The Princess of Celle

Romance in Breda

GEORGE WILLIAM WAS restless. He had no desire to return to Venice. He was free to go where he would, for Ernest Augustus and Sophia were doing their duty for the Guelphs. They now had two sons, George Lewis was healthy, although excessively ugly, and little Frederick Augustus had joined him in the nursery.

It was amusing to watch Ernest Augustus as a father and head of the house. How he had changed! He no longer looked up to George William as he once had. He was the ambitious man on the alert to establish the position he had won by taking his brother’s place, anxious to make little George Lewis’s inheritance a worthy one.

He had recently succeeded to the Bishopric of Osnabrück, that See which was founded by Charlemagne. It was a strange selection, but the Treaty of Westphalia had decreed that the Prince Bishops of Osnabrück should be alternately Roman Catholic and Lutheran; and that the Lutheran Bishop should be chosen by the chapter from the house of Brunswick-Lüneberg. Thus was Ernest Augustus selected, and as it was an office bringing with it power as well as riches he had been delighted to accept. He had immediately moved his family to the Castle of Iburg and decided to make this his headquarters.

He was enjoying life. I should have made him pay me for what was done, mused George William. He made no sacrifice.

They were growing apart. Ernest Augustus was so much the married man, George William the confirmed bachelor. The only quality they shared was their deep sensuality, for although Ernest Augustus was married he was by no means a faithful husband. He did his duty by Sophia, giving her every opportunity to bear children, but it was not to be expected that one woman could satisfy him. He was determined to live his own life and made it clear that while every respect was paid to Sophia by his subjects, while she might rule the household as chatelaine, he must be allowed to go his way. Sophia understood this; she never complained at the mistresses he took; she had control of the children and the household, and was queen in her domain. Very well, she would not ask for the impossible.

So Ernest Augustus had done well. He even managed to travel a little – although not too far, nor did he stay away too long. He could see that George William was doing himself no good by his constant absences. He liked hunting, eating, drinking and sleeping with women. While he could get these and beget a family he was content.

Not so George William. Restlessly he flitted about the Continent until eventually he came to Breda, which had become known as the home of exiles, for in this pleasant town they congregated and lived recklessly and hopefully, as exiles will.

There was a royal set in Breda – exiled Princes and Princesses, Kings and Queens and the nobility who had reasons for wanting to leave their native countries, settled there. Some were rich; many were poor; and those who might not be able to compete with the rich hostesses of the Court of Restored Royalty in England or that glittering opulence of Versailles, set up house in Breda and contented themselves with offering hospitality to persons who, at the moment, were in the shadows but full of hope of returning to power, in which case they might remember the friends of their needy days.

Sophia’s mother, the ex-Queen of Bohemia, had stayed at Breda; so had Charles Prince of Wales who had now returned to England where, he had said, he was greeted so warmly that it must have been his own fault that he had stayed away so long.

Through the streets the carriages of the once-great or near-great rattled; ladies dressed in the latest French fashions acknowledged the greetings of gallant gentlemen as their carriages passed along. Every day seemed to be the occasion for some brilliant ball or masquerade. The people of Breda were proud of their foreign population which had brought such prosperity to the town.

George William was welcomed. He was no exile but came purely for pleasure; his servants found a worthy lodging for him and in the first few days he received a message from the Princesse de Tarente inviting him to a ball.

George William was delighted. Breda soothed him; here was grace and charm which might have come straight from Versailles. It was different from Venice. The climate was not so clement; the romantic canals and the delight of a masque which ended in St. Mark’s Square was missing; but there was an excitement about Breda which Venice lacked; and he felt his spirits rising. As his servants dressed him for the ball he knew that he had been wise to hand over everything to Ernest Augustus. Freedom was worth anything.

It was a splendid ball and he was received effusively by the Princess.

‘My dear, dear Duke!’ she cried, holding out both hands to welcome him. ‘What a pleasure this is! We are almost related now. You were indeed a wicked one to refuse my niece. You look astonished. Did you not know that the Duchess Sophia is my niece?’

‘It is impossible. I had thought you might be sisters.’

‘Now you would flatter me. Or has marriage aged dear Sophia so much? I hear she has two splendid boys! How happy the dear Bishop must be! And you … oh no, you are a born bachelor and still determined to remain one. I hope you are not contemplating a short stay in Breda. We are two Germans, remember. After all, I am only French by marriage. But you will meet some delightful people … delightful …’

She was ready to greet the next guest and he passed on. Such enchanting women! He danced; he flattered; and it was like a hundred other balls he had attended until he found Eléonore.

She was tall and her dark hair, which was very abundant, was piled high on her head, although one curl was allowed to fall over her shoulder; she had a dazzling complexion and sparkling dark eyes; and George was struck by her air of dignity, which was rare in one so young, and of modesty which was even more rare.

She spoke German as a foreigner speaks it and he knew from her accent that she was French.

The Princess had presented him to her.

‘Take care of my little demoiselle d’honneur,’ she said, ‘and she will see that you are well cared for as it is your first visit to us and we want it to be the forerunner of many.’

Perhaps she was being a little mischievous. Perhaps she was thinking of his reputation for indulging in amorous intrigue, and Eléonore’s for virtue; but she as well as these two were astonished at what happened that night.

They danced together and they talked. Those who knew George William well would have been surprised, for his manner had changed. Into his voice there had come a gentleness which had never been there before. There was a complete absense of innuendo in his remarks; he was not planning the quickest route to the desired goal. Not that she did not delight him; she did, as he had never been so enchanted; but from the first moment of their meeting this was an adventure such as he had never indulged in before. He took her to an alcove lightly secluded by foliage where he said they could talk in comfort. He wanted to know why she was in Breda, how long she had been there, how long she intended to remain, what had brought her there.

‘I was at the Court of France,’ she said, ‘but we are Hugue nots.’

