Slowly, the first rays of the day's sun fought their way through the dense blanket of clouds and created a delicate play of light on the pale fields. It seemed like a dream landscape, one of the paintings of the great masters she only knew from her father's books. Unreal beauty in the harmony of colour reduced power. For a moment Charlotte imagined herself standing in one of these museums and looking at this painting held in a wide, golden frame. She would probably have to give her opinion on what she felt, how the painter had guided the brush, how he had created that stroke there, what technique he had used. She knew the terms, the technical jargon like apotheosis, chiaroscuro and gouache painting. She knew the difference and the dating to Baroque and Gothic. From the novels she read, she knew conversations that fine ladies held with their suitors or other fine ladies. The golden glow of the dancing mist made her almost forget what tasks of the day still lay ahead of her.
Smiling at the beautiful thought that her father's field resembled a painting in her mind, she pulled open the creaking door of the chicken coop and began to pick the eggs out of the straw. Some of the chickens looked the other way as if they didn't want to see her stealing from them. Others cackled in confusion as if they still hadn't got used to Charlotte and still others fled nervously out into the small yard. Charlotte giggled and put the eggs in her basket, which she had once woven herself years ago, set it down to grab one of the lazy hens and take it out to the yard to join the others.
On her way back to the house, she crossed out the first task of the day on her mental list. Some of her other tasks included far more exciting things, such as keeping the household accounts, teaching her siblings mathematics and the highlight of the day: going with her father to the workers' barracks and inspecting them for their arrival and, best of all, making suggestions for improvements, of which her father gave serious thought to!
Most of all, she was happy to be outside, working with wood and stone and, above all, physically. It had taken years to convince her mother that iron nails fitted better in her hand than the thin sewing needles and fine fabric with which she was supposed to work on embroidery that no one would ever see after all. It was not only because of her inability to embroider fine lines and ornaments without knots, but also because either her mother or Alison would unstitch her work and work on the cloth themselves.
Suddenly she remembered that she still had to leave out the hem of her dress so as not to look like one of her younger sisters at the Thanksgiving feast. It was no longer proper for a young woman at her later age of twenty-three to show her ankles. Charlotte laughed again, because after all, there was no one in Willingden who did not know her ankles.
But the funny thought, quickly faded away when she remembered the discussion she had not long ago with her parents, who both thought she should find a husband as soon as possible. Of course, she understood the sobriety of that thought. That was the way of things and the reality that every young woman had to live with. But she had always hoped that before she had to commit herself forever to a man she had known all her life, she would see something other than the same fields and the same faces. Meeting other people, experiencing something unique, perhaps an adventure, or at least a challenge.
The unmarried men, from the surrounding villages and her own, she had already been ahead of them in almost all respects when she was a girl. She had not only beaten them in competitions and playful contests of strength, but had also been far superior to them in educational matters. Mathematics, history and above all forming an opinion of her own. Interest in all the things outside her little world were enormously important to her, but none of the men she knew showed the slightest interest in striving for anything other than what they already knew.
Charlotte did not want to imagine how trivial her life would be if she was tied to a man she could never take seriously. With whom she would have no conversations about foreign countries, no shared dreams. Who would not even talk to her about the picturesque rays of sunlight that reminded her of brushstrokes, because he had never given painting a thought. Or because it quite simply did not interest him what she thought.
Not infrequently, she wished to be born as a man and to be able to do whatever she wanted. To travel to unknown territories as a trader on the high seas, to run a company in London as a businessman, or to erect buildings for eternity as an architect. These thoughts always distracted her until she met her nineteen-year-old brother, the eldest son of her parents. Suddenly, she realised that his life was already planned as well. One day, her brother would inherit her father's farm, with all its duties and responsibilities. Whether he wanted to or not. Even when her father had said many times that she would be much better suited for the job. Although she loved her home and on the other hand often wished herself away, she knew one thing for sure: she would never run a farm. That was a man's duty. Like so many others.
Sighing deeply, she freed herself from the thoughts that were not leading anywhere and walked behind her father, who was already looking at the first of the workers' wooden houses that had been abandoned since the last harvest. Now Charlotte concentrated on her work again, pointing out any damage to the huts to her father during the tour and making suggestions for improvement. Not only had she already made a secret inspection once, but she had also climbed up onto the roof above the hayloft in the barn to check for possible damage to the roofs of the small cottages.
Charlotte always liked to sit up there when she should have been in bed long ago. In the dark she watched the shining stars which were so far away from everything else. She loved this place, especially when the autumn fires were burning. Then, when she was lost in a romantic story of a novel in her mind, the fires would almost sparkle along with the stars in a magical way. It felt like it was all hers. She smiled, for this was an absolute highlight in her existence. And because she was proud that none of her siblings knew her secret place. And that's how it should stay, so she had to continue to take good care that no one would follow her there. And above all, that her parents wouldn't find out. Otherwise they would sew tiny bells on her dresses, as they did when she was ten, to prevent her from going out at night. Especially when strangers might be wandering around.
Charlotte made notes and gave her father some of her ideas for enhancements of the small cottages. Meanwhile, she imagined how some workers would bring their families with them, whose children she could then also teach. There were never any daughters as old as her, but young wives who were often happy to exchange thoughts with someone their own age, even if they were far more experienced than Charlotte. After all, seasonal workers, harvesters and their families travelled far. Further than she had ever had the pleasure of travelling.
Briefly, the memory of a carriage fading in the dust of the road arose. At moments like these Charlotte thought back to this encounter that wasn't really one at all. Although more than a year had passed, it was her own little symbol of longing for another life. But instead of giving in to the sadness as she had back then on the dusty road, she has kept hope.
The hope that someday another carriage might cross her path that would change her life. Or if not that, at least offer her a new pen friend.
