The Daughters Grimm

by Minda Webber

  Rae triumphantly waited for her aunt to compliment her on her popularity at the dance, yet the moments passed, and the only noise was the plodding of the horses’ hooves outside as their carriage moved bumpily over the snow-covered road to home.

  Never one to be overly boastful, she felt, Rae nevertheless thought her achievements of this evening should be remarked upon. “My dinner partners were rather dull, although I swear that Baron Schortz is quite smitten,” she remarked. “I shall receive at least a dozen roses from him tomorrow. No; as besotted as he was, I imagine I shall receive two dozen—probably white roses, though, dull fellow that he is.” Then, thinking about his worn jacket and the state of his shoes, she amended, “Make that one dozen white roses, with a note swearing his undying admiration. They shall probably get lost amongst the other flowers.”

  Her aunt acted as if she hadn’t even spoken. Still, Rae persisted. She had been the belle of the ball, and it was high time someone beside herself gave voice to it. “I swear, I have never been wearier than tonight. I scarce sat down a dance.”

  In the glow of the carriage lantern, Vivian turned to Greta, speaking stiffly. “I noticed you made quite the dash. You scarce missed a dance as well. I must admit to being quite impressed.”

  Rae frowned, while Greta pondered how to respond. “Yes, I did,” she said at last. “Tonight was quite nice.” Evidently, her aunt had taken umbrage at Rae’s popularity with the gentlemen; and yet, that was what the two sisters were here to do, to cause a stir. Rae by her beauty, Greta by finding out all she could about the truths of fairy tales surrounding the Black Forest.

  Of course, Greta admitted now while maintaining a polite smile, she wouldn’t mind a husband either, as long as he wasn’t anything like Mr. von Hanzen. Although, as much as she hated to admit it, the man did stir her senses. Even if he was a pompous fool. It was really too bad he was such a jackass.

  “Quite nice? Quite nice? Are you being impertinent, gel?” Aunt Vivian asked huffily. “Why, you foolish twit. Tonight you were amongst the cream of the crop of German nobility. Both the Uradel and Briefadel were there.” She paused briefly before delivering a set-down. “I’m quite sure the two of you haven’t ever rubbed elbows with the type of company you kept tonight. I must write your mother about your first dinner and tanzen.” She said the last with a gloating smile.

  Greta glanced at her sister and could see storm clouds on the horizon. Before Rae could lose her temper, Greta pinched her sharply on the leg.

  “Ouch!” Rae hissed.

  “What was that, Razel?”

  Giving her sister a mean little stare, Rae answered stiffly. “I merely got a crick in my foot. From all that dancing.”

  Aunt Vivian settled back against the cushions, her nose held high in the air. “Perhaps,” she conceded to Razel, vexed at her vain niece’s popularity at the dance, “I might have noted a time or two that you were dancing as well. Of course, that was probably due to my great consequence. I was rather surprised to see that Prinz von Hanzen danced with you. Von Hanzen. Yes, he most likely danced with you knowing that you were my niece, since he is a man very aware of his own consequence and rarely dances at these events. Unless it is, of course, with his latest cherie amour.”

  Greta sat back in her seat, frowning. So, the hateful man was a prince after all? It wasn’t surprising, and yet at the same time it made her even angrier. Well, apparently she had been fortunate to have been snubbed by German royalty. Perhaps she should have stayed in England, where the only person snubbing her was her mother.

  Rae’s bittersweet acknowledgment of the backhanded compliment was quickly shoved aside as she registered her aunt’s words. “Prince, prince? Who’s a prince?”

  “Why, Fürst von Hanzen, of course. His father’s side of the family is related to the House of Welf,” their aunt informed them.

  “Oh no. How absolutely ghastly! I shall just die, expire right on this spot.”

  “What on earth are you speaking of, Razel? Are you addled? I can’t say that it would surprise me. Your mother never was too steady, always having fainting spells and predicting doom and gloom.”

  Rae had completely missed their aunt’s rant, consumed by her utter stupidity and social faux pas. “Oh, how shall I bear it?” She turned pleading eyes to Greta, hoping her sister might devise a way out of her social blunder. “When he was introduced as Fürst von Hanzen, I thought that was his first name, and I called him Mr. von Hanzen. I thought it was a derivative of Frederic or Francis,” she explained, putting her hands to her cheeks in embarrassment. “What a silly chit he must think me.”