‘Exiled then?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘And you long to return?’

‘Not as things are. It would not be wise.’

‘So you live here in the Princess’s household.’

‘She has been so good to us.’

‘To you … and others?’

‘To my family. My father and my sister Angelique.’

‘They should have called you Angelique,’ he told her. ‘It would have suited you. Though I prefer your name. But perhaps any name which was yours would become beautiful simply for that reason.’

‘You like to pay compliments.’

‘And you to receive – although I know you must grow weary of them.’

‘I like best the truth,’ she said.

‘Perhaps I may meet your father and sister.’

‘I am sure they would be delighted. My father is Alexandre d’Esmiers, Marquis d’Olbreuse.’

‘Do you think he would be pleased to receive me?’

‘He is always delighted to receive friends of the Princesse de Tarente. She has been so good to us. To have many friends helps to soothe the … mal du pays.’

‘And you suffer from that?’

‘A little. Though perhaps not so much as my father. It is easier to leave your home when you are young. I think he often dreams of Poitou. He would love to go back. But how can he? His estates were confiscated after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes when Huguenots were persecuted by the Government.’

‘That must have been sad for your family – but I can only be glad because it has brought you here.’

She was quite enchanting, and after the first shock of being with the most beautiful and attractive young woman he had ever met he began to wonder how soon he could make her his mistress.

He was too experienced to make a false step; he knew very well that he would have to be patient. He was prepared for a little delay, but because of that, the culmination would seem all the more worthwhile when it was reached.

He went warily through the evening – yet as though in a dream. And when he said farewell to the Princess he had made no assignation with her charming demoiselle d’honneur, not being sure how this should be done.

‘I trust,’ said the Princess, a little slyly, ‘that Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse looked after you?’

‘Admirably,’ he answered.

‘I am so pleased. You look as though you have really enjoyed my little ball.’

‘So much,’ he answered fervently. ‘As I never have enjoyed a ball before.’

She laughed and tapped him with her fan. ‘I am delighted. Then my little Mademoiselle did her duty. She is such a good and virtuous girl. I knew I could trust you with her … and her with you.’

Two days later he presented himself at the Princess’s house and begged for an audience with her.

Once more he was received graciously. He looked about him for a sign of Eléonore. There was none.

‘You are contented in Breda?’ asked the Princess.

‘I am not sure. It has occurred to me that I should not give myself entirely to pleasure while I am here.’

The Princess raised her eyebrows and asked what he had in mind.

‘My education in languages has been rather neglected, I fear. I have been thinking that while I am staying here it might be a good opportunity to remedy that in some way.’

‘Oh? What language did you wish to learn?’

‘French. I was wondering if you could suggest a teacher.’

‘I doubt not I could find you one. Some old nobleman – an exile from France, very short of money – might be glad to earn a little.’

‘You have many French friends with you here in Breda.’

She studied him archly. ‘As you discovered when you last visited us.’

‘Yes. There was one young French woman …’

‘Ah, Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse. What an excellent idea! Her father might help you. Oh, I am not sure. They are a very proud family. You have no idea how proud some of these exiles can be. Pride seems to grow out of poverty.’

‘To show it perhaps is their only way of reminding others of their past splendours.’

‘I am sure you are right. I do not think the Marquis would care to become a teacher of French. I believe I know an old professor …’

‘Well, I fear I should not wish to be so serious as that. He would put me through lessons which I should find beyond my powers of concentration.’

‘But my dear friend, you will have to concentrate if you wish to learn a language.’

‘I meant rather to learn through conversation … light, amusing conversation.’

‘Such as you might exchange with a young lady?’

‘Exactly.’

‘With say … Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse?’

‘That is what I mean.’

She laughed and nodded. ‘Well, I could ask Eléonore how she would feel about giving you such lessons. Shall I do so?’

‘I would deem it a great favour if you did.’

‘It would please me to please you,’ she aswered. ‘After all we are connected by marriage now. But I must warn you, cousin. Are you my cousin? Let us pretend so. It is such a pleasant, cosy relationship. I must warn you that it could only be Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse teaching you the French language. You would not be expected, however tempted, to teach her anything.’

She laughed and went on. ‘She is an enchanting creature, I grant you. She is the loveliest girl I have ever seen. Do you agree with me?’

He nodded seriously.

‘Consider, cousin. She will never be your mistress. Would it not be better at this stage to turn your attention towards an easier conquest? I would not have your stay in Breda clouded in any way.’

‘You are very kind.’

‘Well, we are … cousins, and I want to help you.’

‘So you will ask this lady if she will consent to instruct me in the French language?’

‘If you are still sure that you want to learn it?’

‘I was never more sure of anything in my life,’ he answered.

‘Then, I shall ask her.’

When he had left she was thoughtful for a while. He was a handsome fellow and well-versed in the arts of seduction. It would be interesting to see what happened now. How would he tilt against Eléonore’s impregnable virtue. She could not for the life of her guess how this would end.

The Princesse de Tarente obligingly lent them a room. Eléonore sat on one side of the table, he on the other; he watched her gesticulating hands; he listened to her fluting voice.

‘French is surely the most charming language in the world,’ he said. ‘When spoken by you,’ he added. ‘My attempts seem to provoke only merriment.’

They were amusing lessons. He told her that he had never before enjoyed learning. How different it would have been had she taught him in his youth; he might have become a scholar. In spite of this, she pointed out, he was not making much progress with his French.

Every time he left that room he marvelled at himself. This was not the manner in which he usually conducted his love affairs; he was like a naïve schoolboy. Two weeks had passed and he was still taking his French lessons and she was no nearer becoming his mistress than she had been on that first evening at the ball.

But she was not indifferent to him. Behind her dignity there was a warmth of … friendship? She was pleased to see him; she admitted that she enjoyed teaching as much as he enjoyed learning. It was a profit to them both, she pointed out; a mutual advantage; for while he progressed a very little with the French language, she was augmenting her German.

