The Diary of Cozette (10 page)

“Indeed, as one familiar with the art of survival, I venture to say I have many times over the experience as you out here with your goats and chickens.”

I heard his soft chuckle. “We have only horses on this farm, Miss Cozette and let me say if goats and chickens have been what you are used to—”

“Mr. Coven, perhaps you are simply envious because your experience, or lack thereof, goes little further than your deep passion for your horses?”

“Is that so, madam?”

In the deepening shadows, I discerned a small smile lift the corner of his mouth. His hair, dark as pitch, hung past his collar, and curled out at the ends, framing his firm jaw. The conceited oaf acted as if pitching horse dung ranked above mine as a more noble profession.

He responded with a quiet chuckle as he turned his back to me and stepped out of the arbor to the patch of lawn beyond.

We’d reached a small courtyard partially enclosed with a low stone wall. A large barrel was propped under the eaves of the lean-to at the back door to catch the rain. Another cut in half sat on a trestle awaiting the next bout of laundry, I ventured. A small dirt path divided the area and to the other side was a fair-sized vegetable garden surrounded by a white picket fence.

“Mind the wash lines, they’ve been known to snag an unwary throat,” he spoke again over his shoulder.

“One can only hope,” I muttered, gingerly ducking my head at his warning.

Inside the open back door that led to the kitchen, I could see an ample woman, dressed in a dark skirt and dark blouse, with a full white apron. She was bent over and struggling with a large tin tub, pulling it across the kitchen to a small room where a warm fire crackled in a stone fireplace.

“Here now, Miss Farrington, you shouldn’t be lifting such things.”

Mr. Coven moved quickly through the kitchen door, aiding the woman with her chore.

I hung near the back door, not wishing yet to leave the freedom of the outdoors. I breathed in deep the fresh evening air and instead caught the vile stink of my body. It was then I realized that the bath was to their advantage, perhaps even more than to mine.

“Thank you, dear Mr. Coven.” The woman preened, straightening her apron and offering him a demure smile.

I stepped inside the back door and waited as he made his way back to me. If he thought I was about to coddle him with such flowery praise he was quite mistaken.

Without a word, he gave a curt nod and disappeared into the inky darkness of a grove of trees on a path that I presume leads to his precious horses. I had in but a few moments determined by his manner that the less Mr. Coven and I had need to associate with one another, the better.

~A.C.B.

I could not write for a time as sleep overtook me the moment my head touched the pillow. Still, I have seen many strange things in my youth and suffered humiliations of various levels more than most women my age. However, none compares to being stripped naked before two strange women, not for purposes of pleasure, but inspection, and groped like a fish in the marketplace.

“Good heavens, mum, she’s as thin as a rail, there is no meat on the poor child’s bones,” the strange woman said with a horrified expression.

“Check for lice, Miss Farrington. Master Archibald was insistent on that contingency,” Lady Archibald responded, her gaze scrutinizing.

She perched her hands on her hips as she inspected my form. Aside from being cold, tired and hungry, I had little left inside of me to be shy. I stood in the tub, my arms covering my breasts, hoping they would allow me soon to sit in the warmth of the water pooled around my knees.

“She should soak a good long while in the suds, mum. I’ll see to it. That should kill any bed mites hiding heavens knows where.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper as if I didn’t hear every word she uttered.

I did not hide the grimace on my face as she shoved me down past my head into the water, and at the same time dumped a kettle of steaming water into the tub.

My scream echoed throughout the house as I resurfaced, sputtering filthy soap suds from my mouth. “Bloody hell, you’ll scald my skin, you witch.”

“Ah, and a fresh mouth she has on her as well.” The cook laughed, her blue eyes sparkling.

I spit out more suds as I brushed the sodden hair from my eyes to level her with a look of silent warning.

She held up a brush and cocked her brow. “Shall I do the honors, miss, or would you prefer to address your filth?”

Oh, what I would do with that brush had I not been in such a vulnerable state.

I grabbed the brush and glowered at her. She simply stepped back, folded her arms, and stared down her nose at me, unruffled by my anger.

I had to admit that after the initial shock, the water was a welcome relief for my soul, providing of course, that God permitted I should still possess one.

