The Wild Girl (26 page)

‘So beautiful,’ she said softly.

‘Yes,’ Ferdinand answered. Glancing at him, she realised he had his eyes fixed on her face. She looked away but was uncomfortably aware of his gaze for the rest of the evening.

Hanne slipped back to the party some time later. A white starburst high in the sky drenched the landscape with dazzling radiance. By its light, Dortchen saw that her sister’s cheeks were flushed, her dress was crushed and her tumbling fair curls were tied back with a faded red scarf.

‘Where have you been?’ she whispered.

Hanne laughed and reddened further. ‘Enjoying the fireworks.’

Later that night, Dortchen slipped down to Hanne’s bedroom in her nightgown, her hairbrush in her hand. She knew that Lisette and Gretchen and Hanne had often sat together after going to bed, brushing each other’s hair and talking, and that her sister must miss these late-night confidences.

Hanne was sitting up in bed, writing in a small book by the light of a candle. Her eyes widened at the sight of Dortchen, but then she smiled and patted her bed in welcome. ‘You really are growing up, aren’t you, little love?’

‘I hope so,’ Dortchen said, sitting down. ‘Sometimes I feel like a woman grown, and other times—’

‘Like a little girl again,’ Hanne interjected, taking the brush and beginning to stroke it down Dortchen’s long fair hair, which hung loose down her back.

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t worry, I often feel the same way. At least, I did. I think I’m all woman now, though.’

Dortchen looked over her shoulder, trying to see Hanne’s face. Her sister was flushed and triumphant. ‘Do you mean …?’

‘Yes, I mean …’ Hanne dragged out the pause mockingly. ‘Johann and I made love tonight.’

‘Hanne!’ Dortchen’s voice was sharp. ‘No!’

‘It was wonderful, Dortchen, even more than I had imagined. It was like a torrent, an earthquake, a flood. I could not help myself. And now everything has changed.’

‘But Hanne – shouldn’t you have waited? You’re not married!’ Dortchen twisted her hands together in sick anxiety. She heard her father’s voice in her head.
We must kill sin at the root
…

‘Why should I have waited? Love between two human beings is not a sin. It was the Church that said so, and the Church has lost all its power now, hasn’t it? If it’s not a sin to be married by the town mayor instead of by a pastor, then how can it be a sin to love someone without that piece of paper? Marriage is just a social institution now, Dortchen, and it has nothing to do with sin – or with love, for that matter.’

‘Oh, but Hanne …’

Hanne reached for her restless hands and stilled them with her own. She was smiling, her eyes glowing. ‘Don’t you see, little love? All the old laws and customs have been demolished, and we need to remake the world the way we think it should be. And as far as I’m concerned, a woman shouldn’t be just a chattel, a piece of moveable property owned by the men in her life, to be bartered and sold like a broodmare. Look at poor Mother. Married to a man she didn’t even know, wearing out her body giving birth to child after child after child, forced to suffer his attentions when she fears and abhors him …’

Dortchen listened, her thoughts in a tumult. On the one hand, everything Hanne said had a clear ring of truth, so that Dortchen thought, Yes! On the other hand, though, she was worried.
Father will kill her!

She said so at last, and Hanne sobered. ‘He mustn’t find out, Dortchen. Promise me you’ll keep my secret.’

‘I promise,’ Dortchen said, hugging her sister close.

WINTER MELANCHOLY

August 1809

In late August, Lotte came home from Marburg surlier than ever, unhappy with her lot, her mouth full of Gretchen, Gretchen, Gretchen.

‘Gretchen has two maids, a cook and a bootboy … Gretchen has the most perfectly beautiful clothes … Did you know Gretchen’s husband buys her whatever she wants, as soon as she sees it? … Gretchen has so many friends, it was just such a whirl …’

I hate Gretchen
, Dortchen thought.

‘Did you do nothing but make morning calls and go to parties?’ she asked Lotte. ‘What about finding stories for Wilhelm and Jakob? Did you visit the old woman in the poorhouse in Marburg like they asked you to?’

Lotte wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, I did, though it was perfectly awful. It was like going to a prison, Dortchen. The smell! I thought I was going to be sick. She gabbled away for a while, but she had hardly any teeth left and I could scarcely understand a word she said. And Gretchen was waiting for me.’

