The Wild Girl

by Kate Forsyth

  Then his fingers slid out. He stepped away, fastidiously wiping his hand on his kerchief. ‘So you are a maiden still. He has not yet got you on your back, then. Better keep it that way, I warn you. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Dortchen Wild.’

  Shaking, she pulled up her drawers and dragged down her skirt. She backed away from him.

  He cast her a look of angry impatience. ‘Don’t look at me with those wounded eyes, Dortchen. You think you’re the first maiden I’ve checked? Go wash yourself and get ready for dinner. It had better not be late.’

  Dortchen left the study and stumbled down the hall. She hardly knew where she was. The house was so cold and so dark and so strange. She bumped her hip trying to climb the stairs, then banged her shoulder on the wall. Her legs were trembling. By the time she reached her bedroom, her breath was short in her throat. She crawled into her bed and lay there, unable to stop the shudders that wracked her from head to toe.

  Mia came looking for her later, shouting about supper and the time. When Dortchen did not answer her, Mia galloped back down the stairs. Then Old Marie came in, wiping her damp hands on her apron, her wrinkled face worried.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Are you ill?’

  Dortchen did not answer.

  ‘My sweetling, what’s wrong?’ Then Old Marie saw her torn bodice. Dismay filled her. ‘My poor blessed girl – what’s happened to you? Who was it? Are you hurt?’

  ‘No!’ Dortchen cried. ‘I’m fine. Leave me be.’

  Old Marie patted her shoulder. ‘Now, now, let me help you change. Look at your dress, all torn. I’ll have that mended for you in the morning. What happened? Your father is so angry – what have you done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Dortchen whispered.

  Old Marie clucked her tongue but said no more. She helped Dortchen into her nightgown, then tucked her in. ‘The old tyrant threatened me with sacking if I came near you, but how could I leave you all alone and upset, my little love? You sleep now, and don’t you mind your father. It’s the world he’s angry at, and he’s taking it out on you.’

  She tiptoed away and Dortchen shut her eyes. All she could see was Wilhelm’s angry, accusing gaze, and Ferdinand’s pleading eyes and outstretched hands. It seemed she could please no one, help no one, no matter what she did. She could not get rid of the sour taste of Ferdinand’s mouth, or the feel of her father probing her.

  Perhaps her father was right. Maybe she was wild by nature, and so destined to call such loathsome passions upon herself. At the thought, Dortchen began at last to cry, and once she began she could not stop.

  The next day was her eighteenth birthday.

  THE COMET

  April 1811

  Spring came, and with it Röse’s wedding. She looked thin and white and sick, while her new husband was large and red and hearty. Afterwards, the house seemed emptier and quieter than ever.

  Dortchen did her best to be a good daughter. She did not defy her father and sneak over to the Grimms’ apartment, nor did she look for excuses to go walking in the springtime woods. She stayed at home, laboured in the house and garden, tended to her ailing mother and was obedient to her father’s commands. When Mia complained that their days were so dreary now, she reprimanded her and told her to mind her manners.

  From her occasional hurried conversations with Lotte, Dortchen knew that Ferdinand had continued to be wild and unpredictable for more than a week, but that he had gradually quietened and no longer sobbed for laudanum. Instead, he sat in his darkened room, staring at the wall, unwilling or unable to lift his hand to anything. Wilhelm, meanwhile, had suffered a relapse and had taken to his bed with sharp pains in his chest, erratic poundings of his heart, and difficulty breathing. Dortchen did not sneak into the stillroom to make him up some linden blossom tea, or to infuse honey with thyme for him to swallow. She simply studied her French books and darned her father’s stockings.

  There was much talk and worry over the increasing tension between France and Russia. France was slowly taking over Poland and had seized the Duchy of Oldenburg, whose heir was married to the Tsar’s beloved sister, Ekaterina. In May, Napoléon recalled his ambassador to St Petersburg. Jakob heard at the palace that the Tsar had told the French ambassador, before he left, ‘I will not draw my sword first, but I shall sheathe it last.’ In August, Napoléon harangued the Russian ambassador in Paris, telling him that the Tsar had no hope of winning if France moved against him.

