The Princess of Celle

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.

But he had become evasive; he had already postponed the betrothal; he spent more time lately shut up with Bernstorff who was a man she had never been able to respect. Perhaps George William was growing old and did not always feel as healthy as he used to. That might change him, make him a little moody.

But now the summer was passing and Sophia Dorothea’s birthday was almost upon them; she had made up her mind that on that birthday the betrothal should take place.

September was a beautiful month – the most beautiful of the year to Eléonore; and the fifteenth, that important date had always been celebrated more lavishly than any other in the calendar.

This September should be the most lavish of them all, decided Eléonore. She would invite the Wolfenbüttels to the celebration and the people of the town would crowd into the castle and its grounds to enjoy the festivities and to hear the good news that Celle and Wolfenbüttel would be joined together forever in friendship because of the alliance between the Crown Prince of Wolfenbüttel and the Princess of Celle.

She went to her daughter’s apartments where Eléonore von Knesebeck and Sophia Dorothea were laughing together over some secret joke.

Fraulein von Knesebeck immediately became serious and bobbed a curtsy when the Duchess appeared. Eléonore said: ‘The Princess will send for you when you may return.’

Sophia Dorothea smiled at her mother. ‘You sound a little serious, Maman.’

‘Just a little,’ Eléonore agreed. How lovely the child was! she thought. But a child no longer. Sophia Dorothea’s young body was in bud, ready to burst into bloom. What a beautiful woman she would be. A Princess, well educated, of courtly manners, she would turn Wolfenbüttel into a little Versailles – not a travesty of one as some of these German princelings had provided for themselves, but one of which Louis himself would not disapprove. She was more French than German – versatile, charming, graceful and gracious. May she be happy, prayed Eléonore.

‘You will soon be sixteen, my darling,’ she said.

‘But you would not look so grave if you had come to ask me whether I should prefer a ball to a play.’

‘No, that is no matter for gravity; and we shall decide it soon. It is this, dearest: You are not a child any more.’

‘I am glad you realize it, Maman. You have been inclined to treat me as one.’

Eléonore in a sudden burst of tenderness held the girl against her. ‘It is because you are so precious to me.’

‘I know. I know. Is it this marriage you want to discuss?’

Eléonore nodded.

‘I thought so. It is to be soon?’

‘Well, as we said, you are no longer a child. We should announce your betrothal on your birthday and the marriage should take place soon afterwards.’

‘And I shall have to leave Celle?’

‘My dear – Wolfenbüttel is only a few miles distant. You will be a constant visitor here and I there. You don’t imagine I would allow anyone – even your husband – to keep us apart.’

‘No, Maman. I don’t. But husband …’ Sophia Dorothea shivered. ‘I don’t like the word.’

‘My darling, but you like Augustus William?’

‘Yes, I like him. He’s very agreeable. He’s very kind and says he adores me.’

‘So you find him acceptable?’

‘I would rather stay as we are, but I know I have to marry, so since that is so I’d as lief take Augustus William as anyone.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘You know when they were talking about the Princess Anne and George Lewis … Maman, I felt so sorry for her and that made me almost love Augustus William.’

Eléonore laughed. ‘I am glad of anything that makes you love him. He is good and you will be happy with him. Girls can’t stay young and with their mothers all their lives.’

‘More’s the pity.’

‘You won’t think that when you have your babies.’

‘Ah … babies!’ murmured Sophia Dorothea.

Eléonore took her daughter’s hand and said softly: ‘You see, my love, I want to talk to you about this. I’m going to persuade your father to agree to the announcement of the betrothal on your birthday. I feel a little uneasy … I don’t know why … unless it is because I hate losing you. But I won’t of course when you marry Augustus William. He is like a son to me even now, and his father has always been my good friend.’

‘So it is to be soon after my birthday then.’

‘Yes, but say nothing to anyone, even to little Knesebeck as yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just have a feeling that it is better not.’

‘Maman, when I marry, Eléonore von Knesebeck will come with me, won’t she?’

‘Of course if you wish it.’

‘I do wish it. It would be good if you could come too.’

Eléonore laughed. ‘My darling, your husband would say he was marrying your mother as well as you. Moreover, what of your father?’

‘He would never be able to do without you.’

‘I shall pray,’ said Eléonore solemnly, ‘that you are as happy in your marriage as I have been in mine.’

