The Wild Girl (32 page)

Dortchen had been dreading their return to Cassel, but with two new stories in her bag, the rickety wheels of the stagecoach could scarcely turn fast enough. As the road climbed away from Marburg, she gazed out the window at the pine-dark hills and wondered if Wilhelm would be pleased.

It was a few days before she could get away, but at last Old Marie asked her to go to the marketplace and wait in the line for bread, as their flour bins were empty. Dortchen did as she was asked, then climbed the stairs to the Grimms’ apartment on her way home. Wilhelm was sitting at the kitchen table, frowning as he copied text from an immensely thick old book onto a fresh piece of paper.

‘Wilhelm,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Is all well?’

He looked up and smiled wearily, rising to his feet. ‘You’re back. Welcome home. How was the wedding?’

‘Beautiful, for a civil service. We all cried.’

‘Of course you did,’ he replied.

‘I went to see the Story Wife of Marburg,’ she said, unable to keep back her smile.

‘You did? Dortchen, bless you. Did she tell you any stories?’

‘Two,’ Dortchen replied. ‘One is the Golden Bird, which I know you know, but another is entirely new. I promise you’ll love it.’ She held out her sheaf of papers.

‘Your timing could not be better,’ Wilhelm said, looking over the first story quickly. ‘We are about to send Clemens our manuscript – he might publish them in a third collection of
The Boy’s Wonder Horn
. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?’

He reached the end of the story, then turned to the second sheaf of papers. Dortchen watched him anxiously, hoping he would love it as much as she did. He looked up once or twice with glowing eyes, then continued to read. When he reached the end, he cast the papers down on the table and caught her in one arm, kissing her on the mouth. It lasted only a second but was indescribably sweet. Dortchen blushed crimson.

‘I’m sorry!’ he cried. ‘I didn’t mean to … It is just such a wonderful story. Thank you, Dortchen, thank you!’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ she answered shyly, then she went out, shutting the door behind her. In the dark stairwell she leant against the wall, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to stop the smile that insisted on growing there.

PART FOUR

The Singing Bone

CASSEL

The Kingdom of Westphalia, 1810 – 1811

A shepherd drove his herd across the bridge and saw a little snow-white bone lying in the sand below. Thinking that it would make a good mouthpiece for his horn, he climbed down, picked it up, and carved it. When he blew into it for the first time, to his great astonishment the bone began to sing by itself:

‘Oh, my dear shepherd,

You are blowing on my little bone.

My brothers killed me,

And buried me beneath the bridge,

To get the wild boar

For the daughter of the king.’

‘What a wonderful horn,’ said the shepherd. ‘It sings by itself. I must take it to the king.’ When he brought it before the king, the horn again began to sing its little song. The king understood it well, and had the earth beneath the bridge dug up. Then the whole skeleton of the murdered man came to light.

From ‘The Singing Bone’, a tale told by Dortchen Wild to Wilhelm Grimm on 19th January 1812

THIEF IN THE NIGHT

January 1811

Dortchen woke from a deep sleep with a start.

She lay in her warm bed, listening. There was a muffled crash, then the quail in its cage began to call a warning. She heard her father’s feet hit the floor and the sound of him running. Dortchen got up quickly, putting on her slippers and catching up her shawl. As she went out onto the landing, Old Marie opened her door and came out too, a candle in her hand.

‘Is it burglars?’ she asked in a quavering voice.

‘I don’t know,’ Dortchen replied.

Together they went downstairs. Mia joined them on the way, her strawberry-blonde hair hanging down her back in a tousled plait, a shawl wrapped over her nightgown. Röse peered out of her door, her fair hair as neat as if she had just plaited it. ‘Have you lost your senses?’ she whispered. ‘If some thief is below, do you wish to tempt him to violence? Stay safe in your room, sisters.’

A pistol shot rang out. Mia and Dortchen jumped and cried out, clutching at each other. With Old Marie huffing behind, they ran down the stairs and into the shop.

Their father stood at the far end of the stillroom, the door into the garden hanging open and letting in a blast of cold air. He held a smoking pistol in his hand and rammed another lead shot into it. Then he ran out
into the snowy garden, his nightgown flapping under his frockcoat. A few seconds later they heard the garden gate bang open, then another pistol shot. The spray of sparks from the pistol lit up their father’s face.

‘No!’ Dortchen cried, then bit her lip.

Her father locked the gate again, and stumped towards them. ‘He’s gone, the scoundrel,’ he said. ‘The gate was still locked – he must’ve come over the wall. I saw a shadow slipping away down the alley but must’ve missed him. My powder’s damp, damn it.’

The girls stepped back to allow him back into the stillroom. Herr Wild looked around irritably. There was broken glass all over the floor, and a puddle of some strong-smelling brown liquid. ‘He’s knocked over a bottle of cordial. Get it cleaned up, will you, Marie?’

Old Marie nodded and went in search of a mop. Herr Wild put down the pistol on the benchtop and said, ‘Look, the cupboard has been forced open. That scoundrel knew exactly what he was looking for.’

