Eléonore was uneasy. ‘Thank you, Angelique,’ she said. ‘I will think about this.’
When her sister had left her Eléonore went to the window and looked out across the moat.
She is precocious, she thought. There could be trouble. She is so lovely and he is a remarkably handsome boy. Sixteen. Rising seventeen. Scarcely a boy.
Eléonore went to find George William, who was sitting in the sunshine near the open window; he looked up and smiled as she entered.
‘There won’t be many more days like this, this year,’ he said, as though excusing his laziness.
‘So you are making the most of them?’
He reached for her hand and looked up at her affectionately. ‘Something troubles you, my darling?’
‘It’s what Angelique has just said about Sophia Dorothea and Philip Königsmarck.’
‘What could she say?’
‘That the Königsmarcks have sent him for a purpose … marrying our daughter. And that Sophia Dorothea is a little too fond of him and he is no longer merely a boy.’
‘And this disturbs you?’
‘You know that Sophia Dorothea is for Augustus Frederick of Wolfenbüttel.’
‘That will not be for a year or two.’
‘She is very fond of this boy, George William. Suppose she grew too fond of him?’
‘My love, you are talking about a child. They change their affections every week.’
‘I haven’t noticed Sophia Dorothea do that.’
No, thought Eléonore, Sophia Dorothea had loved her mother steadily since she had become aware of her. She was not one to change her devotion.
‘Well, what is it you wish to do, my dearest?’
‘I think it would be wise to find some pretext for sending the boy away. One thing I could not bear would be for our child to be hurt. It would be terrible if she discovered a fondness for this boy and then was forced to take Augustus Frederick. What I want is for Philip Königsmarck to go … and we must invite the Wolfenbüttels here more often. I want our daughter to know the man she is to marry, I want her to learn to love him before she is taken away from us. Well, what do you say, George William?’
‘You have spoken, my dear. We will diplomatically dismiss young Königsmarck and Augustus Frederick shall take his place in our daughter’s affections.’
Eléonore stooped and kissed him.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You make me feel so … safe. I know that while we stand together nothing can harm us.’
The years began to slip by. Sophia Dorothea had been so deeply distressed when Philip Königsmarck left Celle that Eléonore knew how right she had been to send the boy away. But Sophia Dorothea was a child still and Eléonore set out determinedly to make her forget her loss. She did not entirely succeed in doing this, and for a long time after Philip had gone, Sophia Dorothea would refer to him rather sadly. ‘Philip would have said that.’ ‘Philip would have done it this way.’
Angelique had been right. Sophia Dorothea, living so much with older people, was a precocious child.
Augustus Frederick often came to Celle and he and Sophia Dorothea were good friends. She did not find the exhilaration in his society that she had found in that of Philip Königsmarck, but at least she liked him and Eléonore was satisfied that her beloved child would be spared the horror which so many princesses and heiresses had to endure – of being married to a stranger.
George William had left Celle to go and fight once more for the Emperor who had hinted that he would appreciate such help, and Eléonore was always uneasy while he was away, she was always afraid that there would be some sort of attack from Osnabrück and that she would be unable to defend herself. Often she dreamed of Osnabrück – crazy dreams dominated by Sophia as a giantess and Ernest Augustus as an ogre, storming Celle when George William was away and trying to rob her of her precious child. These dreams were ridiculous by the light of day, of course; but she was always a little anxious when visitors arrived at the Castle until she had ascertained that they did not come from her brother-in-law and his wife.
She and Sophia Dorothea were constantly in each other’s company. She herself taught the child – it was an excuse to be together. Sophia Dorothea was growing up into a vivacious, intelligent and extremely charming young woman. Each day she grew more beautiful; and it was not only her mother who thought so. She was gracious always to the townsfolk and it was easy to see how she charmed them. Eléonore had longed for a large family but she believed that in this one child she had all that she desired.
She wanted everything for her – wealth, honours, happiness. But first, she assured herself, happiness. She had acquired it; so must her beloved child.
It did not occur to her that George William was a little jealous of her devotion to their daughter; it did not occur to her that he ever could be. She believed that he was as devoted to Sophia Dorothea as she was. This was not so; George William was proud of his daughter; he indulged her; but he could not love a child as much as he loved a woman; and in the last years the thought had come to him that the older their daughter grew, the less time Eléonore had to spare for him.
He had had proof that she loved Sophia Dorothea more than she loved him, for when the Emperor wished him to go to war, Eléonore wanted him to go. She did not say so; she had wept at his departure; but she believed that it was his duty to go, because of the absolute necessity of pleasing the Emperor and getting their reward, which was the legitimization of Sophia Dorothea.
For the sake of this then, he must go to war; and Eléonore wanted him to go.
He hid his resentment; did he not love his daughter too? He fought valiantly; he did everything in his power to win the Emperor’s approval; and he knew that he had succeeded.
When he returned to Celle, Eléonore was radiantly happy to welcome him, and all his resentment faded. There was his beautiful daughter waiting to fling her arms about him and to jump up and kiss him and tell him what a handsome soldier he was and how happy they were to have him home.
He wondered then how he could have entertained such foolish thoughts for a moment. They were one family, and the good of one was the good of all; and each time he saw his wife and daughter afresh he was struck by their beauty which in his eyes exceeded that of all other women.
He had news for Eléonore and he could scarcely wait until they were alone.
‘I have seen the Emperor,’ he told her.
It was wonderful to see the way in which she opened her eyes so wide and watch while the colour flooded her face.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I so distinguished myself in battle that I had a private audience.’
Eléonore threw herself into his arms.
He kissed her forehead and her throat and then he said: ‘But you do not seem to be interested in what he said?’
She was out of his arms, staring at him.
‘He said: “Commend me to your Duchess. I trust she is well.”’
‘He … he called me your … Duchess?’
George William nodded.
‘Then he means that he regards me as your wife.’
‘I think it was a hint. He was telling me that he was pleased with me and that I had earned my reward.’
‘You are the most wonderful father in the world.’
‘I would rather you thought I was the most wonderful husband.’
‘Both,’ she cried ecstatically. ‘Both!’
George William had been right in his assessment of the Emperor’s intentions. Quickly on his return followed letters granting Eléonore the title Countess of Wilhelmsburg and legitimizing Sophia Dorothea.
Ernest Augustus and Sophia were furious when they heard this news, but there was nothing they could do against the Emperor’s decisions, although Sophia told her husband that they would have to be more watchful than ever, or that sly French Madame would outwit them yet. It appeared she had been writing to the Emperor. What impertinence! And she had managed to bewitch him with her pen as she had poor George William with her beauty.