bedroom had a single bed in the corner and she thought she might sleep in there, but then she scolded herself, because that was the old Charlotte thinking, not wanting to make waves, not wanting to make a fuss.
“I did this,” she said suddenly. “I made it. I deserve to enjoy it.”
She returned to the main bedroom and attempted to admire an enormous oil painting of one burly woman washing a slender woman's feet while she stared pensively out of the painting and into the room. She shivered.
“Enjoy that,” she dared herself.
Despite her inner monologue, sitting on the bed made her feel guilty, because everything really had been prepared so carefully. The stay was worth much more than she had agreed to pay for a month and she wondered why it was so cheap. She supposed that it was not yet summer and the tourist season was not yet in full swing. Perhaps he had been in a hurry and she had simply been lucky to see the offer first. Maybe her desperation had coincided with that of her landlord.
Kneeling in front of the fireplace, she removed the fire guard and saw that the fire was stacked with small twigs, branches and three, thick logs. Several logs of equal size were leaning up either side of the fire too. There was certainly a chill in the air. Ironically, a draft seemed to be coming from the fireplace itself, and she thought that it would have been lovely to have a log fire, but she wasn't sure how to go about doing so. Did one really just light it with a match and let it go? 'Letting it go' didn't sound like language that should be associated with lighting a fire. What would happen when the flames leapt the fireguard and set fire to the rug – it looked expensive – and where was the fire extinguisher?
There were so many things that she had never done before and she was always so scared.
She sat on a bench next to the table and heaved a sigh. She'd put on her shawl instead. In fact, she'd have a shower – the shower was new and gleaming and not at all in keeping with the rest of the cottage, for which she was secretly thankful – and she'd get an early night. In a minute.
It was so quiet that she hardly dared to breath.
It wasn't long before she was crying as quietly as she could in the middle of the room.
~~~
Early the following morning, Charlotte awoke to find that the sun was casting a glow over the entire room.
“Wonderful,” she said and sprang out of bed.
She had decided to sleep in the master bedroom after all and the bed had been more comfortable than she had suspected. The sinister oil painting hadn't bothered her either. As soon as she closed her eyes, she had been asleep.
The view from the large window was even more astounding than the photos she had seen online and she found herself unlocking the window and climbing straight out into the garden in her nightdress. She stood barefoot on the warming garden wall and surveyed the hills and fields ahead of her while the chilly wind whipped around her ankles, but the rising sun warmed her face and neck.
Birds were singing in the trees and flies and bees buzzed about her. Somewhere in the forest to her right, something sounded like it was hammering at a tree.
“A woodpecker!” she thought and immediately envisioned Woody Woodpecker tapping his beak against the bark. She even did an impression of his laugh – a bad one – and reduced herself to a fit of the giggles.
The beauty of the morning made up for the gloom she had felt the night before.
Feeling buoyed, she checked
“I did this,” she said suddenly. “I made it. I deserve to enjoy it.”
She returned to the main bedroom and attempted to admire an enormous oil painting of one burly woman washing a slender woman's feet while she stared pensively out of the painting and into the room. She shivered.
“Enjoy that,” she dared herself.
Despite her inner monologue, sitting on the bed made her feel guilty, because everything really had been prepared so carefully. The stay was worth much more than she had agreed to pay for a month and she wondered why it was so cheap. She supposed that it was not yet summer and the tourist season was not yet in full swing. Perhaps he had been in a hurry and she had simply been lucky to see the offer first. Maybe her desperation had coincided with that of her landlord.
Kneeling in front of the fireplace, she removed the fire guard and saw that the fire was stacked with small twigs, branches and three, thick logs. Several logs of equal size were leaning up either side of the fire too. There was certainly a chill in the air. Ironically, a draft seemed to be coming from the fireplace itself, and she thought that it would have been lovely to have a log fire, but she wasn't sure how to go about doing so. Did one really just light it with a match and let it go? 'Letting it go' didn't sound like language that should be associated with lighting a fire. What would happen when the flames leapt the fireguard and set fire to the rug – it looked expensive – and where was the fire extinguisher?
There were so many things that she had never done before and she was always so scared.
She sat on a bench next to the table and heaved a sigh. She'd put on her shawl instead. In fact, she'd have a shower – the shower was new and gleaming and not at all in keeping with the rest of the cottage, for which she was secretly thankful – and she'd get an early night. In a minute.
It was so quiet that she hardly dared to breath.
It wasn't long before she was crying as quietly as she could in the middle of the room.
~~~
Early the following morning, Charlotte awoke to find that the sun was casting a glow over the entire room.
“Wonderful,” she said and sprang out of bed.
She had decided to sleep in the master bedroom after all and the bed had been more comfortable than she had suspected. The sinister oil painting hadn't bothered her either. As soon as she closed her eyes, she had been asleep.
The view from the large window was even more astounding than the photos she had seen online and she found herself unlocking the window and climbing straight out into the garden in her nightdress. She stood barefoot on the warming garden wall and surveyed the hills and fields ahead of her while the chilly wind whipped around her ankles, but the rising sun warmed her face and neck.
Birds were singing in the trees and flies and bees buzzed about her. Somewhere in the forest to her right, something sounded like it was hammering at a tree.
“A woodpecker!” she thought and immediately envisioned Woody Woodpecker tapping his beak against the bark. She even did an impression of his laugh – a bad one – and reduced herself to a fit of the giggles.
The beauty of the morning made up for the gloom she had felt the night before.
Feeling buoyed, she checked
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