The inevitable happened when he conjugated the verb to love.

‘Je vous aime,’ he told her; and she pretended to believe that was part of the lesson.

‘That is correct,’ she told him.

‘Correct and inevitable,’ he said. ‘From the moment we met I knew meeting you was the most important thing that had ever happened to me.’

He had seized her hands across the table but she was smiling at him calmly.

‘I do not expect you to love me as deeply, as devotedly as I love you … yet,’ he rushed on. ‘But I must have the opportunity of showing you … of …’

Her eyes were puzzled. ‘The Princess tells me that you are in no position to make such a declaration,’ she said.

‘You will come back to Germany with me. We will live there together for the rest of our lives … but not all the time of course. We will travel … see the world. I will take you to Italy, to England …’

‘But how would that be possible?’ she asked.

‘How? We will just go. That is how.’

‘Then is it not true that you have taken an oath to your brother never to marry?’

‘To marry …’ he stammered.

She smiled coolly. ‘I see that marriage had not entered your mind.’ She rose. ‘The lesson is over. I think, do you not, that in the circumstances there should be no more.’

He was on his feet and at her side.

‘Eléonore …’ He tried to embrace her but she held him off.

‘I do not think you understand,’ she said. ‘We are poor … we are exiles … but my family would never allow me to enter into such a relationship as you are suggesting. Goodbye, my lord Duke, I am sorry you did not explain sooner.’

With that she left him. He stood staring after her – bemused, frustrated and desperately unhappy.

‘What can I do?’ he asked the Princess.

She put her head on one side and regarded him affectionately. So handsome. Such an accomplished lover. Well, this time he had indeed met his match.

‘These French nobles … they are so proud,’ she reminded him.

‘I understand that. I would not have her other than she is … but what can I do?’

‘You might offer settlements. They are very poor. The father’s prospects are alarming … unless one of his daughters – or both of them – make wealthy marriages.’

‘If it is a matter of money …’

‘Compared with them, my dear lord Duke, you are very wealthy and you would give a great deal to win my dear little Eléonore. But it may be that money is not enough. But we can try.’

‘You will talk to her?’

‘I would do a great deal to make you happy,’ she answered.

The Marquis d’Olbreuse smiled at his beautiful daughter.

‘It is for you to decide, my child,’ he said.

‘But how could I accept such … dishonour. Have you not always said that our pride is all that is left to us now?’

‘I have and I mean it. But it is not easy to make a good marriage when there is no dowry. I have nothing to offer you … neither you nor Angelique. How different it would be if we had not been driven from our home!’

‘You are not suggesting that I should accept him?’

‘I would not suggest that you did anything you do not want to do.’

‘But father, he is asking me to become his mistress!’

‘It is true. But he has talked of settlements … and a man does not usually offer that to a casual mistress. I believe if it were possible, he would marry you.’

‘But, mon père, it is not possible.’

Angelique had come into the room. She was a very pretty girl but lacked Eléonore’s outstanding beauty.

The Marquis looked from one to another of his daughters and sighed.

Two lovely girls and he had not the means to set them up in life. That, he believed, was his greatest tragedy of all. Life did not become easier as the years passed. He visualized an old age of poverty, of living on the bounty of others. It was not a pleasant vista for a proud old man.

And if Eléonore accepted the offer of the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneberg? He was rich; he was a Prince – albeit a German one of a small principality. He was not the head of his house because he had an elder brother living and had signed away his own rights – but …

Even so, he would not persuade her that here was a chance to make her family’s future secure. In France a Prince’s mistress was a power in the land – often more so than his wife. Eléonore was French enough, proud enough, beautiful and intelligent enough, to play the rôle made famous by so many women of her own country. In her small way she might become a Diane de Poitiers. Little pride was lost and honours were gained in such a role.

But the man was a German, of course; and they had not the same refinements of taste as the French nor the same ideas of gallantry.

It must be for her to choose. But if she accepted, if she played her rôle as he was sure it could be played, what good she could bring to her family!

Eléonore, who knew him so well, guessed the thoughts which were passing through his mind. She was a little shocked; and yet she understood so well.

When she retired to her room Angelique followed her there.

‘You are the talk of Breda,’ said Angelique. ‘How I envy you!’

‘Then you are foolish. My position is far from enviable.’

‘They say that Duke George William is madly in love with you. I think he is most attractive. I don’t know how you can refuse him.’

‘Then it is a pity he does not transfer his affections to you.’

‘Now Eléonore, don’t be touchy. Mon dieu! So it is true then?’

‘What?’

‘You’re in love with him.’

Eléonore turned away angrily.

Was she? She was not sure. But Angelique had noticed something in her demeanour, some change.

If he despaired and went away, she would be quite desolate. Was that being in love?

If he had offered marriage how joyfully she would have accepted. But how could the proud daughter of a proud house agree to become a mistress?

The Princesse de Tarente watched the lovers with interest. So charming she said, in a blasé world. She was certain that in time Eléonore would relent.

She told George William so and that if he offered a morganatic marriage it might help to persuade Eléonore.

‘Alas, she has had a strict upbringing and it has always been impressed on her that she must never live with any man without marriage.’

‘I have been a fool,’ cried George William. ‘If I had not made the contract with my brother how happily would I marry her. Nothing but my declaration of renunciation holds me back. I know that I want to live with Eléonore for the rest of my life, and I shall never want any other woman. She will be sufficient to me. My dear Princess, I cannot describe to you how much I have changed. I am a different man. Had I known it was possible to feel this passion, this tenderness, this desire for a tranquil life with one woman I should never have been such a fool as to sign that contract. I know now why I refused Sophia. I must have been secretly conscious that Eléonore was waiting for me.’

