The Wild Girl

  ‘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 togeth
er 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.

  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.’