The Diary of Cozette (5 page)

“You must have eaten a good number of them,” I responded, “for your skill is most evident. Indeed, what else has this friend taught you?”

He straightened his gaze to mine. “It isn’t polite to speak of such things with a woman, Cozette.”

“Ernest, surely you aren’t serious? You’ve but feasted quite arduously on my most personal jewel, how absurd that we cannot speak of it, or of the utter joy you have given me?”

He grinned and tapped my nose. “It pleased you then?”

He pulled my blouse back in place, carefully tying the ribbons at my shoulders, dotting each with a lingering kiss. I glanced down, keenly aware of the bulge straining against his breeches.

“On the contrary, I am not only pleased, but inspired. Shall I not have the good fortune to return the pleasure?” I slid my hand over his crotch, following the hard line of his firm erection and rubbed my thumb over his smooth crown pressing against the fabric. Wetness pricked through the cloth where my thumb skimmed and I smiled.

He covered my hand with his and kissed me slow and thorough, before placing my hand aside. My juices lingered still on his tongue, causing the need to grow again inside me.

“I shall appease my body with a brisk walk in the night air.” He kissed my nose.

“But Ernest, I want to appease—”

He touched his finger to my lips, halting my words. I could not express the turmoil raging inside me. I wanted to turn him onto his back and ride him like a wild horse. However, a true woman wouldn’t dream of such a thing, would she?

“Do not leave me in this state, I beg you, Ernest.”

“Promise me, Cozette, that you will meet my driver at midnight. I have paid him handsomely to see your safe passage.”

Resigned that I was not to lose my virginity this night to Ernest I touched his face, tracing my fingers over his brow, immortalizing a fond memory of his face. I was nauseous thinking I might never see him again, to experience his exquisite touch.

He touched his forehead to mine.

“I have something for you.” He held out a book, its binding hand-sewn. Inside the pages were blank.

“It is a journal.”

I looked up at him, despondent that I had nothing but my virginity to offer in return.

“I have nothing for you to remember me by,” I replied, my fingers skimming over the worn corduroy cover. I thought of a jacket I’d seen him in once, and wondered if he’d used it to fashion the book.

“You have given me your friendship and your trust, Cozette. That is more precious than any possession. I will sorely miss our conversations, so write to me in this book, so I will know of your days and nights, until we meet again.”

“I will wait for you.” I croaked my oath though the emotion clogging my throat, saying it loud to make it real.

“Be well, little bird. I promise I will work hard and come to you soon. Do not forget me.”

He kissed me once again with such gentleness that it caused tears to merge from my closed lids. As if forgetting would be so easy a task.

I knew he was gone before I opened my eyes, my heart bereft of its soul mate, even as I opened my lids to see him departing into the shadows. I shivered with the fear that I might never see him again.

As I prepare my few possessions, I cannot let any of the younger girls know of my departure, for their own safety. I will wait until they are asleep and then slip from the house. Ernest has said his goodbyes and I know he will not risk meeting me again. However, our hearts are bound by far greater substance than what distance or time can sever. I go because he has asked me, and with hope that he will be true and come to me soon.

~A.C.B.

It is approaching dawn and I write this before I journey onward. With this book clutched to my breast, I stepped from the farmer’s ramshackle wagon into the chilly mist-shrouded morning. I turned my gaze to the strange city that was to become my home. From the dirt road at the edge of London, I noted the rows of buildings, stretching for blocks, and my attention was drawn to the bustle of the early morning market vendors preparing for the day. In the distance, the deep blast of a ship’s whistle declared its arrival into port.

My thoughts leapt immediately to Ernest and I wondered where he was at this precise moment. Was he thinking of me? Is he at this moment busy at work, trying to avoid the inevitable anger that Mr. Abbot will unleash once he finds I am gone? My heart fears what might happen if he finds out that Ernest has helped me to escape.

It occurs most painfully to me that I never revealed to Ernest my deep feelings for him. Perhaps it is best to leave in this way, for it fills me with determination and hope that I can tell him when he comes for me.

The road is like a quagmire, thick and gray, and my slippers sink to my ankles so that I must struggle to free my foot.

My stockings are mud-caked and cold, sodden against my skin and my stomach growls pitifully from lack of food. I have just enough for a loaf of bread, and perhaps an apple if I can find an agreeable, compassionate farmer.

I remind myself that it is my dearest Ernest, who in his wisdom procured my safe passage, thinking it best for me. To that belief, I will endeavor to be strong. Still, I pray that he will come soon. I must find shelter before night falls.

~A.C.B.