Gretchen, Gretchen, Gretchen
, Dortchen thought.

Wilhelm came home from Berlin in December, paler than ever, his mouth full of Goethe, Goethe, Goethe.

‘Herr von Goethe favoured me with an invitation to lunch … Herr von Goethe was most interested in my work on the ancient Norse
sagas … Herr von Goethe was so kind, he allowed me to use his private box at the theatre … Herr von Goethe may write me an introduction to my translation of old Danish ballads, and if so it’s bound to be published …’

I hate Goethe
, Dortchen thought.

‘I’m so glad you enjoyed Berlin,’ she lied. ‘But what of the sanatorium at Halle? Has it helped? Are you well?’

A shadow crossed his face. ‘As well as I will ever be, I suppose. Dortchen, it was terrible. I had to sit chained to this machine while they ran an electrical charge through me. If anyone touched me, I’d get such a shock. Sparks would just fly out of me. I got blisters where the electrical connectors touched me. And the medicine they gave me made me so sick that I couldn’t eat.’

‘Oh, you poor thing.’

‘None of it seemed to help,’ Wilhelm continued. ‘I had to wash my neck with mercury and bind my chest with a magnetic band, but my heart still pounds away at night, so hard that I cannot sleep.’

She had to touch his hand, her heart filled with sympathy.

‘Well, I’m glad I’m free of the sanatorium,’ Wilhelm said, trying to rally himself. ‘I missed home so much.’

Did you miss me?
she thought but did not say.

After leaving the sanatorium, Wilhelm had visited Achim von Arnim in Berlin with Clemens Brentano. The city was empty, he said. The Prussian king and queen had fled after the 1806 invasion, and the city had been stripped of many of its great treasures. ‘Herr von Goethe himself almost died,’ Wilhelm said. ‘They invaded his house and there was gunpowder spilt all down the street, and soldiers running past with flaming torches. A single spark and we’d have lost one of the world’s great writers. And Herr von Goethe met Napoléon, you know. The Emperor is a great fan of his work.’

Goethe, Goethe,
Goethe
, Dortchen thought.

Hurt and angry, Dortchen retreated behind the high walls of home, busying herself with the never-ending tasks of the kitchen and stillroom. She saw her friends only at church, and exchanged only polite, conventional words with them. It hurt her even more that they did not seem to mind.

It was a long, hard winter. All anyone could talk about was Napoléon and Joséphine’s divorce. In March the following year, Napoléon married Princess Marie-Louise of Austria, daughter of his great enemy, the Archduke Francis, the former Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

‘Poor girl,’ Hanne said.

A few weeks later, Clemens Brentano followed the Emperor’s example and divorced his wife, Augusta. Dortchen heard the news from Lotte, standing on the church step in the chill sleety breeze, her hands tucked inside her shawl.

‘She’s only nineteen,’ Dortchen said. ‘What is to happen to her?’

Lotte spread her hands and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Surely it’s better that they’re apart, though? They made each other so unhappy.’

How can one human have so much power over another?
Dortchen wondered.
Why are our spirits tied to another’s whim? It’s not fair
.

‘I must go,’ she said, her voice constricted.

As she hurried away to her mother’s side, she felt Lotte’s eyes on her, filled with misery.

At last, winter’s grip on the weather began to loosen and the sun broke through the clouds. Taking advantage of the break in the rain, Dortchen took two heavy buckets of ashes to the ash hopper in the shed. She was hurrying down the slick, damp garden path when the gate creaked open and Ferdinand cautiously looked through.

His face lit up at the sight of her. ‘Dortchen, at last. I’ve been looking out for you.’

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, looking back over her shoulder towards the house to make sure no one was watching.

‘I was hoping you could help me.’ Ferdinand stepped through into the garden and stood before her, twisting his hat in his hands. ‘Wilhelm says he thinks your teas and ointments do more good than anything the doctor prescribes. I was hoping you could give me something too.’

‘What is the matter?’ Dortchen said. ‘Are you not well?’