  “You stupid gel!” her aunt scolded. “I know I explained the differences in the German nobility. Such disgusting behavior, and on a matter of such grave importance. My heavens! He will think my nieces totally lacking in polish and good breeding. Why did you not take what I said to heart? Are you a total dullard?”

  Rae’s face took on a mulish expression. She might not be as bright as her sister in those uninteresting things like science and literature, but she was not a lack-wit. When her aunt droned on for hours last evening about this and that and her connection to the local nobility, Rae had been busy doing something important. While her aunt flaunted her precious position, Rae had been planning her triumphant entrance into Wolfach Society.

  But, daunted she was not. Just because she had made a slight social gaffe, that would not keep her from her target: a handsome, wealthy prince like von Hanzen. Someday she and the attractive prince would laugh about her mistake, ensconced in their huge castle with one child—certainly no more than two—running about the magnificent palace.

  Narrowing her eyes, Rae prepared to give her aunt a chilling set-down. After all, when she married the prince, she would rank higher than her aunt.

  As her sister opened her mouth to speak, Greta diplomatically intervened. “Now, Aunt Vivian, I’m sure the family honor”—Greta paused for emphasis—“to your great credit, can withstand Rae’s little misunderstanding. After all, Prince von Hanzen did ask her to dance.” She wisely left out the part about Rae forcing the prince’s hand.

  Her aunt settled her considerable bulk back on her seat, her harshness dissipating to a degree. “Perhaps. I did explain to the Countess DeLuise that the two of you were from some godforsaken place in England. Yes, you’re right. I’m sure they’ll overlook the social blunder as nothing more than a green gel’s fürst mistake. I can’t dare predict what he will do the next time he meets you, however. I suppose I can speak with him about your lack of polish.”

  Ignoring Greta’s pinch, Rae took exception to this slight. “I am no green girl; nor am I some countrified milkmaid, and neither is Greta. Both our dance cards were full, and many a gentleman asked to call tomorrow. In fact, I danced so much my feet hurt, and they may never recover! My admirers will be thoroughly devastated.” There, you great beastly woman, take that to heart, Rae thought.

  “Your feet hurt because your head is so heavy from swelling. Vanity has puffed you up, gel. And I told you that you needed a larger slipper,” Baroness Snowe reminded her. “There is no sin in having big feet.”

  “Big feet?” Rae screeched.

  Drawing back the curtain, Greta stared out the carriage window with a slight smile touching her lips. Rae’s remarks to her aunt were amusing, as was Aunt Vivian’s lack of politeness. Despite her good intentions to keep the carriage from erupting into armed warfare, she couldn’t help but enjoy the verbal fisticuffs. Here was vacuous, womanly bickering at its finest. And their aunt was its paragon: apparently, Vivian wanted the girls to triumph so she could show up their mother; yet at the same time, she dearly resented their small successes.

  Squeezing her sister’s leg abruptly and breaking into the conversation, Greta pointed out the window. “Oh look, there’s a castle—or at least what’s left of one.”

  The castle she referred to was situated upon a tall white hill, its great glistening stones covered by snow. The remnants of a blackened roof, hal
f fallen in, gave a stark contrast to the snow’s purity. “To whom does it belong, Aunt?”

  Vivian’s attention was easily diverted, as Greta had quickly discovered early on in their visit. “Oh, that belongs to the Frankensteins,” she said, glancing out the carriage window. “They no longer live there.”

  “Obviously,” Rae said, sotto voce.

  Greta hid a snort, and apparently their aunt had missed Rae’s little jab, since the baroness added, “Which is a great blessing in itself. They were dreadful people, really. Just dreadful. Always wandering about cemeteries.”

  Greta’s eyes lit up. “They were vampire hunters, then?”

  “Vampyr hunters?” Baroness Snowe’s jaw dropped open. “Oh, you foolish child! Surely you don’t believe in all that vampyr folderol? The Countess DeLuise is simply a great lover of fairy tales, and enjoys macabre intrigues. Vampyrs overrunning the town? Pure poppycock!”

  Now Greta’s temper began to stir. Pointedly, she replied, “You did mention that the Frankensteins preferred cemeteries.”

