The Daughters Grimm

by Minda Webber

  After her aunt had left Rae to finish dressing in peace and blessed quiet, Greta arrived, tears in her eyes. She wished her sister much happiness. And the gushing of tears commenced again.

  Rae soaked two handkerchiefs before she finally got herself under control enough to speak. “I have no wish to marry,” she said, “but with Aunt and Uncle acting like fire-breathing dragons, I must marry this obscure baron.”

  Greta took her hand. “Rae, you deserve to be happy, and I think you will be, in spite of the way this wedding has come about. I’m sure lots of forced marriages have become love matches.”

  “If you are trying to cheer me up, please don’t bother,” Rae groaned. “I still don’t see why I must marry the man.”

  “Rae, you’ve got to stop this. You know as well as I do that a lady’s reputation is fragile. People are always willing to believe the worst. And of course the worst they could have believed is what they actually caught you doing.”

  “I was doing nothing but being attacked by an old lecher, a bloody bug and an overgrown lummox.”

  “Well, just think of the positive side of this marriage. You are marrying nobility.”

  “A mere baron!”

  “He’s very wealthy.”

  “Probably a clutch-fisted miser. Look how he dresses, without a thought for style or his place in society.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have to pad his calves or his shoulders,” Greta remarked, patiently cheerful as she did up the last of the pearl buttons on Rae’s gown.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. He’s so very large, and he doesn’t like me much.”

  “That shows his sound judgment,” Greta teased. “After all, you’ve insulted him time and time again. Would you want a stupid man for a husband?” she asked. “But he finds you beautiful. Didn’t you say he likened you to Helen of Troy?”

  “I would settle for a less clever man if he truly wanted me to wife. Baron Schortz hasn’t smiled at me once since we became betrothed. In fact, he’s spoken very little to me. I don’t think this a good sign for connubial bliss.”

  Placing both her hands on her sister’s shoulders, Greta stared down into Rae’s pretty blue eyes. “Rae, I’ve seen you make grown men tremble when you give that come-hither smile of yours. If you can overcome your habit of vanity and always searching for compliments, I think the baron and you will do nicely.”

  Rae shook her head. “I wanted to marry very well indeed, to a grand prince or even a duke, but even more I wanted to marry a man who would cherish the ground I walk upon—not curse it. We aren’t even going on a honeymoon. What kind of man marries a woman and doesn’t take her touring around the Continent?”

  “A widower with estates and children, I expect,” Greta answered. “Besides, there wasn’t much time to plan such things.”

  “And that’s something else. I’m to be a stepmother, and I don’t even like small children. They remind me of little hairy dogs, all smelly and into everything. Stepchildren are the root of all evil—I believe I saw that on a sampler somewhere.” Her years of helping to keep watch over her two wily and rapacious brothers also came to mind.

  “Please tell me you haven’t given the baron your opinion on motherhood and children,” Greta said.

  Pinching her cheeks as she gazed into the mirror, Rae frowned. “Really, Greta, do you take me for a silly green girl? Of course I didn’t tell him. He might take exception. Besides, if I’m lucky, he’ll never know.”

  “He’ll never know you don’t like children?” Greta confirmed, confused as she stared at her sister’s reflection in the gilt-framed mirror. Yes, Rae definitely had more hair than wit.

  “Of course not. The children will have nurses and a governess enough to keep them busy. I shall go up and visit them once a week, and if they are very good, twice a week.”

  Greta shook her head, changing the subject to a more positive note. “Remember we came to Prussia to make good marriages, and you have. Baron Schortz not only took you without a dowry, but has sent funds to Papa as well. The money will help out a great bit, so you do not marry in vain. Well, the way you marry is no more vain than usual. Meanwhile, you have brought great peace of mind to our parents.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Rae remarked.

  “Keep in mind that I will continue to look for a husband as well.”

  “Ha! You’re too involved with your old legends to worry about wedding. It’s unfair; I wanted a prince but got a frog baron instead.”

  Kissing her sister on the cheek, Greta advised, “Make the best of this marriage, Rae. You only do it once.”

