The Wild Girl (64 page)

Even though it was dark when the carriage at last trundled up outside the front gate, Dortchen could smell roses and mignonette and evening-scented stock. Golden lantern-light glowed through the mullioned windows. She climbed down wearily.

‘Dortchen!’ Mia opened the door, surprise and pleasure written all over her round face. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to stay a few nights. You said the baby was unsettled. I thought I’d come and help.’

‘Well, you are welcome.’ Mia embraced her, then looked into the carriage. ‘But where is Berthe?’

‘I’ve left her at home. Ottilie has been set to watch her.’

‘And a very good idea too. Come in, you must be half-rattled to death.’

‘The roads have certainly not improved,’ Dortchen said, following her sister inside. She looked around the narrow hall, with its red-brick floor and heavy oaken rafters. The whitewashed walls between the crooked supporting beams were decorated with vivid oils of flowers and trees, painted by Mia herself.

‘Come into the parlour.’ Mia opened a low door and stood back to let Dortchen pass by.

It was a small room with a low ceiling, but cosy and warm, with a fire glowing in the hearth. A tabby cat purred on a cushion, and big jugs of flowers were set on the mantelpiece and table. It was just the sort of room that Dortchen had always imagined for herself and Wilhelm. She had to breathe deeply to stop her misery from overwhelming her.

Mia’s husband, Herr Robert, sat at the table, glueing together a model ship, while Old Marie was sitting in a rocking chair, knitting. Aged in her late seventies, her face was as wrinkled as a winter apple. Her hair under the lace cap was white, and her eyes were clouded. A cradle sat beside her.

‘Dortchen, welcome,’ Herr Robert cried, in a strong English accent. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

‘I do hope you don’t mind. I … I needed a break.’

‘Of course we don’t mind. Those children must run you ragged. Come in and sit down.’

First, Dortchen went to greet Old Marie, bending over the old lady, who put up two frail hands to pat her back. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Marie.’

‘And you, my sweetling.’ As Dortchen straightened, Old Marie put both hands on her cheeks so she could examine her face closely. Evidently, she did not like what she saw, for she frowned and squeezed Dortchen’s cheeks. ‘It’s good you’ve come to stay with us. You need some fresh country air and some good country cooking, by the looks of you.’

‘It’s such a lovely surprise,’ Mia said. ‘I expected you to send me the recipe for your colic tonic, not come all this way.’

‘I wanted to see my new little niece,’ Dortchen said, bending over the cradle in the corner to drop a gentle kiss on the soft little face of Mia’s baby, turned into her pillow in sleep. ‘They grow up so fast, and I do love them when they’re so tiny and sweet.’

‘She’s not so sweet when she’s awake,’ Mia said.

‘Screams all the time,’ Old Marie confirmed. ‘A fine set of lungs, she has, for such a little mite.’

‘I’ve brought the ingredients for my colic tincture.’ Dortchen indicated
her basket, which she had put down on the table. ‘I’ll make up some for her before I go to bed.’

‘What do you put in it?’ Old Marie asked in lively interest. ‘I’ve tried fennel tea and chamomile tea, for both mother and child, and nothing seems to work.’

‘I use both of those, plus some ginger and lemon balm and blackthorn.’

‘Ah.’ Old Marie committed the ingredients to memory. ‘Lemon balm, of course. I’ll come and watch you make it, so I know how much of everything I need.’

She began painfully to lift herself out of her chair, but Mia soothed her, saying, ‘Sit, be still. We’ll have some tea first and hear all Dortchen’s news.’

She bustled out to fetch the tea, and Dortchen sat wearily by the fire. Old Marie rocked and knitted and watched her with a small frown between her eyes. They drank tea and exchanged news. Dortchen let her sister do most of the talking. Soon the baby woke and began to scream. Mia rushed to pick her up, and Dortchen found the strength to get up, go to the kitchen and set the water to boil on the fire. Old Marie limped after her, leaning heavily on an old polished stick.

