The Diary of Cozette Read online

  It is by a small kindness—and a measure of pity I am certain—that the good Lady Archibald has summoned me to my present station.

  I was in the market searching for potential clients to direct to Madam Rose’s when I noted with some interest a handsome couple strolling with their coachman through the stalls of the vendors. Few of the elite of our society come to the markets direct, but will send a servant to fetch their wares. To that end, it seemed odd. He was rather stoic, hanging back as though barely interested in her shopping, while she chatted amiably with the vendors and passersby as though on quite common terms. The thought crossed my mind that she may be a former lady of the night, as many do oft marry above them, if not for love, for convenience’ sake. Then again, there were small bands of “do-gooders,” benevolent types that lowered themselves to try to save us from our sinful lives of poverty and wanton lifestyle. I had to laugh quietly as I observed them meandering through the ragged-looking throng of the early-morning market crowd. Most certainly they were prime unsuspecting marks for the savvy eye.

  It was then as I sat munching a ripe, crisp apple (which I admit was offered unbeknownst by the vendor down the street) that I spied two young flimps with as much interest in the good couple as me. With deepening curiosity, a true fault of mine rather than blessing, at least thus far, I strained forward to observe as one of the filthy sprites clamored for the woman’s attention, griddling for a scrap of food or perhaps a few coins. From behind the woman, and with careful eye on the wandering gaze of the bearded man with her, the other boy, likely the tooler, slid between them and with the swiftness of a woodland nymph, slipped the woman’s exquisite jeweled brooch from the stole fastened at her hip.

  He darted away with such keen dexterity that the trick was not discovered until he was well on his way speeding in my direction. The other street urchin, in a plan carefully practiced, confused the scene by heading in the opposite direction.

  Though their orchestration and technique was astounding, if not nearly professional, I had spent far too much time observing the couple and had developed a curiosity about the woman, in particular the look of kindness on her face.

  Thus, when the little rascal scampered my way, I simply stood in his path and held him tight, preventing his escape, having a sense of pride I suppose that almost got me into deeper calamity than the boy. Still, even in my lowly state, I am able to discern the difference between the theft of an occasional apple and that of a person’s sentimental property.

  “Give me the brooch, you little dipper.”

  He squirmed against my grip to no avail, for as spry as my frame, I had years of physical labor on me that had made me quite strong.

  “It’s mine, you prig. Go find your own pigeon.”

  “It is not yours, you little thief. I saw you lift it from the good lady over there.”

  He stopped long enough to check behind him and promptly looked up at me, grinning with the devil twinkling in his eyes before he blurted out.

  “Fine, take it then, you filthy kidsman. See if you get me to do your dirty work again.”

  With that, he stuffed the brooch in my hand just as the man and woman caught up to him.

  “You should be ashamed, young man, for influencing young boys in ways of thievery.”

  I held the brooch in my hand, staring down at it in surprise. I knew that with a mere outward call, they could call out and a Rozzer would have me by the collar in short order.

  Though dressed in my kecks, tattered jacket, and cap for the streets (for my position in the brothel was only as direction and not displaying of the wares), I had but one choice, for they would not believe that a woman would have the skill to direct such a bevy of pickpockets.

  I tore off my cap and ruffled my short tufts of hair, hoping that they would see that I was indeed female. “I am neither acquainted with the likes of that little thief, nor am I inclined to steal other than a bit of food now and again.”

  At first, the woman simply stared at me in surprise, but her expression turned to one of curiosity almost immediately. Her husband, or so I assumed, caught my arm fearing (and rightfully so, if I had the chance) that I would bolt like the other little devil. I dutifully handed the brooch to the woman.

  “Your speech is quite impressive for one on the street. What is your name?”

  Her voice softened and I could see she believed me, though I know not why. The man held my arm firmly and I scolded myself for disregarding my low-life dialogue.