Why was she uneasy? She was not sure. Sophia Dorothea was not really unhappy about her forthcoming marriage; she accepted the fact that she had to marry and the Crown Prince of Wolfenbüttel was of her age, a good-looking boy, in love with his bride-to-be. Two young people like that would be happy; and when the children came, Sophia Dorothea would wonder how she could ever have thought the life at Celle offered her all she wanted.

She would speak to George William without delay. She went to his study and entered unceremoniously as she always did. George William was in deep colloquy with Bernstorff who looked up in astonishment at her. Why? Did he expect her to petition an audience with her own husband? She had been accustomed to seeing George William rise to greet her with pleasure and, no matter who was with him, invite her to take a share in their discussions, to listen courteously to all that she said.

George William had risen; he took her hand and kissed it – as tender as ever.

‘We have a little business to finish, my dear.’

She was mildly astonished. It was a way of telling her that in her presence the business could not be conducted.

‘I will see you later;’ she said gravely; and she was aware of the smug expression in Bernstorff’s face as he stood there waiting for her to depart until he could resume his chair.

She passed out of the study frowning.

Yes, there was a change; and she was uneasy.

What business did her husband and his minister discuss from which she must be excluded?

She chose the time to broach the subject when Bernstorff could not interrupt them. In the connubial bed she was safe; and there George William was the lover he had always been.

‘I want to settle this matter,’ she told him. ‘The time is getting close.’

‘Time?’ he said gently, sleepily.

‘The birthday will soon be here.’

‘Ah, the birthday.’

‘I have invited Duke Anton Ulrich and his family to the celebrations … naturally.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Dear Sophia Dorothea, she is reconciled to Augustus William although not anxious to leave her home. We should consider that the greatest compliment she could pay us. My dearest child! I have always been concerned for the time she should leave us. I knew what a wrench it would be for her. We have been so happy together, have we not?’

‘Very happy,’ agreed George William.

‘And I pray that she will be too. I trust Anton Ulrich as I could very few people, I am so fond of Augustus William and he is of Sophia Dorothea. Who could help it? I am so relieved that she should marry so close to us. We shall be able to keep an eye on her … it won’t be like losing her.’

George William stirred uneasily; he was glad of the darkness. How on earth could he approach the matter of a match with Hanover? He thought of George Lewis that uncouth young monster – crude and coarse … and their dainty little Sophia Dorothea in such hands. The project seemed impossible here with Eléonore. And the child was reconciled to marriage with Augustus William. How could he say to Eléonore: But a match with Hanover would be so much more advantageous. Of course it would, but not to Sophia Dorothea. Eléonore would never consider it.

He had half promised Bernstorff. But then who was Bernstorff? Only his minister, his servant. Why should he be afraid of Bernstorff?

‘So,’ went on Eléonore, ‘I want to announce the betrothal at the birthday.’

George William was silent, his heart beating rapidly and uneasily.

She put her arms about his neck. ‘I want it to be a happy day. You remember how she has always loved her birthdays? Do you remember when she was four and we explained together what a birthday was? I can see her now … sitting there, those lovely dark eyes so solemn while she listened and how she looked at us so trustingly.’

Yes, he remembered. He had been a fool. Sophia Dorothea’s happiness and that of Eléonore – for the two were synonymous – were all that mattered. Of course he would never seriously agree to give their beloved child to George Lewis, the monster of Hanover.

‘And she sat between us on her little bed …’ he added, ‘gripping your hand and mine.’

‘It has been a wonderful life since we came to Celle,’ said Eléonore. ‘I want her to know happiness like that.’

He agreed, of course he agreed. But he thought of all the secret conversations with Bernstorff, all the advantages of a match with Hanover.

‘I knew you would agree that the announcement should be made on her birthday,’ said Eléonore.

Inwardly he cried out: But I can’t. I have half agreed to the match with Hanover. But how could he say those words which would shatter the happiness of his beloved Eléonore and his dearest Sophia Dorothea? And yet …

But Eléonore was laughing softly, having no idea of the conflict within him.

‘We will go ahead with preparations,’ she said. ‘I shall hate losing her, but Anton Ulrich and dear Augustus William will soften the blow … not only for us but for our dearest child.’

What could he say? Nothing. So he remained silent.

Celebrations for the birthday were going on and the excitement had extended to the town of Celle where the people were decorating the streets. Bells were heard at all hours for the ringers were practising the special carillon to be performed in honour of their Princess.

This was to be the most important birthday yet and although no definite announcement had been made it was being whispered that there was a special reason for it. Frequently the equipage from Wolfenbüttel had been seen riding to the castle and Duke Anton Ulrich was popular in Celle; he had a charming young son who pleased the people even more than his elder brother had done because he was nearer the age of their beloved Princess.

