The Diary of Cozette (28 page)

“My gratitude, Mr. Coven, for your kindness,” I whispered, holding his stoic gaze.

Mrs. Farrington shook her head, disgusted at the weak enthusiasm embedded in my gratitude.

“I’ll fetch you a cup of tea, seems the cold has affected your speech as well. You stay right here and keep your feet in that pail.”

I nodded and she brushed past Mr. Coven offering him a smile and a pat on his arm as if to make up for what my thank-you lacked.

Once out of earshot, Mr. Coven stepped back into the room and whispered. “Do you plan to tell me why you were hiding, Miss Cozette? Is it Mr. Jensen, for if this is the case, you must tell me plainly and I will see that I speak to him at once upon his return.”

Surprised he would be so quick to accuse Jensen, I simply shook my head, but held my tongue. I would not chance Mrs. Farrington catching any part of this conversation.

“I see.”

There was a substantial pause, before he walked over, his startling hulk of a form towering over me a moment, before he knelt at my feet.

“Miss Cozette, I am obliged to ask you a question which I fear you may misinterpret.”

My eyes searched his singular gaze, the same I’d beheld on several occasions since my arrival. There were moments, like now, that I had to fight against brushing back the dark curl that slipped over his eye patch and more times than I could recall I yearned to understand the horrid accident that marred his otherwise handsome features. Despite his self-imposed solitude, his loyalty to Master Archibald was unwavering and I could not help admire such loyalty, however misguided.

“Forgive my boldness, Miss Cozette, for I have no other delicate means of presenting this, in fact I hesitate to speak my thoughts aloud, they seem so greatly absurd.”

My curiosity now was piqued. “Mr. Coven,” I whispered in a raspy voice, “you are welcome to ask me anything.” I had nothing to hide, truly of my own making and my loyalty was as strong to the trust of my mistress as was Mr. Coven with his master.

“Do you have any reason to fear Master Archibald?”

He lowered his voice, checking once over his shoulder for Mrs. Farrington’s return. It was clear to me now that he thought that the master was proposing an impropriety upon our relationship, even as he’d allowed Betsy at the picnic. As if Master Archibald, were he not married to my beautiful mistress, would appeal to me as a potential lover! What a preposterous, if not utterly dreadful, thought!

My voice was as cold as the skin of my bum, soaked now to the bone and I hoped there was enough water left to take a warm bath. “I assure you I have nothing to fear, and further I would like to say that Master Archibald, were he not married, would not appeal to me in the least.”

He blew out a cleansing breath and rocked back on his heels. My curiosity as to why he asked such a blatant question captured fully my attention. “And may I, sir, ask by what assumptions would you ask such a question of me?”

I would be describing a falsehood were I to state that I did not take a small measure of pride at the shock that registered on Mr. Coven’s face.

“I only meant, Miss Cozette, that if the master was taking inappropriate actions…well, you should have someone you can confide in.”

“And you feel that you should play this role as my confidant?”

He stood then looking down at me, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. Which bothered me more, I could not say—what he thought of Master Archibald, or what he thought of me. Still, regardless of what unsaid rift still lies between us, or even what he may think of me, I wanted him to understand my position.

“Mr. Coven, let me be clear of one matter most explicitly. No man, master or not, except and only by my consent, does touch me.”

He closed his eye and I noted the tick of his muscle in his clenched jaw. His mouth, most appealing in my memory of our shared kiss, was stretched thin in his angst. He cleared his throat and gave a short bow.

“My apologies Miss Cozette, I did not presume to pry into your private affairs.”

“Didn’t you? And pray, Mr. Coven, since we have never spoken since of the incident in your quarters, can you tell me honestly that you aren’t the least bit curious?”

His one-eyed dark green gaze swerved to mine. A moment clicked by and in that moment Ernest’s eyes glittering in the dusky shadow of the cellar sparked in my memory. I studied his face, but could not speak the thoughts lodged in my brain.

No doubt, I was saved from further embarrassment only by Mrs. Farrington’s return.

“Here now, Miss Cozette, I’ve got more water boiling for a shallow bath when you’re finished with that.” She slid past Mr. Coven and held out a tray holding two cups of steaming chamomile tea.

“Mr. Coven, please take this cup, it will take a moment to fetch another for myself.”

“No thank you, Miss Farrington. I’ve got to be on my way.”

He tore open the door and perhaps it was only me that noticed that he shut it with great vigor.

Mrs. Farrington set the tray on the servants’ dining table and poured the fragrant tea.