  “Once is quite enough, thank you.” She sniffled piteously.

  Brushing her cheek, Greta coaxed, “Please do smile. This is your wedding day.”

  Before Rae could respond to her sister, their aunt called out through the open doorway. Her voice was both loud and commanding. “It’s time, Rae! Come along!”

  Then their aunt ushered her out of the hall, and Rae repeated what the baroness had told her. As an older woman of much experience, Vivian likely knew all there was to know. “Duty, duty and duty.” The words kept repeating themselves in her brain, and Rae heard the “Wedding March” being played quite beautifully by that odd little man, Herr Mozart.

  Gathering her Grimmest courage, Rae proceeded down the aisle with her uncle, a smile so sweet on her face that surely the good angels above were weeping. She would do as Greta had suggested. It might not be the wedding of her dreams, but this was, after all, her wedding day. She smiled at her groom and willed him to look at her.

  No smile lit Baron Schortz’s face. He stood morosely, dressed in the deepest shades of black and gray, a testament to his lack of appreciation at what fate had generously bestowed upon him. Rae stepped upon his foot as her uncle gave her over, letting him know that he should show the world his delight at having such a magnificent lady for a bride.

  Despite her slippered attack, Fen remained distant and gloomy, so Rae stepped upon his booted foot once more for good measure. Even dainty and fragile ladies knew when enough was enough and strong persuasion was needed. The man should be down on his knees thanking the lucky stars that they were to wed.

  The groomsman was not smiling, either. No, Prince von Hanzen narrowed his eyes as he took in Rae’s appearance, then switched his attention to Rae’s sister, who had preceded her as maid of honor.

  Greta glanced up and caught Prince von Hanzen staring at her. Despite her infuriation at the annoying but handsome prince, she smiled briefly, thinking how marvelous he looked in his dark jacket and white knee breeches. He didn’t have to pad his calves or his shoulders, either.

  She turned her attention back to her sister and the groom. Although she quite liked the baron and thought he would make her sister a wonderful husband, she could have kicked him for his somber expression. Not once had he smiled at his bride. This boded ill for marital harmony. Perhaps she could speak to the prince about his friend’s lack of interest in both his wedding and his bride.

  As the ceremony began, Fen couldn’t help but feel utterly lost, made to bear witness to his own grim fate. Yes, he’d be married to a Grimm until the Reaper of similar name did them part. Stoically, he stood tall…ignoring the woman by his side. Clearing his throat, he tried not to recall the happy occasion his first wedding had been, and how he had yearned for the words to bind him to Fiona. His first wedding had been the happiest day of his life, and then the wedding night and births of his many children.

  His erstwhile bride had similar thoughts, pondering deeply how going from a Grimm to a Schortz was an improvement. Wistfully, she sighed; she just couldn’t see much difference.

  To the great relief of all concerned in the improbable marriage, the ceremony passed quickly, and the unhappy couple was soon seated at their wedding breakfast. The pair barely managed to speak to each other, unlike the bride’s sister and Rolpe.

  Riveted by the striking woman beside him, the prince couldn’t resist fanning her ire. Somet
hing about her made him want to nettle her needlessly, and his friend’s marriage to the shallow, vain creature that was Greta’s sister had not done much to improve his bitter mood. Over the past few days Rolpe had been deviled by a growing sense of…something different in the air. Whatever it was, it wasn’t exactly evil, but it was definitely disturbing, as if air currents through long-dank chambers were suddenly set free. This awareness made him testier than usual.

  “Ah, see the happy couple. Makes one want to run right out and find a bride. Shall we propose a toast to them? A fine grand toast—to years of misery and malcontent!”

  “How lovely to find an optimist seated beside me,” Greta replied. She turned regally toward the obnoxious but attractive man and raised a brow. Her face became a cool, distant mask.

  “Miss Grimm, I am not an optimist, I assure you.”

  She pursed her lips. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: My sister may end up surprising you and the baron.”

  “I shall wait with bated breath.”

