by Jean Plaidy
‘In your service, my lord.’
‘Ah, Clara, what should I do without you? What did I do before you thrust your attentions upon me?’
‘Why concern yourself with the lamentable past? Here I am at your service and this I tell you: George Lewis has not made a favourable impression.’
‘Who expected him to? If he ever did it would be the first time in his life.’
‘They won’t have him. He’ll be sent packing with his tail between his legs.’
‘Charles wouldn’t so insult his dear cousin Sophia.’
‘Let us see that he doesn’t have a chance to.’
‘You mean we should send for him?’
Clara nodded.
‘On what pretext?’
She was silent for a while and then plunged. ‘There is one plan which is very dear to you, I know. There is one thing in your life which you greatly regret.’
‘We were talking of George Lewis.’
‘This concerns George Lewis. You deeply regret your quarrel with your brother the Duke of Celle. In fact, now that I know you so well I believe you regret that more than anything that has ever happened to you in your life.’
‘You say this, Clara, when I am telling you how much I regret not meeting you earlier.’
‘That is past and rectified, but this quarrel still exists. I should like to see an end to it; I should like to see Celle and Hanover united. I should like to see friendship where there was once enmity, and the old tradition of one ruler for one family back with us.’
‘Clara, what are you saying?’
‘That there is a Princess at Celle who will inherit vast wealth and land; and there is a Prince at Hanover who might marry her.’
‘George Lewis marry Sophia Dorothea! Clara … are you serious?’
‘Deadly serious.’
‘And you think the Duchess Sophia would agree to this?’
‘No. She has set her heart on that paradise … England. But England is not for George Lewis. That is very clear to me. We should draw him out while we can do so with dignity and this alliance between Celle and Hanover should at least be considered.’
‘It’s so … unexpected.’
‘Good plans often are.’
Ernest Augustus whistled softly under his breath.
‘Clara,’ he said, ‘you’re a brilliant woman.’
‘My brilliance is at the disposal of Your Highness,’ she answered.
‘But …’ he added.
‘But it’s a hare-brained scheme,’ she finished for him. ‘Perhaps. But at least worth brooding on. Pray you, say nothing of it to the Duchess Sophia. She would never forgive me if she thought I had suggested such a match.’
‘I will certainly say nothing. In any case she would never agree.’
‘We will talk of it together … just the two of us. We will weigh up the advantages against the disadvantages. It will at least be amusing.’
The Princess Anne sat before her mirror while one of her ladies helped her put on her gloves. This was one of the Villiers girls with whom she had been brought up, the eldest of whom had gone to Holland with Mary and, so it was said, became William’s mistress – although it was hard to believe William would ever possess one.
‘My fan?’ said the Princess.
‘Here, Your Highness.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How becoming is the blue, Your Highness.’
Anne smiled; she was always friendly with her attendants and rarely stood on ceremony.
‘Even this young man from Hanover would surely admire that.’
‘You think he does not admire … often?’
The girl looked embarrassed. ‘I … I’d rather not say, Your Highness.’
‘Why, what mystery is this?’
‘It is just a tale, like as not.’
‘I wish to hear it.’
‘It is foolish talk, Your Highness.’
Anne was suddenly authoritative. ‘I have said I wished to hear it.’
The girl bit her lip. ‘It was said Your Highness that this young oaf … forgive me, Your Highness, but his manners incense me and all your friends … it is said that he found you … repulsive and that is why he was so uncouth at the meeting.’
‘He found me repulsive!’ cried Anne, rising, her pink cheeks flushing to crimson. ‘I tell you that . I found him positively nauseating. I wouldn’t marry that man if he were the King of France.’
‘Ah, Your Highness, he could never be mistaken for the King of France who I hear is as courtly and gallant as His Majesty himself … or almost.’
‘I will go and see His Majesty. I will tell him that nothing on earth would induce me to marry this German boor. I will tell him I will die rather. I would rather leave the Palace and go and live as a seamstress … or a laundress.’