Bernstorff was growing more and more uneasy. Duke George William brushed aside the subject of the Hanoverian alliance every time he broached it; the Duchess Eléonore had an air of excited contentment; she treated Bernstorff as she always had with the respect due to his position in the Government and was perhaps a little more cordial towards him. He took this as a bad sign.

It was two days before the birthday when he broached the matter of the Hanoverian match with George William. He had found it difficult to secure a private audience before that and suspected that George William avoided him, which naturally made him more uneasy than ever.

With great luck he found the Duke alone and begged a word with him.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘it would not be too late now to extend an invitation to your brother of Hanover.’

‘It is too late,’ answered George William.

‘At least George Lewis might be invited. He can have no quarrel with the Duchess.’

‘She would never agree to invite him.’

‘I am sure that they are waiting for a move.’

‘For what reason?’

‘In our little affair, my lord. Hanover would welcome the alliance. George Lewis … he would come to it when his parents had persuaded him … and now that the Princess will be sixteen …’

‘Listen, Bernstorff. That affair is off.’

Bernstorff grew pale. He saw those rich lands – the dream of an avaricious imagination – slipping away from him. He would be in bondage for the rest of his life. If he brought about this marriage he would be rewarded by Ernest Augustus and better still by William of Orange. And all this was being snatched from him beause once more the Duchess was dominating her weak husband.

‘But, my lord …’ he stammered.

‘Yes, it would have been a good match, but my daughter is promised to the heir of Wolfenbüttel and she has a fondness for the boy so the Duchess is of the opinion that in these circumstances it is better for the child to be happy.’

‘The Duchess!’ Bernstorff could not control himself. ‘And your opinion, my lord …’

The Duke shrugged his shoulders. ‘I confess I would rather be allied to Hanover than Wolfenbüttel. I should have been delighted to be reconciled to my brother Ernest Augustus. We were such friends in our youth.’

Oh, God! thought Bernstorff. No reminiscences! This is no time for them.

‘It is, of course, you my lord, who will decide.’

Again he saw the look flash across the Duke’s face. He knew what his minister was implying. Affairs of state have to be decided by women’s sentimental whims. George William saw in that moment all the advantages of the match with Hanover; he was remembering that all Princes and Princesses must accept marriages of convenience. He had intended that this should be so – but once more he had given way. He felt ashamed of himself. He had no will of his own. The Duchy of Celle was managed by Eléonore and everyone knew it.

‘It is too late now,’ he muttered. ‘The betrothal to Augustus William will be announced at the birthday.’

Stunned, pale with rage and frustration, Bernstorff took his leave.

He must put up a fight. There was too much at stake to allow everything to be lost. Bernstorff shut himelf into his private apartment; he paced up and down. What could be done at this late hour? Anton Ulrich and his family were making their preparations to leave Wolfenbüttel; in two days’ time it would be too late, for once the announcement of the betrothal had been made George William would never withdraw it; nor would Ernest Augustus accept a girl who had been betrothed elsewhere. Two days in which to save a plan – a fortune for himself … and for Clara von platen!

Ah, there was the answer. Clara had as much to lose as he had. She, too, was in the pay of William of Orange; she, too, wanted George Lewis kept close at hand so that she could control his affairs through her sister as she herself did those of Ernest Augustus.

He must get a message through to Hanover with all speed for he knew that Clara would work as zealously as he himself could do.

He sat down at his table, wrote a rapid message explaining what was happening at Celle, and then sent for his servant.

He stood at his window watching the man ride away to Hanover.

Clara rushed into Ernest Augustus’s presence scattering all those servants who were with him.

‘My dear Clara, you look distraught,’ said her lover. ‘What’s that you have in your hand?’

‘Distraught! And so will you be when you have heard. This is a message from Celle. Do you know what is happening? Their little pet will be sixteen on the fifteenth and her devoted Maman is arranging to announce her engagement on that day.’

Ernest Augustus’s smile faded. He was now as eager for alliance with Celle as Clara and Bernstorff.

‘To… .’

‘Exactly,’ stormed Clara. ‘To the Wolfenbüttel boy. They are such good friends and the little darling will not mind leaving dear Papa and dearest Maman for such a nice little fellow.’

‘Clara, calm yourself.’

‘Yes, my dear. We must both be calm. We must think how to frustrate this plan.’