  In the summer, Ferdinand went to Munich to stay with Ludwig, who was studying art at the university there, and Wilhelm went to stay with Paul Wigand, an old friend from his university days. It was easier for Dortchen to have him gone. She no longer strained to hear his cough as she hung out the washing on the line between the two houses. Later, she heard from Lotte that he had made a visit to another old friend, Werner von Haxthausen, only to find that his friend had fled to Sweden in fear of reprisals for his activities undermining French rule. Wilhelm had found a house full of Werner’s sisters, however, who had enthusiastically decided to help him find old stories for his collection.

  ‘He says the youngest girl, Anna, told him a wonderful tale the very moment she first met him,’ Lotte told her. ‘Before they’d even reached the house. Wilhelm is very excited – he’s sure they’ll be a treasure trove of stories.’

  Dortchen nodded and turned away, a familiar ache about her heart.

  The summer turned into autumn, and Dortchen gathered baskets full of quinces, as golden as apples, to help her father make brandy. The smell of the fermenting fruit made her feel unwell, but she choked back her distaste and stirred in the sugar as her father bade her.

  As the first chill turned the leaves of the apple trees red, Wilhelm came home. Dortchen saw him sitting with Jakob and Lotte in church, and felt her heart lurch unpleasantly. She lowered her eyes and followed her parents to their pew. She was conscious of his eyes on her many times during the service, but she did not return his look. Her father noticed him too, and glared at her warningly. Dortchen found it hard to see the words of her hymn book, her eyes swimming with tears.

  After the service, her father shouldered his way through the crowd in the square. He did not pause to speak to anyone or to speculate about the war, and his wife and two remaining daughters followed obediently.

  Dortchen suddenly ran back and caught Wilhelm’s sleeve. ‘I did not want him to kiss me,’ she said, in a low, intense voice.

  Something sparked in his eyes. She had no time to decipher it, or to hear the words that sprang to his lips. She turned and hurried back to join her family.

  That evening, as Dortchen sat wearily on her bed and took off her shoes, she saw a green scarf hanging on the washing line. She started up, opened her window and pulled the peg basket towards her with fingers that trembled. Inside the peg basket was a note from Lotte: ‘Coffee and storytelling this Friday afternoon at the Hassenpflugs?’

  Dortchen did not know what to do. She did not reply to the note. As the days passed and Friday approached, she found herself in an agony of indecision. Should she ask her father for permission to go, or sneak away while he was at the church elders’ meeting? What if she went and her father found out? Would Wilhelm and Lotte understand if she did not go?

  After lunch on Friday, she went upstairs to collect her mother’s tray. Frau Wild lay in her bed, one hand clenched against her left breast, a small table beside her cluttered with laudanum drops and smelling salts and lavender water.

  ‘Mother,’ Dortchen said hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ her mother spoke faintly.

  ‘I’ve been asked to the Hassenpflugs for coffee this afternoon. May I go?’

  ‘I suppose so, dear. What does your father say?’

  ‘I … I haven’t asked him.’

  ‘Well, then, no need to bother him. Your father’s very busy. Please give my regards to Frau Hassenpflug.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Perhaps … fish tonight? The market is on the way home.’ />
  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Dortchen carried the tray out, her breath whooshing out with relief. She changed her dress and tidied her hair, and put on her best bonnet and her mother’s old fringed shawl. Her heart was pounding as sharply and erratically as she imagined Wilhelm’s did. Then she called Mia and whispered the news to her. In minutes, both girls were hurrying through the narrow streets towards the elegant boulevards and wide squares of the French quarter, where the Hassenpflugs lived. Dortchen could not help looking behind her every few steps, afraid to see her father. But they reached the Hassenpflugs’ house safely and were shown into a large drawing room that had the tallest mirror Dortchen had ever seen, hanging over an elegantly carved marble fireplace in which a fire crackled cheerily.

  Jakob, Wilhelm and Lotte were already there, drinking coffee from tiny porcelain cups. The two men rose as Dortchen and Mia shyly came in. The three Hassenpflug sisters were seated on wide couches with spindly gilded legs. All wore beautiful pale dresses, embroidered on the sleeves and hem with flowers. They smiled in welcome and beckoned the Wild sisters in. Their brother, Louis, stood on the hearthrug, a cup in one hand and a cake in the other. He waved the cake at them enthusiastically.

