The Wild Girl (63 page)

‘Good heavens,’ Fraülein von Schwertzell said, clutching at Wilhelm’s arm. ‘How extraordinary.’

‘The statue is a copy of Benvenuto Cellini’s famous sculpture,’ he told her. ‘You can climb up there, of course, but it is a long way and very steep, and even when you get there you cannot see him easily, since the Octagon and the pyramid are both so high.’

‘Could we not drive up there? That is why carriages were invented.’

‘Of course, if one is lucky enough to have a carriage.’

‘Then we shall do so. Tomorrow, perhaps. Tell me, Wilhelm, is it true that he is quite naked?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Wilhelm answered.

‘Then I shall bring my opera glasses.’

Wilhelm laughed again.

Dortchen listened in silence. She did not at all like the way Fraülein von Schwertzell called Wilhelm by his first name in such a familiar way, or how she clutched at his arm. She did not like the way she made Wilhelm laugh. Dortchen could not remember the last time she had heard Wilhelm laugh like that.

‘Perhaps we could have a picnic up there,’ Fraülein von Schwertzell went on. ‘I will tell the cook to pack us some champagne.’

‘I finish in the library at one, but am quite free after that,’ he said.

‘Then I shall pick you up in my carriage,’ Fraülein von Schwertzell said. ‘And then you must accompany me to the concert at the palace in the evening. They are playing Gluck, I believe. I last heard
Iphigénie
in
Paris. I’m interested to see how your local musicians measure up.’

‘I believe they are very fine,’ Wilhelm replied. ‘Though the Kurfürst is not much interested in music.’

‘I’ve heard the only thing he’s interested in is his mistress,’ Fraülein von Schwertzell said. ‘Is it true she’s the daughter of a blacksmith?’

‘Her father was a goldsmith,’ Dortchen said. ‘A very respectable profession.’

Fraülein von Schwertzell ignored her. She leant in close to Wilhelm. ‘Will we see her at the palace? I believe she’s quite the beauty, in a vulgar sort of way.’

Wilhelm hesitated. Like many Hessians, he had been shocked by the way the Kurfürst had separated from his wife, Princess Augusta, so that he could live openly with his mistress and her children. Wilhelm and his brothers had shown their displeasure by attending Princess Augusta’s salons, avoiding social events held by the Kurfürst. He, in return, had not increased the brothers’ salaries or promoted them, despite their growing reputations as scholars.

‘I believe the countess is in retirement at present,’ Wilhelm said.

Fraülein von Schwertzell screeched with laughter. ‘Oh, is she in an
interesting condition
again? She breeds like a rabbit! How many is it now?’

Wilhelm did not answer. Dortchen knew he disliked such talk, and she was pleased that Fraülein von Schwertzell did not seem to understand that.
She will offend him
, Dortchen thought,
and he will not be comfortable in her company. There’s no need to fear.

Fraülein von Schwertzell, however, had gone on in her bold, forthright way, saying, ‘Well, I’m sorry I won’t have a chance to see her, but there is plenty else to do in Cassel, I’m sure. I’m thinking of organising a party to sail down the river. I’d have musicians to play for us. I know how you love music, Wilhelm.’

‘I do, indeed,’ he agreed. ‘But you’ll never convince Jakob to join us. He doesn’t like either boats or music.’

‘Ah, never mind. I’m sure your younger brother will join us, and my brother and sister too. You will need to help me gather together a party.’

‘I’m sure Dortchen would like to come. She loves music too.’ He turned to her, trying to draw her into the conversation.

‘How nice.’ Fraülein von Schwertzell showed her teeth in a smile. ‘Then, of course, we’d be happy if you would join us, Fraülein.’

Dortchen murmured something and made her escape. She felt unhappier than she had in a long time. She could not understand herself. If it hurt so much to see Wilhelm talking and laughing with another woman, why had she not married him when she had the chance? She was like the dog in the fable by Aesop who lay in the manger, not eating the hay himself but stopping the horse from doing so.