‘But George William has agreed to it.’

‘She has persuaded him. Bernstorff has done his utmost to make your poor feeble brother see that he is just a cipher in the hands of that woman, and to some extent he has managed it, but she has only to get him alone and she’ll have him dancing to her tune.’

‘Nevertheless George William has agreed to the betrothal.’

‘Yet he would prefer George Lewis as his son-in-law. He is very eager for the alliance. It is merely that she has overruled him … as usual.’

‘Well, what can we do now?’

‘We have to stop the announcement.’

‘How?’

‘By your going over to Celle and offering George Lewis for Sophia Dorothea.’

‘And the Duchess?’

‘We do not have to persuade her. That would be an impossibility in any case. George William is desperately anxious to be on good terms with you. He longs to see one government between Celle and Hanover.’

‘That would come automatically with his death when Celle will go to George Lewis.’

‘But he wants to make sure that his daughter loses nothing. In every respect the alliance between Celle and Hanover is perfect; and George William realizes it.’

‘But the Duchess …’

‘A sentimental woman. She imagines her daughter loves this Wolfenbüttel boy. And you must admit that George Lewis is scarcely the sort to attract a girl who has been brought up as Sophia Dorothea has.’

‘He might have done more to make himself agreeable.’

‘You ask the impossible. He could not make himself agreeable however he tried … that is to a girl brought up like the Princess of Celle. I believe he gives a good account of himself in some quarters. But we waste time. What can we do? Someone must go to Celle.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone who is strong enough to make George William see how important this match would be. Someone strong enough to make him forget his sentimental desire to please his wife and spoon-feed his daughter.’

Ernest Augustus was looking at her. He thought her magnificent with her alert brain, her grasp of affairs, and coupled with it that overpowering sensuality, that skill and knowledge-ability which made her as deep a joy to a man such as he was in the bedchamber as in council.

She was the one who would put the case to George William – but how could he send his mistress? George William, like the faithful married man he was, would object to her, before he saw her; he might even refuse to receive her. No, for all her brilliance Clara would not stand a chance.

Clara was looking at him speculatively. He was the obvious choice. Clara narrowed her eyes, picturing Ernest Augustus ordering that the coach be prepared for him to go to Celle. News of his arrival might well reach the castle before he did and Eléonore would have no doubt of the reason for his journey. She would be prepared, and if she had an opportunity of making her husband promise not to give way, she would surely succeed.

Clara said: ‘The Duchess Sophia must go.’

‘Are you mad? She knows nothing of this. She hates the Duchess of Celle. She has never forgotten that the Duke refused to marry her, turned her over to me, even giving me his birthright to elude marriage, and then fell in love with Eléonore and made such efforts to marry her. You know women. Do you think Sophia will ever forgive that? Besides, she wants an English bride for George Lewis.’

‘She has seen that she cannot get one.’

‘But this proposed match between George Lewis and Sophia Dorothea has always been kept a secret from her. She has no notion.’

‘Then she must have a notion … quickly. For she is the one. If she will go to Celle, if she will talk to George William he would not be able to resist her.’

‘She would never do it.’

‘She would if she were made to see the importance to Hanover of this marriage.’

‘And who could make her see that?’

‘You … her husband.’

‘Do you think …?’

‘My dear, you are no George William. Sophia is the daughter of a Queen and doesn’t forget it. Morever, her mother was the daughter of a King of England – which to her is the highest honour in the world. Her beliefs give her an unsurpassable dignity. She and she alone could bring George William to our side … even now … providing she is able to do so before Eléonore discovers what is going on.’

‘I should have to explain to her what we have been planning these last months.’

‘Never mind. She accepts you as the master. There you have been wiser than your brother. She … the great Sophia … has never sought to meddle unduly in your affairs. She did over this English visit and see what a failure that was! It is something to bear in mind when you talk to her. She is humble at the moment because of it. You could explain to her the desirability of this match; you could make her see the part she has to play. This is the right moment while she remembers the disaster of the English visit and all the money it cost you. Rarely has she been so humble as she is at this moment – nor will ever be again. You must go to her. There is no time to lose. You must bring her to our side and she must not waste a minute. The sooner we can get her riding to Celle, determined to make that marriage, the better.’

Ernest Augustus looked at his mistress. Clara had genius; he had never been more sure of it than at this moment.

Sophia looked at her husband with astonishment. ‘A marriage with Celle! Have you lost your senses. Celle! Our enemies.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘That woman who calls herself the Duchess would never agree.’