‘I am sure His Majesty will never allow you to do that, Your Highness. But I have heard that he too has no great admiration for this fellow.’ She had begun to tremble. ‘You will tell no one that it was I …’
‘Rest easy,’ said Anne. ‘I will tell no one anything but that I refuse to marry this German.’
Anne picked up her fan and went from the apartment and her attendant sat down to write a letter to her sister Elizabeth in Holland to say that she had done as she was told and she believed it had succeeded right well with the Princess.
From a window of her husband’s study Eléonore watched her daughter on horseback in the company of Eléonore von Knesebeck. They dismounted, a groom took the girls’ horses, and arm in arm they entered the castle.
‘What are you smiling at?’ asked George William, coming over to stand beside her.
‘Our daughter,’ she said. ‘I believe she grows more lovely every day.’
‘More and more like her mother,’ said George William, fondly slipping his arm through that of his wife.
‘In September she will be sixteen,’ went on Eléonore. ‘I think it is time she married.’
‘Sixteen … is it possible?’
‘Possible! It’s a fact. I think Sophia Dorothea is ready for marriage. Perhaps we have sheltered her a little but she will want to be loved. I sense that in her; and I should like to see her happily settled.’
Recalling secret conversations with Bernstorff, George William was a little uneasy. He had not dared mention to the Duchess the suggested match with Hanover.
‘Oh she is young yet,’ he parried.
‘You are like all fathers. They want to keep their daughters children for ever.’
‘No, I would not say that.’
Eléonore turned to smile at her husband. ‘But I would. I think something should be done soon, though. A definite betrothal. Anton Ulrich is getting a little impatient.’
‘Fifteen … it is young!’
‘I do not mean for an immediate marriage. We shall need several months to prepare.’
George William began: ‘Er …’ But it was too difficult. He guessed what her reaction would be. Stark horror. He loved her; he could not bear to upset her. And yet, one part of him remembered the look in Bernstorff’s eyes. Did the whole of his court and that of Hanover laugh at him behind his back for a man who was under his wife’s thumb? If this could have been the case secretly, he would not have cared. He realized he was a weak man. He had always been a pleasure-seeker; now he wanted peace and comfort. When he joined with Eléonore he had made a very happy life for himself and he wanted it to remain so.
Eléonore had turned to look at him. ‘I do not believe you are eager for this marriage.’
He plunged in then. ‘It seems wrong to me somehow. She was affianced to the brother and then he died. It seems …’
‘Oh, but she was merely promised.’
‘Yes, in a way it makes a sort of affinity.’
‘That’s absurd.’
He frowned a little. Yes, she did attempt to override him. But almost immediately his petty annoyance faded for she had put her arms about his neck and laid her face against his. ‘Oh, my dearest, we both lov
e her too much, I sometimes think. We both want everything to be absolutely perfect for her, and that makes us over-anxious.’
He held her in a tight embrace. ‘It’s true,’ he said. Now, he told himself. Now is the time. Mention the advantages of a match with Hanover. He tried, but the words would not come.
Procrastinate! Play for time! That was his rule of life.
‘I don’t want to hurry anything,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Let’s wait awhile. Let’s wait …’ he calculated. Six months? He could do a great deal in six months. He might even talk to her, bring her round to his way of thinking. ‘Let’s wait until September,’ he said.
‘September,’ said the Duchess. ‘Her birthday. Yes, that’s a good idea. We will announce the alliance with Wolfenbüttel on her birthday.’
George William pushed aside unpleasant thoughts. September was six months away. He had always been a man to live in the present.
Bernstorff met Clara von Platen riding somewhere in the twenty miles which separated Celle and Hanover.
‘Well,’ said Clara, ‘you have news?’
‘Anton Ulrich grows impatient and the Duchess does too. She is working for a definite betrothal.’
‘And George William?’
‘He is holding it off but has not plucked up courage to speak to her.’