  “I do not give my name to strangers.” I spoke with a firm resolve, hoping that it would dissuade them enough to free me. I glanced at his gloved hand on my arm.

  “Do you have a mother or father? I wish to speak to them and tell them what a noble act their daughter has performed.”

  If living in the streets taught me little else, it was not to trust anyone but yourself. I narrowed my gaze on her, wary to believe her words. Seeing my apparent discomfort, she gave her husband a slight nod and he loosened his grip, yet remained close at my side.

  Of course, having neither a father nor mother I could not grant an answer to her request. “They are dead.”

  Her gaze immediately filled with pity; I knew the look well. Relief flooded me. At least I would not sit in jail and perhaps with a little more persuasion, they would set me free. Over the shoulder of the man, I saw the two juvenile delinquents who got me into this predicament pointing at me, their hands covering their laughter.

  “Are you familiar with where I might find the freshest fish in the market?”

  My gaze shot from her husband’s shocked gaze to the kindness of the woman’s. “You won’t find it here. There’s a fish market, down near the docks, a few minutes that way.” I pointed down the crowded street, past where the pub and brothel next door were. Located near the docks, it was a prime spot for clients coming ashore from their long days of abstinence.

  She placed her arm around my shoulder and though I inched away, her gaze held me captive. Her eyes were a pale blue, revealing all too clearly her soft heart. The urchins were correct in pegging her as an easy mark. Still, there was something in her manner, perhaps in her ability to see more in me than I did in myself.

  “You no longer have to wander this world alone, child. Come stay with us and I will give you a respectable wage for your services.”

  “Virginia, are you certain you aren’t agitated by this unfortunate occurrence?”

  The man clearly disagreed with her offer, but she paid no heed to his misgivings. She turned her full attention to me.

  “If you show me as much loyalty and trust as you have today, you will always have a secure home. I will see to it.” Her tone was emphatic and left little room for discussion on the subject. Her husband on the other hand cleared his throat, leaned close to his wife, and whispered a fierce warning.

  “If this is another of your benevolent tirades, Virginia, you will have to handle this entirely on your own. May I remind you our accommodations are limited. Besides, I’m absent far too much with my work to keep a proper eye on her.”

  “I will see to her as I do the other servants, Master Archibald. Do you not find my abilities satisfactory in that area?”

  “I did not say as much, nor do I wish to discuss these matters in the middle of the street.”

  I found it odd she would refer to him as her master and he but used her proper name; however, more disturbing was his apparent lack of confidence in his wife’s kindness. It was enough of a challenge to me, if nothing else, to give her credibility in his sight.

  “You are most kind, mum, but I wouldn’t wish to impose on your good grace. You have no need to repay me, or to offer me anything in return. Your faith in my honesty is payment enough.” I glanced purposely at her husband.

  The man turned away, casting a glance to the sky as though wishing that the sky would swallow me whole.

  “Nonsense, what kind of lady would I be if I did not seize the opportunity to help one in need, not to mention offer my thanks for y
our honesty in returning my brooch.”

  “Good heavens,” the man muttered. He must have relented as his steely gaze darted from his wife to me.

  “You will likely never receive such an offer from anyone else, of that I can assure you. My wife can be generous to a fault though it is a trait that I find charming, if not always wise. However, heed my warning, if you dare defy that generosity, I will sooner see you horse-whipped.”

  The woman’s gaze widened in horror and I held to it as I responded to the man’s issuance. “You have my oath, sir, that I will endeavor to be in your good graces and forever in your debt.”

  The woman smiled and suddenly she looked very little older than me.

  Her refined travel clothing made her appear much older, but in her eyes was a youthfulness that gave away the vast age difference, at least in attitude, between her and her older, decidedly dour, husband.

  “Splendid.” She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward where their carriage and coachman awaited. “My name is Lady Archibald and this is my husband, Lord Archibald.”

  She carried on even as I sensed her husband’s eyes boring into the back of my head. I determined immediately, he and I were not destined to be friends.