‘She has to be made to.’

‘It is absurd. I’ll have nothing to do with such a plan.’

Sophia pressed her lips firmly together and held her head high. She implied that although she made no complaint at the immoral life he led and even allowed herself to be on tolerably good terms with his reigning mistress, he must never forget the respect due to a granddaughter of a King of England.

She rose and would have left him but he barred her way.

‘You will listen to me,’ he said; and detecting the firm tone in his voice, she wavered. In spite of her birth she had no power that did not come from him; and the recent insult from England still rankled. They did not want her son; they did not consider him worthy of marriage with Anne. It was a bitter blow to her pride to know that they did not regard her as an important member of the family. Ernest Augustus had always treated her with respect; he had made only one demand, that she did not interfere with his sexual life. This had suited her, for she only desired him in her bed for the procreation of children and in that respect he had not failed her, for she had her family.

She must be careful not to alienate Ernest Augustus. She must remember that although Clara von Platen never forgot her place in the presence of her mistress, Clara was the real power. Ernest Augustus had come from Clara. This was their plot; and now they needed her.

She said slowly: ‘It could never come about.’

‘It could if you helped.’

‘I? What could I do?’

‘Everything. You underestimate your power if you do not agree. You have rank and dignity. You could talk to George William and he would have to listen to you.’

‘Do you suggest that I should go humbly to your brother and beg him to consider our son for his daughter?’

‘Not humbly, but in the utmost pride. Let me show you what I feel about this marriage. George Lewis must marry soon and where can we find a bride for him? The English project failed’ – Sophia winced – ‘miserably. It has been nothing but an expense and a loss of dignity into the bargain. Everyone is laughing, you can depend upon it, at George Lewis’s attempt to win the Princess Anne. They’re saying he came home a little less arrogantly than he set out. That is not a pleasant state of affairs. Well, we must show that even if the English refuse him, there are others who are eager to accept him.’

‘And you think they will be eager at Celle, do you?’

‘George William will when you have spoken to him.’

‘I … speak to him?’

‘Yes and soon. For if we do not the girl will go to Wolfenbüttel. Now that is another problem. What do you think our position will be with Celle and Wolfenbüttel in alliance against us? We must stop that, if nothing else.’

Sophia was silent. It was true that an alliance between Wolfenbüttel and Celle would not be good for Hanover. They needed money – the exchequer was low; and Sophia Dorothea was a considerable heiress. Sophia imagined the contract which could be drawn up – it might be as beneficial to Ernest Augustus as that long-ago one which gave him the standing of an elder brother although he was a younger. And Eléonore? Eléonore wanted the match with Wolfenbüttel, and to bring off one with Hanover would be the biggest defeat that woman had ever suffered. It would bring the daughter on whom she doted to Hanover; it would put Sophia Dorothea completely in their power.

An opportunity to humiliate the woman for whom George William had pleaded and petitioned, schemed and fought to marry, by the woman whom he had pledged his future to avoid.

Sophia laughed harshly.

‘I see,’ she said, ‘that this marriage with Wolfenbüttel should be prevented. I will order the coach to be prepared and I will leave at once for Celle. There is very little time.’

Ernest Augustus seized her hands and kissed them fervently.

‘I knew I could rely on you.’

Less than half an hour later he and Clara stood side by side watching the coach lumber out of the courtyard and along the road towards Celle.

It was already the afternoon of the fourteenth and it might be that by the morning of the fifteenth Anton Ulrich with his family and retainers would be in Celle. Once he was there and the announcement made it would be too late.

Sophia sat back impatiently against the upholstery of the coach and rehearsed what she would say … if she arrived in time. She would see George William … alone. If that woman was there it would be impossible. She pictured Eléonore as she had last seen her – elegant and beautiful and so assured of her husband’s devotion. Not only, thought Sophia bitterly, had he married her, but he had been faithful to her. How different was Ernest Augustus! That disgraceful Platen woman was his chief minister, for her husband did what his wife told him, as well as his chief mistress. And even she could not satisfy him completely. How humiliating that many a sly-eyed serving girl among her own household, many a waiting woman had been Ernest Augustus’s mistress – even if only for a night or two. Eléonore had no such degradation to endure. She was supreme in her own home, with a doting husband only too willing to be subservient to her so that it was necessary to pay a skilful spy to attempt to dislodge her.

But George William was wavering – if Bernstorff could be believed – and indeed he could, for George William had shown some interest in the Hanover alliance to which his Duchess was so vigorously opposed.

