Coolly she told the girl to go and bring refreshment for His Highness; Ilse obeyed as though in a dream. Then Clara took Ernest Augustus to her bedchamber and made savage love with him, to remind him that he would never find anyone as skilled as she was.
She made sure that Ilse brought the refreshment to them while they were in bed – that was a warning to Ilse.
When he had left she sent for the girl who might have been deceiving herself that her mistress had not noticed her duplicity.
‘Come here, slut,’ said Clara.
Then she took the trembling Ilse by the hair, threw her across the bed and beat her until the girl cried out for mercy.
‘Mercy!’ cried Clara. ‘What mercy do you expect? How far has it gone? You had better tell the truth.’
‘There is nothing, Baroness. Nothing. He noticed me for the first time this afternoon and spoke to me. It was because he was waiting for you.’
‘And you did not come to tell me he was here?’
‘He told me to wait a while.’
‘I see, and during that while …’
‘You came out, Baroness.’
‘In time!’ laughed Clara. ‘You go to your room, girl and stay there. Don’t dare move from it until I say you may.’
Ilse lost no time in running away. She tried to assure herself that the incident was not important. It was merely that the Baroness’s rages were more frequent and more violent now that she was no longer considered to be the most beautiful lady of the court. Ernest Augustus had implied that he liked her. That was well. It would doubtless only be for a short time, but one did very well even so. Look at Esther! Although she had gone back again and again. Why not Ilse?
The Baroness’s rage would pass. But she knew very well that Ernest Augustus took girls now and then; it did not alter his relationship with the Baroness.
While Ilse was thus musing a guard appeared at her door.
‘What is it?’ she cried.
‘Fraulein,’ he told her, ‘I have orders to arrest you. You will follow me.’
On the orders of the Baroness, Ilse was conveyed to prison.
The guard was sorry for a pretty girl like Ilse. The poor girl seemed quite stunned; it was such a sudden transition from the splendours of Monplaisir to the spinning house of a prison.
She kept saying: ‘I’m innocent … innocent… .’ And he wanted to do something to comfort her.
He took an opportunity of speaking to her the day after she had been admitted, while he was guarding the women at their spinning.
‘What have you done?’ he asked.
‘I’ve done nothing … nothing… . The Duke stopped and spoke to me in the garden, that was all. And she saw us… .’
The guard nodded. He had heard stories of the ruthless Baroness von Platen.
‘He liked you, eh? Well, you could send a message to him telling him where his little chat has landed you. He’s out of Hanover for a few weeks … but when he comes back …’
‘A few weeks!’ cried Ilse. ‘Must I endure this for a few weeks … when I’ve done nothing … when I’ve had no trial … just because the Baroness hates anyone younger than herself.’
‘I don’t reckon she’d want him to know she’d had you put here.’
He looked at her; she was a pretty girl; but she wouldn’t be for long if she stayed here, and he’d like to serve the girl a turn.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said; and winked. He strutted away; he liked to feel he was engaged in intrigue.
It came to Clara’s ears that her serving girl Ilse was going to petition Ernest Augustus explaining that she had been wrongfully imprisoned.
Clara was thoughtful. So far she had been able to manage Ernest Augustus, but he had refused to allow Marie to come back, and was showing a certain fondness for Sophia Dorothea. Undoubtedly he was getting fonder of younger women as he grew older – a natural habit, she supposed; but it did mean she would have to be more careful. As far as Ilse was concerned she realized she had been a little hasty. She should have kept her temper and quietly rid herself of the girl, sending her somewhere where Ernest Augustus would not have seen her again, and that would have been an end of the matter. It was all the fault of Sophia Dorothea whose coming had made a difference and set up this worship of youth in susceptible Ernest Augustus. Well, now she must settle this Ilse matter finally and she did not want the girl petitioning Ernest Augustus, who must quickly forget that he had ever seen the creature.
Immediate action was necessary.
That day she ordered that Ilse, as a disreputable woman, be drummed out of Hanover, and as a result the unfortunate girl was taken from prison, marched through the streets to the sound of discordant music, right out of the town – never to return, in accordance with that custom which had persisted for many years.
Ilse could not believe this was happening to her; she was bewildered and frightened, having nowhere to go. She realized as she stumbled along what a fool she had been to incur the wrath of the Baroness von Platen.
Exhausted, disillusioned and almost wishing for death, at length she came to a farmhouse where she begged food and shelter. This was given in exchange for work; and there she stayed a while, wondering what to do next.
October had come and Dorothea waited in her apartments for the birth of her child; it was a year and a month since that birthday when her life had changed so drastically and now, if she could have a child – a healthy child to whom she could devote herself – she would regret little.
Eléonore von Knesebeck was with her; the Duchess of Celle was on her way to Hanover; Duke Ernest Augustus had sent gifts and told her that he was awaiting the happy event with great eagerness; even the stern Duchess Sophia, riding back to Hanover from Herrenhausen, had expressed approval of such a prompt promise of the heir’s delivery.
‘Oh, Knesebeck,’ she said, ‘one grows used to Hanover.’
‘Then one can grow used to anything.’
‘My mother should be here soon.’
‘If she had her way she’d be here all the time.’
‘Except when I pay my visits to Celle. Oh, Eléonore, I am a little frightened. Is it very painful, do you think?’
‘But it’ll soon be over and imagine you … with a baby of your own.’
They laughed together and Sophia Dorothea walked to the mirror, leaning on Fraulein von Knesebeck, and they compared her present state with the sylph who had arisen on that birthday morning to learn she was to be a bride of Hanover.
It no longer seemed a tragedy and they talked of it until Sophia Dorothea thought the pains were starting and a flustered Fraulein von Knesebeck hurried to call in the women.
Sophia Dorothea lay back exhausted but she was aware of the excitement in the bedchamber.
‘A boy,’ they were saying. ‘A healthy boy.’
‘My darling!’ It was her mother at her bedside.
‘Maman, you are here then?’
‘Yes, my darling. I have been here all the time. And you have come through well and you have a lovely boy.’
‘I want to see him.’
‘And so you shall.’
Sophia Dorothea held him in her arms and the Duchess Eléonore thought she was like a child with a doll – her precious daughter, a mother. It seemed incredible and yet it made her so happy. The match with Hanover was not so tragic after all; George William was constantly telling her so; they had become reconciled, but she would never forget his harshness to their daughter and could not completely return to the old happy ways. Her whole life now was centred round her daughter.
There were others coming into the bedchamber. Ernest Augustus was there with Duchess Sophia and of course the chief minister Platen and his wife. The stories one heard of that woman were hard to believe on occasions like this when the Baroness remained at a discreet distance from the Duchess Sophia and behaved as if she were merely her efficient lady-in-waiting. A clever woman. Eléonore would have been very disturbed if she had been the mistress of George Lewis instead of his father. But George Lewis had been behaving like a good husband. Doubtless there were minor infidelities – a serving girl here and there (they would be very much to his taste, doubtless) but at least Sophia Dorothea was not asked to submit to the indignity of seeing a woman set up over her. But George Lewis was as crude as ever; his manners were appalling and apart from his love of music – which seemed inherent in all Germans – he had no appreciation of the finer things of life. Still, he was behaving in a manner they had dared not hope for; and of course it had had its effect on Sophia Dorothea.