He went over and looked through the cupboard, its door swinging off one hinge. ‘All the opium’s gone, and the tincture I’d made up. Nothing else. The thief knew exactly what he was looking for and where to find it.’

A terrible thought occurred to Dortchen. Could Ferdinand Grimm be the thief? She had shown him where the opium was kept. She pushed the thought away, upset with herself for thinking such a thing. It had been months since he had asked her for laudanum. Surely he would not have broken into her father’s shop in search of it?

Her father saw her face and his eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know about this, Dortchen?’

‘Nothing, Father,’ she answered.

He took a hasty step towards her. ‘You lie! You think I’m a fool? Did you tell some lover of yours how to get in over the back wall? Did you tell him where the opium was kept?’

‘No, of course not! … How can you think such a thing?’

He rushed forward and seized her by the untidy mass of her braid, dragging on it so hard she stumbled and fell to her knees before him. ‘Tell me the truth!’

‘I am telling the truth. Father, stop, you’re hurting me!’

‘I paid a fortune for that opium,’ he said in a chilly voice. ‘It’ll be the devil of a job replacing it. And how am I to pay for it? That opium would have kept us in food for months. Now it’s gone. And you know who took it.’ He shook her so hard she felt as if her hair was being torn out by its roots.

Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Father, I swear … on the Holy Bible … I know nothing.’

He let her go and she fell to the ground, her nightgown billowing up around her. Hastily she pulled it down, huddling her shawl about her. She was very conscious of her father looking down at her, his eyes glinting.

‘Excuse me, sir, I need to sweep up,’ Old Marie said, standing in the doorway with a mop and duster in her hand.

Herr Wild muttered a low curse and turned away, going to the sideboard. He poured himself a snifter of quince brandy and tossed it back. Dortchen scrambled to her feet and hurried away, feeling sick and shaky.

Mia followed behind her. As they went back into the cold, draughty house, she slipped her hand into Dortchen’s.

‘But I need my drops,’ Frau Wild said. ‘You know they are the only things that help me.’

‘You’ll have to manage without them for a while,’ Herr Wild said.

‘But I can’t … I’m in pain …’

‘There’s nothing I can do about it, Katharina. The blockade means I cannot buy opium from India, which means it must come over the Alps from Turkey, with bandits and rebels and battlefields the whole way. I can make you up a tincture of willowbark and henbane. That’s the best I can do.’

Frau Wild took to her bed and stayed there, keeping Dortchen and Mia busy carrying up trays with broth and hot flannels and healing teas. Röse offered to comfort her mother by reading to her from the psalm book, but Frau Wild put her hand to her head and begged her daughter to desist.

That night, while she lay awake in her bed, Dortchen could hear her
parents arguing downstairs. She got up, went out and sat on the stairs, listening, her stomach twisting.

‘Please, no, sir,’ her mother whimpered. ‘I’m not well.’

‘A man has needs, Katharina, as you well know.’ Herr Wild’s voice was loud.

‘Please, no …’

Then her mother fell silent, and all Dortchen could hear was a kind of low grunting, like a pig at the trough. Dortchen ran back to her bed, making a cave of her eiderdown, pressing her pillow over her ears. It was a long time before she slept. She felt uneasy and afraid, though she had no idea what to fear.

The next day – Sunday – was miserable and grey. Sleet gusted past the windows and rattled the chimneys. The Wild family prepared for church as usual. Frau Wild dragged herself from her bed, her thin face pale and sweaty, and dressed herself in an assortment of shawls and scarves. Dortchen knew she would have preferred to stay in bed, but Herr Wild would never let anyone miss church.

There was only Röse, Dortchen and Mia left at home, for Rudolf had gone off to do his final training in Berlin. They trailed after their parents through the slushy streets, the hems of their gowns growing sodden. The church seemed colder and gloomier than ever, and half the pews were empty.

One quick glance was enough to show Dortchen that Ferdinand was not present. Jakob and Wilhelm were there, in shabby coats and badly knitted scarves, their thin faces pale. Lotte looked tired and worried. Dortchen felt anxiety roiling in her stomach.

After the service, everyone met in the church porch to exchange pleasantries. Most of the talk was about the threat of war with Russia, for the Tsar had a month earlier declared that he would no longer support the Continental blockade, the means by which Napoléon hoped to break England.

‘The blockade has failed, and the Ogre should admit it,’ Lotte said. ‘As long as England rules the waves, she ships anything she needs from her colonies. It is us who are suffering.’

‘He’s calling for more conscripts,’ Frau Hassenpflug replied, one hand on her son Louis’s arm. ‘Please, let him not take our boys.’

‘I’d rather blow my own leg off than march on Russia,’ Louis said, tight-lipped and grim. ‘Surely Napoléon cannot think to beat the Tsar?’

‘He’s beaten the rest of the world – why not Russia?’ Frau Wild said in a faint voice.

‘He’s not beaten England yet,’ Wilhelm said, ‘and they say the war on the Peninsula is costing him dearly.’