  Their aunt gave a sharp bark of laughter. “The family is eccentric. Mad as hatters, the lot. They’re not the undead at all, merely your common bunch of criminals…grave robbers, actually. Shameful business, really. And disgusting. All those dead corpses.” Vivian gave a shudder. “And if it wasn’t graveyards, then their mad grandfather was running around the roof of their castle during thunderstorms, flying a kite with a key attached. A key attached! Can you imagine? The whole lot of them stark raving mad. Thank heavens the castle roof burned and villagers rioted several days later, upset over the Baron Frankenstein’s latest invention. The family moved away shortly after that. It’s been a good seven years.”

  “They sound like an intriguing family. I wish they were still here.”

  “Nonsense, Greta. If you’ve seen one grave robber, you’ve seen them all.”

  Greta shrugged her shoulders. It was a shame. The Frankensteins sounded amusing, and she’d bet they believed in vampires, witches and werewolves. They were probably a hundred times more interesting than the supercilious Prince von Hanzen.

  “Now the only madman we must deal with is Wee Willie Winkie, who runs through the village in his tattered nightgown and hollers that cows are jumping over the moon,” Aunt Vivian seethed. “Winkie’s wee willie? That, I can assure, is quite madness enough.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Devil Wears Prada Petticoats

  The clock was ticking. It had been two days, and though the Snowe residence held an abundance of flowers from both Rae and Greta’s various admirers, not one bouquet had been delivered from Prince von Hanzen or Baron Schortz. Rae was in high dudgeon over this slight, while Baroness Snowe was a combination of two things: a trifle ecstatic that her shallow niece hadn’t received a tribute from either Baron Schortz or Prince von Hanzen, yet wondering if her own social standing was diminished by this slight.

  There did, however, remain Fürst von Gelb. He had recently left after a visit where he preened and boasted about his great wealth and complimented Rae incessantly. Scowling at the flowers she held in her hand, the Baroness Snowe tersely stuck them in the bouquet she was arranging. She was of two minds about the elderly prince’s interest in her niece. If Rae married the prince, then Vivian would definitely get her sister’s goat, having managed to marry off the child in one season to Prussian royalty—a grand and glorious feat that would most definitely put her sister’s oversized nose out of joint for many a year. On the other hand, if Rae managed to marry Prince von Gelb, Vivian would be her niece’s social inferior and would have to curtsey to her. The thought was thoroughly repugnant.

  She glanced up as the two Grimm sisters entered the room in quiet conversation about their last visitor.

  “Prince Gelb is quite enchanted by me. He’s visited twice since the ball, and has sent over six dozen roses so far. Aunt Vivian did say that he was one of the wealthiest men in Prussia. And he does have such nice thick hair,” Rae added.

  “For a man of his age,” her sister pointed out.

  Vivian remarked, “Ja. Prince Gelb comes from a respectably royal line. And though an older man, I imagine he will still be able to do his husbandly duty—too often.”

  Rae thought about wifely duties. They were mysterious things rarely discussed in good company, something to do with thinking of one’s country and bearing up stoically like a good little soldier. She was not totally ignorant, however, and knew that the aging prince would be with her in her bedchamber while she was in her nightclothes. Did this mean that he would be in his robe? Were his knees bony and knobby? She did so dislike knobby knees. A frown filled her face.

  “Rae can do better than an aging roué with gout,” Greta protested. The thought of her beautiful sister with a man old enough to be her grandfather left her stomach rather unsettled.

  “I daresay she might if other princes of the realm or dukes of the duchies were about. But most are in Berlin, Munich, Paris or Rome right now. Besides, you shouldn’t worry about his age. Prince Gelb probably doesn’t have liver spots on his stomach…and he is very wealthy!”

  “His stomach? Why would I see his stomach?” Rae asked, repelled.

  “Why, to undress before bedtime. Some men prefer to perform their husbandly duties without a nightshirt,” Baroness Snowe remarked, smoothly adjusting a particularly fat red rose to her satisfaction and thrilled to see Rae turn a particularly unattractive color of white. Greta’s eyes had grown wide.

