The Princess of Celle: (Georgian Series) (32 page)

She gleefully noticed that the resumed relationship between husband and wife was an uneasy one. It had never been one of passionate devotion, certainly, rather of compromise – and now they were both a little older (Sophia Dorothea must be nineteen) and compromise was not good enough. George Lewis had returned from the army where doubtless he had indulged in many a ribald adventure and was even more coarse than when he had been away; as for Sophia Dorothea she had had a year free from his unwanted embraces and was showing even less inclination for them than before. She had not become less fastidious – but more so.

George Lewis often looked sullen when his eyes rested on his wife. She was undoubtedly lovely, but he was unappreciative of
her sort of beauty. The beautiful paintings in the palaces here and the architecture meant little to him. They were just pictures and buildings; and the charm of the Piazza San Marco was solely the opportunity of finding a willing woman there.

Sophia Dorothea was different. What could be expected of one brought up by the cultured Duchess of Celle? She was deeply aware of the beauty of Venice, but at the same time she was willing to throw herself, with all her newly awakened youthful zest, into the enjoyment of a life hitherto unknown to her.

The carnival was in full progress. Sophia Dorothea blossomed in the thrill of it all. Ernest Augustus bought her a Venetian gown and Venetian jewels because he wanted everyone to appreciate the beauty of his daughter-in-law. Why not, thought Clara, it was her money he was spending, though no one would have thought it, so magnanimously did he bestow his gifts, so charmingly and gratefully did Sophia Dorothea receive them.

Clara observed that Sophia Dorothea was something of a coquette. And why not? The Venetians were well versed in the arts of flattery – something of which George Lewis had never heard. This intricate preamble of flirtation and invitation was unknown to him, and Sophia Dorothea would naturally find it as exciting as all the novelties she was experiencing.

Perhaps, mused Clara, it would be possible to bring about the downfall of Sophia Dorothea through a lover.

While she was pondering this George Lewis had to leave for Naples and Ernest Augustus decided that before he himself returned to Hanover, which state matters demanded he should before long, he would like to show his daughter-in-law Rome.

Thus while George Lewis travelled to Naples, Ernest Augustus and his party went to Rome.

Sophia Dorothea found Rome as enthralling as Venice and it was Ernest Augustus’s great pleasure to show her this city. Clara looked on with disgust. He was like a boy, riding in his magnificent carriage through the streets with his excited daughter-in-law beside him. Of course this role was a minor one in the days of Ernest Augustus. He must entertain lavishly
wherever he went – and since the Celle marriage he had money to spend. He had come to Italy on state affairs naturally and had arranged that troops of his soldiers should work for the Venetians; he had charged a high price, for the Hanoverian armies had a good reputation; and now he felt affluent and he had always been a man who, having money, liked to spend it.

So the entertainments he gave in Rome were every bit as splendid as those he had given in Venice, and Clara had ample opportunity of trying out a little experiment she had planned for the downfall of the girl who was in her thoughts too often for her peace of mind.

There could be no doubt that the most admired woman in the party from Hanover was the Crown Princess Sophia Dorothea, and all Clara’s splendid jewel-decked gowns and cosmetics could not alter this.

There was a man – not particularly young for he must be approaching forty – in Rome at this time who was noted for the gay life he led; he was tremendously wealthy and spent his life going from one adventure – mostly amatory – to another. But at the same time his wit and his bravery were a legend.

Clara, dancing with him at one of Ernest Augustus’s balls, noticed with inward anger that although he paid her delicate compliments and might be prepared to spend a few hours of the night with her if she pressed the matter, his attention was not with her. He might deceive others by his burning looks and flattering compliments but she was as skilled in this art as he was and she could not be deluded.

There was someone else on whom attention was directed and she could guess who it was.

‘You have noticed out little beauty,’ she said.

He answered: ‘How happy you must be to have such an enchanting creature at your court.’

‘But naturally,’ answered Clara. ‘It gives us all great pleasure merely to look at the pretty creature.’