  “Prince von Hanzen, I think you need your ears boxed,” Greta remarked. Her head held high, she made a move to rise and leave, but his hand on her arm stopped her. She also recalled just where she was; her aunt would literally lock her in her room with gruel and water if she made a scene.

  His fingers seemed to burn through her arm, and she sat back down, her breath quickening. Managing to gain control over her feminine sensibilities, she said with some aplomb, “Do you know, I believe that you were raised in the castle barn, for I have yet to see you exhibit any good manners whatsoever. If I judged all Prussian nobility by you, I would have to believe them all snarling, rude little creatures.”

  “Some might say it’s quite the fashion,” Rolpe replied.

  “And others might say it’s your puffed up consequence. And the man who falls in love with himself will, in the great scheme of things, have no rivals.”

  Rolpe found himself chuckling. “I concede the point. But still, if I’m rude, it’s because I find this whole wedding a farce and unmitigated disaster. Fen deserves better.”

  Greta narrowed her eyes. “As my sister deserves to be loved.”

  “She loves herself quite enough for everyone. In fact, that affair is what has me worried,” Rolpe retorted. It was with disgusted fascination that he watched Greta’s lovely blue-gray eyes deepen in color and her pink rosebud mouth purse.

  “She may be vain, but she will be true to him and give him support in whatever he needs. Just as she has supported me in my pursuits, even putting her own fears aside when I ventured into that cemetery.”

  “Ah, yes. The infamous cemetery. I’m surprised you aren’t there now. The curiosity must be killing you. Oh, where, oh where has the woodcutter’s mother’s corpse gone? Oh where, oh where can she be?”

  Greta sniffed. The prince could go hang himself, him and his unsought opinions. She would persevere in her quest for knowledge, and her sister would turn out a bride worthy of a king.

  She addressed Rolpe: “I find your humor crude. And, alas, I felt my attire today would be inappropriate for a trek in the graveyard. Besides, it’s not night yet.”

  Eyeing the lacy, blue crepe gown cinched tight at her waist, trimmed with tiny seed pearls clustered around the edges of her décolletage, Rolpe felt a stirring of desire which was inappropriate in this place and inappropriate for this particular woman. Her very lovely breasts, which had caught his attention the other night at the cemetery, made him want to explore them at leisure. And he found that particular desire, like this woman, discomposing.

  He replied mockingly, “Yes. It might be rather difficult to maneuver around in a dozen petticoats and lace.”

  Greta gave him a rueful stare. The prince was an arrogant rogue, and had probably known many female conquests—so many that he could probably fill her aunt’s manor home with his discarded amours. It was disgusting. It was intriguing. It was definitely beyond her concern, even though he made her pulse flutter and her knees sway. Oh, yes, the man brought out her primitive side.

  Glancing over his shoulder, she regained some of her composure. “You shouldn’t speak of such things. Why, I’m shocked at such frank talk—mentioning a lady’s unmentionables!”

  “I shall keep it a secret that I know about them.” He grinned. “And you needn’t feign shock. I’d bet my best barouche that you’ve never needed smelling salts. Stop pulling my leg.”

  Unable to help herself, Greta glanced down at the strong leg muscles showcased by the cut of his breeches, and she swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t dare,” she said. Glancing up, she warily noted the heat in his eyes blazing like blue flames as he stared at her.

  “I would insist, must insist,” he responded, wanting her desperately.

  Fanning her face, Greta looked away, feeling the power of his seduction and knowing that a gently bred maid would leave. “Have you perchance heard of virtue? It’s its own reward,” she remarked.

  “Virtue I find very dull, and difficult to maintain. To be honest, it’s a terror.”

  “I would think you incapable of fear. Being as awe-inspiring and knowledgeable as you are.”

  “My capacity for fear is the same as any sane man’s,” he replied. “As for my pride, to which you obviously refer…I find humility a waste of time. I am no more puffed up than any other man who is wealthy, wise and titled,” he replied. “But back to the point. I know this region stirs the imagination, but vampyrs and werewolves and such in Wolfach…those are a preposterous, Canterbury tale.”

