The steady drumming of rain on roof and windows, had sung her younger siblings to sleep the night before. Before it had changed to a soft drizzle, with a low rumbling thunder, it had bid farewell and made its friend the wind to make the fire dance in the fireplace.
Since the bluish glow of the early hour, the sun had been shining as if it felt an urgent need to dispel any memory of last night's dampness. Even if she had not yet succeeded in doing so in the shade. With little force, the sun stole a path through the lush canopy of trees. Fanned out into single glaring rays, it made the soft grass shimmer unreal. The wind plucked at the drops of last night's rain, which danced alone on the tips of the leaves. The morning light bathed the whole world around them in a patchwork of gold.
The wind blew a strand of hair across her forehead. The slight tickling on her skin she expertly ignored. Also the dampness of the earth that penetrated her dress in an unpleasant way. The scratching of her woollen stockings and the sharp stone under her left knee. She no longer felt the tight strap of her lace-up boots, which were already a little too small, in contrast to the small forgotten branch that was poking annoyingly into her propped-up elbow.
Instead, she listened casually to her brother's breathing next to her. She almost forgot that she was not alone. Everyone was so quiet. As quiet as she had so often demanded from them. Otherwise, her siblings chattered incessantly, outdoing each other in their volume and the amount of questions they asked. Questions she asked herself, but inquisitively sought answers to and passed on to the others. But at the moment there were no questions, no noise.
Finally she could concentrate on her task. Fixing the prey in peace. The rabbit wiggled its little nose, but did not smell her. Calmly moved its head to the side, glanced briefly in her direction, yet was blind to the danger. Seemed to relax in its hiding place, feeling safe. For all was quiet and peaceful. It reminded her of the idyll in a painting that hung in her father's study. The moment resembled the cosiness of her parents' house, where it was always warm and seemed to shake with noise even when it was quiet. Not infrequently she felt it was like a living cage.
The animal sat motionless in the shimmering golden grass of the rain-damp morning. Clueless in the treacherous shelter of the shadows. Right in the line of fire. In the trap. Just like her.
Charlotte blinked.
The strange thought floated away, like the memory of the scent of damp earth that the sun had dried. What remained was the bitter taste of a guilty conscience, of ungrateful thoughts. She listened to the wind blowing through the grass, which finally carried away the cold of the night and this shabby comparison.
Now she squinted her eyes against the light. Highly concentrated, she moved her finger lightly on the trigger. Waited for the animal to move a little more to the right. Then the line of fire would be perfect. The slightest movement could spook the prey, which was now looking right at her, as if to tell her that it knew exactly that she was there. That she was watching it and was about to end her hunt. Suddenly, It twitched its ears.
The rumble of an approaching carriage on its way down the hill caused Charlotte to listen too. She lifted her head and looked at the four-in-hand carriage racing along the path at far too high a speed.
They were going too fast. Much too fast.
Her heart began to pound violently, as if she had a foreboding that something was about to happen. An accident.
She had often read about such things, in the newspaper her father gave her as soon as he had read through it, and also in novels with which she passed the time. When she had time for herself. These carriages from the townspeople were not used to the rough and unworked ground here in the country. Yet they sped along as if they were on one of the streets in London. Whatever they looked like. The coachmen became overconfident and sped as there was not a single coach coming towards them and they did not have to watch out for pedestrians. The travellers were too impatient, not used to the long distances over land, and still wanted to get to their destination faster. They probably also felt something like freedom here in the countryside, which Charlotte could sympathise with, even though she did not feel anything like that. Rather the opposite.
