by Jean Plaidy
He was coming round.
She plunged in again – stressing the advantages. He saw them very well, for who could not, since they existed. He had always been attracted by the alliance with Hanover. It was simply because his Duchess had decided against it that he had allowed himself to be persuaded.
‘You know, George Wiliam, in your heart that if you do not agree to this you will regret it all the days of your life.’
He hesitated.
‘Why do you falter? It is the Duchess. I know she is friendly with Anton Ulrich. He was respectful to her before your state marriage and she cannot forget it. But we must not allow such petty things to spoil the chances of our children. It is for you to decide … for you …’
‘Yes,’ answered the Duke. ‘It is for me.’
A door had opened and Bernstorff, his eyes alight with speculation stood on the threshold.
‘My lord …’
‘Let him come in,’ said Sophia rapidly. ‘He is a man of good sense and we will hear what he has to say.’
‘Come in,’ said the Duke.
Bernstorff feigned great surprise as he bowed low but he could not hide the triumph in his eyes. George William quickly explained why Sophia was here.
‘God be praised!’ cried Bernstorff.
‘So you will join with me in persuading His Highness?’ said Sophia.
‘Your Highness, I shall for ever thank God and you for this day.’
Yes, he thought, when I ride round my acres, when I gloat over my posessions, I will thank the Duchess Sophia, for we had all but lost and now we shall succeed.
‘So you share the opinion of the Duke and Duchess of Hanover?’
‘I am convinced, Your Highness, that this proposed marriage would be the greatest advantage that has ever come to Celle.’
They both watched George William covertly; his eyes were moving towards the communicating door.
‘It is for Your Highness to decide… . Your Highness alone,’ insisted Bernstorff.
‘That,’ said Sophia, ‘is why I know we shall succeed.’
‘Yes,’ said George William, turning to face them so that he could no longer see that door. ‘It is for me alone. And I have made up my mind.’
‘Yes?’
‘There shall be this match with Hanover.’
Sophia drew a deep breath; a faint colour had started to show beneath her pale skin, and her eyes were brilliant.
‘The Duke has spoken,’ said Bernstorff.
‘And we know that he is a man who will keep his word,’ added Sophia. ‘Oh, this is a happy day for me, and for Ernest Augustus.’
George William was frowning a little. ‘The young people …’ he began.
‘Oh, the young people! They will learn to fall in love. After all, it is what we all have to do. They will thank us for arranging such a marriage in the years to come.’
‘Yes, it will go well … in time,’ said George William.
Was he already regretting? wondered Sophia. But he had given his word. Bernstorff was a witness to it. He could not in honour retract now.
‘Now,’ said Sophia, ‘I could rest happily for a while. It is early yet.’
‘An apartment is ready for you,’ said George William. You must refresh yourself and rest a while. Allow me to conduct you there.’
Sophia put her hand in his.
‘Come,’ he said; and without a glance at the door behind which Eléonore must be waiting with the utmost trepidation, he led the Duchess Sophia from his dressing room.
Having seen the Duchess Sophia to her apartment where she would rest a while before joining George William for breakfast, the latter returned to his apartment where he found Eléonore, now dressed, waiting for him.
‘What has happened?’ she cried. ‘What has the Duchess Sophia been saying to you?’
George William’s elation faded because it gave him pain to hurt his wife, but he had thoroughly convinced himself now that he had been subservient to her wishes too long, and much as he loved her was determined to have his way.
‘She came with a proposition,’ he told her, ‘to which I have agreed. Sophia Dorothea is to marry George Lewis.’
Eléonore stared at him in shocked disbelief.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘it’s true. I have always been in favour of such a match and what could be better than an alliance with Hanover?’
‘George Lewis!’ whispered Eléonore as though she were dreaming. ‘That … monster!’
‘Oh come, my dearest. He is but a young man.’
‘Yet we have all heard of his profligacy and his stable manners.’
‘Exaggeration! What would you expect of Ernest Augustus’s son?’
‘Some culture!’ she said. ‘Some courtesy!’
‘It is there all right. He is at the time enjoying a young man’s freedom. He likes women. He’ll grow out of it.’
‘I can’t believe you have promised our child to him. Tell me it is not true.’
‘It is true.’
‘But without consulting me!’
‘My darling, you are wise as I have learned, but where our daughter is concerned you are a little besotted. You treat her still as though she is a baby. She will look after herself.’
‘She will need to if ever she goes to that … that …’
‘Pray calm yourself.’ She had never heard him speak to her sternly and with something like cool dislike. What had happened on this September morning, she asked herself, to ruin everything that was dearest to her?
She thought: I must be dreaming. This could never happen to me … to us.
‘Calm!’ she cried. ‘I am calm. It is you I think who are verging on madness.’
‘My dear Eléonore, prepare to make the Duchess Sophia welcome. Shortly she will be rested enough to take breakfast with us. Then she will be ready, I am sure, to talk to you of this match.’
‘What use of talking if it is already made.’
‘I thought you would wish to hear what advantages would come to our daughter when she is the wife of George Lewis.’
‘I see nothing but tragedy.’
