‘Yes,’ answered the Duke. ‘It is for me.’
A door had opened and Bernstorff, his eyes alight with speculation stood on the threshold.
‘My lord …’
‘Let him come in,’ said Sophia rapidly. ‘He is a man of good sense and we will hear what he has to say.’
‘Come in,’ said the Duke.
Bernstorff feigned great surprise as he bowed low but he could not hide the triumph in his eyes. George William quickly explained why Sophia was here.
‘God be praised!’ cried Bernstorff.
‘So you will join with me in persuading His Highness?’ said Sophia.
‘Your Highness, I shall for ever thank God and you for this day.’
Yes, he thought, when I ride round my acres, when I gloat over my posessions, I will thank the Duchess Sophia, for we had all but lost and now we shall succeed.
‘So you share the opinion of the Duke and Duchess of Hanover?’
‘I am convinced, Your Highness, that this proposed marriage would be the greatest advantage that has ever come to Celle.’
They both watched George William covertly; his eyes were moving towards the communicating door.
‘It is for Your Highness to decide… . Your Highness alone,’ insisted Bernstorff.
‘That,’ said Sophia, ‘is why I know we shall succeed.’
‘Yes,’ said George William, turning to face them so that he could no longer see that door. ‘It is for me alone. And I have made up my mind.’
‘Yes?’
‘There shall be this match with Hanover.’
Sophia drew a deep breath; a faint colour had started to show beneath her pale skin, and her eyes were brilliant.
‘The Duke has spoken,’ said Bernstorff.
‘And we know that he is a man who will keep his word,’ added Sophia. ‘Oh, this is a happy day for me, and for Ernest Augustus.’
George William was frowning a little. ‘The young people …’ he began.
‘Oh, the young people! They will learn to fall in love. After all, it is what we all have to do. They will thank us for arranging such a marriage in the years to come.’
‘Yes, it will go well … in time,’ said George William.
Was he already regretting? wondered Sophia. But he had given his word. Bernstorff was a witness to it. He could not in honour retract now.
‘Now,’ said Sophia, ‘I could rest happily for a while. It is early yet.’
‘An apartment is ready for you,’ said George William. You must refresh yourself and rest a while. Allow me to conduct you there.’
Sophia put her hand in his.
‘Come,’ he said; and without a glance at the door behind which Eléonore must be waiting with the utmost trepidation, he led the Duchess Sophia from his dressing room.
Having seen the Duchess Sophia to her apartment where she would rest a while before joining George William for breakfast, the latter returned to his apartment where he found Eléonore, now dressed, waiting for him.
‘What has happened?’ she cried. ‘What has the Duchess Sophia been saying to you?’
George William’s elation faded because it gave him pain to hurt his wife, but he had thoroughly convinced himself now that he had been subservient to her wishes too long, and much as he loved her was determined to have his way.
‘She came with a proposition,’ he told her, ‘to which I have agreed. Sophia Dorothea is to marry George Lewis.’
Eléonore stared at him in shocked disbelief.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘it’s true. I have always been in favour of such a match and what could be better than an alliance with Hanover?’
‘George Lewis!’ whispered Eléonore as though she were dreaming. ‘That … monster!’
‘Oh come, my dearest. He is but a young man.’
‘Yet we have all heard of his profligacy and his stable manners.’
‘Exaggeration! What would you expect of Ernest Augustus’s son?’
‘Some culture!’ she said. ‘Some courtesy!’
‘It is there all right. He is at the time enjoying a young man’s freedom. He likes women. He’ll grow out of it.’
‘I can’t believe you have promised our child to him. Tell me it is not true.’
‘It is true.’
‘But without consulting me!’
‘My darling, you are wise as I have learned, but where our daughter is concerned you are a little besotted. You treat her still as though she is a baby. She will look after herself.’
‘She will need to if ever she goes to that … that …’
‘Pray calm yourself.’ She had never heard him speak to her sternly and with something like cool dislike. What had happened on this September morning, she asked herself, to ruin everything that was dearest to her?
She thought: I must be dreaming. This could never happen to me … to us.
‘Calm!’ she cried. ‘I am calm. It is you I think who are verging on madness.’
‘My dear Eléonore, prepare to make the Duchess Sophia welcome. Shortly she will be rested enough to take breakfast with us. Then she will be ready, I am sure, to talk to you of this match.’
‘What use of talking if it is already made.’
‘I thought you would wish to hear what advantages would come to our daughter when she is the wife of George Lewis.’
‘I see nothing but tragedy.’
‘You are talking like a fool.’
‘You are the fool … the heartless fool. How can we face our daughter?’
‘She will have to learn to accept what her parents have chosen for her as many of us have had to do before her.’
‘Not both parents!’ she said. ‘Only one of them. And I believe that parent was determined to marry where he wished.’ She looked at him appealingly. Had he forgotten the passionate courtship, the years of love? How could he do this to the fruit of that love – the daughter whom he loved, if less passionately, less exclusively than she did? Exclusively! When she looked at him she felt that she could hate him if what he had promised should really come to pass. Their beautiful cultured daughter in those crude coarse hands!
George William would not be tempted. He was afraid. He must stand firm, he told himself, particularly now. If he did not he would be a laughing-stock throughout Hanover. He had given his word. He had to keep it – yet, witnessing the distress he had caused his wife how ready he was to waver! Knowing his own weakness he could only fight it with anger.
He said: ‘You have ruled too long in Celle, my dear. It is my turn to show you who is in command here.’
‘George William … I can’t believe this is you… .’
‘I have long been aware that you believed you could lead me by the nose.’
‘What is happening to you … to us?’ she asked, and the tears in her voice so unnerved him that he turned sharply away from her and stared from the window.
Why had he done this? He had been led into it by the eloquence of the Duchess Sophia, by her condescension in riding through the night; he knew of the advantages of a match with Hanover; every point Sophia had brought forward was true … but if it caused his wife such distress he wished wholeheartedly that he had never agreed to it.
But he must show everyone that he was not led by his wife, that he had a will of his own, that when he wished to show that he was master everyone – even Eléonore – must accept this.
He said coldly: ‘You should go to your daughter. You should tell her of my arrangements for her future. She will have to be prepared to meet her uncle and cousin immediately.’
There was a stricken silence. He believed that she was weeping for their daughter. He said her name so quietly that it was strangled in his throat. Then he turned but she was no longer there.