  Frau Hassenpflug bustled forward to meet them. ‘Fraüleins, we have not seen you in so long,’ she said. ‘Tell me, how is your mother? Ah, what a shame. Do please give her my regards. And your sister? Enjoying married life? And your dear father?’ Frau Hassenpflug’s conversation was like a river in full snowmelt, only occasionally smashing up against the boulder of a response.

  Murmuring commonplaces, Dortchen came forward. Jakob surrendered her his seat so she could sit next to Wilhelm. Colour rose in her cheeks and she dared not look at him. She sank down on the couch and accepted a cup of coffee and a plate of sugar-dusted strudel.

  Conversation resumed. After a while, she dared to glance up at Wilhelm. He was regarding her gravely. ‘You are well?’ he asked.

  She nodded and tried to smile.

  ‘I’m sorry we did not call on you, to enquire after you … after—’

  ‘Much better not,’ she replied swiftly, colour burning her cheeks.

  ‘I do apologise … Ferdinand—’

  ‘How is he?’

  Wilhelm shrugged. ‘Unhappy. Strange and withdrawn. We do not know what to do – he does not listen to a word we say.’

  Dortchen looked up at him. ‘He was … he was not himself.’

  ‘No.’

  Their stilted conversation ceased. Dortchen made an effort. ‘I believe you’ve been to Höxter?’

  Animation lit his face. ‘Yes. It is so beautiful there. I do wish we could live in the country. I am always so much better away from town. And I have found so many new stories. Our collection is coming along so well. I do believe we may have enough for a book now.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ Dortchen said. ‘Do you really think you might be able to get it published?’

  ‘Times are hard,’ Wilhelm said, ‘and the French keep a close eye on publishers, to make sure they do not transgress the censorship laws. But a scholarly collection of old tales would surely not concern them. I must admit, I have high hopes of success.’

  Dortchen was leaning forward to answer him when she was interrupted by Marie, who brought over the coffee pot. ‘We have not heard from you in such a long time, Dorothea,’ she said, her thick, dark ringlets falling over her shoulder as she poured another cup for Wilhelm. ‘Do you have a tale for us today?’

  ‘I always know a tale to tell,’ Dortchen flashed back, not liking the slight tone of condescension in Marie’s voice. ‘What would you like to hear?’

  ‘Something amusing,’ Marie answered. ‘Herr Grimm, do you wish to write it down? I have some paper and quills here for you, ready sharpened.’ She indicated a small table nearby, on which writing materials lay ready.

  ‘Yes, of course, thank you,’ Wilhelm replied, rising and going to the table. Marie sat down beside him, unscrewing the inkpot and preparing a blotter and the sand tray. She said something in a low voice to him and he smiled.

  Left alone on the couch, Dortchen told the story of Clever Elsie, a girl who thinks herself very smart but is in reality remarkably stupid. When she had finished, everyone laughed and clapped, though Marie’s smile seemed rather forced.

  ‘That was brilliant,’ Wilhelm said, coming over to congratulate her. ‘Do you have any more like that? We could do with some humorous stories in our collection.’

  ‘I do,’ she answered, then, acting on a wild whim, said, ‘Come to the garden the day after tomorrow. I’ll be harvesting pumpkins and winter squash, but I can talk as I work. You can sit in the summer house and write.’

  So, two days later, on a glorious, crisp autumn afternoon, Dortchen told Wilhelm another tale, about a wishing-table, an ass that spat golden pieces from front and back, and a cudgel that beat your enemies senseless. It made Wilhelm laugh, and Dortchen did all she could to make the story droll and amusing, acting out the different voices and pretending to be the ass that farted gold coins. He lingered afterwards, helping her to harvest and talking as the shadows slowly lengthened over the garden.

