The Wild Girl

by Kate Forsyth

  The road led inside the medieval walls, the cobbles bruising Dortchen’s feet. The jutting eaves and chimneys and turrets of the buildings were dark against a luminous sky. The first star shone out, and Dortchen thought, I wish …

  She hardly knew how to frame the words. She longed to have someone of her own to love – a friend, a twin, a soulmate. She glanced at Lotte, at her thin face and the curly dark hair so unlike Dortchen’s, which was thick and fair and straight. Lotte was only thirteen days older than Dortchen. Almost close enough to be twins. They had both been born in May 1793, the year that the King and Queen of France had their heads chopped off and the people of Paris had danced in streets puddled with blood.

  Dortchen had always been fascinated by the story of Maria Antonia of Austria, who had become Marie Antoinette of France. She sometimes imagined herself as a beautiful young queen, dressed in white, dragged to the guillotine through a jeering crowd. In her daydream, Dortchen was rescued at the last moment by a daring band of masked heroes, led by a handsome stranger with a flashing sword. He threw her over the saddle of his horse and galloped away through the crowd, and the guillotine was left thirsty.

  She wondered if Lotte ever imagined herself a condemned queen, a girl in a story.

  Warm light spilt from the upper windows. The smell of cooking made Dortchen’s stomach growl and her pulse quicken in anxiety. ‘Let’s hurry – I’m hungry.’

  ‘I’m always hungry,’ Lotte said. ‘And all we have to eat is sausages. Sausages, sausages, every day.’

  ‘It’s better than stone soup, which is what I’ll get if I’m home late.’

  The small party reached the Königsplatz, its six avenues radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. In the centre of the square was a marble statue of the Kurfürst’s father, the Landgrave Frederick, famous for having sent hundreds of Hessian soldiers to die fighting for Great Britain in the American Revolution.

  ‘Did you know that there’s an echo here?’ Dortchen told Lotte. ‘If you shout, you’ll hear your voice bounce back six times.’ She stood in the centre and demonstrated, much to the amazement of Lotte’s three brothers, who at once came to stand beside her to test the echo too.

  ‘Ja!’ they shouted.

  Back came the faint echo: Ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja.

  ‘Ja! Ja!’

  Ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja …

  The church bells rang out and Dortchen remembered the time. ‘Come on, I’m late. Father will skin me alive!’ Catching Lotte’s hand, she ran down the cobblestoned avenue that led through the crooked houses towards the Marktgasse. The gables shut out the last of the light, so they ran through shadows, with only the occasional gleam of candlelight through a shutter showing the way.

  They burst out into the Marktgasse, the three Grimm boys racing past them, Lotte’s stout mother panting behind. Dortchen saw at once that the windows of her father’s shop were dark, and he had hung the quail’s cage out the upstairs window. Her spirits sank.

  A lantern bobbed across the square towards them. Behind it were two young men, dark shapes in long coats and tall hats. They strode up to Frau Grimm, arms spread in greeting. ‘Mother, where have you been?’ the younger one asked in mock reproof. ‘We got home to a dark, cold house and an empty larder.’

  ‘Jakob, Wilhelm, you’re here at last.’ Frau Grimm embraced them warmly.

  ‘It’s my other brothers.’ Lotte ran forward to greet them, and Dortchen followed shyly. In the glow of the lamp, she saw two young men, both thin and dark and shabbily dressed. The elder of the two had a serious face, with straight hair hanging past his ears. The younger was the more handsome, with pale skin, hollow cheeks and wavy dark curls. He laughed at Lotte and swung her around by the hands.

  Dortchen forgot about her father, forgot about being late, forgot to breathe. The world tilted, then righted itself.

  ‘Lotte, not so wild! You’re not a little girl any more,’ the elder brother reproved her. Dortchen knew that he was named Jakob and that he was twenty years old, for Lotte had spoken often about her clever brothers.

  ‘Don’t scold, Jakob,’ Lotte protested. ‘I haven’t seen you in such an age.’

  Frau Grimm patted his shoulder. ‘Look at you, so tall and manly. We’ve been so worried. What took you so long?’

  ‘Professor von Savigny and I had to come the long way, through Metz,’ Jakob replied. ‘Strasbourg is full of French soldiers.’