It was warm and shadowy in the kitchen, and Dortchen breathed in the familiar scent of herbs hung up to dry above the mantelpiece. Old Marie came to help her unpack her basket, and they worked side by side, just as they had done when Dortchen was a girl. The old woman peppered her with questions about the Schmerfeld children and their father, and Rudolf and his new wife.

‘And how is Lotte?’ Old Marie asked, as Dortchen measured out spoonfuls of ground ginger.

‘She is married, as you know, and big with child.’

‘I never thought she’d marry that Louis Hassenpflug.’ Old Marie sniffed.

‘She seems happy.’

‘And what of you, sweetling? Are you happy?’ Old Marie took Dortchen’s hand, peering at her face anxiously.

Dortchen could not lie any longer. Not to Old Marie. She shook her head. ‘No. No, I’m not.’ Tears burnt her eyes.

‘But why, sweetling? Tell me.’

Dortchen sat down and hid her face in her arms. She felt Old Marie
lower herself into the chair beside her and pat her shoulder. The tears came pouring out, and, brokenly, so did words.

She told Old Marie everything. How her father had mistreated her, and how hard she had tried to forget. How she had watched Gretchen die and promised her to watch over her little girl. How Wilhelm had wanted to marry her, and how she had asked him to wait. How she felt as if she was standing still, frozen, unable to move onward, while the rest of the world left her behind. How she was afraid Wilhelm had forgotten her. And she told Old Marie about the nightmares.

All of this Dortchen said into the dark hollow of her arms, unable to lift her eyes and see Old Marie’s expression. The old woman was uncharacteristically silent. Was she repulsed by Dortchen’s tale? Did she blame Dortchen for being so weak?

At last Dortchen sat up. Old Marie dried her eyes with the corner of her apron.

‘My poor sweetling. Men can be beasts. I always feared for you in that house. But I could not think my fears had any grounding. Your father was such a godly man. Always going to church. It just goes to tell.’

Dortchen sighed.

‘But not all men are beasts, you know,’ Old Marie went on. ‘There are good, kind men, just as there are bad men. I always thought Wilhelm Grimm was a good man.’

‘He is.’

‘Then why are you afraid of him?’

‘I don’t know.’

The baby’s screams could be heard echoing down the hall. Old Marie began to measure out the dried leaves and flowers, looking to Dortchen for guidance. Mechanically, Dortchen helped her.

‘Is it fear of the heart, or of the body?’ Old Marie asked at last.

‘Both, I think,’ Dortchen admitted.

‘You can’t protect your heart from hurt – that’s part of living,’ Old Marie said. ‘No matter how hard you try to guard against it, something will slip past and make you love it.’

Dortchen nodded. She had discovered this for herself.

‘And the love between a man and a wife is a beautiful thing, Dortchen. I’d be sorry if you were never to know that.’

They worked together in silence a while longer.

‘I want to trust him,’ Dortchen said. ‘I want to love him. But every time I decide to risk myself, something happens to stop me. He … Father … comes to me again in a dream, or a flash of memory … It’s like he’s there in the room with me, holding me back.’

‘It feels to me like you’re being haunted,’ Old Marie said decisively. ‘Whether it’s his spirit not willing to let you go, or just the memory of him, I can’t tell. But you need to banish him. Tell him to begone.’

‘I wish it were that easy.’ Dortchen managed a smile.

‘It’s times like this I wish my grandmam was still here with us,’ Old Marie said. ‘She knew many an old trick for driving away haunts. I will think on it. But don’t you fret, now. There’ll be a way to drive that old nasty away, don’t you worry.’

Very late on the night of the next new moon, Dortchen went by herself through the dark sleeping streets of Cassel to the graveyard in which her parents were buried. First, she took a handful of dirt from her father’s grave and put it in a small wooden box. Then she went to the elder tree that grew nearby and broke off a flowering twig. ‘Thank you, Lady Tree,’ she said, bobbing a little curtsey, as Old Marie had warned her always to do.