‘So charming!’ sighed the Princess. ‘So romantic! You have promised settlements that would accompany a proper marriage … you have offered a morganatic marriage … you can do no more. I am certain that Eléonore loves you.’

‘Are you?’ he cried rapturously.

‘My dear George William, how delightful it is to be in love! Oh yes, she adores you. She would make you a wonderful wife and you would be the best husband in the world. You have learned the emptiness of mere passion, the dissatisfaction which must follow lust. You are in love, and it is quite beautiful. I believe you will win in time. I will give a ball for you both which will, in a way, set a seal on your relationship. When she knows how much all of us in Breda are with our dear romantic lovers, she may relent, for she longs to, I do assure you. Oh, how she longs to! She cannot deceive me. She is as much in love with you as you are with her.’

He kissed the Princess’s hands with fervour. She was his very dear friend. If he were not so wholeheartedly in love with his Eléonore he would doubtless be in love with her.

‘No more compliments of that nature, my dear,’ reproved the Princess. ‘They might reach Eléonore’s ears, and then she would think she was right after all – fascinating as you are – to hold out against you.’

But he was grateful, he assured her. He would be grateful to the end of his days.

It was a glittering ball and the guests of honour were Duke George William and Mademoiselle Eléonore d’Olbreuse.

They danced together; they talked together; and made no secret of their pleasure in each other’s company.

During the evening the Princess called them to her and told them that it made her very happy to give this ball in their honour.

‘I want you to know, my dearest demoiselle d’honneur, that all of us in Breda wish you well. I want you to take this as a memento of this happy evening.’

She put a medallion into Eléonore’s hands – a picture of George William set with diamonds.

‘What can I say?’ cried Eléonore, deeply moved.

‘Say what you have to say to him, my child. And that will best please me.’

She left them together and George William drew her to an alcove in the ballroom as he had on the first night they had met.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘you must say yes now. It is the wish of everyone that you do.’

‘I want to,’ she told him, ‘but …’

‘I promise you you will never regret this step, my dearest.’

‘I do not believe I should, but I should never be your wife and …’

‘There should be a marriage.’

‘Not legal, not binding.’

‘It should be binding in every way.’

‘And our children, what of them? I could not bring illegitimate children into the world.’

‘They should have every honour that I could give them.’

‘I do not know. I cannot say.’

‘But you love me.’

‘Yes,’ she answered earnestly. ‘I love you.’

‘Now I shall win. You cannot hold out against me. Eléonore, my dearest, say yes now. Let this wonderful evening be the happiest of my life … so far. Let it be the beginning of all my joy.’

‘I will give you an answer tomorrow.’

‘And it will be yes.’

‘I think so … I hope so … and alas, I fear so,’ she answered.

That was a happy night. He was sure of success. He was already wording in his mind the settlement. There should be a ceremony in every way as solemn as a marriage service. They should never have anything to regret.

He was the one who must regret … regret the contract he had been fool enough to enter into with Ernest Augustus. Why had he not understood then that he did not want marriage because he had never been in love, that he did not understand love before he met Eléonore!

He was angry with himself because he could not give her everything – simply everything that she desired. Still he would make up for the one lack. She should be treated like a queen.

Tomorrow he would call on her father. They would talk … make plans.

He lay sleepless thinking of the next day.

His servant was at his bedside.

‘My lord Duke, a messenger.’

Those fateful words. He had always dreaded them because they invariably brought disturbing news from home.

‘Bring him to me, without delay.’

The man stood by the bedside, travel-stained and weary, yet with that elation in his face which was a characteristic of those who brought exciting news – good or bad. He sensed by the solemn look this one was forcing on his face that this was bad news.

‘My lord Duke, Duke Christian Lewis is dead.’

‘Dead!’ cried George William struggling up. ‘My brother … dead.’

‘Yes, my lord. And there is more. Duke John Frederick has seized the Castle of Celle and has declared that he will hold it against you.’

George William leaped from his bed; fate was against him; Eléonore was on the point of relenting; and now news had come to him which necessitated his immediate return to his own country.

He presented himself at the lodgings of the Marquis d’Olbreuse.

‘Monsieur le Marquis, I must speak to your daughter without delay.’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ replied the Marquis. ‘I will tell her you are here.’

Eléonore came eagerly into the room, but as soon as she saw her lover she knew that something was wrong.

He took both her hands and looked into her face. ‘My love, I have to return to Celle this very day. My eldest brother is dead and the elder of my two remaining brothers has seized my castle there, and is attempting to rule in my place. I have no choice. If I am to keep what is mine I must go at once.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you must go.’

‘And I still have not had your answer.’

‘I cannot decide … I cannot. Pray give me time.’

He sighed. Then he fervently kissed her hand. ‘I shall be back,’ he told her. ‘As soon as the affair is settled I shall be with you. But I want you to take these documents. You will then have no doubts of my feelings for you.’

‘You have no need to give me further proof. I know. If only I could reconcile all that I have been brought up to believe is right with what you are asking and what I desire!’

He embraced her tenderly.

‘You will in time,’ he said. ‘As soon as I have settled this unfortunate matter I shall come to you or better still you must come to me. Now … I must leave you.’

Within a few hours Duke George William was riding out of Breda, and when she studied the documents he had left her, Eléonore saw that he had settled on her his entire fortune in case of his death.

She wept, horrified at the thought that he might be going into battle against his brother.

If it were not for the thought of the children they might have, she would have written to him at once telling him that she would come to him as soon as he sent for her. Because of that thought, she wavered still.

Strife within the family was an evil thing. All the brothers agreed to this; but John Frederick had declared that he would be revenged on his brothers for passing him over for Ernest Augustus without consulting the family. In the past brothers had agreed to draw lots and rely on luck; but George William had acted in a high-handed manner and bestowed Sophia and all the change implied on the youngest brother. For this reason John Frederick had revolted. Moreover, George William was bringing the family into disrepute. He was never at home. First it had been Venice – and now Breda. It was time he was taught a lesson.