  ‘The Grand Army is on the move again? I thought Napoléon was all set to invade England,’ Ferdinand said. He was the fourth of the five Grimm sons, seventeen years old, with the family’s dark hair and thin, sensitive face.

  ‘I guess he’s changed his mind,’ Jakob replied drily.

  ‘Do they march against Austria?’ eighteen-year-old Karl demanded.

  ‘I suppose it was to be expected,’ nineteen-year-old Wilhelm said. ‘Austria did invade Bavaria, after all.’

  ‘The French move so swiftly,’ Jakob said. ‘Napoléon left Paris after us, yet overtook us on the road. They say he drove for fifty-eight hours, only stopping to change his horses. The ostlers had to throw water over the carriage wheels to stop them from melting.’

  ‘You saw the Emperor? What is he like? Is it true he’s a dwarf?’ Ludwig asked. At fifteen, he was the youngest Grimm brother and three years older than Lotte.

  ‘He’s not tall by any means, but one hardly notices. There’s such a presence about him. His eyes, they’re full of fire …’ Jakob’s voice trailed off.

  ‘What about the Empress? Was she very beautiful? Are her dresses as shocking as they say?’ Lotte wanted to know.

  ‘Indeed, I’d be sorry to see you emulating her clothes, as half of Europe seems to do. If you can call a few wisps of muslin “clothes”. As for beautiful – she wears so much rouge you cannot see her skin at all!’

  ‘I wish I could have gone with you to Paris,’ Wilhelm interjected. ‘It was lonely at university without you.’

  ‘I’m glad to be back with you all again,’ Jakob said. ‘Stimulating as Paris was.’

  ‘We’re glad to have you back too,’ Ludwig said. ‘Although you’ll miss the house at Steinau. We’re all very cramped here in Cassel.’

  ‘We were cramped in Marburg too, I assure you,’ Wilhelm said. ‘At least it’s not so hilly here. At Marburg, we had to climb hundreds of steps every day just to get around. And sometimes you’d walk in through the front door of a house and find yourself on the top floor!’

  Dortchen waited for a chance to say her farewells. She was eager to get to the safety of the kitchen before her father noticed her absence, yet she found their talk of the outside world fascinating.

  Wilhelm sensed Dortchen’s eyes on him and glanced her way. ‘But who is this? A friend of yours, Lottechen?’

  ‘Oh, that’s one of the Wild girls,’ Karl said. ‘There’s a whole horde of them across the way.’

  ‘It’s Dortchen,’ Lotte said. ‘Dortchen Wild. She lives above the apothecary’s there.’ She waved her hand at the dark shop, with its mortar and pestle sign hanging outside.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dortchen. Is that a love name for Dorothea?’ When Dortchen nodded shyly, Wilhelm went on. ‘One of my favourite names. My mother’s name, you know.’

  ‘It’s really Henriette Dorothea,’ Dortchen said. ‘But no one calls me that.’

  ‘It’s a very pretty name, both the long and the short versions,’ he answered, smiling.

  ‘What about Charlotte?’ his sister demanded. ‘Isn’t that your favourite?’

  ‘I like them both. Two very pretty names.’

  Dortchen felt heat rising in her cheeks. ‘I have to go. Thank you for taking me to afternoon tea, Frau Grimm. Bye, Lotte.’ She hurried down the alley that divided her father’s shop from the building in which the Grimms rented an apartment. Within seconds she was hidden in darkness, but she could hear the conversation of the Grimm family behind her.

  ‘She seems very nice,’ Wilhelm said. ‘How lovely to h
ave some girls living right next door, Lotte.’

  ‘I hope they are sensible, hard-working girls, not like those silly friends of yours in Steinau,’ Jakob added.

  ‘Their father is very strict and keeps them close,’ Frau Grimm said.

  ‘She’s very pretty,’ Wilhelm said.

  Dortchen smiled and clasped his words to her like something small and precious.

  OLD MARIE

  October 1805

  Dortchen hurried through the gate in the wall and into the garden. A cobbled path led between wide beds overflowing with herbs. An old holly tree filled one corner, its branches weighed down with berries. Their servant, Old Marie, always picked holly at Christmas-time and put it on the mantelpiece in the kitchen, though if Herr Wild had known he would have ordered her to throw it on the fire. Dortchen’s father thought such things pagan nonsense. The only reason holly grew in his garden was because it was a useful herb in winter, when most others were dead. Holly leaves relieved fever and rheumatism, and the powdered berries would purge a blocked bowel.

