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.’