It has been over a year since I left Foxhead and Ernest. There is still no word from him and my heart fears the worst. The journal he gave me has accompanied me though remains silent after I lost my writing tools in the streets. For a time I lived among other vagrants like me, wandering the back alleys, finding shelter near crates or locked entryways. A good day was finding a rain barrel where I could wash my face and hands, and use my fingers to scrub my teeth. I do not stay in one spot for long, but keep moving, searching for work, if only temporary to allow me to buy a piece of fruit or some warm ale from a cart on the street. I stay keen to the roving eyes of degenerate men who see me as fresh meat for their physical hunger.

As winter settles over the city, I find ways to stay warm, stuffing my coat with old paper against the bitter wind. The nights are unbearable and I search the dark streets, keeping my face turned from the lights of the small campfires burning in the alleyways.

There was a woman I met, whose attitude was much stronger and determined than mine. She could see that I was weak from hunger and shivering against the cold of my now threadbare coat. She shared a piece of bread and a bit of moldy cheese with me as we sat in the alcove of a warehouse service entrance and spoke about her time on the streets.

“I’ve been out here for almost three years.” The woman glanced at me. At first one wouldn’t recognize the woman beneath the tweed hat. She was dressed like a man, and I would not have known otherwise, except when she removed her cap. Her face with filthy pale skin had expressive brown eyes and she had the innocent appeal of a young lad. She saw my perplexed look.

“This disguise has been my survival, of that I am certain. Were I still in my skirts, I likely would be dead, pregnant or both.”

Given her experience and survival instincts, I listened attentively as we walked.

We ended up near the docks, for the most part deserted at that time of night. I began to fear that my eagerness to trust her was premature.

“Ye almost always find one down here,” she commented.

“Find what?” I queried, adjusting my papers in my coat to provide warmth or protection, at present, I wasn’t sure.

“The dead.”

I stared at her wide-eyed, shocked in the manner in which she spoke of the dead, as if it was an everyday occurrence. My gaze was drawn to the darkness around me. The dim glow of the lamplights in this part of town gave an eerie sense of danger lurking in the shadows. Fearful I might stumble over something…or someone, I stood my ground, hugging my arms and barely breathing. She ambled along the edge of the dock and around the corner of the empty warehouse behind us.

“Here’s one, come on, over here,” she called from a few hundred feet.

My feet would not move, for the fear holding them in place. Was this how my life would end, penniless and left to rot on a deserted dock?

“Well, are ye comin’ or not? Someone else’ll find him sooner than not. It’s now we need to strike. Ye don’t need to be so proud missy. He ain’t goin’ to mind.”

I forced one foot in front of the other, the sound of my breathing echoing in my ears with each step. As I rounded the corner, I saw her silhouette standing over the lifeless body of a man.

“Likely just died a’hunger.” She tapped the corpse with her boot. His shoulder rolled listless, before falling back to the dock.

“Come on now, it’s you ’er him now. What use is his warm jacket and pants where he is?”

I held down the vomit threatening to climb out of my throat as I hastily disrobed him. I made a vow that should I survive I would pledge to help those less fortunate. Once complete, I held back the tears stinging the back of my eyes as we rolled his cold corpse to the edge of the dock and tossed him into the bay.

My new companion, who would only refer to herself as Tony, then wrapped my old clothes secure around a rusty piece of ship metal and tossed it in after the dead man.

I stood there watching my clothes sink into the black, murky waters and knew then that for those on the street, survival is our greatest possession.

“Come on, we’ll bunk in here for the night.”

She ushered me to the abandoned warehouse. With most of its windows broken, the night wind howled menacingly through the cavernous interior.

“There is one more thing.”

She pulled a long-bladed fish knife from her boot and held it up, its sharp edge glinting in the light of the winter moon. I was faint from hunger and the sight of her knife made me stumble backward, tripping over my feet and landing in a broken pile of crates in a feeble attempt to escape. “Please don’t—” I whispered, knowing I didn’t have the strength to climb to my feet and fight her off.

She reached out her hand to mine.

“Don’t be a fool. I mean you no harm. But to complete yer look, you’ll need to cut yer hair.”

She helped me to my feet and searched until she found an unbroken crate.

“There, sit down, miss. I plan to cut those fine locks to complete your disguise.”

She must have seen the shimmer of tears in my eyes. “Must we cut my hair?”

“Now, don’t get all weepy, it’ll grow back one day. There are times when a woman must use her wits. Not all of us have a man to take care of us.”

I blinked away my fear as she sawed the blunt knife through my tresses, dropping great handfuls of my hair at my feet.

“Was there a man once?” I asked, trying to take my mind off the knife precariously close to my neck.

“Aye lass, a scoundrel to be sure, but I finally learned my lesson with that one.”