“Well now, something seems to be unsettling Mr. Coven this evening.” She sipped her tea, as did I, careful to avoid her gaze. “Have you any idea what it might be?”

I shook my head. The further from my mind that I could distance the memory of Mr. Coven’s kiss the better.

“Fine then, do you intend to tell me then why you scurried off as you did, and please don’t for my benefit concoct some story about hair combs, you rarely wear them. You forget how long you have been here, Cozette, I know nearly everything there is to know about you.”

She settled back in her chair, her scrutinizing gaze resting on me.

“I explained—”

“The truth now, Miss Cozette. Do you think me daft? Has the master given you reason to fear him?”

I placed my cup on the table and looked at her directly, dismissing her previous comment and wondering just how much she really knew about me. “Why does everyone seem to think that Master Archibald is soliciting me for inappropriate behavior? Me, of all people?”

Casual as you please, Mrs. Farrington took a sip of her tea before she answered.

“You’ve no idea, dear girl, what a very beautiful and alluring young woman you’ve grown to be.”

Aside from Mr. Rodin, no one but Ernest had ever spoken such words to my face, at least with any sincerity.

“The master has done nothing of the sort, Mrs. Farrington.” I hesitated briefly, debating whether to reveal my position on the matter. “It is merely the wishes of my mistress that I endeavor to uphold.”

“And those would be?” she prompted.

“That Master Archibald not be allowed privilege of the key to her room.” I rushed on, at once needing to justify my seeming lack of regard of my master over the wishes of my mistress. “I gave her my word, Mrs. Farrington. She insisted I do so.”

“And she gave you the only key?”

“I presumed that you may also possess an extra.”

She shook her head and took another sip of her tea. My stomach had soured to the prospect of accepting anything, tea or otherwise. Her gaze rose to mine.

“She places a great deal of trust in you, Miss Cozette.”

“As I know she does in you, Mrs. Farrington, and Mr. Coven and Jensen.”

She shook her head with a measure of certainty.

“No, miss. This is different. Quite unlike any relationship I’ve seen between a mistress and her other housemaids. You’ve become more her personal and that responsibility is altogether different than what I have trained you to do.”

I feared for a moment that she would give me my papers to leave. “I will at your discretion hand over the key to your possession, Mrs. Farrington.” I cannot bear the thought of being cast into the streets of London again.

“Oh, my dear girl, I wouldn’t hear of that. I am happy that my mistress has taken you under her wing. Indeed, you are aware how fortunate you are to have her trust?”

“I would sooner slice my throat than see her harmed in any way.” Mrs. Farrington smiled and its genuine warmth eased my concerns.

“It is well then that you should be the one to guard her trust.”

Again, my curiosity reared its ugly head. “Mrs. Farrington, may I ask you an exceedingly bold question?”

“Is it about Mr. Farrington?”

“No, mum.”

“Fine, then ask me anything.” She drank down a long swallow, finishing her tea.

“The master and the missus, it would seem in all the time that I have been on here, their relationship has…well, it’s never been…quite what I would expect a marriage to be.” Her brows rose, not a reaction that surprised me much. She cleared her throat as she leaned in close.

“The mistress has wealthy family ties. This marriage, and I do not speak of what isn’t already well-known, is by arrangement. Her father chose Master Archibald from the firm that he now heads. He felt she would benefit most from the stability that an older man could offer her.”

“Bloody hell,” I whispered, not realizing until it was too late that I’d spoken my thoughts aloud. I caught Mrs. Farrington’s look of surprise. “She can not be much my elder, Mrs. Farrington. How could a father do such a thing to his daughter?”

“Such arrangements are most common and often work out for the best, Miss Cozette.”

“Indeed if both husband and wife share equally the passion between them,” I responded, as boldly, for indeed I truly believe this is the only way for a satisfying happiness to be found between two people.

She smiled. “And by what authority do you have these wisdoms of marriage?”

“Mrs. Farrington, despite my age and my random acts that you find immature and thoughtless, my experience in the area of relationships has allowed me to observe many forms of dealings between men and women. I offer no judgments, for those I keep to myself, but I speak in this case, of only what I see.”

“And what do you see, Miss Cozette?”

“The truth, mum, if I may speak freely?”

“As if you could speak in any other manner on any given subject, Miss Cozette? Of course.” She smirked, pouring a half cup more of tea in her cup and mine.

“She is exceedingly unhappy. Forced into a marriage with a man who believes more in his work than in his marriage, who would betray his pregnant wife, and yet even after all of this, returns to his work?”