“Do you wish me to wash her hair, then, mum?” The cook spoke over my head to her mistress. Was this the way it was to be then? The two of them forever clucking over me as though I am no more than a bloody apparition.

“Give me the soap, I’ll—” I stated boldly standing up and reaching out my hand for it. The cool air over my wet skin caused a shiver to ripple up the back of my legs.

Miss Farrington’s scream drowned out the remainder of my words. My head snapped over my shoulder to see what had prompted her outburst.

Mr. Coven, with a look of utter shock, stood just inside the kitchen door, his arms laden high with cut wood. In the light of the kitchen’s fireplace, he was a most imposing figure with his black patch and rugged features. I eased down into the tub, my gaze locked to his over my shoulder. I found myself swallowing hard at the intensity of his gaze.

“Mr. Coven, please, it isn’t proper—”

Miss Farrington stepped between us, spreading her skirts to block my nakedness from his view.

“I brought more wood for the morning. I remembered it was your baking day, Miss Farrington. I beg your pardon, I wasn’t thinking of Miss Cozette’s bath.”

“Of course you wouldn’t be, Mr. Coven. Please leave the wood by the fireplace, and thank you.”

I peeked around the cook’s skirts in time to see him drop his bundle. He glanced up once more and caught my gaze before he ducked his head and retreated with haste out the back door, pulling it solidly shut behind him.

“Is he always like that?” Protocol warned that I should not speak unless spoken to, but my curiosity, as usual, overcame the rules.

Miss Farrington looked over her shoulder and looked down at me.

“A finer gentleman you will never meet, miss. You will do well to show your respect when it comes to Mr. Coven.”

I raked my soapy hands across my scalp and liberally scrubbed my short tufts of hair. I wondered if there was something between the two of them that she would be so quick to defend him. I questioned too, whether to ask her about the accident that left Mr. Coven with one eye, but between weariness and wisdom, I let the matter rest for now.

Lady Archibald returned with a clean gown, a dark skirt and a plain white blouse.

“You can borrow one of Cook’s aprons for tomorrow, and here is an old skirt of mine and a blouse that I believe will suffice for a few days until your uniforms are delivered. We will need to do measurements tomorrow.” She addressed Miss Farrington as she placed the clothes over a wooden stool.

“Please see that Miss Cozette has a nice cup of tea and a bite to eat before retiring. I’ve put her in the smaller room next to yours.”

“Yes, mum.” Miss Farrington curtsied.

It was clear that I was going to need the cook’s alliance to help me learn the protocol required of a house servant. All of this bowing and curtsying was new to my way of life. Women rarely, if ever, curtsied where I came from, and if bowing was involved at all, it was most usually in accordance to raising their skirts for the man behind them.

“Thank you. I have much to do yet before I retire, so I will say good-night. I trust you will find your quarters comfortable, Miss Cozette.”

Miss Farrington darted me a stern look.

“Thank you, mum.” The words tumbled hastily from my mouth. “You have been most kind.” I glanced at Miss Farrington, winning the reward of her satisfied smile.

A grin lifted my new mistress’s heart-shaped mouth.

“We’ll see if you feel the same after Miss Farrington assigns you your tasks tomorrow. Do not be fooled, Miss Cozette, you will be expected to work hard for your wages. I require an impeccably clean and tidy house and absolute conformity to rule and schedule.”

I nodded and watched her leave, but my thoughts focused less on my duties and more to those she spoke of before she was to retire for the evening.

Remnants of my observations of all types of women, and of men too, for that matter, cause me to wonder these things. I have seen many a brothel woman leave to marry a client, finding happiness in the marriage, and at the same time, have seen many a married man return week after week, sampling the wares of the brothel and never seemed to find true happiness.

I need to close this entry as the cook’s loud sigh in the next room reminds me of my new employment. The walls are paper-thin, but adorned with a floral paper covering that I can imagine was once bright and cheerful. In the room is a small writing desk with a chair, a white iron bed with a single mattress on squeaky springs, made up with clean sheets and blanket and of all prizes, a feather pillow. There is a small table with a kerosene lamp next to the bed. Wood pegs behind the door serve for my few clothes, fewer now since Mrs. Farrington stuffed my former attire in the fireplace. There seemed a great deal of satisfaction showing on her face as they turned to ash.