  “In your worthy opinion,” she snapped. Her tone was full of sarcasm. “But there are other opinions. Take for instance the Countess DeLuise and Herr Nietzsche and even Herr Mozart, all of whom believe in the unbelievable. And explain this: Where do legends and myths come from, if not some form of reality?”

  He studied her quietly for a moment. “The imaginations of the feeble,” he replied. He’d found her to be a rational woman…until she was no longer rational. Now she was a danger to herself and those around her. He couldn’t have Greta Grimm messing with things that bit in the night, hid under bridges or harassed innocent travelers. Or more deadly, wily witches who practiced black magic deep in the heart of the Black Forest.

  She chided him. “Millions of spirit creatures walk the earth unseen, both while we sleep and when we wake.”

  “Very good. Milton, I believe.” Once again, she had impressed him. She was what the English called a bluestocking. Oh, how he would love to see those stockings. And while her intellectual curiosity and aptitude intimidated most men, they did not deter him. He loved how she kept him on his toes.

  “Miss Grimm, let us suppose that you are right. Do you not think that such legends, if found, could be extremely deadly? You would only be bound for trouble. However, you are not right. No, grave robbers are behind that cemetery incident, I’m certain.” And before she could protest, he finished, “And as grave as that fact might be, it would be far graver should your legends be true.”

  Greta frowned, then retorted, “Perhaps, but my brothers are putting their trust in me to discover all I can about the Black Forest.”

  He studied her. “Just remember: Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Ah, but the cat had nine lives.” Her heart was beating faster, for she thoroughly enjoyed his attention; he had that something special which called to her. Blinking her eyes, she regained her wits. “And if you are right, then these legends are just so much smoke in the wind. If that’s the case, there can be no danger. I am perfectly safe.”

  He snorted. “You are far from safe.”

  “And you are a boor.”

  Herr Nietzsche sauntered over to take a seat next to Greta. Having heard her latest comment, he chortled. “How well she knows you, von Hanzen. What have you done to inspire such plain speaking?”

  “Hello, Ronald,” the prince said, his high brow arched in query as to why Nietzche was interrupting.

  Greta answered: “Prince von Hanzen insists that ther
e are no vampires in Wolfach.”

  Nietzsche narrowed his eyes. “Then where have Choplin’s remains gone?”

  A sneer formed on the prince’s lips. “Grave robbers.”

  Greta shook her head. “If it was grave robbers, then why only the one grave? It makes no sense.”

  “Perhaps they only needed one body to sell. Perhaps there’s a glut in the market. Mayhap they’ll come back when the market levels out.”

  Greta’s eyes widened.

  “But we have prepared for that. There are two guards now placed at the cemetery,” he explained, taking a sip of beer. “I spoke with my uncle, the magistrate.”

  “I hope those guards are wearing plenty of crosses,” she remarked.

  “My, my, you are like a dog with a bone,” Rolpe complained.

  “It’s part of my charm.”

  Rolpe leaned closer to Greta, his gray eyes full of something beyond irritation. “That’s debatable. What’s not debatable is that you are on a fool’s errand. Once and for all, there is nothing supernatural in Wolfach.”

  “So you keep protesting. I, however, shall continue to believe in the unbelievable, and nothing you say can tell me otherwise.”

  Fighting his frustration—and the urge to kiss her so passionately she’d never think of vampires again—he remarked, “Have you ever heard of the two great tribulations in this world? The first,” he said as he held up one finger, “is not getting what you want.”

  “And the other?” she asked, her eyes drinking in his masculine beauty, even if it was partly obscured by his scolding finger. She wanted to slap his face and then kiss it to make it better.

  “Getting what one wants,” Rolpe replied in a huff.

  Taking a sip of beer, Herr Nietzsche choked on laughter. He sputtered, “Von Hanzen, what taradiddle is this? Of course there are monsters in Prussia! Always have been and always will be. We Prussians are the stuff of which fairy tales are made.”

  Rolpe stood up impatiently, his chair scooting backwards with a slight screech. Leaning over the table, he grabbed Nietzsche’s collar. “I have the sudden urge to pummel someone’s face. Have one to spare?”