Dortchen then walked out of town, towards the royal palace. It was frightening, being out alone so late. She was wearing a black dress and a black hooded cloak, which she wore drawn down over her face so that no one might recognise her. The moon was so thin that the stars seemed very bright. Bats flittered past, and somewhere an owl hooted.

She reached the last crossroads before the forest. One road ran back towards the town, the other towards the palace, and the road that crossed it led into the forest on one side and the open countryside on the other.

Dortchen took the elder branch out of her pocket. Breaking it into four pieces, she chanted the spell Old Marie had taught her: ‘
Break the root, break the hex, break me free from this evil vex.
’ She then cast one part of the twig in each of the four directions. Only then did she take out the box of grave dirt. She threw the soil as hard as she could over her left shoulder, shouting, ‘Begone!’

The dirt scattered in the wind and was blown away.

Without looking back over her shoulder, Dortchen walked rapidly home again. She let herself in with her key and ran lightly up the stairs to her room. She pulled back the curtains and opened wide the casements, letting in the soft evening air and the faint light of the moon. She breathed in deeply, then lit her fire and set a silver basin of water to warm before it. Into the water she dropped a handful each of speedwell, eyebright, self-heal, lemon balm, chase-devil, toadflax and foxglove. A sweet smell filled her room. She kindled two white candles and set them on the mantelpiece, one on either side of the mirror.

Then Dortchen stripped off her clothes in front of the flames, and let down her hair till it hung in flaxen waves down her bare back. She stood and looked at her face in the mirror, then, with shaking hands, she read out the second spell Old Marie had told her.

‘He that cast his curse on me

Let him suffer his own curse.

Let these candles be his candles.

Let this burning be his burning.

Let the pain he caused me

Fall upon him instead.’

Then, slowly and thoroughly, Dortchen washed herself with the herb-sweet water, not missing a single inch of her skin. Between her toes, under her arms, behind her ears and up between her legs. Dortchen took her time, imagining herself washed clean inside as well as out. She dressed herself in a white nightgown, then she flung the water out the window and into the garden. She climbed into bed, made up earlier that evening with fresh white sheets, and watched the two candles burn themselves out. By the time the flames were guttering, Dortchen was asleep.

She slept dreamlessly all night, and woke in the fresh, bright dawn feeling like a woman reborn.

CORNFLOWERS

June 1824

Dortchen opened the chest in the garret of the shop that was now Rudolf’s.

Her hands were dusty, and she rubbed them clean on her handkerchief before kneeling and rummaging through the chest. She found her doll, Wilhelmina, which Wilhelm had lowered to her from the window on a string. She had always hoped to have a daughter of her own one day, to whom she could give the doll. She put it aside and dug deeper. She found her old prayer book and opened it to find the squashed brown cornflower that she had hidden there so many years before. There was only the faintest trace of blue left in its dried petals. Dortchen hid it in her bodice. A cornflower worn next to the heart brought love, Old Marie had always said. New love or lost love. Dortchen could only hope it was true.

Then Dortchen searched right at the very bottom of the chest, till she found the yellow silk dress her father had once given her. Carefully, she folded it and wrapped it in brown paper and twine.

Then she drove through the narrow, crooked streets, which were cool even in the heat of the summer day, until she reached the premises of Madame Fleury, the most fashionable dressmaker in town.

‘It is of the silk most luxurious, it’s true,’ Madame Fleury said, as she examined the dress. ‘And the beading is exquisite. It is, however, very much out of fashion.’

‘I thought that a seamstress of great skill would be able to remodel the dress,’ Dortchen said. ‘Drop the waist, add some flounces.’

Madame Fleury stroked the silk. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I’d be willing to sell it to you and put the money towards another dress,’ Dortchen said. She drew out her purse, heavy with the money she had saved from her allowance. ‘I need it quickly, though.’

‘When?’

‘For a pleasure cruise this Saturday night,’ Dortchen said.

‘Do you have a colour in mind, a style?’

‘Cornflower blue,’ Dortchen said.