And this goddess had time to take notice of a little eight-year-old girl, to ask her about Ansbach. Caroline was uneasy remembering that conversation. Had she said too much? Would Mamma scold in her tearful way which was almost worse than bullying? Sophia Charlotte asked about lessons, not as a governess would, but as though she were interested because learning was so exciting. Was it? Caroline had not thought so until the Electress had made her feel it was, and now she was eager to find out, for surely the Electress could not be wrong? Electress Sophia Charlotte had selected Caroline for particular notice, had talked to her as she had never been talked to before. She had made her feel that she was important', and to be made to feel important by the most important person one had ever met could only mean that one was important.
What an exciting discovery!
Caroline could scarcely wait to be once more in the presence of this goddess and yet she feared it. Suppose by some little stupidity she forfeited her regard?
"I hope," she said aloud, "that we stay at Berlin for ever and ever."
From the window she saw a man walking with other men in the gardens. She knew who he was—someone very important because he had been pointed out to her, John George, Elector of Saxony. The most important guest in the Castle—far more than the widow of Ansbach and her young daughter.
John George was gesticulating. How angry he appeared to be! thought Caroline, and wondered what those men were saying to him to make him so.
"I don't think I like him much," she said aloud.
John George of Saxony was arguing with his ministers—two of whom had accompanied him on this visit to Berlin. They had even followed him out of doors to continue the discussion and would not leave him alone so that he felt as though he were going mad. Surely an Elector should not have to obey his own ministers.
"My lord Elector, this marriage is a necessity. It is for the purpose of making it that we are here. Alliance with Brandenburg is essential to us, and this marriage is their condition."
"I have no wish to marry this woman."
"She is meek."
"Insipid!"
"All the better. She will give you no trouble."
"She had better not try to."
"She will know her place. She needs the security you can give her, and she'll be grateful for it."
"I have no desire to give her anything."
"Your Highness, Brandenburg wants this marriage and we want Brandenburg."
John George scowled. He knew what they wanted. They wanted to separate him from Magdalen. Well, they were not going to. He missed her now. There was no one like her. They could offer him other women but they couldn't satisfy him for more than an hour. He went back and back again to Magdalen. He thought of her constantly. Other women were only proxy for Magdalen. He even thought of her when making love to others. And they were offering him this dessicated widow for a wife!
State reasons! There was certainly no other reason why he would take such a creature to his bed.
The argument went on. He knew they would wear him down in the end. Ministers had great power over their rulers; and according to them Saxony needed the friendship of Brandenburg. He was prepared to let them apply themselves to matters of state if they left him in peace to apply himself to Magdalen. He smiled, remembering her. She was insatiable, that woman—and so was he. That was why they were so well matched.
The argument continued.
Nervously, Eleanor, the widowed Margravine of Ansbach, awaited her suitor. Her large blue eyes showed clearly her apprehension and now and then she would lift a hand to smooth her plentiful auburn hair. She had been considered beautiful in her youth and she was not old now; she had the buxom looks so admired in Germany and her first husband had appreciated her charms. But that was some years ago; and since then she had borne two children.
She was very fearful of the future. When her husband, the Margrave, had died the peaceful life was ended; it had not been an exciting existence, but she had never been one to look for adventure; she had been well satisfied with her marriage and would have been contented to spend the rest of her days in the grand old palace which had delighted her from the moment she saw it.
As the daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Eisenach, marriage with the Margrave of Ansbach had been considered a worthy one, even though Ansbach was a very small principality when compared with those like Hanover and Celle. But the palace was as grand as anything to be found in either of those territories and Eleanor had loved it from the moment she first saw it. She liked the Bavarian countryside and the little town of Ansbach, nestling cosily close to the castle and the Hofgarten with its parterres and plantations. She had thought of it as home as soon as she had stepped into the great hall and glanced up at that magnificent ceiling, on which was depicted the glorification of the Margrave Karl the Wild, and seen the enormous statue in the centre of the hall of the Margrave embracing Venus. And later she had grown accustomed to the flamboyant designs in the rooms, the gilded minstrels gallery in the dining hall, the marble statues and the crystal chandeliers.
She had enjoyed riding through the streets of Ansbach, the capital city of her husband's little domain. She had received the loyal cheers of the citizens for the Margrave was deeply loved and respected, largely because he, a Hohenzollern, and connected with the Brandenburgs, had not scorned to concern himself with trade, and as a result he had made a thriving community. He had brought skilled weavers from abroad; nor had that been all. He had set up metal workers in his town; and all his officials and servants were commanded to buy articles which had been produced locally. This foresight had brought prosperity to Ansbach; and the citizens made their approval of his methods known when he rode through their streets with his family.
"Long live the Margrave! Long live the Margravine!" She had basked contentedly in his popularity.
There had been minor irritations. It was often difficult for a stepmother to win the love of her predecessor's children; and George Frederick, the elder of her stepchildren, his father's heir, actively disliked and resented her. This had seemed unfortunate but not disastrous when her husband had been alive; but when on his death George Frederick had become the Margrave of Ansbach, it was a different matter.
He did not exactly tell her to go, but when he took over the apartments with their brilliant frescoes and porcelain galleries which she had inhabited with her husband he made it clear that she was not welcome in his palace.
She was a proud woman and had no wish to remain where she was not wanted, so she decided that she would leave Ansbach with her children—Caroline who was then only three years old and William Frederick who was two years younger. Her old home was in Eisenach on the border of the Thuringian Forest and here she went with the children, although she knew it would only be a temporary refuge.
Often she thought of her kindly plump husband prematurely killed by the smallpox, and longed for the old days. There was little pleasure in spending one's life visiting other people who, kind as they were, would not wish her to stay forever.
Sometimes she asked herself if she had been headstrong in leaving Ansbach. George Frederick was a minor, and not allowed to govern; and until he married and had a son, the heir presumptive to Ansbach was her own son William Frederick.
Her greatest friends in her misfortune were the Branden-burgs and at their suggestion she had sent William Frederick back to Ansbach—for after all it was his home—and had travelled to Berlin with young Caroline.