‘So fresh … so
vestal
.’

‘Oh, she is a mother, so she scarcely qualifies for that description. Did you ever see anyone so abandonedly joyful?’

‘Rarely.’

‘You have not met her?’

‘It is a pleasure I am storing up for myself.’

‘You should not leave it too long. The Duke might decide that we return to Hanover.’

‘That would be calamitous. To be deprived of your society …’

‘And not having discovered the delights of that of the Princess.’

‘You alarm me. I have never been so conscious of the passing of time.’

‘Come, I will present you to her.’

‘Why are you so good to me?’

His eyes, crinkled attractively with the first signs of too-good-living, smiled into hers. They understood each other. She who had been the fairest was so no longer; she could not hide from him the fact that she hated her rival. What did she want? The fresh young beauty defiled! He was sure – his infinite knowledge helping him in this deduction – that Sophia Dorothea had never had a lover before. The husband could scarcely be called that. The enchanting Princess was unawakened … physically; and when awakened she would be more enchanting than ever.

Jealous Clara was offering him the exquisite task of bringing understanding of the ways of love to the delightful creature. He was always a man to accept a challenge.

‘How delightfully you dance! I could swear you learned in France.’

‘My mother was French.’

‘So you are partly French. No wonder I felt drawn towards you.’

‘Perhaps my mother knows you. She knew most of the noble families of her country.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and Sophia Dorothea laughed as she danced a few steps from him, returning as the dance ordained, to put her hand into his. ‘Have you such a shocking reputation then?’

‘Completely shocking. If your mother knew that your hand was in mine at the moment she would send out the guards of Celle to arrest me.’

‘She would do no such thing. She would invite you to Celle to discover whether you were as wicked as your reputation.’

‘Then I should be able to tell her that having met her beautiful daughter I was set on the path to reformation.’

‘So I have that effect on you?’

‘In the subtlest of ways.’

‘Pray explain.’

‘All my life I have flitted from one adventure to another, seeking … I now know always seeking.’

‘Seeking what?’

‘What was the object of every knight’s search: the Holy Grail.’

Again she laughed, gaily, youthfully – innocently he thought; and innocence was a quality so attractive because one longed to destroy it. ‘Monsieur de Lassaye,’ she said, ‘it surprises me that you should be in search of the Holy Grail.’

‘It was symbolic,’ he said. ‘It means Perfection. That is what I seek and mon Dieu, I believe I have found it. I never heard anyone laugh as you do, nor saw such beauty in a face.’

‘And I have heard of your adventures … in love and in war.’

‘They were the adventures of the seeker.’

‘What a dull life he will have when he reaches his goal!’

‘Madame la Princesse, I assure you that his life will only then begin.’

No one had ever spoken to her thus before; she was excited; the ball, the carnivals, the admiration in the eyes of men and particularly this man who attracted her, had alarmed her a little. He had the air of having lived through a thousand adventures such as she, with her limited experience, could only guess at.

‘I … I don’t know how you can be sure of that,’ she said.

‘I could assure you … by proving to you.’

‘But, Monsieur le Marquis, what have I to do with this?’

‘Everything, Madame la Princesse, everything!’

She was faintly alarmed; he came too close; she thought his eyes were like those of a satyr and she was conscious of a great urge to know more of him, to understand something of the world of romance and passion of which he was a habitué. Lust as practised by George Lewis had shocked her; the Marquis de Lassaye would give it a different name, a different aspect. She felt as though she were standing at the edge of an inviting lake, the waters of which were lapping about her feet. She longed to plunge in and float effortlessly, lightly supported by the exciting Marquis; but she greatly feared that one as inexperienced as she was would quickly be submerged.

But while she stood at the edge, gently dabbling with her toes, she was safe.

So she listened to his talk and the more she listened the more excited she became; and that night as she lay in her bed she could not sleep for thinking of him and the possibility of sharing his adventures.

