She saw that she had been wise to marry. Frank Platen was no fool; he was merely a coward. He wanted a peaceful existence, free from conflict. In a few weeks she had dominated him; and while he was a little disappointed to find his marriage was not what he had hoped it would be, he was continually being astonished by the astuteness of his wife.
‘We are working together,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to make you the chief minister. I’m going to get you a resounding title. A count, I imagine. Yes, I would like to be a countess.’
He had laughed. ‘The things you say, Clara.’
‘I say what I mean,’ she told him fiercely.
She listened to his accounts of meetings; she told him what he should say; she even phrased his speeches for him, pithily, wittily.
He began to be noticed; he, little Frank Platen, who had hitherto not been of any great importance, to be singled out by his fellow ministers, by the Bishop himself.
‘If the Bishop asks you who thought of that, tell him your wife.’
He looked at her in astonishment. ‘I have my reasons,’ she said.
‘What reasons are those?’
‘You will see.’
He obeyed her; it had become a habit to obey Clara.
‘Your wife seems to be an extraordinary woman, Platen,’ said Ernest Augustus one day.
‘She is, my lord.’
‘In the Duchess’s bedchamber, is she?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I believe the Duchess is pleased with her.’
‘I think that to be so.’
‘Well, you look pleased with yourself. I must meet her one day.’
Platen reported this conversation to Clara.
She laughed. ‘He shall,’ she said.
Ernest Augustus was dozing in his private study. He had eaten too much and had retired hither on the pretext of studying some state papers but actually to sleep.
I’m getting old, he thought, yawning.
He could hear the music coming from the great hall. Music was played during meals now. He had always loved music – good stirring German music; but of course the taste now was all for the French.
Too much red cabbage, he thought; too much beer. The French drank wine. Well, he thought, we don’t want to become as French as that.
He smiled, thinking as he often did of George William over at Celle. What was he doing now? Sitting down with his wife and child like any peasant. No, not like a peasant, of course. In the utmost luxury, for George William was the richest of all the brothers – and quite a lot of that fortune would go to that little French bastard of his unless he and Sophia could think of a way of preventing it – in the room, made gracious by Madame Eléonore who would be seated in her chair, her delicate white fingers working at her tapestry; and the girl would be seated on a tabouret either at his feet or hers; and they would be talking about the affairs of the castle. A charming domestic scene … if one cared for domestic scenes. He could not imagine himself and Sophia indulging in them. Theirs was not that sort of marriage – no idyllic love affair without end, but a good marriage of two people who understood each other. She had her way in anything that did not interfere with his comforts and needs – and the same for him.
Let George William keep his domestic bliss – his beautiful wife, his pretty – and if accounts were true – coquette of a daughter.
A gentle scratching on the door. He frowned, having no wish to be disturbed. Who had dared open the door without an invitation to do so?
A woman stood there. He had seen her before; she was one of Sophia’s women. Good figure, bedworthy, he had marked her down for future dalliance. But when he wanted a woman he would summon her; he did not expect to be disturbed thus.
‘My lord …’
Her voice was low, exciting in a manner new to him.
‘What do you want?’
‘I heard that Your Highness wished to see me.’
‘Then who carried such a message?’
‘It was my husband, Frank von Platen.’
‘Ah! So you’re Platen’s wife?’
She came to his chair, bowed before him, making sure that her dress fell away from her full breasts as she did so.
An invitation? wondered Ernest Augustus, slightly surprised, remembering how demure she had been.
‘I didn’t send for you now,’ he said.
‘My husband said you would like to meet me some time.’
He laughed. ‘At a more appropriate time,’ he said.
‘My lord, I thought this … a most appropriate time.’
‘Most wait until sent for.’
‘You will find that I am not like … most.’
Her eyes were brilliant; she had cleverly made them look bigger than they actually were. What a body! he thought. She would have skills. And she came from France, he remembered, although she was a German. This meant that she had the airs and graces without the pride of his sister-in-law Eléonore. Now, there’s a woman I could never fancy, he thought. He realized that he had already come to the point of fancying Platen’s wife.
‘Your husband often mentions you,’ said Ernest Augustus. ‘He seems to value your judgment.’
‘At least it is valued by one of Your Highness’s ministers.’
There was a meaning behind her words. He was a little fascinated and his annoyance at having been disturbed was fast disappearing.
‘I see that you have other gifts to bestow on your husband … besides advice.’
‘It is a pleasure to give what is appreciated.’
‘And you find him appreciative … enough?’ He regarded her lazily.
‘Who can ever have enough appreciation?’
Surely there was no mistaking her meaning? Women were of course eager to please the most important man in the principality, but he sensed this one was different. He would discover later what she wanted. At the moment there was no need to go beyond the obvious step.
He held out a hand and she took it. He drew her down so that she was forced to kneel before him.
‘You have come to offer me … advice?’ he asked smiling.
‘If you need it … it is yours.’
‘And if I do not?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘All need the help of friends.’
‘The Bishop needs it from his minister’s wife?’ he asked.
‘He may at some time. He may need other things she has to offer.’
‘I think that very likely. And they will be given freely.’
She bowed her head.
‘But it must be remembered that she likes … appreciation?’ he asked.
‘She would be wise enough to know it is foolish to ask for what would not be freely given.’
He brought his face close to hers and looked into her eyes.
‘You are a strange woman,’ he said.
‘You have quickly discovered that.’
‘I would like to know more of you.’
‘And I of Your Highness.’
He put his hand on her shoulder; touching her skin, his fingers probed lightly; but in spite of the lightness he could not hide the fact he was excited.
‘Well?’ she said faintly mocking him, he fancied.
He answered with another question. ‘When?’
‘You are the lord and master.’ Again that hint of mockery.
‘Tonight. I shall be in my bedchamber … alone.’
‘It shall be my duty … my pleasant duty … to see that Your Highness is … not alone … for long.’
When Clara came out of the Bishop’s apartment, the first signs of dawn were in the sky; she walked lightly past the sleeping guards; they were aware of a passing figure but paid little heed. A woman coming from the Bishop’s bedchamber was not a very unusual occurrence. It was wiser not to look too closely; she might not like it; she might whisper a word into the Bishop’s ear one night – it was easy enough – and there would go the hope of promotion.