I wanted to ask how, but feared her emotional stability on the subject.

“I have found, in my few experiences, that men can be most unreliable.” I lifted my hand to the side she’d completed and found no more than a handful of ragged sections.

“You best lose that high-brow tone, missy. Out here, most folks are common. They can spot an imposter with but one word uttered from yer mouth.”

“How I speak?” I turned my head to meet her gaze.

“Aye lass, if you are to be an actor playing this part, for your survival, then be warned to leave yer book learnin’ behind. You’ll be better for it, trust me.”

She tucked the knife inside her boot and brushed off her hands.

“There now, there’s a proper bloke if ever I saw one.”

“I have nothing to give you in return,” I whispered.

She shrugged.

“Stay alive. That’s what I intend to do.”

She handed me her tweed cap, saluted me with her finger to her forehead. “Don’t you need the hat?”

“I’ll find another quick as you please. Now I’m goin’ to find me a spot to settle down for a few winks.”

In the next moment, I stood alone in the dark. I closed my eyes, willing Ernest to appear, to rescue me from taking another step alone. He would know what to do next. He always had a brilliant plan, another dream.

However, it was
his
brilliant plan that led me to this very moment. My long chestnut-colored hair, once the pride and the joy of light in my Ernest’s eyes, now tumbled across the floor in the night wind.

Ernest is not here.

I took a deep breath and set my cap over my shortened locks. It was the last time I saw the woman named Tony.

I wandered the streets like a ghost. Not another homeless soul glanced in my direction.

It did not take long as a man to find work. I find it amusing in a strange way that the double standard between men and women is apparent. I wondered how long it might have taken me to find work as a woman and yet in my disguise as a man, I was quickly able to get on with a pub owner who needed help in cleaning and upkeep in return for a room, a pint and one meal a day. It was a king’s plenty for having lived months searching for scraps in trash bins.

In the days to follow, I became aware of my surroundings, and it has occurred to me that the pub owner rents out his upstairs rooms to another business, one which many a homeless woman eventually turns to in order to make quick money.

I dutifully ignore the grunts and groans beyond the thin walls, reminding myself that my situation is temporary until Ernest appears. Though I admit the sounds of unbridled pleasure oft-times creates an unbearable longing for him.

Not the pub owner, Madam Spencer (the upstairs renter) or any of its clients so far is aware of my identity. I keep my cap pulled down over my eyes and, mindful of Tony’s warning, refrain as much as possible from speaking to anyone. I suspect the pub owner may feel I am unable to speak, as he placed an extra slice of bread on my plate in tonight’s supper. Once or twice I have entertained the thought of revealing myself to the madam and requesting employment, but I talk myself out of it every time when I hear the horrid stories between the pub patrons of young girls being used in ways unfathomable for the sake of odd pleasures.

Therefore, I do my work and keep to myself, staying in my small room and writing in my journal. (I was able to trade part of my wages for a quill and a bottle of ink from the pub owner.)

I wonder at the wisdom of trying to get word to Ernest of where I am staying. My quarters are sparse, having but a single cot with a filthy mattress and stained pillow. There is a heavy wool blanket, torn in several places and it appears to have come from a livery. I do not allow my mind to dwell on what events may have occurred on my naked mattress, but a stray giggle from down the hall quickly reminds me of the probabilities. I sleep fully clothed for warmth and to place as much between me and the bed as possible.

There is a small table that has a broken leg that I was able to mend with a bit of twine I found while taking out the refuse. I have a small wooden chair, and a kerosene lamp, which I use sparingly.

There is but one window, barely large enough to poke my head through that is my only ventilation. Unfortunately, it overlooks the alley at the back of the pub. Most nights I keep it closed against the stench rising from the alley below.

I try not to think too long on the things that I miss—Ernest, most always, fresh air, and my beloved hair, though I must admit the upkeep is much easier. I am able to bathe in the public facility once every two weeks, though I must exercise caution to do so only when it is empty. It is in that privacy, when the cool water touches my flesh that I close my eyes and think of Ernest.

My eyes fail me in this dim light and I mustn’t waste the oil, for it costs me an evening’s supper to fill it from the pub owner. I will rise early to tend to my duties of sweeping out the pub, laundering the towels, wiping down all the glassware, polishing the woodwork and chopping wood for the corner stove in the pub. After that, I am at the owner’s disposal in running errands and helping his cook in the galley with stew and potatoes for the noon crowds. My hope dims for your arrival, Ernest, but my determination is strong that you will not abandon me here in this life forever. I shall close with a fervent hope that you will come to me soon.

With complete devotion,

~A.C.B.