The Wild Girl (25 page)

Charlotte was a plump girl, with mousy-brown hair and mousy-grey eyes. She radiated such cheerfulness and goodwill that it was impossible not to like her, and at sixteen, she was only a month or two older than Dortchen and Lotte, but the three had never become close friends. Perhaps it was because she was so good, or perhaps it was simply that there was no room for anyone else in Dortchen and Lotte’s friendship.

‘We’ve asked your sisters too,’ Charlotte went on.

‘Not Röse?’ Dortchen asked, then pressed her hand to her mouth, ashamed to have spoken so unbecomingly about her own sister.

Charlotte only laughed. ‘Oh, we asked her but I don’t think she wants to come. She said something about the frivolity and foolishness of the minds of young women and then began to scribble in her notebook.’

‘She’s probably thinking of suggestions to give to your father for his next sermon.’

‘Or reminding herself to look up the properties of gunpowder so she can lecture us on it tomorrow,’ Charlotte replied.

‘I’m sorry. She does like to think of herself as the clever one in the family.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Charlotte said. ‘It must be useful to have a walking encyclopaedia as a sister.’

‘More awful than useful,’ Dortchen admitted.

‘So we’ll drive past tomorrow night and pick up you and Hanne and Mia,’ Charlotte said. ‘Mother is chaperoning us.’

‘It’s really so kind of you,’ Dortchen said.

‘Oh, it’s a pleasure, really. We always feel so sorry for you Wild girls—’ Then it was Charlotte’s turn to clap her hand over her mouth. Her grey eyes looked into Dortchen’s in consternation. ‘Sorry,’ she said in a muffled voice.

‘We feel rather sorry for ourselves sometimes too,’ Dortchen replied. ‘But not now.’

Charlotte smiled. ‘Well, see you tomorrow night, then.’

On the way home from church, Herr Wild lectured the girls on the necessity of finishing all their chores before they went out the next evening. He gave Dortchen a list of plants that he wanted plucked and processed from the garden – it was enough to keep her busy for most of the day.

The next morning, as Dortchen packed her basket, Hanne drew her aside. ‘Dortchen, will you deliver a message for me?’ She pressed a small piece of paper, folded over many times, into Dortchen’s hand.

‘A message? To whom?’

‘His name and address is written there.’ Hanne indicated the tiny scrawl on the face of the folded paper.

Even when she squinted, Dortchen could not read her sister’s impatient scribble. ‘But who is he? Where am I to go?’

‘He’s just a friend. He lives above the printer’s shop behind the Königsplatz. Please, Dortchen, don’t ask questions, just deliver it for me. And don’t tell anyone.’

‘Are you in love with him?’ Dortchen asked.

Hanne laughed and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Yes!’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Dortchen cried, embracing her surprised sister. ‘Of course I’ll help you. Does he love you too?’

‘He says so,’ Hanne answered, laughing. ‘Though all we do is argue. But he’s poor, Dortchen, and has no connections, and he’s an anarchist to boot. Father would never allow it. You know what he’s like.’

‘I do,’ Dortchen answered. ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t betray you.’

So Dortchen delivered the note to the grimy printer’s shop in the twisting alleys behind the Marktgasse, to a young man with ruffled chestnut hair and a faded red scarf loosely knotted about his throat. His face and striking golden-brown eyes seemed familiar; Dortchen thought she’d seen Hanne speaking to him before.

He caught up the note with a cry of delight and kissed it, then opened it and read it rapidly. He told Dortchen, ‘Tell her I’ll be there. And thank you, my little conspirator.’

Dortchen walked the rest of the way to the market garden with excitement and dread bubbling in her blood. She just hoped her father never found out.

It was a glorious warm summer’s evening when the pastor’s carriage pulled up in the Marktgasse.

Frau Ramus sat smiling with a big picnic basket on her lap, her two daughters perched either side of her. Ferdinand came out with a rolled rug and a dusty bottle, and handed up Hanne, Dortchen and Mia into the carriage; all were clutching a small contribution to the picnic. Herr Wild came out of the apothecary’s shop to have a word with Frau Ramus, and to tell his daughters very sternly to behave and not put themselves to the blush. Ferdinand swung up next to the coachman and they rolled out of the square and towards the palace.

The sun slowly set behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the palace and the lake. The carriage drew into a clearing and the coachmen pulled the horses to a halt. Two other carriages were already there, with
their occupants already stepping out, rugs and baskets in their hands. Dortchen recognised Karoline Engelhard and her brother, Gotthelf; they had shared their carriage with Jakob. The other was a party of four: three sisters, who ranged in age from nine to twenty-one, and their brother, a tall, slender boy with a high forehead and a strong Roman nose.