  Still, what fool would turn away an offer for food and a roof away from the filth of the city, all for a few hours of work? I was not afraid of getting my hands dirty. I’d been on my own long enough to find it a means to survive. And my future, in the last few moments, looked far more promising than caring for the women at the brothel, who spread their legs for any stranger for a price that held them prisoner to his darkest desires.

  On the other hand, I had my doubts about our agreement as I finished their market chores with them, pointing out the best places to buy what they requested of me. He spent his money lavishly on her, a trait I added to his growing list of strange quirks.

  The stories of the orphans being enslaved to wealthy men for their private pleasure passed through my thoughts more than once and the thought that my fate would be in his hands, made my skin crawl. However, having found my way before, I knew if I found my life in jeopardy, I would find my way again.

  Yet, I eagerly embark on the potential of a new life, and soon will climb into the coach after my new mistress and I will never look back.

  ~A.C.B.

  August 28, 1873

  The journey to their manor was long and the road hideous with dust. I kept myself occupied for a time by assessing the plush interior of the coach, noting its polished black sheen and rich brown tufted leather seats. Small lanterns hung near the coachman’s feet, gleaming brass, and I was thankful for the covered portion over our heads for all the filth the horses kicked up.

  The horses, I noted, were a fine pair of dapple gray, nigh onto nineteen hands high and quite comely. Ernest had instructed me once a bit about horses, instilling a particular love for the animal or his instruction, I suspect a bit of both.

  The coach, the stately sort, polished and elegant in stark black and gleaming white, rocked side to side on its stately wheels with white-painted spokes. Rather overt for a travel carriage, but I took it for foreign, as I’d seen few like it in the city. True, between manner, carriage and dress, my two would-be angels, I determined, must be well kept.

  I kept my gaze on the road as much as I could and only spoke when addressed. Her ladyship was by far the chattier of the pair, and Lord Archibald by contrast, expressed few words. Occasionally he would dart a dark glance at me as if reassessing his wife’s choice to take me in.

  “You will love Willow Manor, my dear. It’s modest by some standards, but we call it home and it serves us well,” she spoke as she peeled off her black lace gloves and folded them in her lap.

  “Madam, perhaps the child would like to rest,” her husband muttered quietly, his gaze holding to hers, insistent on making his point.

  The carriage jerked, tossing the refined woman against me.

  “Good heavens, you’d think with the wages we offer that man, he would have sense to avoid the ruts.”

  “I will speak to him immediately, my dear.” Her husband glanced at her and looked out the window.

  I watched the trees along the road, the rocking motion and the dreary silence causing my eyes to drift shut from time to time.

  “Do you have any skills? And heavens, where are my manners? I’ve not even learned your name. Do you have any family, at all?”

  My weary gaze turned to the woman beside me. Lady Archibald—Virginia, he’d called her—was indeed as elegant as her name. Had she been a whore, those long auburn tresses would have men lined up at her door for one night with her. She had beautiful eyes, light green, rimmed with dark lashes. At first I would have thought her from Scotland or Wales, but her tongue was decidedly British.

  Her attire for travel was made of robin’s-egg-blue silk with a short waistcoat with perfect tucks taken in to accent her trim waist. Beneath, she wore a high-neck white blouse with blue ribbon tied at the collar in an elegant bow. Even in her finery, she did not appear aloof, and I felt at ease with her. I ventured she could not have been many years older than me. Twenty, perhaps a few years my senior, certainly a great deal younger than her husband, on that I would stake my life. Oh, he was a stern-looking man, though I could see where in his youth he might have been handsome. His top hat covered the salt-and-pepper gray of his hair that he wore in deep waves over his ears. A coarse silver moustache and dark brows set over even darker eyes, rounded out his untouchable look of authority.

  As I regarded the pair, I could not help but wonder what type of arrangement was made to unite the two. True, it is presumptuous for me to assume, but I would have to wonder what a woman like her would see in the stony likes of the man seated across from me, his hands perched atop his cane positioned between his knees, for the better part of two hours.

