The Wild Girl (3 page)

‘Look at Herkules,’ Lotte said. ‘He’s all lit up by the sun.’

Dortchen turned and walked backward, staring back up at the palace, square and grand on its low hill, with six heavy columns holding up a great stone pediment. On the crest of the mountain behind was an octagonal building of turreted stone, surmounted by a pyramid on which stood the immense statue of Herkules, symbol of the Kurfürst’s power. As the sun
slid down behind the western horizon, Herkules sank back into shadow. Light drained away from the sky.

‘Hurry up, girls!’ Frau Grimm called. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’

Supper
, Dortchen thought. She turned forward again and quickened her steps. ‘I mustn’t be late or Father will be angry.’

‘He won’t mind once he knows you’ve been with us, surely,’ Lotte said.

Dortchen did not like to say that her father did not approve of the Grimm family. There were far too many boys for his comfort, and, besides, they were as poor as church mice. Herr Wild had six girls to settle comfortably.

The shadowy forest gave way to parkland, then the long, straight road ran between wide plots of gardens, each confined behind stone walls, the gateposts carved with the initials of the owners’ long-dead ancestors. They approached Dortchen’s family’s garden plot, where she had been meant to spend all afternoon, weeding and hoeing. She ran in and caught up her basket and gardening gloves, then hurried to catch up with Lotte, who turned to wait for her, one hand clamped to her bonnet.

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 have 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.’