  “Naked, you say?” Rae squeaked. The old prince would be naked as the day he was born and probably looking a lot less grand in the all-together. This was not good. She spoke, trying to resuscitate her flagging ambitions. “I would have a fine carriage with gold wheels and six white horses. I would be a grand princess…and he said he owns a solid gold harp!”

  “You don’t like harp music. A better question is: will he make your heart sing?” Greta said, her expression troubled.

  “Singing hearts? Why such romantic foolishness! Marriage has absolutely nothing to do with romance. Your silly mother has certainly done you a great disservice if she’s led you to believe otherwise.”

  Confused, Rae narrowed her eyes in thought. Was wedlock to Prince Gelb truly what she wanted? The marriage would help her family tremendously. She would happily be linked to royalty through marriage, and admired even more for her connections, her gowns, her slippers and her jewels; but this wifely duty thing might be a bit more than she could swallow. “Naked, you say?”

  “Enough of this talk. This isn’t an appropriate conversation for unmarried ladies,” the baroness scolded, forgetting her part in the indelicate conversation. “If—and I do stress the word if—Razel can bring Prince Gelb up to scratch, then it will be quite the coup.”

  “Are you sure that is what you want, Rae? I don’t trust the man. Verily, I say. Why he wants to marry at his age is beyond me, for I hear he has an heir already, and that heir has an heir. Perhaps he’s putting on heirs.” Greta scrutinized her sister, noting Rae’s paleness. Prince Gelb would never be the right man for her sister, even if he were King of Prussia.

  “There are other noblemen seeking wives,” Rae remarked. “Such as Prince von Hanzen, even if he isn’t as wealthy as Prince Gelb.”

  “I have heard that Fürst von Hanzen sent a dozen posies to Fräulein Hilda, Baron Mueller’s daughter,” the Baroness Snowe spoke up. “A pretty gel, but certainly not as lovely as you, my two nieces. I wonder why he’s dismissed Rae. That’s one reason I don’t go in for those long engagements, you know. Pure folly. A man might learn the character of his intended before the wedding, and then where would we females be? Men should have years to get to know our habits, both good and bad, but always after the ceremony. Ah, Rae, you take the cake. He meets you for one night, and now nothing,” she remarked. “Perhaps your misuse of his title offended him after all. This I must say: Prince von Hanzen is a man of much importance. To be insulted by you, a little nobody from nowhere, must have been more th
an his dignity could stand.”

  “Then he’s certainly not much of a man. Everyone makes mistakes,” Greta said stiffly, disliking the prince even more.

  Had she been paying attention, Rae would have glared at her aunt, but her mind was occupied with dour thoughts of Baron Schortz and why the big buffoon hadn’t sent her a bouquet or a note telling how much he admired her. “Perhaps he is ill from bad oysters. Or perhaps he has fallen off his horse and frozen to death in the snow,” she suggested. He would make a terribly big snowman, and she wouldn’t get her flowers from him or hear him call her Helen of Troy again. Men could be so horribly unpredictable.

  “Who’s speaking of death? Poppycock! I’ll have no more about the dead, lest Greta use it as an excuse for indulging more galling inquiry into the Nosferatu,” their aunt pronounced. “Haven’t you listened to what we were saying? How can a dead man send flowers? Are you deaf as well as dull-witted?”

  Greta interrupted before Rae could retort. “Perhaps Prince von Hanzen is already interested in this Miss Hilda. Perhaps that is why he sent her flowers.”

  “Ha. The gel is a mealy mouthed little nitwit. The prince couldn’t possibly be interested in her. Besides, as I remarked, she is merely pretty. Von Hanzen, when he weds, will wed a sophisticated beauty of impeccable breeding and manners.”

  Rae nodded. “He’s a handsome man, and a prince as well. He will want the best.” And the best would be she herself.

  Her aunt concurred with her spoken words. “But of course. That goes without saying. Now, if you or Greta had a title and a fortune to go with your looks, the prince might look your way. But even with your connection to my own august self, I fear it isn’t enough for him to choose either of you.” She continued, condescendingly, “However, Baron Schortz would be a good catch for you. Not too handsome, not a prince, and he’s a widower needing a wife for his children. But of course, Baron Schortz must have been disgusted by you as well. Perhaps you shall manage to keep your mouth shut at the next dinner party we attend. In fact, I insist, for I have always maintained that the saying is true: Familiarity breeds contempt.”