She called to Ottilie and gave Berthe into her care. The two sisters went off happily to look at the little temple near the lake, and Dortchen went alone into the shade of the shrubbery. Her head ached abominably and her eyes were hot. She was afraid she might weep. Down the path she walked, to the lake at the base of the palace, watching the swans as they glided past.

The scent of linden blossoms hung heavy on the air. Dortchen made a sharp, jerking movement, as if to walk away. But she hesitated, then turned and went down the long, winding path, past the tangle of briar roses and into the secret grove of linden trees. She picked a blossom and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply. Then she sat on the grass, the blossom cupped in her hand, leant her head back against the tree and closed her eyes. All she could hear was the soft sough of the wind in the leaves, and the humming of innumerable bees as they gathered the nectar from the creamy-white flowers.

It had been twelve years since she and Wilhelm had lain together on this grass under the linden trees. Twelve years. She was an old maid, the thing all girls dreaded most. What was wrong with her, that she could not take happiness when it was offered? Was she misshapen somehow, in her soul? Had she been broken and healed all awry, like a bone that had not been properly set? She had loved Wilhelm with all her heart, yet she had pushed him away.

Tears dampened her eyes.

A lark began to sing in the tree above her. Dortchen opened her eyes and looked up. It was such a small, plain, grey thing, yet its song was so full of joy. She could see its breast swell, its thin throat tremble. It lifted its wings, as if seeking to draw more air into its lungs. Song-notes were flung into the air, like golden coins thrown by a generous hand. All the lark’s strength was poured into its music, all its joy.

Dortchen took a deep breath, so deep that she felt her lungs expand and the muscles of her chest crack. She wanted to live like the lark did, filled with rapture. She stood up, looking up at the bird through the sunlit leaves. It flung its wings wide and soared away into the sky. She wanted to fly with it.

When Dortchen came out of the linden grove, the blossom still in her hand, it was in her mind to find Wilhelm, to try to tell him what was in her heart. But he was nowhere to be found; nor was Fraülein von Schwertzell.

She sat with the others on the hillside, looking down over the palace, trying not to reveal how eagerly she was awaiting his return. A quarter of an hour passed excruciatingly slowly. The children played among the trees, then went down to the lake to race little boats they had made of leaves and sticks. Dortchen crushed the flower in her hand and thrust it into her pocket.

‘Fraülein von Schwertzell has clearly set her cap at Wilhelm,’ Marie Hassenpflug said to Lotte. ‘By the looks of it, she’s caught him.’

‘She obviously has a
tendré
for him,’ Jeannette agreed. ‘But he’s as poor as a church mouse. I’m surprised her family will countenance the match.’

‘Her younger sister married a one-armed artist,’ Lotte said. ‘He lost his right arm at the Battle of Leipzig, taught himself to draw with his left hand, then quit the army to make his way as a painter. Wilhelm at least has both hands.’

Jeannette shook her head in amazement at the von Schwertzells’ eccentric ways. ‘He’d be a fool not to marry her. She’s rich and well connected.’

‘And they have a very fine library,’ Lotte added with a giggle. ‘Wilhelm would care more about that than how much money the family has. You know he’s not at all worldly.’

Dortchen could bear it no longer. She rose and said, ‘I must call those children away from the lake. Berthe will fall in if she’s not careful.’

She was conscious of the eyes of all the young women on her back as she walked away. She heard Jeannette say, ‘Do you think she’s upset? I always thought she had a
tendré
for Wilhelm herself.’

‘She and Wilhelm are just old friends,’ Lotte lied, and Dortchen quickened her step.

As she passed the men, sitting on the grass together and talking about politics, Jakob rose and came to walk by her side. She tried to smile and greet him with her usual warmth, but failed.

‘I’m afraid Wilhelm means to marry that woman,’ he said. ‘I will be very sorry if he does.’

Dortchen could not speak. She stared at the lake, trying to will the tears back into her eyes.

