The Princess of Celle: (Georgian Series) (17 page)

‘Your husband often mentions you,’ said Ernest Augustus. ‘He seems to value your judgment.’

‘At least it is valued by one of Your Highness’s ministers.’

There was a meaning behind her words. He was a little fascinated and his annoyance at having been disturbed was fast disappearing.

‘I see that you have other gifts to bestow on your husband … besides advice.’

‘It is a pleasure to give what is appreciated.’

‘And you find him appreciative … enough?’ He regarded her lazily.

‘Who can ever have enough appreciation?’

Surely there was no mistaking her meaning? Women were of course eager to please the most important man in the principality, but he sensed this one was different. He would discover later what she wanted. At the moment there was no need to go beyond the obvious step.

He held out a hand and she took it. He drew her down so that she was forced to kneel before him.

‘You have come to offer me … advice?’ he asked smiling.

‘If you need it … it is yours.’

‘And if I do not?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘All need the help of friends.’

‘The Bishop needs it from his minister’s wife?’ he asked.

‘He may at some time. He may need other things she has to offer.’

‘I think that very likely. And they will be given freely.’

She bowed her head.

‘But it must be remembered that she likes … appreciation?’ he asked.

‘She would be wise enough to know it is foolish to ask for what would not be freely given.’

He brought his face close to hers and looked into her eyes.

‘You are a strange woman,’ he said.

‘You have quickly discovered that.’

‘I would like to know more of you.’

‘And I of Your Highness.’

He put his hand on her shoulder; touching her skin, his fingers probed lightly; but in spite of the lightness he could not hide the fact he was excited.

‘Well?’ she said faintly mocking him, he fancied.

He answered with another question. ‘When?’

‘You are the lord and master.’ Again that hint of mockery.

‘Tonight. I shall be in my bedchamber … alone.’

‘It shall be my duty … my pleasant duty … to see that Your Highness is … not alone … for long.’

When Clara came out of the Bishop’s apartment, the first signs of dawn were in the sky; she walked lightly past the sleeping guards; they were aware of a passing figure but paid little heed. A woman coming from the Bishop’s bedchamber was not a very unusual occurrence. It was wiser not to look too closely; she might not like it; she might whisper a word into the Bishop’s ear one night – it was easy enough – and there would go the hope of promotion.

Clara was pleased with herself. There would be no going back now. She had startled him. Hers was a sensuality matching his own and she had given it full rein. It had been amusing. She would not waste her energies on a man like Platen – Ernest Augustus was different. She had been making love to Power and that had aroused all her ardour.

He had let her go reluctantly, but she had insisted. Yes, insisted. It was as well to set the pace from the start. Of course she was not such a fool as to imagine she could arrogantly command him. He had been having his own way too long to accept that. But she would govern – in her own subtle way; and it might well be that he would know and simply not care.

What a night! She wanted to laugh aloud. She had startled
herself as much as Ernest Augustus. She had been born to be a courtesan. She knew it. She had all the tricks of the trade; and they were inherent. Louis did not know what he had missed. Poor Louis with his mincing French harlots who would never know the verve and vulgarity of a German whore.

She opened the door of the apartment she shared with Platen. Poor ineffectual Platen! His day was done. She would never share his bed again; and he might as well know it.

‘Clara!’

He was awake, waiting for her. Fool! He might have had the grace to pretend to be asleep. How ridiculous he looked with his thin hair sticking out in all directions from under his night cap, his eyes pale and bulging, his pasty face, his gaping mouth.

‘So I awakened you?’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Employed in useful occupation,’ she said flippantly.

‘Clara, I insist …’

‘You insist. Now, Frank, don’t be foolish. You insist on nothing – nor shall you ever where I am concerned.’

‘I want to know where you have spent the night.’

‘So you shall. I have no intention of making a secret of it. Soon it will be known throughout this court. Soon everyone who wants the smallest favour will know it has to come through me.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh yes you do. We’ve hinted it, haven’t we? You wanted it as much as I did … or if you didn’t you’re more of a fool than I take you for.’

‘Do you mean that you’ve been with …’

‘With His Highness, yes.’

‘You have …’

‘I have.’

‘Clara!’

‘My dear little shocked husband, you are now a cuckold. Don’t look outraged. It’s a pleasant thing to be as you will learn. The best thing to be if you can’t be a noble Duke or Prince or King is a cuckold, as many a man throughout the world has come to realize.’