Oh yes, Sophia was going to enjoy her mission; and she was determined that it should succeed.

The coach lumbered to a standstill and she was almost thrown from her seat.

‘What has happened?’ she cried, drawing down the window and putting out her head.

Several of the lackeys were standing in the road.

‘The road’s impassable, Your Highness. The recent rains have made a bog of it.’

I shall be too late, she thought. Already the afternoon is drawing to its end; and tomorrow is the birthday.

Celle was only twenty miles from Hanover, but if the road was blocked it might as well be a hundred miles.

‘We must go on,’ she insisted.

‘Yes, Your Highness, but not on this road.’

‘Well, is there another?’

‘If we make a detour.’

‘Should we get there before dark?’

‘Your Highness, it’s an impossibility … and we don’t know what other roads will be like.’

‘I tell you you must get me there tonight.’

‘Yes, Your Highness. If you will excuse me, Your Highness …’

She sank back against the padded seat. The possibility of delay maddened her – she, who such a short time ago had had to be persuaded to take this step! Now that she had seen a way of vanquishing her enemy she longed to succeed. There would be a match between Celle and Hanover. Only let her get to Celle.

The coach lurched. She sat waiting. One of the men was at the window.

‘We have pulled out of the slush, Your Highness. We’re turning back and we’ll strike off in another direction.’

‘Tell them not to waste a moment.’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘They’ll be well rewarded if they get me to Celle before morning. If not …’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

The coach was rattling along at a good speed. She planned what she would say. It must be to George William alone; she would find some way of excluding the Duchess. Language, of course! She would not speak in French nor in German, but in low Dutch of which the Duchess could not understand a word.

Darkness had fallen but she did not stop the coach to ask how near they were. She sat upright, her lips growing grimmer as she rehearsed her part … in low Dutch.

The night was long; the jolting of the coach irksome; and when she saw the faint sign of light in the sky she despaired. Then she heard the shout and looking from her window saw the castle rising out of the mist and at that moment the coach was riding through the narrow streets of the town, past the sleeping houses – though here and there a head appeared at a window to see who the early visitors were.

The castle sentinels saw the Hanover coach which they recognized by the coat of arms and the liveries. The drawbridge was lowered, the portcullis raised; and the Duchess Sophia came into the castle of Celle.

The Duchess Sophia left the coach and entered the castle. The guards stared at her in wonder. They knew her, of course and Were overawed. But at such a time and unannounced! What could it mean?

Sophia peremptorily demanded: ‘Where is the Duke?’

‘Your Highness, he has not yet risen.’

‘Take me to him.’

‘Madam, he is in his bedchamber.’

‘Take me to him,’ insisted Sophia.

‘But …’

Sophia looked surprised. ‘Take me at once to his apartment,’ she ordered, and the trembling page dared do nothing but obey.

In the ducal sleeping apartments the Duke, who was an early riser, was up and at his dressing table. When the page scratched at the door, one of his servants opened the door and was about to reprimand the page when he saw the Duchess of Sophia. He stood staring as though petrified.

‘What is it?’ demanded the Duke.

But Sophia was already striding into the dressing room, and it was George William’s turn to stare.

‘Your Highness,’ he stammered, ‘what does this honour …’

‘It means,’ said Sophia briskly, ‘that I must speak to you. I have come to congratulate you on the birthday of your daughter.’

‘This is a great honour, but so unexpected … and …’

‘And at such a time,’ finished Sophia grimly. ‘I have been riding all night.’

‘Then you must be exhausted. You must be given an apartment where you can rest and refresh yourself.’

‘The road was impassable. Hence my arriving at such a time. I should have been here yesterday.’

‘We can only rejoice that you have come,’ he said. He was about to summon a servant, but Sophia laid a hand on his arm.

‘One moment. I have to talk to you on a matter of great importance. Where is your wife?’

‘She has not yet risen.’ George William waved his hand to an open door. Sophia looked towards it and rage filled her. They had always used this apartment like the devoted married couple they were. He had just left the big bed which he had shared with her for seventeen years … ever since he left Osnabrück – the faithful husband, who had once been as reckless a rake as Ernest Augustus. Well, Madame Eléonore was going to get a shock now.

‘George William,’ called Eléonore, ‘who has arrived?’