With all that has happened, perhaps most curious to me is the image of Mr. Coven’s shocked expression. Was it my imagination or did I detect the brief, sudden clench of his jaw and flash of something more in his dark gaze?

Indeed, it is a most delicious mystery.

A most exciting day it’s been and I know it would be wise to say my prayers and think of Betsy and Ernest, but I shan’t tire Her Holiness with matters. She likely already knows. How quickly life changes! Last night I am sleeping in a brothel and tonight I am the housemaid of a stately country family. Good Heavens! I’ve not asked if they have children.

~A.C.B.

Before coming to the manor, no man save Ernest had touched me, and I remained a virgin.

Betsy and Charmise both warned that I should not give myself to a man until my body and my mind were ready to accept the idea. By that, I surmise they meant not until my body caught up with the musings already forming in my head. I was the “age of consent” but my genetics had not yet caught up with my age.

Those most comfortable with the house’s dealings would oft teach me card games, filling my head with wonderful stories of war and victory, of honor and bravery. In addition, there were the intellects also, who took pity on my lack of proper education and taught me of the changes already in motion in England’s society. As long as I had a roof over my head and food in my belly I was content in my position.

Lord François Deavereux. He arrived as a weekend guest, with plans for a day of partridge hunting. He and the master shared an amiable connection, comprised of common interests such as hunting, horses, and the fact that Lord Deavereux had recently purchased land adjacent to Willow Manor. He’d purchased it, he said, with a vision for the future, though I noted he and the master did not speak business during the evening meal.

Grass, except perhaps its being greener on the other side, was not the only interest he had, as I would soon discover. He saw no resemblance to the young manager he’d once met at Madam Rose’s theater, though new clothes, a scrubbed face and my hair kept neat beneath my cap had changed my appearance considerably.

It was long after midnight and I’d changed into a simple frock, in order to wash my uniform as I finished scrubbing the linens from the evening’s repast. My mistress has specific instructions about how her linens are to be laundered. It is my duty to see her wishes carried out. A noise from the kitchen garnered my attention.

Lord Deavereux staggered into the kitchen looking as though he’d stumbled in from a long ride. His heavy boots scraped across the brick floor and given my observation of many a man under the influence, I speculated this was the case.

I stood for a moment, battling my instincts to offer my help or return to my work. My heart stood still, for he was a most breathtaking man. He was regally handsome, tall, with broad shoulders and a supremely wicked smile. His dark, wavy hair, groomed before, now fell over his shoulders in rebellious disarray. It appeared he’d tossed his shirt on in haste as it hung loose from his breeches.

His unbuttoned shirt framed a muscular chest, sprinkled with a few dark curls that gave way to the washboard plane of his lean waist. I would not permit my gaze to travel lower for I did not want him to think me a loose woman.

He did not speak, only glanced up at me briefly and offered a subtle nod acknowledging my presence. That is the way of things and though I know it is not socially acceptable to speak to those of lower classes, I find the behavior rude, if not altogether ridiculous.

He rummaged through the bowls left from the evening meal and tore off a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, savoring its taste. My breasts tightened in speculation of what his lips would taste like as my gaze clung to his mouth.

Finding it wiser, I stepped down into the small washroom, set to finish my task and leave Lord Deavereux to his midnight feast.

A moment later, a deep sigh caused my gaze to snap up and there he stood at the washroom door, his arm braced on the door frame, all but undressing me with his eyes. Though it made me blush crimson then, now it gives me only pleasure to remember his gentle care and attentions.

Outside, the rain tapped against the small windowpane of the room. It was secluded, made private from the world outside by a hedge, and the scent of wet grass clung to the humid air. The dusky illumination of a single candle flickered enough to spark the imagination of our secret tryst.

I was not naive to the evidence of this man’s desire. I’d seen how he looked at me while I served his meal, his hungry gaze never straying far from my breasts.

For what reason I chose him to be my first, I cannot say. Perhaps it was a matter of timing, two strangers in need of comfort. Nothing more than a few stolen moments when nothing else but pleasure matters. Or perchance, I was drawn to the glint of challenge in his eye, his stallionlike tendencies waiting to be tamed at my hand.