‘Clara, I’m horrified.’

‘You don’t appear to be. I can see the speculation glinting in your eyes and well it might. Why do you think I married you? I married you for this. Now listen to me, Platen. We are going to make our fortunes. I’ll make you the richest man at this court. I’ll make you the Bishop’s chief minister. I will, I tell you. You should go down on your knees and thank me for this night’s work.’

He was staring at her and she laughed.

Weak! weak! she thought. And excited. At last he is discovering he has ambition. He was afraid of it before – but now he has someone to tend it for him … he really is rather excited.

Despicable! she thought.

Then: Thank goodness. It means we shall not be plagued by petty irritations.

In the schoolroom with its windows overlooking the moat, Sophia Dorothea sat with her attendant, Eléonore von Knesebeck, idly glancing at the books before them.

Eléonore von Knesebeck had become her greatest friend; and although she was a few years older than Sophia Dorothea she was less precocious; she had a pleasant face without beauty; and she and her family were very happy that the young Princess had taken such a fancy to her. Sophia Dorothea had felt the need of a friend near her own age and Eléonore von Knesebeck filled that need perfectly. As her father was one of George William’s councillors it had been agreed that Eléonore should share Sophia Dorothea’s lessons and that the friendship between the two girls should be encouraged.

Since the little Knesebeck had come to her apartments Sophia Dorothea had found life much more interesting, for her friend was more in touch with the world outside the castle than she herself could be and there was nothing she enjoyed so much as startling Sophia Dorothea with news of it. It was from Eléonore von Knesebeck that Sophia Dorothea learned so much about the court of Osnabrück, and that enchanted castle ruled over by the ogress had grown more realistic but none the less sinister. Sophia Dorothea now knew that Clara von Platen had become
the Bishop’s mistress-in-chief and everyone at the court was a little afraid of her; she knew that George Lewis, the Crown Prince, was a little monster who was like his father in one way only – and that he indulged this trait with the serving girls in his father’s household. She knew that the Duchess Sophia was a tyrant in her own way, ruling apart from Ernest Augustus.

Sophia Dorothea liked to listen and shiver ecstatically; and to be thankful for her beloved parents and peaceful Celle.

The two girls were talking idly now of the court at Osnabrück for it was a subject that fascinated them both.

‘My aunt and uncle never visit us here,’ said Sophia Dorothea. ‘Sometimes I wish they would. I should love to see them.’

‘They are jealous really,’ put in Eléonore. ‘Celle is richer, more cultivated and more beautiful than Osnabrück; and you are more cultivated and more beautiful than any of their children.’

‘They have a lot and poor Maman and Papa have only me.’

‘Quality is better than quantity,’ declared Eléonore; and the two girls laughed.

‘Of course I shall not be here forever,’ sighed Sophia Dorothea. She frowned; she could not visualize a home that was not this castle. The idea of waking up in a bed which was not in the alcove and from which she could not see the mantelpiece supported by four cupids seemed impossible. But it must come, for there was a great deal of talk about her betrothal.

‘You’ll not be far away,’ Eléonore soothed her.

‘You’ll come with me when I marry.’

‘I shall come. We’ve said we’d never be separated, haven’t we?’

‘All the same I shall
hate
going. I wonder if Augustus Frederick would come here and live?’

‘Well, he’ll be the heir of Wolfenbüttel. Heirs usually live in their own castles. But it is near. You’d be home in a day.’

‘I’d always remember that; and if I didn’t like it, I should just come home.’

‘But you do like Augustus Frederick?’

‘H’m. He’s all right.’ Sophia Dorothea stared dreamily out of the window. ‘Eléonore, do you remember Philip Königsmarck?’

‘Who?’

‘He was a boy who came here once. We were great friends. He went away though. And he didn’t say goodbye properly. I wonder why.’

‘People come and go.’

‘I should have thought he would have said goodbye to me.’

‘When was this?’

‘Long long ago. I believe he was really Sigurd. He left so mysteriously. He was handsome, very handsome; he rode a white charger …’

‘And he rescued you from a ring of fire?’

‘You’re laughing at me, Eléonore. But I’ve never forgotten him.’

‘You dreamed it. I don’t suppose he was any better than Augustus Frederick really.’

‘Do you think I did dream it?’