“But she refuses to listen to him,” she interjected though with not much of a defense in her tone.

“Would you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I cannot say what I would do given the same circumstances.”

“She deserves to be happy, Mrs. Farrington. She is young, much too young to be pining away for a man that doesn’t care for her.”

“That is a judgment that neither you nor I can pronounce, Miss Cozette,” she cautioned.

“She deserves more.”

Mrs. Farrington began to gather the teacups.

“Perhaps, but ours is not to intervene. The mistress must come to these realizations without our meddling.”

“If she has not already done so,” I reminded her as I began to strip off my mud-soaked skirts.

“Even so, she must decide what course of action is best for her. Though I hesitate to think what her father would do if she asked for a divorce. The man is not known for his even temper.”

It drove me mad to feel so utterly helpless in this situation. I wanted to suggest to Mrs. Farrington that our mistress have an affair, a long, passionate, secret affair that would bring back the color in her cheeks and the smile on her face. Someone who would make her feel desirable again. True it was that Master Archibald may never have performed the sort of physical abuse to make his wife shrivel like an unattended flower, but his type was no less destructive.

I padded into the washroom where the tub for my bath stood waiting. Careful to keep my dark skirts separate from my white apron, I placed them in separate tubs of soap to soak, reminding myself that I would need to press a second uniform tonight before retiring.

Easing into the steaming water, less full than normal as it was an unplanned bath, I picked up a sponge, drizzling the tepid water over my body. I settled back against the tub with a heavy sigh.

Surely there is a way that I can help my mistress discover her passion.

~Lady C.

Just two days since the master left the house and my mistress’s countenance had fallen, indeed along with her spirit. To my curiosity, she’d refused to speak with him, swearing my oath to keep him from entering her chambers. Now that his presence is no longer an issue, she lies despondent and listless.

I sorely doubt that to the extent of my days, I shall ever quite understand the trappings of a woman’s mind. (Mine excluded of course, as I feel at most times that I am the most reasonable woman I have ever known.)

In some respect, I have Master Rodin to thank for this clarity, which gives me such honesty of my own regard. It was indeed by his encouragement that I should embrace my desires, whatever they may be. Whether creative or belief, but to do so with all the passion inside me.

However, I fear I cannot make out my mistress. Her first thought is to belittle herself even as she knows of her husband’s betrayal. This alone puzzles me exceedingly. Further, I find it a travesty that as the fairer sex, we rely solely on the male to inspire our passions, which by design is irrefutably ours to begin with. Indeed, at what stage in our fragile lives do we become aware that we are by far the best judge of our passions?

Too much attention on this topic has brought a dull ache to my head and since it is but two days until Christmas, a day of goodwill to all men (and surely they must mean to include women) therefore I shall put away my ill will and embrace the festive spirit of the season.

At this time, in years past, my mistress would have been seeing to the last-minute details of the Archibald holiday gathering. Though attempts had been made to invite a few close friends and acquaintances, the weather imposed its final determination to squelch my mistress’s spirit by laying a heavy blanket of white over the countryside, making travel virtually impossible.

My mistress lay still in bed after noon, dark circles rimming her once bright eyes. I found myself most determined to lift her spirits and carried several buckets of warm water from the kitchen so she could bathe by the fire. Fear of her despondency and what actions Mr. Archibald might take gave me great concern. With his manner unstable, I fear he would send her away to an asylum should she not come around.

I was not about to let that happen.

“Is it possible he was charmed so utterly by Miss Livengood that he was cast under her spell and knew not what he was doing at the time?”

I poured another bucket of hot water in the copper tub near the fire, as I prepared a bath. It was clear to me now that, in the last few months, she’d busied herself to the point of exhaustion refusing to acknowledge, except by abstinence, what had happened at the picnic. Still, I am cautious of being too open with my response. A servant’s duty is not to take notice much less have opinions.

I shifted the firewood over the glowing embers and leaned down to blow enough to ignite a glowing ember into a small flame.

“Miss Cozette, I beg you answer. I have no other soul with whom I may speak so candidly.”

Protocol warned me silently that I should not respond, but continue to prepare my mistress’s bath as instructed by Mrs. Farrington. Nevertheless, the poor woman was most distraught, how could I turn a deaf ear?

I stepped to the end of the bed and folded my hands. “May I have permission to speak freely, mum?”

She sat upright, her fiery red hair cascading over her delicate shoulders. “I once was a woman of great standing, you know. My father offered a substantial dowry to Master Archibald at the time of our announcement. Quite handsome, the dowry, as to Mr. Archibald I had rather grave misgivings as to our age difference.”