He shook his head. ‘I have not felt well in months. I’m tired all the time,
I find it hard to get out of bed in the morning, my head aches and my chest hurts. I thought that if you could give me something to help … I cannot pay much … In fact, I can’t really pay at all. I’ve written you a poem, though.’ He held out a crumpled leaf of paper, covered in elegant, looping writing.

Dortchen looked anxiously back towards the house, biting her lip. ‘Come into the shed. You can talk while I work.’

Quickly she led him into the shed, a small room on the side of the stable, where tools and buckets were kept, along with the ash hopper, a wooden contraption into which water was poured over ashes from the fire to make lye, one of the ingredients of soap. Trudi, the mare, turned her head and whickered in welcome, the cow whisked her tail and mooed, while the fat black-and-pink pig grunted in her sty, whuffling hopefully at the sight of the bucket.

‘Not for you, sorry, Buttercup,’ Dortchen told the pig, as she lifted the bucket to the hopper. Ferdinand hurried to help her. Their fingers brushed and Dortchen backed away, letting him empty the heavy bucket.

He put the bucket down, gazing at her with intense, dark eyes. ‘What’s wrong with me? Is it the same illness as Wilhelm’s?’

‘I’ve not heard you wheezing,’ she said. ‘May I feel you breathe?’ Tentatively, she reached out a hand and laid it on his chest. She could detect no rattle. ‘Will you cough for me?’

He did so, and she could tell his chest was clear.

‘I don’t think it’s asthma,’ she said. ‘Though I’m no doctor.’

She began to take her hand away but Ferdinand reached up his own and covered hers. ‘Dortchen …’

She slipped her hand away, realising that she was alone with him in a dim, shadowy shed, with no chaperone apart from a drowsy old mare, a cow and a pig. ‘I have to get back.’

He caught her arm. ‘Dortchen, please.’

Gently she pushed his hand away, stepping back. He let her go.

‘Do you feel as if there is nothing good left in the world?’ she asked. ‘As if you’ve fallen into a deep, dark pit and there’s no way out?’

He nodded.

‘You’re still grieving,’ she told him. ‘Only time will heal that.’

He heaved a sigh so deep it was almost a groan. ‘Don’t tell me that. Do you know how slowly the days drag past? Nothing to do but copy out endless old yarns while Lotte mopes around and complains about how much work she has to do and Jakob looks disapproving? Nothing helps. Nothing, that is, but—’ He looked away, and she realised with dismay that his eyes were damp with tears.

‘Winter always makes us melancholy,’ she said after a moment. ‘Now that it is spring, you can walk in the park and the woods, and soak up some sunshine. You’ll soon feel better, I promise.’

‘Sunshine,’ he answered scornfully.

‘I can make you up a tea that might help,’ she said. ‘Come into the stillroom, but please be quiet – it opens into the shop, and my father will hear us if we make any noise.’

They went quickly through the garden. To her pleasure, Dortchen noticed the chives had begun to sprout. Soon the lovage and bee balm and marjoram would follow.

She led Ferdinand through the back door and into the long, cool stillroom. Its shelves were laden with jars of all shapes and sizes, filled with dried leaves and flowers and black skinny leeches wriggling about in water. An apothecary’s cabinet filled the wall beside the door into the shop, its many little drawers labelled with symbols in her father’s neat script. A large still sat on the floor, which Herr Wild used to make his famous quince brandy.

‘There was one thing that seemed to help me,’ Ferdinand said, far too loudly.

Dortchen shushed him urgently and hurried across to the shelves. He came and stood very close behind her, whispering in her ear. ‘The doctor left it for my mother. I’ve tried it and it makes me feel so much better. I know Jakob bought it here. I was wondering … I was hoping … May I have some more?’

Dortchen frowned. ‘You shouldn’t drink medicines left for your mother,
Ferdinand.’ She moved away from him, feeling uncomfortable and worried. ‘What was it?’

‘Just some laudanum,’ he said airily. ‘Nothing too serious.’

Dortchen’s frown deepened. Laudanum was the most popular of her father’s drugs. When the French had first invaded Cassel and the soldiers had come to requisition medical supplies, it had been laudanum they had wanted most. Herr Wild had had to order in great quantities of opium to keep up his supply. He had spent many late nights cutting up the opium, dissolving it in boiling water, then mixing it with alcohol, honey and sweet herbs.