"I have come to speak to Your Majesty about Gottfried Leibniz."
"What?"
"He is too brilliant a man to leave behind in Hanover. We shall need him in England."
"I do not need him."
"But I..." She stopped realizing that for the moment she had forgotten her own rule of conduct.
"He is completing his history, so he remains."
"He could do more useful work."
"So you do not think his work here is useful?"
"I do. But I think he should accompany me to England."
"No. He remains."
"Your Majesty, I ask you as a favour to me..."
The King shook his head. "He remains," he said.
"But we shall be leaving very soon and I had arranged ..."
"You will not be leaving very soon."
"I don't understand."
"You are not leaving with the Prince and me. You will follow later."
This was a shattering blow, even worse than the knowledge that Leibniz would not be accompanying her.
"But I had thought..."
"No. You will come later. You will be given instructions."
Indignation burned in her eyes. She hated him and all the will power she had built up during the years was necessary at that moment to hold back her hatred.
"You will follow us a month later. You and the little girls."
"But my son ..."
"He is to stay in Hanover."
"Oh no!"
The King looked surprised. She was a woman indeed who would have to be watched.
He said quietly: "It would not be wise for the two heirs to the throne—your husband and your son—to be in England together ... not until we have discovered what our reception will be. Frederick will stay behind to represent us."
"Little Fritzchen is only seven. Did Your Majesty remember?"
"I remember Frederick's age. He will stay here, and you will follow a month or so after we have arrived in England."
It was useless to argue, useless to plead. Leibniz would not be allowed to go to England; Fritzchen would stay behind in Hanover; and she would not go to England with the King and her husband; she would wait until she was sent for.
This was indeed a frustrating discovery.
Ermengarda Schulemburg was preparing to leave for England. The King had managed to soothe her fears and since he said it was safe she accepted that it was; her great charm was that she believed he was always right.
Madam Kielmansegge was in difficulties because, learning that she was preparing to depart, her creditors—and she owed vast sums—swooped on her from all directions and demanded that she settled their bills before she went. Frantically she begged the King to settle them but he told her he could do no such thing and she must deal with the matter herself. She was desperate, for there was no one who would help her if the King wouldn't. Ermengarda was smugly secure; she had incurred no debts; her greatest characteristic, next to her placidity, was her avariciousness and during the years she had managed to amass a considerable fortune. She was not inclined to dip into this to help a rival. No, Kielmansegge must fend for herself. The Countess von Platen, too, was an angry woman; but any who had known the King for any length of time must be aware that once he had declined to give assistance it was useless to beg for it.
He himself was not in a happy mood for as the time grew nearer for his departure the more he realized how deeply he loved Hanover and how loath he was to leave it for a country of which he knew little except that he disliked it.
He had been there once before as a young man—about thirty years ago—when it had been decided he should make a bid for the hand of the Princess Anne. That had been a most unsuccessful journey; the English had hated his German speech and German manners; the Princess had shown her dislike for him and he his for her. His stay had necessarily been brief; and afterwards he had come back to Hanover to be hustled into marriage with Sophia Dorothea.
He would have liked to delay—and he had to a certain extent—but he knew that it would be unwise to wait longer.
It was a month after the first news of Queen Anne's death had been brought to Hanover when George the First set out for England.
The King's yacht lay off Gravesend in a thick fog. It had been a rough crossing and everyone aboard was regretting it had ever been necessary to leave Hanover—most of all the King.
He felt irritable. Hanover had never looked so beautiful to him as it did on the day he had left it. He knew he would have been a fool to decline the crown of England for himself and his heirs, but how he wished it had never been necessary to claim it.
The sight of George Augustus added to his discontent. There he was, enjoying himself, rehearsing how he would show himself off to the English; he had already uttered the most flowery eulogies on his new country and the English, although sensible enough in some respects, were not shrewd enough to recognize the gross flattery. Before they had set foot in England George Augustus was trying to rival his father, trying to turn any devotion they might feel towards him to his son.
It was a bitter thing when there was strife between families. His own father had taught him that and by God it was true.
The Peregrine had been a fine sight when it had set out from The Hague with its escort of twenty ships. It was a little less splendid certainly after the rough storm they had encountered—and now here at Gravesend was this accursed fog.
When shall I return to Hanover? wondered the King.
The mist was already lifting and they could go ashore. The sun broke through and it promised to be a glorious day.
The bells were chiming; the guns had begun to boom a welcome. The people of England wanted to show him that although they might not be glad he had come, they preferred him to Catholic James.
It was the eighteenth day of September in the year 1714. Hanover had come to England and this was the end of the House of Stuart. At least it was to be hoped this was so, for who could say what the man whom many called James III was preparing to do even now. George wondered how many of these men who were bowing before him, welcoming him to their island, swearing allegiance to him, would if the Stuart were victorious, turn to him with the same loyal greetings.
George had few illusions.
There was Marlborough, all smiles and friendliness: a great soldier but a dangerous politician. George was well aware that Marlborough like the majority of these men was not to be trusted.
He received them noncommittally—Marlborough, Ormonde, Oxford, Harcourt. They would discover that he was not a man to be led by the nose. He might not speak their language but they should soon become acquainted with his desires for all that.
The King noticed the gracious smiles of his son as the people called a welcome. It was George Augustus who secured most of the limelight.
He must be watched, thought George. He must be kept in his place.
Greenwich Palace was very grand but the King was homesick for the Leine Schloss and Herrenhausen.
"Your Majesty," he was told. "If you would stand at the window with the Prince the people would be pleased."
He stood there—with George Augustus beside him. George Augustus was bowing, smiling, waving—most gracious, most affable. And the King saw that the people liked it, and that it was the Prince of Wales they cheered rather than the King.
On the river craft of all kinds were assembled; crowds jostled each other in the streets; every window was occupied; people shouted to each other; and it was clear that London was in a festive mood. Sellers of pies and ballads called to the crowds to buy what they had to sell. The coffee and chocolate houses were full to overflowing; so were the taverns and even the very select mug houses. Under the brilliant painted signs—Mother Red Cap, The Merry Maidens, The Blue Cockade—knots of people gathered to talk excitedly of what the coming of a new King would mean.