara tore off the blue satin gown.
‘So much wasted effort!’ she cried.
‘Oh Clara, how can you say that?’
‘The Duke was asleep.’
‘I thought the Prince was quite amused.’ Marie took up a mirror and studied her round pretty face.
Clara slapped it out of her hand. ‘You little fool,’ she said, ‘what good was that? He’s a baby. What good will he be?’
‘He’ll grow up.’
‘So will you … and so will others. I tell you there is not a chance in this place. We’ll get out. I shall speak to Father about it right away.’
‘Where should we go?’
‘Somewhere where they are more appreciative of our talents.’
‘I hear that at Celle the Duke is only appreciative of his wife and daughter.’
‘I was not thinking of Celle.’
‘Where then?’
‘I shall have to think. One thing I do know is that this place is no good to us.’
Their father came into the room. ‘My dear daughters,’ he said, ‘you were magnificent.’
‘You would appear to be the only one who thought us so.’
‘Nonsense. I heard nothing but talk of you both.’
‘Much good that will do us.’
‘You have made an excellent impression. For what more could you hope?’
‘That I had been able to keep the Duke awake.’
‘He is much occupied with affairs of state.’
‘A large part of his affairs are conducted in his bedchamber.’
‘Well, what do you expect?’
‘That he might have spared a glance for us. Surely we are a little different from his fat German sows?’
‘Hush Clara.’
‘I will choose when I am to be silent.’
The Count quailed before his daughter’s anger. It was recognized in the household that Clara ruled it; and it had been so for the last five years.
‘The Duchess seemed to like your performance,’ suggested the Count placatingly. ‘It might be that she will offer you a place …’
‘Because we dance and sing well? I doubt it … I very much doubt it. Listen. We must start thinking very seriously. Osnabrück is of no use to us. We must move on. We have wasted enough time already.’
‘I doubt we should have the money to pay our debts.’
‘Debts! We shall have to leave without, then. I am not going to stay here … wasting my time.’
A servant at the door had already scratched twice unheard.
Clara turned to scowl at the woman. What had she overherd? What had they said about their debts? This was maddening – quite frustrating.
‘These were left by messengers from the castle, Mademoiselle,’ she said.
Clara snatched the packages.
One was addressed to herself, the other to Marie.
Clara opened hers first, still retaining Marie’s.
Inside was a brooch set with small gems – a pretty glittering thing. There was a note with it. Would she accept this small token of a big admiration? He had listened entranced to her performance. He had never been so enchanted in his life. He trusted that he might call on her. It was signed Frank Ernest von Platen.
Laughing, Clara opened Marie’s. There was a brooch a little like the one Platen had given her, with a similar message of admiration and hope for a meeting in the near future. This was signed John von dem Bussche.
Clara threw the gifts and the letters on to a table. Marie and the Count ran forward to look at them and Clara watched them in silence.
They turned to her expectantly and she said: ‘Well, we set out to capture a Duke and a Prince. Our efforts have not entirely been lost. We have our consolation prizes.’
The Count said: ‘And you still plan to leave Osnabrück?’
‘No,’ said Clara, smiling. ‘I think I should like to stay a while in Osnabrück.’
It was not, of course, what she had hoped for; but she did not despair.
There was an old proverb she had learned in France. Petit à petit les oiseaux font leurs nids. She must remember it. Platen was besotted. He had never known anyone like her. And Bussche felt the same for Marie. Clara was energetic; she discovered all she could about these men. The fact that they were in charge of the Princes should give them influence at court, and that was very desirable, providing of course they had the wit to use it. This she doubted. Platen was a weakling, and weakness she despised, for it was a fault of which no one could accuse her. But there could be occasions when weakness in a husband might be one of his greatest assets, and it was often the best possible arrangement when an ambitious wife had a pliable husband. Platen was longing to be her friend, and Marie was being interestedly courted by his friend and fellow governor Bussche. There was no mistaking their intentions.
The Count timorously asked his daughter what she thought of this situation.
Clara replied: ‘It is not one I planned. It has happened. But I don’t think for one moment that being a married woman will be a hindrance to my plans … rather a help.’
The Count stared in astonishment at his daughter. So she was still aiming at ultimate power.
‘Platen believes that he will have no difficulty in finding a place in the Queen’s household for his wife.’