‘You are talking like a fool.’
‘You are the fool … the heartless fool. How can we face our daughter?’
‘She will have to learn to accept what her parents have chosen for her as many of us have had to do before her.’
‘Not both parents!’ she said. ‘Only one of them. And I believe that parent was determined to marry where he wished.’ She looked at him appealingly. Had he forgotten the passionate courtship, the years of love? How could he do this to the fruit of that love – the daughter whom he loved, if less passionately, less exclusively than she did? Exclusively! When she looked at him she felt that she could hate him if what he had promised should really come to pass. Their beautiful cultured daughter in those crude coarse hands!
George William would not be tempted. He was afraid. He must stand firm, he told himself, particularly now. If he did not he would be a laughing-stock throughout Hanover. He had given his word. He had to keep it – yet, witnessing the distress he had caused his wife how ready he was to waver! Knowing his own weakness he could only fight it with anger.
He said: ‘You have ruled too long in Celle, my dear. It is my turn to show you who is in command here.’
‘George William … I can’t believe this is you… .’
‘I have long been aware that you believed you could lead me by the nose.’
‘What is happening to you … to us?’ she asked, and the tears in her voice so unnerved him that he turned sharply away from her and stared from the window.
Why had he done this? He had been led into it by the eloquence of the Duchess Sophia, by her condescension in riding through the night; he knew of the advantages of a match with Hanover; every point Sophia had brought forward was true … but if it caused his wife such distress he wished wholeheartedly that he had never agreed to it.
But he must show everyone that he was not led by his wife
, that he had a will of his own, that when he wished to show that he was master everyone – even Eléonore – must accept this.
He said coldly: ‘You should go to your daughter. You should tell her of my arrangements for her future. She will have to be prepared to meet her uncle and cousin immediately.’
There was a stricken silence. He believed that she was weeping for their daughter. He said her name so quietly that it was strangled in his throat. Then he turned but she was no longer there.
Sophia Dorothea, awake early on her birthday morning, lay in bed listening to the sounds of the castle. They were different from usual which indicated that this morning was different from others. The great day of the year; the birthday of the spoiled and petted Princess of Celle. That was what Eléonore von Knesebeck had called her. ‘It’s true,’ said the Knesebeck. ‘There was never a princess so doted on in all history.’
‘Well,’ Sophia Dorothea had retorted, ‘am I not worthy of such adulation?’
She would dance before her mirror, bowing and curtseying, admiring. She was very pretty – more than pretty, beautiful; she was told so, not only in words. She had seen the looks in the eyes of Augustus William who was soon to be her husband.
She was going to enjoy all the ceremonies of the wedding. Augustus William would be her willing slave and her mother had assured her that she would not be separated from her. The spoilt and petted Princess of Celle would be the same of Wolfenbüttel. Dearest Uncle Anton Ulrich declared he envied his son; he would be ready enough to do the spoiling.
‘And we shall not be far from Celle,’ she had told Eléonore von Knesebeck. ‘We shall visit frequently.’ She had smiled, thinking of the celebrations there would be on such visits. ‘And you will be with me.’
Such a marriage would not be an ordeal – just a change; and as a married woman she would have a freedom which even in her beloved Celle she lacked.
And here was the sixteenth birthday; she smiled at the four cupids and remembered other birthdays. The ritual had always been the same. Her parents came in with her gifts and they sat on the bed and opened them together, and the church bells rang out and the whole town of Celle rejoiced; and when later she rode in the carriage with her parents through those decorated streets, everyone would cheer their Princess; and the townsfolk would dance for her and sing for her and show her their devotion in a hundred ways.
The door opened; she sat up in bed.
‘Maman …’
Her mother’s arms were empty; she looked as Sophia Dorothea had never seen her look before – as though she were ill, as though she walked in her sleep. It could mean only one thing: Some terrible tragedy had come to Celle and as thoughts rushed into her mind she was certain that her father was dead, for only the greatest calamity in the world could make her mother look like that.
‘My darling!’
She was in her mother’s arms. Eléonore was holding her as though all the Furies were after her. She kissed her again and again, suffocating her with the intensity of her emotion.
‘Maman … Maman … is it my father?’
Eléonore’s body was shaking with her sobs. She nodded.
‘He is dead… . We have lost him?’
‘No … no… .’
‘Then it is not so bad.’
Eléonore released her and taking her by the shoulders looked into her face; then she said: ‘My dearest, your father has agreed that you shall be married … to … your cousin George Lewis of Hanover.’
Horror seized Sophia Dorothea, robbing her of speech. She saw a monster with protuberant eyes and big slavering jaw … which was as she had always imagined the cousin whom she had not seen for years. She had heard accounts of his conduct though; in the castle of Celle there had been many stories of George Lewis. The servants had sniggered when his name was mentioned. She had pictured him as an ape – able to indulge in certain disgusting functions and little else.
George Lewis who had been caught with a servant girl when he was fifteen in flagrante delicto. George Lewis who already kept his mistresses, who had gone to England and been obliged to return because he was unacceptable to the Princess Anne. And they would give her to George Lewis.
