The year 1796 was drawing to a close...Charlotte's eyes scanned the shriveling garden that seemed to sleep under a thin blanket of snow. She sighed, pulling her cloak tighter around her neck as her breath rose and expanded, disappearing into the air.
She avoided the door of the Estate, knowing that her mother was inside waiting, just torn to pieces over the recent news of the dead girl found seemingly ripped apart by a wolf. Mrs Adelaide Rosenthaal had little going on in her personal life, and as such, got very involved in the business of others, often treating it as her own. Charlotte would hear all about this over supper. She would hear it in the hall on her way to bed. As her servant undressed her for sleep, she would also hear about it. Until she put her head to the pillow and her mother would wring her hands nervously, face puffy from pathetic sobbing, whisper "Oh, my dear, how dreadful," turn on her heel and leave without another word, Charlotte would hear of it.
Charlotte resented the safety her father had, shut up in his work room. His study. Mother didn't dare disturb him in there. But Charlotte didn't have a study. She had the Estate's library, but that was hardly off bounds to Adelaide. She looked at the building that connected itself to the main of their mansion. It was a small building, like a guest house. It had two floors and what seemed like a labyrinth below in its basement. Charlotte longed for it.
The cold began to bite her nose. Hiding outside wouldn't last for long. She scowled and heaved open the door.
It was dark inside, and her mother was not waiting for her as she often did after Charlotte's excursions. The silence of the Estate called back as she walked, shedding her cloak and various layers, until a servant girl scurried over and grabbed them a little too eagerly.
"Yes. Thank you." The words barely moved her lips. The girl bobbed her head and took the now wet cloak out of sight.
Lightly patting her face to warm it, Charlotte silently moved to the library, where she would resume her research. She was aware of her boundaries as a woman but played the game from behind the bars of her cage. Her connection to the Man of the Future, her father, celebrated inventor of Palisade, gave her an edge she was fully prepared to take advantage of. This piece would be published. This was the one they could not ignore. It was a review of her father's work-- his contribution to Palisadians daily life, and to their military-- everyone loved her father. They would not ignore this one. This would be her foot in the door.
Charlotte's mental map of the evening was torn swiftly from the drawing board when she entered the library and found her mother sprawled-- a rather posed sprawl, however-- over one of the stately chairs in front of the fire place. Her face stretching so her chin rested on her shoulder, her hand lifted delicately over her face-- a true painting yet to be created.
"Mother," Charlotte breathed.
"Oh, Charlotte." Her voice was musical, quiet, but clear. Charlotte didn't answer, knowing it didn't matter if she did or not. She pulled the chair out from under her desk-- the lovely, dark wooded, wonderfully sculpted desk, it still smelled of the Earth it was cut from, with a mix of the craftsman's finish that tickled her nostrils, and it was a gift from her father. It sat in the corner of the library, snugged between shelves and the millions of words they contained-- She busied herself, moving papers.
"Ohh, Charlotte," her mother began again, "What will we do? What ever will we do?" she looked into the fire, her eyes wet. "That poor girl, what ever will we do?" Her eyes watered more, and she sniffled.
"Mother, did you even know the girl's name?" Charlotte asked softly.
Her mother's soft sobs stopped abruptly. Charlotte could see the gears moving in her mother's head as she quickly scanned her memory banks for the elusive name.
The sobbing resumed. "What dark times, honestly, what will we do?" She stood suddenly as Charlotte found her seat, pulling her inkwell from inside the desk, ready to take notes.
Adelaide bustled over to her daughter, "what are you doing?"
"Research."
"How can you do research at a time like this!" She cried, situating herself immediately in front of the desk, impossible to ignore. She moved her hands around, her weapons of distraction. "A time like this!"
Charlotte sighed. Adelaide would make very sure no work got done tonight.
"And
where were you? Tonight? The sun is going down! Where did you go! The Caufield girls said you never arrived for tea!"
It was the question she knew would come. And she didn't want to answer. She hardly
knew the answer. She closed her eyes, her pen to the paper, and breathed.
Her pen nib snapped.
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