‘I see.’
Clara laughed at him. ‘It’s one way of storming the castle.’
A few months after the sisters had performed the pastorale in the castle grounds Clara married Platen and Marie, Bussche.
From that it was an easy step to the household of the Duchess Sophia; and as it was one of his wife’s dearest wishes that she should become one of the maids of
honour, as soon as a place was vacant, her doting husband procured it for her.
Thus was near-failure turned to success; and Clara could begin the real business which had brought her to Osnabrück.
The Little Scandal
SOPHIA DOROTHEA AWAKENED early and stretched luxurfously in her bed. It was a golden September morning – and her birthday.
For weeks there had been hushed whispering in the castle; her parents had exchanged glances when certain things were mentioned and she knew they were thinking of the pleasant surprises for this day. The servants had been bustling importantly for weeks; exciting smells rose from the kitchens; and the people in the town called their greetings to her when she rode out with her father or mother – and even they seemed to be sharing in the fun.
It was comforting; it was delightful – in fact it was the happiest thing in the world to be Sophia Dorothea of Celle.
Her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world; her father was the most indulgent father; and she was their adored and only child. Sometimes she wished that she had brothers and sisters, but if she had of course she would have lost a little of her importance. Would it have been worth while? That was one of the problems of Sophia Dorothea’s world. There had been occasions when the household had been hushed; when she had believed that there might be a brother or sister; but all this had come to nothing and here she was – reigning supreme – the little Queen of Celle, as they called her in the town.
There would be entertainments at the castle all day. Everyone must know what an important day it was. The day on which was celebrated the birth of Sophia Dorothea.
Sophia Dorothea laughed; she gazed at the mantelpiece supported by four cupids; there had been a time when she was very small when she had believed that they were actually holding it there; she used to lie in bed and wait for them to move, wondering whether the mantelpiece would come crashing to the ground. Her mother had explained that the cupids brought love. There was certainly love in the castle. They all loved each other so dearly – Papa, Maman and Sophia Dorothea. There never had been such love as they shared – so Maman said; and because of it they would be happy ever after.
‘For ever and ever,’ sang Sophia Dorothea.
She slipped out of the bed in the alcove and padded across the room, through the open door to the schoolroom. Her apartments consisted of three rooms leading out of each other – bedroom, schoolroom and parlour. In the schoolroom were two large windows and she loved to kneel and look out to the lime trees and the moat. The moat was to make them secure, Maman had said, secure from the wicked uncle and aunt at Osnabrück who did not love them.
Sophia Dorothea enjoyed shivering at the thought of the wicked uncle and aunt of Osnabrück; it gave real meaning to the security of Celle and made the love of her parents so much more precious.
There was going to be a ball today; she knew because of what was being done in the ballroom. Perhaps beyond the moat down in the wooden houses of the town people were waking and saying: ‘Do you know what today is? It’s the seventh birthday of Sophia Dorothea, the little Queen of Celle.’
And they would put on their best clothes and come to the castle, and she would be with Papa and Maman and everyone would smile and call greetings in German. She liked French better because she always spoke it with Maman when they were alone; but of course she must speak German sometimes.
Voices from without. It was too early yet. But the door was opened and there was Maman, her arms full of parcels and behind her Papa with his equally full.
They came into the apartment.
‘So she is out of bed!’
She hid behind the curtains and then leaped out on them. They had thrown their parcels on the bed and Maman had lifted her in her arms.
‘Happy birthday, my darling.’
‘Happy birthday, my darling Maman,’ answered Sophia Dorothea; for Maman had said they would always share everything – joys and sorrows, so it was equally her birthday.
Eléonore had to control her emotions as she looked at this child who grew more beautiful every day. Her hair was black, her eyes large and sparkling; her face a perfect oval, her skin so smooth and fresh; but it was more than that – a grace, a charm, a daintiness, which Eléonore assured herself was entirely French.
She loved this child so fiercely that her affection for George William seemed almost insignificant by comparison.
‘I am here too,’ said George William. ‘Happy birthday, my dearest.’
‘Thank you, Papa.’
She loved him very much but she did not share with him as she did with Maman. She could love only one person best.
‘And what were you doing out of bed?’ asked George William with mock sternness.