She glanced away, worry etched on her face as she held her fingertip to her mouth, her gaze far away and thinking of another time.

“He had gray hair even then, but he was well-to-do and found me a suitable candidate for a union. It did help that he and my father had been in business and that he found Mr. Archibald to be most progressive in business matters.”

She slipped off the covers, swung her pale legs over the edge of the bed, and raised her hands into the air, like a child waiting to be undressed. Dutifully, I came to her aid and lifted her gown over her head. I’d never seen my mistress unclothed, though I’d seen many women before her. She was most agreeable, and still held the breath of life that I’d noted the first day, but it was simply hidden from view by a thick veil of hurt and confusion.

“Come now, Mrs. Archibald, a warm bath will do you a world of good,” I said as she sniffed with a nod and accepted my aid. With my arm about her waist, she padded the few feet to the copper tub near the fire.

“Please, I would not have asked your thoughts had I not wanted them, Cozette.”

My experience gave me pause to consider my words most wise so as not to show particular affinity for either my master or mistress. “I do not believe that you have been naive, mum. As for Miss Livengood’s charms, they are far less naive. Perhaps Master Archibald, as I have found most men when it comes to the subject of their egos, are drawn like a fly to honey. Flattery is a most bewitching spell when we are most vulnerable and men often believe themselves to be just that in terms of relationships. Moreover, it has been my observation that men so often think with little more than what lies between their legs. Why, in truth when you think reasonably on the subject, men are but a most conceited breed, forever in need of their egos being stroked to make them feel more of a man.”

Her gentle weeping drew my attention. I kneeled at the side of the tub and lifted the sponge, handing it to her.

“Here, let me secure your hair.” I swirled her auburn tresses expertly atop her head and secured them with her combs. “There now, you relax and I shall see to getting you something to eat.”

“Cozette?”

I turned back, seeing her seated with her back to me, the fair skin of her arm resting on the tub, shimmering in the firelight.

“I would like a brandy, please.”

Her request gave me pause to caution her at least until she had food in her stomach. “Pardon, milady, you’d like a brandy
before
your evening meal?”

“Master Archibald states it helps him to relax from his stress at work. Perhaps it will do the same for me.”

“Yes, mum.”

“Cozette?”

“Yes, mum.” I curtsied out of habit.

“Bring the decanter.”

I knew her request was unwise and could see no good would come of it; still I could not deny her request. I left her in the bath, somewhat uneasy about her mental state, and hurried to the library only to find the cabinet locked. Of course, it would be secured. I’d forgotten and the only one other than the master with access to the cabinet was Mrs. Farrington.

I found her busy in the kitchen, preparing a traditional Christmas pudding as though nothing at all had changed in the holiday schedule.

She eyed me as I entered and, I surmise, needing to justify her labors she felt need to explain what she was doing.

“There will still be mouths to feed, Jensen, Mr. Coven, you and the missus. We’ll have as grand of a feast as any Christmas.”

Her complexion grew ruddy as it does when she is about to weep. “I am sure the mistress will appreciate your persistence, Mrs. Farrington. We will all benefit from your thoughtfulness this year. May I please have the key to the master’s liquor cabinet?”

Her hands halted in kneading the meats and rich spices in the bowl before her. The aroma wafted through the air defiantly bringing Christmas to the house, despite the gray cloud of unease that fought to quell it.

The look on Mrs. Farrington’s face was not as festive.

“What in heaven’s name do you need that for, Miss Cozette?”

“If memory serves, you will need to add a bit of brandy to your pudding,” I responded.

She glanced down at the bowl. “But you did not know I was making this until this very moment.”

“True, but I wager that you will want to divide out your required measurement before I take it to the mistress.”

“The mistress is wanting brandy and before the evening meal?” Her gaze widened as she fumbled for her hand towel to wipe her hands.

“She’s requested I bring the decanter.”

“Oh, my heavens, this is not good, not good at all.” She wrung her hands with worry.

I picked out a piece of walnut from a bowlful on the work cabinet and popped it in my mouth with a shrug. “Perhaps it is.”

“Miss Cozette, you can’t believe so.”

“She is making decisions. That is more than we have seen from her in days, is it not?”

“Unwise decisions, to be sure. To set out to get inebriated is not sound judgment to my way of thinking.”

“Nor mine, Mrs. Farrington, but will you be the one to tell her no? For quite honestly, given all that has happened to her in this past year, I feel she most assuredly deserves it.”