‘If we are not careful she will affiance the girl to Wolfenbüttel and then it will be too late.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, cannot you do something to stop it?’
‘If you knew George William you would understand my difficulties. He can’t bring himself to disagree with her when he’s face to face – although depend upon it if we could get him alone … if she would go away … then we would have the agreement.’
‘Is there no hope of her going away?’
‘They are never separated. Besides, she could not be persuaded to leave her beloved child.’
‘And you don’t think she could be persuaded? After all, a match with Hanover and a possibility – vague I’ll admit – of the girl’s becoming a Queen if ever George Lewis had the throne of England, must surely be a better proposition than a marriage with Wolfenbüttel.’
‘But the girl has quite a fondness for the Wolfenbüttel boy and that counts with the Duchess. We do not hear very good reports of George Lewis.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Coarse, crude manners and too many mistresses. Sophia Dorothea has been brought up, surrounded by affection and French manners and such like. The Duchess wants her to be treated like a precious piece of porcelain when she leaves the parental roof.’
‘The girl had better come out of her shell and live.’
‘So say I. But try saying it to the Duchess.’
‘So you think he’ll agree with this Wolfenbüttel match?’
‘He’d like to for the sake of peace. But he has a great desire to be friends with his brother as apparently they were very close to each other in their youth.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of that. Ernest Augustus would like to take up the friendship too.’
‘And George Lewis?’
‘What of him! He’s ready to be a prize stud on occasions, provided on others he’s allowed to roam around in search of his own choice heifers. He doesn’t count. Nor does the girl.’
‘She does with her mother.’
‘You must keep us informed. If this does not come off you’ll be a great deal poorer than you might otherwise be.’
‘I know.’
‘Keep me informed of the slightest incident.’
‘I will.’
They said goodbye; and Bernstorff riding back to Celle was a very uneasy man.
Ernest Augustus came to his wife’s apartments, waving a batch of papers in his hand and frowning deeply. He signed to her attendants that he wished to be alone with the Duchess.
‘Something is wrong, I see,’ said Sophia quietly.
‘Wrong! Indeed yes. This little jaunt of our son’s to England is going to be very expensive and I have to pay for it.’
‘But if …’
Ernest Augustus held up a hand. ‘Don’t deceive yourself. I fear you miscalculated there. There’ll be no English marriage for George Lewis; and it has been a very costly matter to discover what I felt to be the truth even before he embarked on this fool’s errand.’
‘Fool’s errand! I refuse to believe it. And you thought it an excellent idea that he should go.’
‘I gave way to you, it’s true.’
‘But what has happened. He has been received at Charles’s court. He has even had lodgings at Whitehall.’
‘Yes, and I hear that the Princess Anne will have none of it. The Duke of York is back at court after his exile in Scotland; the Exclusion Bill has not been made law. There are even rumours that Charles in secret does not frown on Catholicism. He has given Mary to the Protestant Orange and he is not inclined to give Anne to a German Duke even though he is a Protestant. That is how I see it.’
‘But how can you be sure?’
‘They’ve given him a consolation prize – a Doctorate of Laws at Cambridge. And he can’t speak a word of English! It’s as though they are poking fun at him. If he had studied a little more and learned some English he could at least have given some account of himself. But he cannot. What hope has he? He must come home before he is made to look more foolish than he already does.’
‘You are telling me that you propose sending for him.’
‘I have already done so.’
Sophia’s face was flushed with anger, but Ernest Augustus thrust the papers into her hand. ‘Take a look at these. Then you will see how much this fruitless journey has cost me. Then you will see that George Lewis must come back to Hanover and find a bride nearer home.’
The Duchess Sophia stared at the figures. She could have wept with rage. To her they represented the end of a dream. She realized it now; from the time her ugly little George Lewis was a baby she had dreamed of his ascending the throne of England.
And Ernest Augustus was angry. She had involved him in unnecessary expense. He would not forget this in a hurry. If he had not listened to her, George Lewis would never have gone to England to make a hole in his father’s purse and a fool of himself.