It was a mistake. She did not believe it. It was some sort of joke – some play, some charade.
‘Augustus William will rescue me,’ she said.
‘Oh, my God! What shall we do when they arrive?’ cried Eléonore aghast. ‘They may be here at any moment now. What shall we tell them?’
‘Maman, this is not true, is it?’
‘What would I give that it were not.’
‘Not George Lewis!’
‘My darling, you have to be brave. This morning the Duchess Sophia arrived from Hanover with … propositions. I was not consulted. Your father has given his consent to this marriage.’
Sophia Dorothea was realizing the truth now; it wrapped itself about her like an evil dream of her childhood. It was like being lost in the forest when the trees took on the shapes of monsters and their branches became long arms to catch her and imprison her … for what torment she could only imagine.
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I won’t.’
‘Oh, my darling …’
They held each other firmly. They wept.
‘Maman! Maman! … never let me go,’ sobbed Sophia Dorothea.
George William took breakfast with the Duchess Sophia who was now rested after her journey.
‘And your Duchess?’ she asked.
‘She is with our daughter.’
‘Breaking the good news?’
‘She is explaining to her the advantages of the match.’
‘What a grand birthday present.’
‘Of course,’ said George William, ‘it is a somewhat sudden change of plans.’
‘But none the less welcome for that.’
George William was eating little. He shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Perhaps …’ he began.
But the Duchess Sophia interrupted him. ‘I sent one of my men riding back to Hanover with the good news. I trust he will not have such a wicked journey as I did. But although the roads are so soggy it is easier on horseback than in the coach. He will soon be there with the good news. The bells will be ringing in Hanover this day, I’ll warrant you. And Ernest Augustus will soon be here with George Lewis. What a pleasure it will be for you, George William, to entertain your brother once more.’
‘I shall enjoy being with him again.’
‘Joy for you and joy for the young people. I have a gift for the bride. I want you to present it to her with my compliments. It is a miniature of her bridegroom set with diamonds and the diamonds are exquisite. I am sure she will appreciate them. George Lewis’s virtues are not in his looks, I fear. But I doubt not that such a beautiful girl as I hear your daughter is, will soon enchant him.’
The sound of trumpets suddenly rang out.
‘The watcher of the tower has seen the approaching of a cavalcade. That is our welcome.’
‘A cavalcade! It can scarcely be the bridegroom and your brother. My messenger won’t be at Hanover yet.’
‘It is Duke Anton Ulrich with his son and retainers. They come to celebrate my daughter’s birthday.’
‘You must go and greet them. I understand. I will remain here. They will not wish to see me.’
She was smiling sardonically as uneasily George William rose and went down to the staircase.
In the hall he found Eléonore; she seemed so changed that he wanted to tell her that this morning was a nightmare and together they would fight their way out of it. But she did not look at him; he noticed the traces of tears on her face, her unusual pallor, and that her lovely hair was slightly disordered. She seemed like a stranger.
And there was Duke Anton Ulrich with the handsome young Augustus William at his side.
‘Well met!’ he cried; and then stood still staring at Eléonore, it being so obvious that something was wrong.
‘My lord.’ It was Eléonore who spoke. ‘
We have disastrous news.’
Anton Ulrich caught his breath and Augustus William cried: ‘Sophia Dorothea … she is … ill?’
‘Sick with grief,’ said Eléonore.
And then George William, remembering his new determination, coldly took command. ‘Today it has been decided that my daughter shall be betrothed to George Lewis of Hanover.’
Augustus William turned pale and reeled as though he had been struck, while Anton Ulrich’s hand went to his sword and he cried: ‘I would like an explanation of this.’
‘It is simple,’ said George William. ‘The Duchess Sophia of Hanover arrived here this morning with proposals from Hanover and these I have accepted for my daughter.’
‘She was promised to my son!’ cried Anton Ulrich.
‘It is true we discussed the possibility, but nothing definite had been decided on.’
‘My son is here … I am here … to celebrate your daughter’s betrothal to him!’
‘That cannot be, for she is promised to George Lewis.’
‘So you have deceived us … led us on… . You have …’
‘I have decided,’ said George William. ‘It is often that matches are discussed between parents and come to nothing.’
Anton Ulrich turned in bewilderment to Eléonore. ‘And you … are you in agreement?’
She shook her head. ‘I suffer more than you can understand. She is my daughter … my gently nurtured daughter… . She is to be given to this …’
George William said coolly; ‘There is nothing more to be said on the subject. If you will enter …’
‘I certainly shall not,’ cried Anton Ulrich hotly. ‘We have been insulted enough. This shall not be forgotten.’ He turned and signing to his son they walked to their horses.
The trumpeter on the tower stared in astonishment at the sight of the cavalcade which he had so exuberantly welcomed such a short while ago, now galloping away.
Strange events were taking place in the castle of Celle that morning.
Sophia Dorothea lay on her bed staring helplessly at the ceiling.
She had wept until she was exhausted. That this should have happened on her birthday was so extraordinary. Those days she looked back on as dreams of delight had led to this grim nightmare.