Karoline introduced them as the Hassenpflug family. Their father was the judge of the Court of Appeals and had been an important member of the Kurfürst’s government. The eldest daughter, Marie, was a thin, delicate girl with large, lustrous black eyes and glossy ringlets. The second sister was called Jeanette and was two years older than Dortchen. She was of a much sturdier build, as was the youngest of the family, a tomboyish little girl with a slight squint, whom everyone called Malchen. The brother was named Louis; he was fifteen.

The party found a vantage point high on the hill and spread out their rugs. The valley below was filled with soft, misty light, and the lake glimmered below the palace. Half-hidden in trees, the towers of the Lion’s Castle glowed golden.

A chair had been brought for Frau Ramus, who sat down gratefully, her daughters at her feet. At first, all anyone could speak of was the war and the recent French victories against the Austrians and the Spanish.

‘It was not Napoléon’s usual triumph, though,’ Jakob said. ‘In fact, the English are claiming it was a drawn battle.’

‘He’s fighting on too many fronts,’ Louis Hassenpflug said.

‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ Jakob replied, looking at the boy with new interest.

‘So many poor young men killed or injured,’ Frau Ramus said, shaking her head. ‘The Ogre will have a lot to answer for when he finally meets his maker.’

‘I don’t think he’s afraid,’ Hanne said rather dryly. ‘It seems to me Napoléon has very little belief in God.’

The Ramus sisters fluttered in distress.

‘How else could he arrest the Pope? And annex all his lands?’ Hanne went on.

‘Well, the
Pope
,’ Frau Ramus said. ‘We do not care much for him, do we, girls? But our poor Father. Forbidden to hold wedding services, or to receive tithes …’

She would have gone on listing all that the pastor had lost under the new constitution, but Hanne cut in. ‘I’ve heard that Napoléon said religion is the only thing that ever stopped the poor from murdering the rich.’

Frau Ramus threw up her plump hands in horror. ‘What a thing to say. Wherever did you hear such a thing? Not that I’m surprised. A godless man, Napoléon, and we are all crushed under his heel.’

Her eyes sparkling, Hanne leant forward, as if about to say something else, but Dortchen intervened, not wanting her outspoken sister to shock their pious hostess any more than she already had. ‘Tell me, Jakob, how does the storytelling collection go?’

‘Slowly,’ he answered. ‘Both your sister Gretchen and Friederike Mannel have married now, and are too taken up with husbands and housekeeping to help us any more. We were hoping Gretchen could go and visit an old lady in the poorhouse in Marburg who Clemens says knows a great many wonderful stories, but she says her husband would not like her to go to such a place. We had all our hopes pinned on Lotte, but she’s not written us a word since she’s been there, so I must say I don’t think she’ll exert herself on our behalf.’

‘I know Wilhelm and Ferdinand have been keeping busy copying stories from books and manuscripts,’ Dortchen said. ‘You must have quite a few by now.’

‘Well, yes, a dozen or more, but what we really want is people to tell us old tales that were told to them as children. We want to preserve stories that would otherwise be lost.’

‘Excuse me, what is this you are doing?’ Marie Hassenpflug asked, leaning forward in interest. ‘Collecting old tales?’

‘Yes, it’s a project that my brother Wilhelm and I are engaged in,’ Jakob said, turning to her politely.

‘And I,’ Ferdinand said loudly. ‘I’ve copied many stories for you.’

‘Yes, that’s true, you have helped us in the transcribing,’ Jakob said.

‘We know a few old tales, don’t we, Marie?’ Jeannette said, turning to her elder sister.

Marie nodded. ‘Yes, we do. We could tell them to you, if you liked, Herr Grimm.’

‘Thank you, that could be very useful,’ Jakob replied.

‘Would you like to visit us next week?’ Marie said.

Jakob hesitated.

‘He needs to wait till after he’s been paid,’ Ferdinand said. ‘No money for paper and ink right now – nor for much else, I might add.’

A hot tide of colour flooded Jakob’s neck and face. ‘Thank you, Ferdinand, that’s enough.’ He bowed his head to Marie. ‘I regret it may be a few weeks before it is convenient for me to call upon you.’

‘We have plenty of paper and ink, Herr Grimm,’ Jeanette said cheerfully. ‘We’d be happy to put some at your disposal.’