He was always at her side. His conversation was stimulating to her senses and her mind. He told her about his estates in France and life at the court of Versailles. There was nowhere else in the world like it. She should come to Paris. He was sure Louis would be delighted with her; he was addicted to beauty and such as hers would startle even the Court of France.

It was all so pleasant to listen to. Her mother had talked so often of France and never had she met anyone who knew that country so well; even her mother had been long exiled from it. But all this conversation was leading towards that inevitable end. She contemplated it and shivered, for once it had been reached there was no turning back. She thought of her mother who believed that husbands and wives must be faithful to each other and had brought her up to believe the same. But then her mother had married a good and charming man who had loved her deeply; theirs had been as romantic a story as any could be. It had been easy for her mother. But how would she have fared married to a man like George Lewis who, in Naples, was no doubt playing the usual role of unfaithful husband.

But his affairs had no bearing on hers. She was excited by this
man; and although she drew back from taking the plunge, it was very pleasant to stand on the brink contemplating it.

‘A letter,’ said Eléonore von Knesebeck, giggling happily. ‘No need to ask whence that came.’

‘He has dared to write to me!’

‘He would dare anything,’ cried Eléonore sighing.

‘I believe
you
are in love with him.’

‘It would be easy to fall in love with such a man.’

‘If my mother could hear you, Fraulein von Knesebeck.’

‘If she could
see
you, Madame la Princesse …’

They laughed together. Eléonore von Knesebeck was a good companion, a good friend, they had grown up together and she could not imagine her life without her, but was she wise, was she discreet? She was the sort who would go along with her mistress in an affair like this, urging her on to recklessness. Such a thought sobered Sophia Dorothea.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, rather breathlessly, ‘I am a little frightened. Where is this leading?’

‘Why should you not enjoy your life? Others do. Look at Baroness von Platen. She has a good time.’

‘I should not care to be like her,’ said Sophia Dorothea.

‘Oh she is wicked they say. Do you know what they call her in Hanover:
Die Böse Platen.
They know it. There was that poor girl Ilse.’

‘Yes, I heard about Ilse. No, I should not care to be like the Baroness von Platen.’

‘Are you going to read this letter?’

Sophia Dorothea took it. It was written in flowery terms, and was both eager and hopeful.

She thought: If we progress at this rate in a week he will be my lover.

Before Fraulein von Knesebeck’s astonished eyes she tore up the letter.

She was aware that Clara was watching her … hopefully. Did Clara want her to become the mistress of the Marquis de Lassaye? Why? Was it because she wanted to bring her down to
her level? Was it because she hated her so much that she wanted to make trouble?

Sophia Dorothea was frightened.
Die Böse Platen
indeed! Was it not Clara who had presented the Marquis to her?

She was cool to him when he approached her. He was wounded, but she could not explain to him – nor had she any wish to. She wanted to leave Rome, and was suddenly filled with a desire to see her son.

Perhaps she had been too long away.

The Marquis was more than hurt; he was angry. He was not accustomed to being so slighted, and he had wagered with Clara that the Princess would be his mistress in a matter of weeks.

That girl is sly, thought Clara. Too cautious to take a lover. Well, we shall see what happens when the right one comes along.

Meanwhile Ernest Augustus was restless. State matters called him back to Hanover and he could not stay away indefinitely.

He told Clara to make ready for the journey home and apologised to Sophia Dorothea for taking her away from her pleasures.

‘I have a fondness for Hanover,’ she told him; ‘and I long to see little George Augustus.’

Not George Lewis, Ernest Augustus noticed; for his son should be back in Hanover by the time they returned. Well, who could blame her for that? She would be more dissatisfied with her husband than ever now she had seen how charmingly and gracefully some people behaved.

But she had her son. He hoped she would soon have more. He told her that it had been a pleasant sojourn and her company had given him pleasure.

It delighted him to have a beautiful daughter-in-law whose dowry had made him so rich.

So back they came to Hanover and life went on as though there had been no interruption.

Very soon Sophia Dorothea became pregnant and in due course her daughter was born.