‘I was having a look at a birthday morning.’
Then they laughed together and sat on the bed opening the parcels.
There was a ball in the evening to celebrate the occasion, and Sophia Dorothea would open it with her partner.
She would remember all the steps taught her by her dancing master, who would be watching with apprehension; but he need not worry. She loved to dance.
Her partner was a tall boy – the most handsome boy she had ever seen, she decided.
He held her hand lightly and he had smiling eyes. She was glad he was a partner.
The others were falling in now – Papa and Maman dancing together; and Aunt Angelique with her husband the Comte de Reuss. Sophia Dorothea did not love Aunt Angelique greatly; she was not as beautiful as Maman and inclined to be a little resentful of all the devotion that was showered on her young niece. Sophia Dorothea had heard Aunt Angelique refer to her as une enfant gâtée.
She was not spoiled. Maman did not think she was – nor did Papa – and Sophia Dorothea was sure they knew far better than Aunt Angelique. She wondered if her companion thought so.
‘Do you?’ she asked forgetting that she was speaking her thoughts aloud.
‘I did not quite catch …’
‘Do you think I am a spoilt child?’
‘I do not know you well enough, but that I hope to remedy. If you are not, which I am sure is the truth, that is because you are too sweet-natured and sensible to be; and if you are – well, then it is the fault of others.’
Sophia Dorothea’s laughter rang out. ‘What funny things you say.’
‘I am glad they amuse you.’
‘You do not live in Celle?’
‘I am going to for a time.’
‘What is a time?’
‘One year … two years … three perhaps.’
‘That I shall call living in Celle. I am pleased.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I like you. You shall always’ dance with me when there is a ball.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do I dance well?’
‘Most excellently.’
‘What are you, besides a dancer?’
‘A soldier.’
‘Have you come here to fight?’
‘To learn to fight and … other things.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, because it is a custom in noble houses for sons to be brought up away from home.’
‘Then you will live here? You will be as my brother.’
She put her head on one side and smiled at him. Another one to love her, to spoil her? She was pleased. ‘This is the happiest birthday of my life,’ she announced.
The dance was over and she must take her partner to her mother; she wanted Eléonore to know how very happy she was.
‘But first,’ she said, ‘I must know your name, for how can I tell my mother who you are if I do not know?’
‘It is Königsmarck,’ he said. ‘Philip Christopher Königsmarck.’
‘Come,’ she said, and slipped her hand in his. ‘I will show you to my mother.’
Eléonore was looking for her and she cried: ‘Maman, look. This is my new friend.’
The days were more exciting. Sophia Dorothea would run to the window as soon as s
he was awake and see if Philip Königsmarck were in the grounds of the castle. If he were he would wave to her. They rode together; he told her about Sweden and it was interesting to hear of countries other than France, of which her mother talked so frequently, and Italy, which came so often into her father’s conversation.
Philip told her of the great family of Königsmarck and how they were known throughout Europe as great soldiers.
Life had become more exciting since that seventh birthday when she had first met Philip.
It was Angelique who was responsible for what happened. Sophia Dorothea did not know this or her dislike for her aunt would have turned to hatred.
Angelique came to her sister’s apartments one day and said: ‘Eléonore, I should like a word in private with you.’
Eléonore looked in surprise at her sister and asked what was troubling her.
‘Sophia Dorothea,’ answered Angelique.
Eléonore turned pale. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, don’t distress yourself. She is well enough … too well perhaps. I passed her in the stables a few moments ago with that Königsmarck boy. It was that which made me decide I must speak to you.’
‘What are you talking about, Angelique?’
‘Has is occurred to you that Sophia Dorothea is somewhat precocious and that Königsmarck is sixteen years old … almost seventeen?’
‘You surely are not suggesting …’
‘In a childish way Sophia Dorothea is in love with the boy.’
‘As long as it is in a childish way …’
‘But he is not so childish, is he?’
‘My dear Angelique!’
‘Oh, you are like all mothers. Your child is different from all others. Hasn’t it occurred to you that these two at least might experiment?’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Only that I saw Sophia Dorothea throw her arms about him and declare he must never, never go away.’
‘She is a baby.’
‘Very well, if you are prepared to allow her to run risks …’
‘You know I could never allow her to run risks.’