‘You do change things a little … from what they were, you know.’

‘Yes, I believe I do.’ Sophia Dorothea sighed. ‘The fact is, Eléonore, I never, never want to leave Celle.’

‘But you want to grow up, have a family of your own. You don’t want to be a child forever.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t want anything to change. I used to think it never would. Birthday mornings when I wake up and think of all the secret treats they are planning, and Maman and Papa come in with all the presents … I want it to go on like that forever.’

‘Which it can’t,’ said Eléonore practically. ‘Oh, look, there are riders approaching the castle.’

The two girls were at the window watching.

‘It’s the Wolfenbüttel livery,’ said Sophia Dorothea. ‘What message do you think they are bringing?’

‘They are coming to tell the Duke and Duchess that Duke Anton Ulrich is coming to pay a visit with Augustus Frederick.’

Sophia Dorothea made a little grimace.

‘Their livery is not as charming as ours.’

‘Nothing outside Celle is as charming as inside,’ answered Eléonore von Knesebeck.

‘It’s true.’

‘Except at Versailles where everything is so much more wonderful even than at Celle.’

‘Maman was at the French Court; she was banished from it and she is happier at Celle than she has ever been anywhere else.’ Sophia Dorothea turned to Eléonore von Knesebeck and hugged her suddenly.

‘What is it?’

‘I just thought that I am so like Maman that I shall never be happy anywhere but at Celle.’

‘You’re shivering.’

‘Yes … so I am. Is it not foolish of me? Do you know, Eléonore, I always feel like this when messengers come to the castle. I am always afraid of what messages they will bring.’

‘There’s nothing you need fear while you’re in Celle.’

‘No, of course not. There is only the old ogre and the ogress from Osnabrück we need fear.’

‘And they cannot touch you.’

Sophia Dorothea laughed and went back to the table; she and Eléonore von Knesebeck were sitting there together when the door opened and the Duchess came into the room. Sophia Dorothea, jumping up to greet her mother, saw at once how agitated she was.

‘Maman,’ she cried. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Bad news, my darling.’

Sophia Dorothea threw herself into her mother’s arms; the Duchess stroked her daughter’s hair while Eléonore von Knesebeck stood apart uncertain what to do.

‘Dear Augustus Frederick is dead. He has been killed in battle at Philipsburg fighting for the Emperor. My dearest, this is a terrible blow to us all.’

Sophia Dorothea hid her face against her mother’s bodice. She felt bewildered. Augustus Frederick … so young, so vital … dead. It was bewildering. Never to see him again … never to hear him speak.

‘This is such a shock,’ said her mother, stroking her hair.

It was some time later when Sophia Dorothea thought:
There will be no marriage now. I shall stay at Celle where everything is safe and happy.

The Duke of Celle was with his chief minister, the Count of Bernstorff, in that small, very private apartment where they were wont to deal with matters of state, discussing the recent death of Augustus Frederick and what effect this was likely to have on the relationship between Celle and Wolfenbüttel.

‘I believe that Duke Anton Ulrich hopes that this will not change anything,’ said Bernstorff.

‘I do not see how we can be so close as a marriage between his son and my daughter would have made us.’

‘He is still hopeful, my lord, of uniting Celle with Wolfenbüttel. I’ll guess that Wolfenbüttel already has plans for the Princess Sophia Dorothea’s dowry.’

‘I have no doubt,’ said the Duke wryly.

‘The Duchess has a very high opinion of Duke Anton Ulrich.’ Bernstoff laughed lightly. ‘They are sworn allies.’

‘We are all good friends,’ answered the Duke.

Bernstorff lowered his eyes; he did not want to betray himself by an expression. He was excessively vain, certain of his own powers, longing to take a bigger part in the government of Celle; and although he was the Duke’s chief minister again and again he found himself in confict with the Duchess.

The Duke was easy-going and luxury loving; all he wanted was to be left in peace. What a pleasant state of affairs that would have been – but for the Duchess. She was unlike her husband; she it was who had decided that there should be this alliance with Wolfenbüttel. It was not that Bernstorff doubted the good of that alliance for Celle; but he was not so much concerned with the good of Celle as the good of Bernstorff. What he did not care for was continually to be forced to accept the will of the Duchess. It insulted his vanity – which was the ruling passion of his life – to have to be subordinate to a woman.