Sophia went to the door and looked in at the bedchamber. It was magnificent – furnished in the French style; and there in bed was Eléonore, her abundant dark hair falling about the pillows, her magnificent shoulders and arms bare, her luminous eyes startled. It was a shock to discover how beautiful she was; even more so, it seemed to Sophia, than she had been in the days of her youth. Now she was poised and serene. Those years of married happiness had given her that – love, happiness, the assurance that the man she had married was devoted to her.

I might have been in her place! thought Sophia.

Perhaps she was more perceptive than Eléonore. She knew that Ernest Augustus was the shrewder ruler, that he was mentally more brilliant than his elder brother. George William was weak in comparison – brave on the battlefield but weak in his emotions. But Sophia was in no doubt which she would have chosen as her husband had she been permitted such a choice.

And so she hated the beautiful woman in the bed – hated the elaborate room with its elegant furniture and the ceiling decorated with the Leda and the Swan legend; if she had been determined when she endured that difficult journey between Celle and Hanover she was doubly so now.

‘I have come to congratulate you on your daughter’s birthday,’ she said, and without giving Eléonore a chance to reply she turned to George William and said in low Dutch: ‘I must speak to you at once … and alone. It is of the utmost importance.’

‘My wife …’ he began.

‘Alone,’ insisted Sophia.

‘But …’

‘I beg of you, listen,’ She glanced towards the half-open door and then to the dressing table. She advanced to this and sat down; he followed her.

‘This is of the utmost importance,’ she said quickly, ‘to you and to your brother. First I want your promise that if you do not agree with me, you will say nothing of what I am about to suggest.’

‘I promise,’ answered George William.

Sophia went on: ‘We have always been weakened by this enmity between our houses. I want it ended and it is for this reason that I am here. I know that you, too, deplore it. So does Ernest Augustus. Then why should it exist?’

‘I have always wanted friendship with Hanover!’

‘It can be achieved, immediately and forever by a marriage.’

George William drew away from her, but she was not easily defeated. She then began to expound on all the advantages which would come to Celle and to Hanover. It had always seemed unfortunate that he had thrown away his birthright. But Celle and Hanover would be as one – one government – and Sophia Dorothea would be the Duchess of Hanover so that she would have lost nothing by that long-ago arrangement. George William must see the advantages. She had ridden all through the night to tell him; she implored him not to make a mistake. He could so easily do so now. She believed that if he gave his daughter to the Wolfenbüttels that would be the end of his power. Ernest Augustus who so wanted the girl for his son would never be reconciled.

There was another point. Both George William and Ernest Augustus had fought well for the Emperor and he was pleased with them. Jointly they might be granted an Electorate. What glory for the House of Brunswick–Lüneberg! They could not both receive an Electorate and it would only be if they could be simultaneously rewarded that this could be so. And how could this come about but through a marriage between Celle and Hanover?

She was triumphant seeing him wavering. He longed for reunion with Hanover. He had been devoted to Ernest Augustus and wanted a return to the old relationship. Sophia noticed as she went on talking, that although he had at first cast uneasy glances towards the communicating door, he had ceased to do so.

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.

Everything had changed. Her mother, who had seemed like a benevolent goddess, all powerful, all loving, was all loving still but stripped of her power, and therefore a different being. Where was her father who had always been so indulgent, who had loved to watch her riding or dancing, his eyes full of pride and love? Where was he now? He was changed; he must be, for her mother had wept and begged him not to allow her to be given to George Lewis and he would not listen.

Her mother came into the room and knelt by her bed.

‘Dearest Maman … what shall we do?’

‘We must be calm, my darling, and perhaps that will help us.’

‘Perhaps we could run away.’

‘No, my pet, that could not help us.’

‘You will always be with me …’

‘Always … always!’

‘Perhaps I am not so frightened then.’

‘You must not be.’

‘Where is my father?’

‘He is with the Duchess Sophia.’

Sophia Dorothea shivered.

‘And … and …’

‘No, he is not here yet, but doubtless he will come soon.’

‘I dare not look into his face.’

‘The stories we have heard of him have been exaggerated. They often are.’

‘I cannot, Maman. I cannot.’

‘There, my dearest. Try not to cry. Let us try to think clearly … to plan together.’

‘The only plan I can think of is to run away. Perhaps Augustus William will rescue me. He is coming today.’

‘He has been. He came with his father. They have been told and have ridden away.’

‘So we are deserted!’

The door opened and George William stood looking at them. Sophia Dorothea threw her arms about her mother and looked at him fearfully.

‘What nonsense is this?’ he said, advancing to the bed. ‘I have birthday presents for you.’

‘There is only one thing I want,’ cried Sophia Dorothea. ‘Never to have to see George Lewis.’