  At the back of the garden were the stables and sheds. Apple trees were espaliered against the south-facing wall. As Dortchen hurried up the path, her boots bruised the thyme and hyssop and sage that spilt over the cobbles, releasing their scents into the night air.

  Light illuminated a narrow window on one side of the kitchen door. Dortchen peeked through. Inside, Old Marie was busy at the fireplace. She was called that by everyone, to differentiate her from Dortchen’s youngest sister, who was called Little Marie, or Mia. Old Marie was a stout woman in her late fifties, with round cheeks rosy and wrinkled as a winter apple. She wore a coarse calico apron over her brown stuff dress, and a white cap that covered most of her grey-streaked hair. Dortchen opened the door and slipped into the kitchen, a blast of hot air hitting her chilled cheeks. Mozart the starling swooped down to land on her shoulder, trilling a welcome. His dark wings were all starred with white, like snowflakes.

  ‘Good boy,’ Dortchen said and stroked his head with her knuckle.

  ‘Good boy,’ Mozart repeated. He was named after the composer, who had had a pet starling who’d learnt to whistle the last movement of his Piano Concerto in G. Although Old Marie’s starling had never mastered a concerto, he had many words and sounds and songs, and chattered away all day long in a most endearing way.

  ‘Dortchen, sweetling, where’ve you been?’ Old Marie cried.

  ‘Pretty sweetling, pretty sweetling,’ the starling chirped.

  ‘I’ve been that worried,’ Old Marie went on. ‘It’s past the hour already. You know how your father hates to be kept waiting. Röse has come down once already to see where supper is. Quickly, take off your shawl and wash your hands, then you can ring the bell for me.’

  ‘Does Father know I’ve been out?’ Dortchen asked, putting down her basket and lifting Mozart down so he could hop onto his perch.

  ‘I don’t think so – he only went up from the shop ten minutes ago. He and your brother have been going at it hammer and tongs ever since. The whole house was shaking.’

  As Dortchen took off her shawl and bonnet and hung them up, she said, ‘Sometimes I think Father doesn’t like us very much.’

  ‘Bite your tongue,’ Old Marie responded at once. ‘How can you say such a thing, when you live in this fine big house, with all this good food to eat? Yes, he’s a little gruff, your father, but he works hard and looks after you, which is more than can be said for many fathers.’

  ‘He never buys us any treats or lets us do anything fun,’ Dortchen pointed out.

  ‘Better than taking you out into the forest and abandoning you, like the father of the little boy and girl in that story,’ Old Marie said.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Dortchen replied. ‘Though at least they got to have an adventure. We never go anywhere or do anything.’

  ‘You call almost being eaten by a witch an adventure? Be glad for small mercies, Dortchen, my love, and pass me the salt.’

  Dortchen did as she was asked, her mind wandering away into a deep, dark, thorn-tangled forest. She imagined leaving a trail of white stones to help find her way home. She imagined tricking the witch.

  Still daydreaming, she began to get down plates for their dinner from the oak dresser. The kitchen was a long, low room, lit by smoky tallow candles and the orange roar of the fire. Heavy beams supported the brown-stained ceiling, with washing lines strung between them flapping with the week’s laundry. Iron ladles and pots hung from hooks from a long oak shelf above the fireplace. The shelf itself held pewter bowls and tankards, and heavy ceramic jars of salt and sugar and oil.

  A roasting jack, made of cast iron, stood before the fireplace. A complex set of wheels and pulleys kept the roast turning evenly, its juices dripping down into a pan. Old Marie heaved the roast beef off the jack and onto a platter, her round face red and damp with perspiration, then swung the boiling pot of potato dumplings off the fire. Dortchen hurried to help her, ladling boiled red cabbage into a tureen.

  The kitchen door swung open and Mia rushed in. ‘Old Marie, Mother’s having a spasm. Where’s supper? It’s nearly quarter past.’

  ‘I had trouble with the fire,’ Old Marie said. ‘The wind’s in the wrong quarter.’

  ‘Father’s furious.’ Mia jumped up and down on one foot, her loops of red-gold hair bouncing. She was eleven years old, the youngest of the six Wild sisters. Everything about her seemed round, from her soft, plump figure to her protuberant blue eyes.