She eyed me with wariness flickering in her gaze. With a sigh and a shake of her head, reflecting her feelings, she fished into her pocket and retrieved the key.

“Mind you, that key is entrusted to me by the master, do not lose it,” she called after me.

By the time I fetched the decanter, a proper glass, and a suitable tray complete with a few crackers, my mistress was back in bed, wrapped in her dressing gown.

I placed the tray at her bedside and poured her a small splash as she sat up and faced me.

She accepted the glass and raising it in toast, she dropped the entire contents down her throat and held the glass out to me.

Her face contorted, and tears trickled from her squeezed lids.

“Another.”

“Mum, perhaps—”

“Miss Cozette, I am not a tosspot. I rarely partake. But it is the holiday and today I feel like a drink…maybe several.”

Mrs. Farrington was going to have my head on this very tray. “Yes, mum.” I poured another and at least two more, before she finally looked up at me with a satisfied smile.

“Happy Christmas, Cozette.”

I curtsied. “Indeed, mum. Perhaps a short nap before your supper would be agreeable?”

She stared into the fire as though she hadn’t heard me. “Have I grown plain to him, Cozette? Do I no longer possess the lure of my youth as I once had over my husband?”

She flicked open her robe and stared at her naked form.

“Perhaps I no longer am able to provide what Master Archibald needs as his proper wife.”

She began to weep again and my heart squeezed tight for her painful self-imposed torture. I sat beside her on the bed and she turned her face into my bosom, like a child and sobbed most plaintively.

After a few moments she sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

“Cozette, I have a favor to ask, it is most untoward of me, but I am desperate to feel the comfort of another human being. Is that unnatural of me?”

I found it a perfect opportunity to mention my thoughts of an affair with Mr. Coven.

“Would you lie down with me, and just hold me until I fall asleep?”

I had no sisters, but I can remember my mother, brushing back the hair from my face when I could not close my eyes for the hunger in my belly. My mistress’s request was not made as my employer, but as a friend.

“Indeed, mum, you settle yourself and I’ll check the fire, then I shall sit with you until you fall asleep and when you awaken, it shall be Christmas Eve.”

“You’ll lay with me, Cozette?” she reiterated, the brandy and drowsiness affecting her speech already.

“Yes, mum.”

She turned away and my heart warmed at her confidence in my companionship.

I did not give thought to anything more than providing her with the warmth of my embrace. Her soft snoring made me smile as I lay down curling in close to her back.

She snuggled her backside close, causing her dressing gown to gap open, revealing her bare leg. Reaching back, she took my arm and draped it over her, grasping my hand in hers and drawing under her chin. I wondered if this is how she and the master had once slept, cocooned to one another, true soul mates, oblivious to the turns life would give them.

I watched for a time the shadows flicker on the wall. The room, exquisitely designed, was soft and feminine like the woman herself.

Her hand moved to her breast and so too mine. I shifted gently attempting to move my fingers from her plump warmth, but she held my hand firm. Her breathing was steady, dictated by her quiet slumber.

I do not know even now what prompted me to do what I did next, for the intent was for no other desire than to release the demons of self-doubt in her. She was in a deep brandy-induced sleep, perhaps dreaming of better days. My head told me to leave, my heart, aching for this woman’s ego, chose to stay.

I brushed my finger slightly over the soft peak of her tender breast and sensed it happily grow stiff with my attention. A sweet moan emitted quietly from her throat as she slept, dreaming, I hoped, of a phantom lover.

I licked my lips, sure that if I could practice well the skill of performing pleasure to myself, why not to another most in need of the same? I eased my hand over her thigh, slipping beneath the gap in her robe, moving with unhurried care to the soft dampness of her mons.

In her inebriated slumber, she sighed and shifted her legs, allowing greater exposure.

Soft and gently, with far less fervor than to myself, I stroked her, until her folds kissed my finger with dew. Her breathing grew labored in her sleep, soft mewls escaping her parted lips. I continued, her hips moving only slightly against mine, but I knew she was nearing the edge of her release. At that moment, I wished I had thought to bring Charmise’s fine French
diletto
with me.

I stroked deeper until at last her body shuddered with a soft high-pitched sigh. A moment later, her breathing returned to the steady sound of her slumber.

I eased from the bed and drew the covers over her, standing for a moment watching her sleep. Looking down at her face, eased now from her stress, I found the memories of my lovers, Ernest, Andrew, Mr. Rodin and François, leaving me with a dull ache, the memories of my delicious encounters with each one flooding my mind. Perhaps a shot of brandy was what I needed.