George William stared at the houses opposite; he was aware of the blue sky, of the handsome woman waving a hand to him as she passed in her gondola; and an icy shiver touched him, for he knew before he asked whence the messenger came.
‘My lord will see him?’ asked his servant.
‘In a while,’ he said. ‘Give him refreshment first.’ What he asked for was a few more moments to enjoy this sunshine, this gay, enchanting scene, just a moment when he could delude himself into believing that the messenger did not come from Celle and the letter he brought was not from his brother and did not demand his instant return. Instead he had come to announce the birth of a son to Christian Lewis and to bring an assurance that George William could live for ever in this paradise.
It was hopeless, of course. What good did postponement ever bring? What was the use of gazing across the broad water, along to the Rialto. He had to leave it some time, he knew.
The messenger was standing before him.
‘You come from Celle?’ asked George William unnecessarily.
‘From His Highness Duke Christian Lewis. And it is his express wish that I put this letter into no other hands but yours, my lord.’
There was no escape. George William sighed and took the letter.
It was even worse than he had feared.
What was he doing in Venice? Did he not realize that he had his duties at home? The people were growing restive. The council were sending him an ultimatum. Either he returned home without delay or his allowance would be stopped. There was even graver news. Dorothea was proving to be barren, George William was the second in age, and it was his duty not only to return without delay, but to consider marriage, for the heir had to be produced somehow and since Christian Lewis and Dorothea could not, it must be George William and his bride.
‘Marriage!’ groaned George William. ‘Who would have thought that such an evil fate would ever overtake me?’
He sat for a long time, the letter held listlessly in his hand while he stared across the canal, but this time he did not see the beauties of the city he loved; he saw the castle of Celle. Sermons and prayers regularly each day; he heard the trumpet sounding from the tower. ‘Come to the table and eat! Stay away and starve!’ What an uncivilized way to live.
He read the letter. Was there no way out? He could see none.
He walked down to the canal and signed to his boatman. He must go to Ernest Augustus and tell him that the days of pleasures were at an end. They must both prepare to leave without delay for Germany.
There was trouble with La Buccolini.
‘And shall I be left with the child to bring up? And how shall he live in accordance with his rank?’
He could pacify her with gifts and promises, but she was loath to let him go.
How should she know that he would keep his promises?
He swore that he would; he had kept from her the fact that he was returning home to marry; but he promised himself and Ernest Augustus that he would come back to Venice.
It was two sad young men who journeyed northward.
‘You grieve only for the loss of sun and gaiety,’ mourned George William. ‘Not only shall I lose them, too, but I have to put my head into the noose as well. Marriage! Oh, brother, to think that I should ever be called on to accept such a fate.’
‘I shall be with you,’ answered Ernest Augustus. ‘Have we not always been together? And if I settle with a mistress, I shall be expected to live with her and to be to some extent faithful, which will be almost as bad as marriage.’
‘Nothing,’ retorted George William firmly, ‘could be as bad as marriage.’
The old castle rising before them, the sun touching its yellow walls, looked like a prison to George William. The people he had seen on the road looked stern and dour – quite different from the Venetians. The girls at the inns where they had rested had been amusing for a time, but how different from the passionate Buccolini.
He gazed at the drawbridge and portcullis, the moat filled with the waters of the Aller, the strip of grass between it and the tall grim walls. A prison indeed!
In the courtyard he looked at the sundial at which, in the days of his childhood, he had told the time of day; the pigeons fluttered up in a cloud of white and purple from their lofts; listlessly he was aware of their cooing call.
Nothing had changed. He felt it would go on in the same manner, day after dreary day.
The grooms were rushing to his service, genuinely glad to see him back. He was the best-loved of all the brothers because he had a natural charm which the others lacked. He was less stolid, taller, more slender than his brothers, possessed of a natural grace; the others were heavy on their feet; he could dance well; he could play the guitar; he was good-natured and easy-going. He was elegantly dressed in a manner strange to them; the cloth of his coat was finer than that which they were accustomed to see; he wore rings on his fingers and a jewelled chain about his neck; and in his train he brought foreign servants. The days must necessarily be enlivened by the return of Duke George William.
He went into the castle, Ernest Augustus beside him – straight to the apartments of Christian Lewis and Dorothea.
The brothers embraced and after the exchange of a welcome Dorothea left them and they were joined by John Frederick, the third brother who was a year younger than George William and four years older than Ernest Augustus.
John Frederick’s welcome was cool. He considered his brother George William lazy and lacking in a sense of duty; as for Ernest Augustus he was just a dupe who had no will of his own.
A precarious state of affairs for the House of Brunswick-Lüneberg, thought John Frederick, when the eldest had married a barren wife and the second son had no desire but to live abroad and squander his patrimony. Passionately John Frederick wished that he had been born the eldest.
‘Ah,’ said George William, ‘a family conference.’
Christian Lewis replied that it seemed wise for them to talk over their affairs together before they listened to what the council had to advise.
‘Advise?’ asked George William. ‘Or insist on?’
‘There would be no need to insist, I am certain,’ answered placid Christian Lewis, ‘for once our duty is made clear to us it will be the ardent wish of us all to perform it.’
‘I understood,’ replied George William ironically, ‘that I am to be the one to perform the duty.’
John Frederick said quickly: ‘If you did not, there would be others to step into your place.’
George William turned to smile lazily at his fiery brother. Not you, my brother, he thought. But he bowed his head graciously and turned to Christian Lewis.
‘It is becoming increasing clear that Dorothea cannot have a child,’ said Christian Lewis. ‘All this time and she remains sterile. The doctors tell me that it is unlikely she will ever conceive. Time doesn’t stand still, my brothers. You are thirty-three, George William. It is time you finished roaming and giving sons to Venetian women. You must marry without delay.’
George William lowered his eyes. He was aware of John Frederick’s smoulderingly ambitious gaze and remembered the story they had heard from their father of how when his father lay dying he and his brothers had drawn lots as to who should provide the heir. The story had fascinated them all. Sometimes they would go to the very chamber in which Duke William the Pious had died and play the scene … treating it as a game. There had only been four of them to draw lots; but they had insisted that their sisters play the unimportant rôles – Sophia Amelia the old man in the bed and little Anne Eleanor – long since dead, for she had died before her sixth birthday – must be the steward who held the pieces of wood for them to draw. The excitement of that game had been that they had never known who would draw the shortest stick and he who did was allowed to be the lord of them all for the rest of the day.