Whatever the case, I brazenly tempted him each time I came to his side to serve him, teasing his senses as I leaned close to entice him with the full measure of what I could offer.

“More, milord?” I would smile demurely and hold the platter close to my bosom.

At first, his gaze was but a glance, but I sensed his attraction grow each time I walked into the dining hall. His dark eyes, fired with lust, held mine, causing my virgin womanhood to weep with desire. He was a magnificent specimen, bold and virile, broad-shouldered and swaggeringly handsome. Moreover, he is free of commitments, or so I am given to believe. While I know the type of women that captured his interest, I took perverse delight in seeing the passion flash in his eyes.

Still, it would be many hours yet before I would see my bed and be able to ease the ache betwixt my legs. It was true that in my swirled state of emotions, I hated him at that moment, for putting me through such torment.

At dinner, his smile when given showed straight, white, even teeth and a deep crevice along his sturdy jaw. A shadow of a beard played along his cheek and I confess it toyed with my musings to wonder what it might feel like purring against my bare skin like an amorous kitten. His hair, dark and thick, was held in place by a leather thong that gave him the look of a renegade pirate. He would wink as I served each course as though we shared the secret of our longing. To my young and fertile imagination, he was my notorious pirate and I his lusty wench. Nevertheless, as I suspected upon our meeting several months before, I am quite sure Lord Deavereux is fully aware of his handsome features and does not waste a moment in using them to his advantage.

I could not speak for I was both fearful and aroused at the same time. If what I sensed was true, there was hope that this night could change my life forever.

With that thought in mind, my breathing nearly stopped when he smiled at me. I turned back to my duties, focusing on the wash.

Without a word, he approached from behind and pressed his rugged body against my back.

“I saw how you looked at me, the desire in your eyes. Tell me now to stop and I will be crushed.”

He pressed his thighs against mine, pinning my legs between him and the wooden washtub.

A small whimper escaped my lips as his arms came around my waist, his chin resting on the sensitive curve of my shoulder.

“Do not be afraid, I would sooner die than hurt you,
mademoiselle
.”

He nuzzled the corkscrew curls at my temple, his hands gently roving along the slope of my neck, easing my inhibitions, releasing me from my fear.

His skin, warm from the sudden humidity of the rain, intensified his musky, male scent, further arousing my state of desire. In my solitude of laundering, my imagination had already gathered a bounty of fruitful musings about the handsome lord.

I wanted something, something wickedly decadent, and yet with a man of his stature and the thought of my position at the manor, I was reticent to continue, though my body yearned with an ache that I did not completely understand. Nevertheless, oh, how I wanted to.

He reached around me and cupped his hands, lowering them into the tepid, sudsy water, lifting the shimmering pool in his palms to the level of our collective gaze. With sweet sensuality he tipped his hands, deliberately allowing the water to trickle slow over the bare flesh of my chest and disappear down the smocking of my dress. I closed my eyes to the exquisite sensation of the water cool against my heated skin.

The sound of his labored breathing was precious music to my ear as he continued this playful exercise until through the sodden fabric of my dress, my young unencumbered breasts molded round and firm to the naked eye.

His breath hot against my neck filled me with wonder that I could have such a powerful effect on a man. He seemed rather to enjoy the game, taking his time, wanting to please me as much as himself, calming my concerns that he might otherwise be the type of man to take me quick as I’d seen some impatient men do at the brothel.

Graceful, unhurried in his pace, as though knowing my virgin state, he caressed and squeezed my breasts as though testing ripe, plump pears. I laid my head against his shoulder and watched through hooded lids, succumbing to his masterful touch. With my fists clenched at my sides, I fought the need to ease the chaos of need curling deep between my legs.

When he was no longer satisfied to battle—nor was I for that matter, for my body was alive with need—the barrier of the dress, a simple tug of the lacings at my back served to allow the bodice to fall open, freeing my bare, aching breasts. Oh, the pure delight of his rough beard as he rubbed my cheek, leaving a trail of warm, wet kisses along my naked shoulders.

I pushed against his hands, offering the need growing inside me to have him take each pert nipple in his sumptuous mouth and tease them to taut perfection. I wanted to beg him, but I held my tongue fearing he would be offended and leave.