But when George William came riding back with all speed to Celle, John Frederick had no wish to take up arms against him and agreed that such problems as theirs should be discussed round a council table; but George William must understand that if he were to be allowed to rule his little principality he could not satisfactorily delegate authority to others; he must be present himself. These long residences at foreign places must come to an end.

George William saw the wisdom of this. He must settle down. As it happened it was just what he wanted to do … with Eléonore.

If she would come to him, if they could set up house together, he would ask for nothing more but to live quietly for the rest of his days in his own land.

The brothers met. The death of Christian Lewis meant that there were prizes to be passed round; and as a result of the conference George William became Duke of Celle, John Frederick Duke of Hanover, while Ernest Augustus remained the Bishop of Osnabrück. They were all satisfied – even John Frederick.

Now, thought George William, all that remained was to go back to Breda and bring Eléonore home to Celle.

His ministers shook their heads with disapproval when he said he was returning to Breda.

‘My lord,’ it was pointed out, ‘if you left now John Frederick would claim what he did before. You would lose Celle, for although the people prefer you as their Duke your perpetual wanderings displease them. They want you to rule them, but only if you do so in person.’

‘It would be a short stay, I do assure you.’

‘It would be dangerous to leave now. You must stay at least a year before you wander abroad again.’

George William was in despair. Eléonore was still unpersuaded; and it might be that only he could do the persuading.

He wrote to her at once explaining the position. There was a short delay before her answer came back, telling him that he must forget her; for she had suffered from the smallpox and her beauty was gone. He could not love her now, and she prayed that he would put her out of his mind as she was trying to put him out of hers.

Her beauty gone! He pictured her with her dazzling complexion ruined, the soft skin pitted in that disfiguring way which ruined so many who would otherwise be beauties. He wept; he mourned; and after a day or so he knew that he wanted Eléonore whether she was beautiful or not.

He wrote and told her so.

The Princesse de Tarente wrote to him. They missed him in Breda but they had heard that his affairs at home were no longer giving him reason for anxiety. Poor Eléonore was wretchedly unhappy. ‘She loves you, my dear Duke, do not allow yourself to believe otherwise. Do not believe what she tells you, for she is trying to make it easy for you to do without her. In spite of her sadness she is as beautiful as ever. She has the loveliest complexion in Breda. It breaks my heart to see her so sad, and I am sure you do not wish to break my heart, my dear.’

He smiled when he read the letter.

So Eléonore was lying to him … for his sake … to make it easier.

He was determined on two things: to have Eléonore and Celle.

He decided on a visit to Osnabrück. After all, Ernest Augustus had always been his friend and Sophia seemed satisfied with her fate, so perhaps she did not hold the jilting against him.

He would ask their advice and help.

Sophia received him graciously. How handsome he is! she thought. Being a little drawn, a little thinner, does not detract from his charm.

He went to the nursery and saw the children. George Lewis was almost five, Frederick Augustus four – and both were healthy boys.

‘What do you think of my sons?’ asked Sophia, watching him closely for a trace of envy.

‘You are fortunate. My brother is delighted, I am sure.’

‘From what I hear you are not pleased now that you renounced your rights. Is it true that there is a lady in Breda whom you would like to marry?’

‘It is true. I want to have a good talk with you and Ernest Augustus about her. I think you can help me.’

‘Help you? You need help to persuade the lady?’ Sophia’s laugh was a little harsh. So he is in love! she was thinking. He could not contemplate marrying me. He preferred to give up his rights to escape me. And now if he is as enamoured of this French creature as rumours say, he is feeling he acted a little hastily. He is wishing he had thrown me over without bothering to find a husband for me!

She could have hated him – if he was not so handsome, so much more charming than Ernest Augustus, if she had not decided when she had heard she was to marry him, to fall in love with him.

‘You will hear what I have to suggest?’

‘The contracts stand firm,’ she replied grimly.

‘Naturally. I did not mean in that way. George Lewis is all attention.’

‘He is an intelligent child.’

‘Two intelligent children! Lucky Sophia! Lucky Ernest Augustus! I am sure you will want to help me to be happy.’

George Lewis was holding up a wooden sword.

‘Uncle,’ he said, ‘I shall be a soldier.’

George William lifted the boy in his arms. What an ugly little fellow he was, but his eyes were bright.

‘We will go to war together, nephew.’

‘I shall come too,’ piped up Frederick Augustus.

‘Of course.’

‘Come,’ said Sophia, ‘dinner will soon be served. And afterwards we shall talk together.’

They left the nursery and George William went to his apartments in the palace.

They are contented, he thought; Sophia owes me no grudge and Ernest Augustus should be very grateful to me. They will help me.

They had eaten well of sausage and red cabbage with ginger and onions – a dish to which, during his sojourns abroad, George William had grown unaccustomed.

He thought longingly of the French cooking at the table of the Princesse de Tarente. But he must not think of Breda – only as to how he could bring Eléonore out of it.

He noticed that every time he saw Ernest Augustus, his brother was changing. He was getting gross with too much good living – greasy German food, and the heavy ale they drank. He hunted frequently, travelled occasionally; and took his choice of the women of his court. A typical ruler, thought George William. How different his own life would be with Eléonore!

And Sophia? She was dignified, never forgetting her royal blood, and as long as everyone else remembered it she did not care that her husband was blatantly unfaithful. She ruled the household and would never allow any of his mistresses to attempt to dominate her. She was the woman supreme in the castle; and as long as Ernest Augustus granted her that, he could go his own way. Now of course she was hoping for more children. Two were not enough; for this reason Ernest Augustus must spend certain nights with her.