  ‘Tell your father to try cooking when the wind keeps blowing out the fire,’ Old Marie answered, heaving up the tray with her rough red hands.

  Mia gave a snort of incredulous laughter. ‘You tell him! If you dare.’

  ‘Mia, if you ring the bell, I’ll help carry the food up,’ Dortchen said.

  The little girl seized the handbell and rang it vigorously, while Old Marie pushed the door open with her foot and carried out the platter of beef.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Mia caught up the potato dumplings.

  ‘I’ve been to the palace,’ Dortchen said. ‘Lotte’s aunt works there. We had coffee and cakes.’

  ‘Did you see the Kurfürst?’

  Dortchen shook her head, leading the way down the cold corridor, the tureen of cabbage in her hands. ‘I met Lotte’s big brothers. They’ve come home from university. At least, the second one has: Wilhelm. The other one was in Paris.’ She pushed open the dining-room door with her hip and put the tureen down on the sideboard. Old Marie was laying out the plates on the table.

  ‘Paris! Did he see the Ogre?’ Mia demanded.

  Dortchen nodded. ‘He said that it’s true that he’s short as a dwarf, but he’s so full of fire you hardly notice.’

  ‘I’d like to see Napoléon one day,’ Mia said.

  ‘Pray to God you don’t get the chance,’ Old Marie said.

  THE WILD ONE

  October 1805

  Dortchen’s elder sisters came into the room in a swirl of skirts, talking over the top of one another.

  ‘Supper at last!’ Gretchen cried. ‘I am near ready to faint with hunger.’ The pretty one, she wore her flaxen hair in ringlets, a feat only achieved by the very uncomfortable practice of wearing rags in her hair to bed.

  ‘Father will not be pleased,’ Röse said with a certain amount of pleasure. ‘It is a sign of a disordered mind to be so unpunctual.’ Thirteen-year-old Röse was the clever one, and seemed to take pleasure in being positively dowdy. Her fair hair was scraped back in a thin plait, and a small book of sermons protruded from her pocket.

  ‘Why so late?’ Lisette asked. The eldest, and her mother’s prop, she was also the tallest, with a long face and nose and beautiful, long-fingered hands.

  ‘He’s almost popped all his buttons already tonight,’ Hanne said. She was the musical one, always getting into trouble for singing at the top of her voice around the house.

  Dortchen would have liked to have been the clever one, and Mia would have liked to have be
en the musical one, but with six girls in the family, those roles were already taken by the time they were born. They had become the wild one and the baby, with absolutely no choice in the matter at all.

  Dortchen was called the wild one because one day, when she was seven years old, she had got lost in the forest. She had wandered off to a far-distant glade where a willow tree trailed its branches in a pool of water. Dortchen crept within the shadowy tent of its branches and found a green palace. She wove herself a crown of willow tendrils and collected pebbles and flowers to be her jewels. At last, worn out, she lay down on a velvet bed of moss and fell asleep.

  She did not hear her family calling for her. She did not see the sun slipping away and the shadows growing longer. Waking in the dusk, she had gone skipping to find her sisters, her hair in a tangle, a wreath of leaves on her head. Ever since then, no matter how hard she tried to be good, Frau Wild would always say, with a long-suffering sigh, ‘And this is Dortchen, my wild one, always running off into the forest.’

  ‘You’re too soft with her, Katharina,’ Herr Wild would growl. ‘You should’ve mastered her will by now.’

  It was true Dortchen loved to be outdoors. With so many siblings, it was hard to find time to be alone, and the old house was always full of people shouting, arguing, singing, crying, slamming doors, ringing bells or running up and down the stairs. Out in the forest, it was just Dortchen, free as the wind in the leaves and the birds in the sky. Whenever she could, Dortchen would take a basket and go to the forest in search of fallen chestnuts or mushrooms. She would come home in the evening with her cheeks flushed, her lips stained with berry juice, and her head full of dreams.

  ‘What do we have?’ Gretchen lifted the lid of the tureen and wrinkled her nose. ‘Not red cabbage again.’

  Frau Wild drifted into the room, a shawl trailing from her elbows. ‘Girls. The time. Your father.’ She collapsed into a chair.