As though aware of the thoughts of need consuming me, he rolled each sensitive brown tip between his thumb and forefinger, twirling them gently, fanning the smoke curling deep in my belly.

“I can see you like this, sweet girl. I so delight in giving you pleasure,” he whispered near my ear.

Such perceptions were new to me and yet, the dew forming between my thighs gave connection to sensations old as time itself.

His breath against the bare flesh of my shoulder grew ragged, yet he had not even touched my mouth. With the tip of his tongue, he drew circles at the base of my neck, making me squirm with utter delight. I shuddered when he nipped at my earlobe.

The sheer euphoria of his foreplay caused my knees to weaken and more than once I wobbled unsteady, but his strong arm caught me about the waist, holding me upright.

His touch was exquisite, seeming to know how to please a woman. But of course he would. A man of his wealth and stature surely had women of pedigree lined up waiting for a chance to experience him. How many before me? Had he been with Betsy? The questions barely settled long enough in my mind, before I waved them away. No matter the number or experience, he was slow and gentle with me, instructing me in ways he must have known were new to me.

The juncture between my thighs was warm and damp, and I was glad that I had chosen not to wear my drawers that evening. Happenstance, dreaming, or perhaps fate? I smiled with pleasure, watching our intimate shadows play against the rough-hewn stone wall. They say for a lady to have such lustful musings is purely of the devil’s own making and yet for men it is a way of life. They have need of a woman and so take her, with little pretext, even in the marriage bed. And what of the woman’s pleasure? With newfound boldness, I ran my hands down his muscular thighs with knowledge of the magnificence that lay between them, and I felt no shame in the longing of my own flesh.

Though straining against the confines of his breeches, François chuckled as he rubbed his great cock against my backside, knowing quite well the sensual torture it gave me.

My heart raced as my body writhed against his, driven toward an erotic abyss. One of unfulfilled and wicked desires, I wanted this pleasure to last forever. My head was spinning, my mouth uttered soft moans urging him to continue.

With palms flat, he slid his hands roughshod over my breasts and down my stomach, hooking my skirt between my legs. He drew the cloth firm against the apex of my legs, sliding his fingers across my wet womanhood, stroking my sensitive nub through the coarse fabric. Over and over until I thought I would cry out, he repeated the sweet torture, my body burning for release.

It is with no shame that I admit I had no thought to any sort of future with the handsome Lord Deavereux. A woman of standards, of course, would surely demand commitment, at least in her mind, if not in her heart. I have no such demand, nor the desire to shackle this man or any other for that matter. Good heavens, no! Indeed, I know well his attention is temporary and most likely under influence of strong drink. Still, words left unspoken had no bearing on this momentary passion; neither of us had desire to muddle this stolen rapture, with false promises or sweet lies.

He removed his hands but for a moment, I suspect to free himself from his breeches. I would have done as much, had I been asked, as in this, I am practiced in the art of watching a man unravel before my eyes to the stroke of my hand.

“Exquisitely young, ripe for my instruction,” he whispered near my ear.

With slow and steady deliberation, his hands drifted over my hips, lifting my skirts as he left hot kisses against my neck.

He bent me forward, forcing me to brace myself on the sides of the tub, and bunched my skirt over my hips. His rough, callused hands smoothed over my bare bottom and his thumbs brushed my moist heat, bringing me to my toes with shuddered delight.

I grasped the wet wood, my fingers digging into its sides. My breath grew labored as I watched my bare breasts dangle before me quivering with anticipation. To please him, I spread my legs wide as I’d observed at the brothel to accommodate his entry. Of course, I had reasoned that for a man of his height and strength, that his cock too, would be formidable. I glanced over my shoulder to catch a glimpse, but he placed a teasing kiss on my bare bottom and pointed for me to turn around. Would he be a disappointment after all of his exquisite foreplay?

François teased first, no doubt a gentleman’s protocol in order for my body to accept his engorged rod. He brushed his fingers gently through my damp curls, pressing the tips of his fingers inside my dewy folds. My body shuddered with release when his fingers entered me deep and I gasped with glorious delight, holding my urge to scream out in pleasure so as not to wake the rest of the house.