It was an amicable arrangement and Ernest Augustus was pleased with his marriage.

Sophia kept her feeling to herself, which was as well, for George William had no idea of the emotions he aroused in her, and when she said that she wanted to help him, he believed her.

When they were alone together he explained the situation to them both.

‘A pity she is a Frenchwoman,’ said Ernest Augustus. ‘I never trusted the French.’

‘Oh, come brother, we know the French have been our enemies. But that is not the fault of Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse and her family. Why, they are exiles from France. Louis has had them driven out. That should make you friendly towards them.’

‘You think that we can help you?’ asked Sophia.

‘Yes, by inviting her here. Treat her with respect. If you did so she would understand that, in spite of the circumstances, she was being given all the honours that would be due to my wife.’

‘She would not be your wife,’ put in Ernest Augustus quickly. ‘That is quite out of the question.’

‘I know. I know,’ replied George William wearily. ‘I have sworn that I will not marry. But I could marry … morganatically. You could have no objection to that.’

‘The documents would have to be very carefully drawn up.’

‘Naturally.’

How time changed people! thought George William. Here was Ernest Augustus, wary and suspicious; and a few years ago he would have done anything in the world to please his adored elder brother.

‘Well, should we ask her here?’ said Ernest Augustus to Sophia.

She was pleased that he bowed to her decision in matters such as this; it was payment for refusing to hear the giggling and other noises which came from his bedroom.

‘We shall have to consider this,’ she said slowly. ‘To take her under our protection might be misconstrued.’

‘How so?’ demanded George William.

‘Oh, it is easy to make trouble. Look how John Frederick almost succeeded in snatching Celle from you. If you had not returned when you did who can say what might have happened.’

‘You must do this for me,’ insisted George William. He laid his hand on her arm.

She was conscious of the hand there – yet successfully she hid her reaction.

How he pleads for her! she thought angrily. He pleads for her as eagerly as he rejected me!

‘We will consider,’ she said coolly.

‘And you will give me your answer … when?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I shall expect you tonight,’ Sophia told Ernest Augustus. ‘There is this matter to discuss.’

He nodded. It was time they slept together again, and he had no other project in mind for the night.

In her bedchamber he sat on the bed watching her.

‘Well?’

‘I think we should invite this woman here.’

‘You would be prepared to do that?’

‘I think it would be good if he lived with his mistress. That is all she can ever be, of course. We must make sure of that.’

‘Naturally it is all that she can be. I have his signature on the documents.’

‘I saw a look in his eyes tonight. Ambition, I said. And I fear ambition.’

‘But he has signed the documents. I have them under lock and key.’

‘There they must be kept. But he has changed; and we must be careful. When he signed over his rights to you he was a feckless young man, wanting merely to flit from one adventure to another. Now he has become serious. He wants this woman to be his wife. What do you think he will want next? Children. And once he has them he will want estates for them.’

‘Which he can’t have.’

‘Which,’ agreed Sophia, ‘he can’t have. But that won’t prevent his wanting them. And this woman … she will want them too. Our George Lewis is the heir; but what if George William has a son?’

‘George Lewis will still be the heir.’

‘George William is rich … richer than you are … in spite of what he has assigned to you. I’d rather Celle than Osnabrück. And Celle must be for George Lewis.’

‘So it shall be.’

‘We have to be careful. That is why I want that woman here. I want to see what manner of creature she is who has worked this change in him. And I want her to know that it is useless for her to dream. She is a nobody and I am a Princess of a Royal House. I have English blood in my veins.’

‘Oh, how you go on about the English!’

‘I happen to be proud of my connection with a proud people.’

‘Who murdered your uncle!’

‘That was a few of their leaders. The people are now happy to have my cousin Charles back on the throne. I am proud of being English, Ernest Augustus, and I don’t care who knows it. They at least have one King to rule over them … they are not split into all these principalities which are not worth much alone. That is why George Lewis must inherit as big an estate as possible. He must have Hanover, Celle, Osnabrück … the whole of the Brunswick-Lüneberg inheritance. And that woman will try to prevent it if she can, because if she should have boys of her own … You see my point? I am going to ask her here. I am going to show her that if she comes into this family she comes on the wrong side of the blanket and need have no fine ideas of what her children will get, or she will get for that matter. She comes as the Madame of the Duke of Celle – not as his wife. That’s what I want her to know and that is why I am going to ask her here.’

‘So you are going to help our lovers?’

‘Yes, I am going to help them, because I think it is a good thing that George William settles down to produce a few bastards and remembers that they have no inheritance because when he passed me over to you, he passed over his rights with me.’

‘You sound as though you would punish him for rejecting such a prize.’

‘Punish him! I care not enough to wish for that. I’m satisfied with the way everything turned out.’

‘A pretty compliment, my dear.’

She came and stood before him – unseductive yet inviting.

‘We will have a large family,’ she said. ‘Two sons is not enough.’

There was excitement in the Olbreuse lodgings when the letter arrived from Osnabrück.

Eléonore hastened to show it to her father.

‘It can mean one thing,’ said the Marquis. ‘You are accepted by his family. This is the Duchess herself; and she is a Princess. It is couched in a very welcoming manner. This means that all is well.’

‘It means a marriage that will not be accepted as one.’

‘My dear, many morganatic marriages have been made before.’

‘My children would have no rights.’

‘You are clever enough to see that they do, I am sure.’

Eléonore looked at her old father. What it would mean to him if she accepted this invitation and married George William, she well knew. The first thing George William would do would be to settle a pension on the Marquis. He had said as much; and she trusted him to keep his promises.

She looked at Angelique – so gay and pretty. What chance had she of making a good marriage as the daughter of an impoverished Frenchman – aristocratic though he might be, even though the French nobility was of as high a social standing as a German Prince, and often more cultivated and civilized! Not that she would criticize her German Prince; his absence had taught her how wretched she was going to be without him.