‘What nonsense have you been filling her head with?’ the Duke demanded of his wife.

‘She has heard rumours of this bridegroom you have chosen for her.’

‘Rumours! What are rumours? Lies … all lies. Now, my child, this is great good fortune. You are going to be the Duchess of Hanover in good time. You will be rich and powerful …’

‘Stop! Stop!’ cried Sophia Dorothea. ‘I cannot bear it.’

‘You stop this screaming,’ commanded her father.

‘Cannot I even weep in my misery?’

‘I will have no more of these histrionics. You, Madam, are responsible. You have filled the girl’s head with absurd stories. Anyone would think I was handing her over to a monster.’

‘He is an evil monster!’ cried Sophia Dorothea. ‘I hate George Lewis. I love Augustus William. Oh, Father, please let me marry Augustus William.’

It was a return to the old wheedling which had always been so successful in the past. He had never been able to resist giving her all the silly little gee-gaws she had coveted. It was only now when she wanted something which was of real importance that she was refused.

Only a changed man could have refused her. But he was changed. So was her mother. Oh, yes, devastating change had come to the castle of Celle that September morning.

‘Let there be an end of this nonsense,’ said George William. ‘I have a gift here from the Duchess Sophia. You should feel honoured. She is a great lady and she has ridden through the night to wish you a happy birthday and bring this present to you. Look. It is magnificent.’

‘A miniature?’ cried Sophia Dorothea, her attention caught by the sparkling ornament in her father’s hand.

He held it out to her, smiling. ‘There! Is it not magnificent? A picture of your bridegroom set in gold and diamonds. Could you have a more delightful gift?’

Sophia Dorothea looked at it – the heavy sullen face, that even the flattering brush of an artist could not make pleasant. The very diamonds seemed hard and cruel. She flung the ornament at the wall with such force that several of the diamonds were broken from their settings.

There was a brief silence while all in the room stared at the damaged miniature.

Thus, thought Eléonore, was the happiness of this family shattered on that dismal morning.

With the help of her mother Sophia Dorothea had dressed in the splendid gown which had been designed for her birthday. She was calmer but pale and the obvious signs of grief were on her face.

She must descend to the hall and receive the guests, chief of them the Duchess Sophia. Cold, hard and proud, she thought her; how different from her own beautiful mother! What shall I do? she asked herself, when I go from here to Hanover?

Eléonore was beside her – restrained, elegant and outwardly resigned. When she had recognized the impossibility of getting the decision rescinded she had given herself entirely to the task of comforting and advising her daughter. They must put up a good show in public; if they had to accept this fate they must be careful to make sure that they did so with the best possible grace and missed no advantage which could be snatched from it. ‘At least,’ Eléonore had said, ‘we shall not be far from each other; and you may depend upon it that nothing shall keep us apart. Some Princesses are forced to leave their own countries for others across the sea and they never visit them again. At least we shall not be parted like that.’ Sophia Dorothea took courage from her mother’s reasoning; all through that wearying ceremony – always before so joyous – she was aware of her; but she was aware of her father too, the man who had changed overnight and become her enemy.

Beside her father stood his chief minister Bernstorff, smiling and complacent because by a miracle – performed by the indefatigable Duchess Sophia – his future prosperity had been assured.

The Duchess of Sophia hid her pleasure beneath an excess of dignity.

Proud Eléonore! So beautiful. Queen of Celle. Now her authority had been displaced by the woman whom her husband had scorned. It was like the settling of a long outstanding debt; and since the defeat of the enemy was so much an individual triumph, it could not fail to bring the utmost satisfaction.

Duchess Sophia could scarcely take her eyes from Eléonore to study her future daughter-in-law. Undoubtedly a beauty; she might even equal her mother when she was more mature. Spoiled, over indulged. They would alter that at Hanover.

Sophia Dorothea was thinking: When will this hateful day be over? She was worn out with her emotions, and it seemed long before she could return to the peace of her room.

Her mother came to help her undress and they were silent. Eléonore sat by her bed when she lay there, holding her hand.

‘This is the last birthday in Celle,’ said Sophia Dorothea sadly. ‘I suppose the others will be clebrated in Hanover.’

There was a finality in the words; she accepted her fate; from now on she knew it was useless to hope for release.

Eléonore was relieved, for she too saw the hopelessness of fighting against the inevitable.

The last birthday! Sophia Dorothea exhausted, slept; and Eléonore kissed her gently and crept away.