  He came again a few days later, and she told him another silly tale about a louse and a flea. Soon they were meeting in the garden whenever they could, Wilhelm always carrying his battered writing box, Dortchen making him tea on the summer house stove and giving him fresh beans to eat, or blackberries, or an apple. Those hours were increasingly precious to Dortchen. Whenever she told Wilhelm a story, all his attention was on her and only her. The intensity of his regard filled her with tingling light.

  She told him the tale of Frau Holle, and how, when she shook out her featherbed, snow fell on the earth. She told him another story about three feathers, and yet another about a cobbler and some elves. Wilhelm loved this story so much that she told him two more about elves. Another day, she told him the story of a princess with a golden ball, and a frog that, when thrown against the wall, turned into a king. Wilhelm told her about other stories he had discovered and the books he was reading, and he recited poetry to her.

  Of course, this enchanted time could not last.

  One evening in early October, as darkness was falling, Dortchen was driving home from the garden in the pony trap when she noticed a strange star on the horizon. It was large and bright and had a peacock’s tail of pale light trailing behind it. Yet it did not spark and fall, as a shooting star would, but seemed to glide almost imperceptibly along the horizon, its tail flaring as if blown by an invisible wind. The star was so striking that Dortchen pulled Trudi to a halt. All around her, people stared and pointed and muttered uneasily.

  A few days later, the Great Comet was reported in the papers. Its tail stretched for thirty-three million kilometres, one said. Another said that because the comet had first been seen in France, it was a sign that the heavens were smiling on Napoléon. He would surely triumph against the English soon, the newspaper said, and all Europe would be at peace under his benevolent rule.

  Old Marie was anxious, however, and muttered about evil omens. She closed the shutters early so she would not see the comet pulsing above the rooftops. In the marketplace, everyone agreed: dark times were ahead. Perhaps the comet even portended the end of the world.

  FIRE AND FROST

  November 1811

  Late one Saturday night in November, Dortchen was woken by the sound of warning bells.

  She sat up. The air smelt of smoke. She knelt in her bed and rubbed her hand on the icy pane of the window, making a peephole. She could see nothing but the familiar landscape of spires and gables and chimneys, glittering with frost under a sharp-edged moon. Icicles rimmed the window frame. She ran barefoot to the other window, which looked out across the marketplace. She could see the orange glare of fire diffused through the glaze of frost on the glass.

  Cassel was on fire.

  Her heart thumping, Dortchen shoved her feet into her slippers and dragged her shawl abou
t her. She ran to pound on Old Marie’s door. ‘Fire!’ she cried. ‘Marie, the town’s on fire.’

  ‘Goodness gracious!’ came the housekeeper’s frightened voice. ‘Have we been attacked?’

  Dortchen ran downstairs. Her father was already up, his frockcoat thrown over his striped nightgown, and his feet in slippers. He held a candle in one hand and his pistol in the other. The bells continued to ring the warning. Frau Wild called out plaintively from her bed, ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Oh, my nerves! I’m having a spasm.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Mia cried, clutching at Dortchen. ‘Have the Russians attacked?’

  ‘I don’t know but there’s a fire,’ Dortchen replied. ‘A big one.’

  Herr Wild caught up his pistol, stumped down the stairs and flung open the front door. His two youngest daughters ran after him. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted out into the square, where dark figures were hurrying about.

  ‘The Palais Bellevue is on fire,’ someone shouted back. Dortchen recognised Wilhelm’s voice. He came towards them, carrying a lantern. He had dressed hastily, his coat thrown over his shirt, which was unbuttoned at the throat; a long knitted scarf was knotted loosely about his throat in place of a cravat.

  ‘The palace is on fire? What is it?’ Herr Wild demanded. ‘An attack? Sabotage?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s fierce, though, and spreading fast. My brother Jakob has gone to try to save the books – he’s the librarian there, you know. He sent word that we must be prepared – there are fears the whole town will burn. We’re filling buckets with water.’ Wilhelm nodded at the pump outside the inn.

  A crowd of people was milling about the pump; many houses in the Marktgasse, including the Grimms’ apartment, did not have their own water supply.

  Wilhelm saw Dortchen and his eyes widened in sudden admiration. She realised she was dressed only in a nightgown and shawl; the heavy mass of her hair was tumbling out of its plait.