Her family was urging her – but more insistent than anything else were her own inclinations.

‘I will go to the Princess,’ she said. ‘She has been so good to us and her advice will help me make up my mind.’

The Princess received her with pleasure; she read Sophia’s letter.

‘My dear Eléonore,’ she cried, ‘of course you must go to Osnabrück. This letter means that Duchess Sophia accepts you – and if she does so will every German. This is telling you that although you cannot be his legal wife because of contracts he has made preventing his marrying, in every other way you will be treated as such.’

‘You … you almost persuade me.’

The Princess laughed. ‘My dear demoiselle d’honneur. You know you have made up your mind. You love this man. Don’t be afraid of love, my child.’

Eléonore went solemnly back to her father’s lodgings. The Marquis and Angelique looked at her expectantly.

‘I shall write to the Duchess Sophia at once,’ she said. ‘And now … I am going to prepare for the journey to Osnabrück.’

The Marquis’s expression relaxed. Angelique flew at her sister.

‘Oh, Eléonore … how we are going to miss you!’

‘You, Angelique, will not. I am to be treated with all honour. Therefore I need my own demoiselle d’honneur. Who better to fill the rôle than my own sister?’

Angelique burst into tears of joy and when Eléonore glanced at her father she saw that he too was weeping.

Tears of joy! Tears of relief! Eléonore herself could have joined in. The decision was made. I will never be parted from him again as long as I shall live, she thought.

George William stood beside the Duchess Sophia at the foot of the great staircase in the Castle of Iburg, his eyes bright with pleasure and emotion. She seemed more beautiful than she had in Breda; there was a serenity in the lovely dark eyes and when they met his he knew without a doubt that she truly loved him.

This is the happiest moment of my life, he thought; and then immediately: It would have been happier if I had been receiving her at Celle, if I could have offered her a true marriage.

But she had come to him at last – and he was thankful. He vowed to himself that he would spend the rest of his life making her so happy that she would not notice what she lacked.

Sophia’s pleasant smile hid her rancour. Oh yes, she thought, she is beautiful. I don’t believe I have ever seen a woman more so. If she had been offered to him in the first place he would never have handed her over to his brother.

‘Welcome to Osnabrück, Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse,’ said Sophia in good French.

Eléonore made a graceful curtsey. Everything she does she does perfectly, thought George William. A haughty piece for all her good manners, Sophia was thinking. Well, Mademoiselle, now you are here, you will have to learn your place. Fancy French manners won’t have the same effect on me as they do on my besotted brother-in-law.

George William had taken Eléonore’s hands and embraced her before them all and Sophia was aware that those watching were softened by the scene. All the world loved lovers – except Sophia and Ernest Augustus. And beauty and charm such as this French woman possessed could always arouse interest and sympathy – unless of course they had the opposite effect and stirred up envy.

Eléonore presented Angelique to Sophia who gave the young girl a smile and told her that she was pleased she had accompanied her sister to Osnabrück. And now she would take Eléonore to her own apartments that they might talk together for a short while before she conducted her guest to those which had been prepared for her.

In Sophia’s private chamber coffee and salt biscuits were served. This intimate tête-à-tête was an honour Sophia reserved for her friends. It was a sign, George William was able to tell Eléonore afterwards, that Sophia had taken a fancy to her and wanted everyone in the castle to know it.

Afterwards Eléonore was conducted to her own apartments where Angelique was already waiting for her. When they were alone Angelique sat on the bed laughing.

‘Oh, Eléonore,’ she cried, ‘I’m so glad we came. These Germans … so plump … so slow. George William is not like one of them. He is different. But I like them, sister. I am so glad that we are here.’

Eléonore smiled at her sister’s exuberance. She too was glad they had come.

Those were happy days. George William rode with her in the countryside, walked with her in the gardens of the palace, and they talked incessantly of the future.

There was to be no delay in the ceremony, which, George William declared, should be like an ordinary marriage. He had documents drafted and redrafted until they pleased him, then he showed them to Eléonore.

‘I want all the world to know that the only reason this is not in every sense a true marriage is because I have given my oath not to marry.’

She was gratified, but she was also deeply in love, and there were occasions when she wanted to have done with documents and ceremonies and go away with her lover.

Sophia helped a great deal during those days, often inviting Eléonore to her chamber for coffee and salt biscuits when she made her talk of France and her childhood and she herself talked of England … the country which she had never visited but to which, she assured Eléonore, she belonged more than to any other. She spoke fluent English. Her French was good but her English better. ‘My mother was English … an English Princess before she became Queen of Bohemia. It is in my blood … this affinity with England. And when the blood is royal …’ There were times when Eléonore suspected that Sophia was trying to underline the difference between them. Then she thought she was mistaken and George William’s devotion would make her forget everything else.

Ernest Augustus insisted on studying the marriage documents with his lawyer.

‘No loopholes mind,’ he cried. ‘His renunciation stands.’

‘There is no intention to evade it, your Highness,’ he was told.

‘Make sure there is none … make doubly sure. My brother has always kept his word, but he was never before devoted to a woman as he is to that one. He’s capable of anything for her sake.’

Sophia joined him. She was of his opinion. Carefully she studied the papers.

‘Well, my dear,’ she confided to Ernest Augustus, ‘I would call this in the language of the lady herself an anti-contract de mariage!’

Ernest Augustus laughed with her. They saw eye to eye over this matter as naturally they should. George William was not going to be allowed to evade his agreement by one line; and George Lewis was destined to be the heir of Brunswick-Lüneberg.

And so the morganatic marriage took place and the married pair continued at Osnabrück.

‘It is as well,’ said George William, ‘to do so for a while. It will stabilize your position.’

Eléonore agreed.

‘Madame von Harburg!’ said Sophia. ‘Well, it is as good a name as any for a woman who, call herself what she will, is still not his wife.’