It was good to be back in Hanover, thought George Lewis. He liked London but he could never understand the people. They laughed too much and, he believed, at him. Did they find everyone amusing who did not speak their tongue and who didn’t follow their customs?
There had been one of their customs which George Lewis could follow very well.
He saw Marie at a window of the palace as he rode towards it. She was leaning out with apparent eagerness, and behind her stood her sister the Platen woman, who was becoming more and more important to his father. She was watching him and Marie, but he had little thought to spare for her.
His father greeted him grimly; he was still calculating the cost of his journey; his mother was solemn, regarding his empty-handed return as a tragedy.
George Lewis listened half-heartedly to their greeting. His mother wanted to hear all that had happened to him at the English court; his father wanted to know how much money he had spent.
A dreary home-coming, thought George Lewis, except for the fact that Marie had made herself very visible to him and had clearly implied how eagerly she was waiting for him.
The Duchess Sophia shut herself away the better to forget the tragedy; she read a great deal and wrote letters to learned friends all over Europe. She had so counted on the marriage between her son and the English Princess and could not imagine what had happened to make plans go awry. It could only be George Lewis’s uncouth manners. How she wished that one of the others had been the eldest son!
Ernest Augustus with Clara von Platen in attendance talked to his son about the English visit.
‘Bah!’ he said. ‘Let them keep the girl. There are other fish in the sea.’
George Lewis grinned. ‘She was not exactly beautiful a
nd was very spoilt.’
‘Yes, those two girls were spoilt. Well, William knows how to tame the elder.’
‘I would have tamed the younger.’
‘Let’s not upset ourselves over that.’
‘His Highness is right,’ said Clara. ‘He would have known how to deal with this … Anne.’
George Lewis gave her a friendly leer. He guessed Marie had been discussing his prowess with her. What he liked about Marie was her lack of prudery not only in deed but in word. He guessed her sister was the same – perhaps more so.
‘You’ll have to look near at hand for a bride,’ said Ernest Augustus.
George nodded.
‘What about your cousin over at Celle?’
George Lewis’s jaw dropped. ‘Not …?’
‘Yes,’ put in Ernest Augustus impatiently. ‘Who else could be at Celle but your cousin Sophia Dorothea?’
‘Oh no …!’
‘Why not? She’s an heiress. It would be good to end our quarrels.’
‘We already inherit from my uncle.’
‘She’s a considerable heiress in her own right. And don’t forget all the possessions her mother has managed to amass.’
‘I wouldn’t want the girl.’
‘Why not? She’s a beauty.’
‘Fancy French manners.’
‘You would soon change those,’ laughed Clara.
He gave her his slow smile, but he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want the girl.’
‘You have to think of Hanover, my son, not your likes and dislikes. This English jaunt has cost me more thalers than I like to think about.’
‘Sophia Dorothea!’ breathed George Lewis.
‘Yes, think about it. But one thing to remember. Don’t let your mother know anything of this. Don’t forget how set she is on an English wife for you.’
‘She’s still mourning for the Princess Anne,’ said Clara. ‘Give her a chance to recover.’
‘Sophia Dorothea!’ breathed George Lewis and slowly shook his head.
The Fateful Birthday
ELÉONORE HAD BEEN uneasy all through the summer. There was a change in George William. Occasionally she would see the stubborn set of his jaw; he would disagree with her in a pointless way as though he were anxious to show her that she could not have all her own way. She was hurt, for she had never sought to dominate. Her great desire now was for the happiness of her daughter. For this reason she often invited Duke Anton Ulrich to Celle and with him came Augustus William, the boy who was now his eldest son. Eléonore’s one idea was to make the two young people the best of friends so that marriage between them would not be the shock it was to so many young people in their positions. She talked often to her daughter of her own romance and the great love which had arisen between the Duke and herself; she wanted a union as romantic and as enduring for her beloved daughter. And she had thought George William did too.