  “My name is Anne Cozette, mum, but I prefer to go by Cozette, if you please.”

  She regarded me with an arched brow.

  “And do you have a last name?”

  “Bennett, mum.”

  “What of your family? Isn’t there someone you’d like us to send your wages to?”

  It was my turn to regard my austere new mistress. It was clear, and more so becoming with each passing moment, how very different our worlds are. Her world revolves around the power of family ties, where any ties that I presume to own are simply cast-offs from brothel clients.

  “No, mum, it’s been a number of years since my father’s passing. I’ve not heard from my mother since, so I am led to believe she is also dead.” Dare I tell this woman of the relatives who cast me out? Might they change their benevolent manner toward me if they knew I’d run away from the orphanage?

  I did what I needed to survive and called upon the acting skills that Betsy had taught me from her American actor.

  I averted my eyes from hers, and stared out the window, sniffing once in hope it would terminate the conversation.

  After what seemed a stretched-thin moment of silence, I heard Lord Archibald clear his throat.

  “Well, now, all will be fine, you will see,” his young wife cooed. She darted a look at her husband’s sour expression. “Master Archibald and I have more than ample room. You can board with the others in the servants’ quarters. Miss Farrington, our cook, is a most kind woman, fiercely loyal and very particular of her kitchen. Other than that, there is only the stable groomsman, Mr. Coven, and our coachman, Mr. Jensen. We live simply and believe that one should use one’s talents for the good of all.”

  I tried not to feel as though I was her new doll, a new charity to play with and dress up at her leisure. She was indeed the more social of the two, given to bursts of ideas as though they exploded without warning in her head, and needed an escape through her mouth.

  I glanced at Lord Archibald, who by now had turned to look out the window. In all my years of brothel living I could easily detect when a man was annoyed with a woman’s behavior.

  “It sounds lovely, mum,�
� I replied, not wanting to appear ungrateful. I lowered my eyes to my entwined hands, all at once aware with an ever-increasing sense of humiliation how filth had collected under my nails. Though I know I should be, and am most truly indebted to this woman of substance, I cannot help but ponder whether I shall be able to meet her expectations. To that end, I searched my talents, in hope to build my worth in her eyes.

  “I am able to read, quite well actually, and sew a bit…oh, and I do play a little piano.” I chanced a look at her, finding her gaze filled with admiration…and pity.

  Pity was not something I’d often seen, much less given over to the luxury of it. I’d learned, with my experiences, how to be strong. On my own, I was strong, resilient and resourceful, but in her eyes, it seemed I was but a dab of clay awaiting her sculptor’s hands.

  “Did you hear that, Master Archibald? She reads. Why, that will immediately place you in a higher wage bracket, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

  He did not take his gaze from the window and barely nodded in response.

  I glanced over her shoulder at the view beyond the window. Outside, the afternoon sun was giving way to the purple twilight. This time of day has always been my favorite, perhaps connected to that special time when I would meet Ernest in the root cellar. He is the only person who knows such secret things about me. He is the only one with whom I have ever shared any intimacies dear to my heart.

  In silence, I stared out the window near me, watching as the light of day offered itself up to the night. Out here, apart from the buildings that destroyed the view, the last dredge of sunlight stretched its fiery red fingers across the indigo horizon.

  Every view from the carriage was a lush acreage of meadow and wooded glen. My gaze was drawn to the stark, black silhouette of a giant oak tree perched alone on a hill in the distance. Its fingers reached out into the twilight sky, claiming its freedom and my heart stilled. It had been years since I’d seen open fields and groves of trees.

  The coach pitched on its steel springs and my mind was brought back to the present as we rounded a curve and started up the straight dirt lane. I held my breath as we passed between two tall brick columns, each bearing atop it a grand stone lion. I made note to come in the light of day for a better look.