‘He wants her to have a title and he has an estate of that name,’ pointed out Ernest Augustus.

‘I am aware of that. But it makes no difference to me. She is Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse.’

‘I hope you will not call her by that name. It would cause trouble with George William if you did.’

‘My dear husband, I have no wish to let George William know my true feelings. That would indeed put him on his guard. We have to be careful.’

‘And he is as much in love with her as he ever was.’

‘Give him time to fall out of love!’ said Sophia with a snort of laughter.

‘Sometimes I wonder whether he ever will. He is not the man he once was. I scarcely recognize him as the carefree fellow who used to accompany me on my journeyings.’

‘You’ve both changed,’ Sophia reminded him.

It was true. George William had once been the leader, now he was proving himself a man with a soft and sentimental streak in his nature. Ernest Augustus had changed too. The young man who had adored his brother and was eager to follow him in every way was learning to despise the one-time hero. Ernest Augustus would never love anyone to such an extent that he was ready to sacrifice everything. Sophia suspected that George William would do just that for his Eléonore and, illogically, while she applauded the growing shrewdness of Ernest Augustus, she longed for the devotion of which George William was capable.

When George William presented his wife with a carriage drawn by six horses, Sophia declared that she must take firm action.

‘Why,’ she complained to Ernest Augustus, ‘when she rides out she appears to be finer than we are.’

‘It is George William’s wish.’

‘I can see that, and we shall have to show people that whatever fine jewels she wears, even if she has a carriage drawn by twelve horses she is not royal – nor can we treat her as such.’

When Sophia drove out she never allowed Eléonore to ride in her carriage; and she explained when there were others present: ‘You see, my dear, you are not the Duchess of Celle; and therefore the people would not expect to see you ride with us. I am sure you will understand.’

Eléonore, whose pride was great, was beginning to resent Sophia’s allusions and to wonder whether she was after all the good friend she had once pretended to be. George William was growing more and more devoted as the weeks passed, but he still believed that they should continue at Osnabrück for a while. In fact, when he remembered how antagonistic his subjects had been when he had brought home his Venetian servants, he felt very uneasy as to how they would receive his French wife. It was so much better, he pointed out to Eléonore, that they remain under the protection of Ernest Augustus for as long as possible.

Eléonore yearned to have her own household. She found the manners of this court crude; she could not bear the smell of the food they ate and when the bowls of greasy sausages were served on masses of red cabbage she felt nauseated. She turned from the cloudy ale which they so much enjoyed and as a compromise she had set up a little kitchen in her own apartments where she and Angelique cooked some dainty dishes.

Even so she must appear at meals and as she listened to the champing of jaws and saw the eyes alight with greed and the grease running down the chins of the eaters she turned away in disgust.

Sophia had pointed out to her, most graciously, that they could not sit at the table with herself, Ernest Augustus and George William, for naturally the people would object.

‘You and your little sister will sit at another table. I am sure you will understand.’

Eléonore was inwardly incensed, but she said nothing and agreed to sit at the table indicated.

Sophia had made one special concession. ‘You may remain seated while we eat,’ she had said. ‘The rest of the company must stand and not eat until we have finished. But in view of the great esteem in which we all hold you, we should not expect you to stand.’

Eléonore often wondered afterwards how she endured such slights. George William would watch her unhappily, and she knew that never had he regretted so much his folly in signing away his birthright. She had no wish to make him more unhappy on that score, so she pretended that this treatment did not upset her as much as it did.

Sophia came to her apartment after having eaten sausages and red cabbage to inspect the dishes which Angelique was cooking.

She sniffed with amusement. ‘So that, I suppose, is what you call French cooking.’

‘It is French cooking, Madame,’ answered Eléonore with dignity.

‘And you are going to eat that!’

‘To us it seems as good as greasy sausages do to you.’

‘French tastes!’ laughed Sophia; and ever afterwards when she had finished eating she would nod in Eléonore’s direction and cry: ‘Now, my dear, you may be off to help your little sister with the saucepans.’

Several months passed and the vague slights which were heaped upon Eléonore were bearable only because she was beginning to know her husband better than ever and what she discovered delighted her.

There came the day when she was certain that she was pregnant.

Everything seemed to change for her then. She had accepted insults for herself, but she never would for her child. She had changed; she had not become less proud but far more shrewd and she knew these people were her enemies – and George William’s. They gloated over their triumph. They were determined that she should remain a woman without status, her child illegitimate; and she was going to fight with all her might for the sake of this unborn child.

‘George William,’ she said, ‘our child must not be born here. That would be an evil omen. He must be born under his own roof. I have heard the Castle of Celle is very beautiful. Take me there. Let me be in my own home for these months of waiting.’

George William agreed with her that the time had come to move; in any case his greatest wish was to please her.

So they left Osnabrück for Celle and when she saw the yellow walls of the old castle her spirits rose and as they came into the courtyard and the tame pigeons fluttered round them, Eléonore was happier than she had ever been.

‘I feel,’ she said, ‘that I have come home.’

On a golden September day her child was born.

‘The most beautiful little girl in the world,’ declared George William.

The child was brought to its mother and she examined it eagerly. Perfect in every detail!

‘George William,’ said Eléonore, ‘the bells should be ringing throughout Celle.’

‘I shall order it to be done.’

‘You should bestow gifts on your subjects. Give an entertainment … a ball … a banquet. I want them all to know what a great occasion this is.’

‘We will do it.’

‘I am so happy. I shall lie here thinking how happy I am … and how all Germany must know what an important event this is.’

‘What name have you decided on? I should like her called after you.’

Eléonore smiled. ‘No, that would never do. She must have a German name. I thought of Dorothea after your eldest brother’s wife … and Sophia … because so many in the family are Sophia.’

‘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.