‘Thank you, Fraülein, but that is not necessary,’ Jakob answered, shooting his brother an angry glance.

‘Tell us some of the stories, Herr Grimm,’ Malchen cried, but he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid that telling stories is not one of my strengths. You want my brother Wilhelm for that.’ A shadow crossed over Jakob’s face and he rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, walking away.

Conversation moved on to other matters, but Dortchen sat quietly, looking after Jakob. After a while, she rose to her feet and followed him into the woods. Although the sun had set, it was still light enough to see her way through the mossy tree trunks.

She found him sitting on a fallen log, his face sunk in his hands. ‘Jakob, what is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Is it Wilhelm?’

‘I miss him,’ Jakob said, the words torn out of him. ‘You don’t understand – it’s as if a part of my own self is gone.’

‘I do understand.’ Dortchen sat on the log beside him. ‘Believe me, I do.’

He looked at her intently. Dortchen felt heat rise in her cheeks but met his gaze steadily.

‘I see,’ he said.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Dortchen studied his expression. She saw the minute contraction of muscles between his brows, a flicker of something that looked like revulsion, the compression of the corners of his lips. Yet his eyes did not waver.

‘We’ve hardly ever been apart,’ Jakob said haltingly. ‘Except for my trip to Paris … I hate this illness of his. I hate it.’

‘Will he get better?’ Dortchen asked.

‘Of course he’ll get better. It’s nonsense, this illness – he brings it on himself.’

‘The doctor doesn’t think so.’

‘Well, no, he wouldn’t, would he? He’s doing very well out of all his quack remedies.’

‘Wilhelm looked ill before he went away,’ Dortchen said.

‘Yes,’ Jakob agreed, ‘but Willi takes everything too much to heart.’

‘Will he come home soon, do you think?’

‘I hope so,’ Jakob said. ‘Because I cannot afford all these medical bills.’

Jakob was only twenty-four years old and trying to provide for a family of six, Dortchen thought. ‘It must be hard,’ she said. ‘Trying to look after them all.’

He glanced at her in surprise. ‘You’re a good little soul, Dortchen,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Come on, we had better join the others. We want no scandal attached to your fair name.’

They walked back to the clearing, where Frau Ramus was distributing chicken legs and sausages, and Ferdinand was offering around the dusty bottle of wine. When no one accepted, preferring apple cider, he poured himself a large cup and drank it down, then poured another. ‘The fool,’ Jakob uttered between his teeth.

Dortchen sat down on the rug next to Charlotte, spreading out her skirts and gazing down at the view. The light was fading from the sky. A few stars pricked through here and there. Ferdinand came and lay down at her feet, offering her the bottle.

Dortchen shook her head. ‘My father would skin me alive if I came home smelling of alcohol,’ she whispered, not wanting to tell him she hated the smell.

Ferdinand grinned. ‘Just chew some peppermint leaves,’ he whispered back. ‘That’s how I hide it from my brothers.’

Dortchen smiled and shook her head again.

It was a clear, moonless night. An owl hooted in the forest, then floated past on soundless wings. Frau Ramus asked Jakob to kindle her lantern and hang it from a tree branch. Mia and Malchen were making firm friends, weaving cat’s cradles together with a length of old wool. Looking about her, Dortchen realised that Hanne had slipped away. She wondered where she had gone. She might have asked Frau Ramus if Ferdinand had not touched her arm.

‘What did Jakob say to you?’ Ferdinand asked her in an undertone. ‘Did you talk about me?’

She glanced at him in surprise. ‘No, we talked about Wilhelm.’

Ferdinand made a face of disgust. ‘Of course you did. He’s all Jakob ever worries about.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true.’

‘Did you know I’ve had a poem published in a magazine in Switzerland? They didn’t pay me, it’s true, but it means something to be accepted, doesn’t it?’

‘Of course it does.’

‘I knew you’d understand. Jakob says I won’t make a living writing poems, but he doesn’t understand. I want to be a writer, you see. My mind is above filthy lucre.’

Dortchen did not want to hurt his feelings so she murmured agreement, then listened quietly while he told her about the poems he had written, quoting his favourite lines to her and complaining about how stern his elder brothers were, and how lacking in understanding.

When the church bells tolled nine o’clock, the fireworks began. Dortchen cried out and flinched at the first loud bang, which brought back memories of the terrible day she had seen men shot down in the street. But the gorgeous fire-blossom that followed filled her with delight and she leant forward, eagerly watching the golden showers of light.