‘He will move away and live with her in Willingshausen. She does not understand the importance of his work. She will expect him to dance attendance on her, and go to picnics and parties and balls and such things.’ There was scorn in his voice. ‘He will be her pensioner, dependent upon her. Better that he be poor and lonely.’

‘But if he loves her?’ Her voice broke, and she pressed the heel of her hand to one eye, then the other.

‘He does not love her. I’m sure of it. She amuses him and shocks him … but that will wear off quickly, and then it’ll be too late. He’ll be bound to her his whole life, and deeply unhappy.’

‘I cannot bear it!’

‘Do you still love him?’ His words were quiet, but hard with determination.

She nodded.

‘Then you must fight for him.’

Her hands rose and fell. ‘It’s not so simple.’

‘Yes, it is. Anything worth having is worth fighting for.’

She was silent. He waited, his hands gripped together behind his back, scowling at the lake. ‘You don’t think it’s too late?’ she asked at last.

‘It might be. I don’t know. I think he loved you truly. But he is hurt and
angry. I don’t know what went wrong between you, but it cut him to the quick.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He passed her his handkerchief, and she turned away to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, hoping that no one on the hill was observing them too closely.

‘I don’t know how,’ she said to Jakob.

Unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘I’m afraid I cannot help you. I know nothing about the affairs of the heart. But it seems to me that if you were able to make him love you once, then surely you can do so again.’

She shook her head. ‘He hasn’t forgiven me.’

Jakob looked grave. ‘Have you asked him to?’

Berthe came running across the grass towards them, holding up her arms so Dortchen would pick her up. Jakob bowed his head, then went to show the boys how to skip pebbles across the water. Dortchen went down to the water, pretending to wash Berthe’s grubby hands but in fact giving herself time to compose herself before she returned to the party of friends sitting under the tree.

Wilhelm and Fraülein von Schwertzell returned ten minutes later. She was limping, and leaning heavily on his arm. She had twisted her ankle at the Devil’s Bridge, he explained. Everyone looked knowing. Fraülein von Schwertzell looked smug.

That night, Dortchen sat on her bed, so weighed down with misery that she felt all her bones had been filled with lead. She did not know what to do. She opened the book of fairy tales and read again the tale of the singing, springing lark. She remembered how he had kissed her after she had told it. They had come so close to consummating their love there and then, up against the stable wall.

She laid down the crushed linden leaf to mark the page, then got into bed. It took a long time for Dortchen to sleep. When at last oblivion claimed her, she dreamt her father lay on her, weighing her down, panting in her ear. She could smell his foetid breath. She woke with a strangled cry, then wept hopelessly. She would never be free of him.

Dawn came at last. She rose, dressed and went down to breakfast. Herr Schmerfeld was reading the newspaper.

‘Excuse me, sir, would you be able to spare me for a few days? Mia has written, asking me to visit her and help her with the baby.’

‘Of course,’ he answered, laying down his paper. ‘I’ll order the carriage brought round to you. You’ll take Berthe, of course.’

Dortchen took a deep breath. ‘There’s no need. Ottilie can help look after her. She’s old enough now to be trusted.’

Herr Schmerfeld was surprised but nodded in agreement. ‘Of course. It’ll do her good to have some responsibility.’

An hour later, Dortchen’s carriage clip-clopped down the road. As it turned onto Wilhelmshöhe Alley, the carriage passed Fraülein von Schwertzell and Wilhelm, sitting close together in an open landau pulled by two beautiful grey horses. Wilhelm was laughing, and Fraülein von Schwertzell was pulling a ludicrous face. Fraülein von Schwertzell, Dortchen had discovered, was a gifted mimic who felt no shyness in mocking those of her acquaintance.

Dortchen sat back and pulled down the little leather curtain.

BY THE LIGHT OF THE NEW MOON

June 1824

Mia lived in a small half-timbered house surrounded by a profusion of flowers in the hamlet of Ziegenhain. Built on the River Schwalm in a dip between two low forested mountains, the village had an old church and a pretty fortified castle with a moat, and was surrounded by kilometres of thick beech forest.