The Diary of Cozette Page 9

  My stomach churned. I was anxious to turn in my seat and see what would be my new home.

  “We’re here, Cozette. I’ll summon Mr. Coven to take your things to your room.”

  I turned the wool cap in my hands and glanced up at her. It and what I wore on my back were all I owned.

  “Oh, my dear, forgive my ignorance. First things first. We will get you into a nice warm bath and a sleeping gown. We will measure you for your uniform and you will be responsible for its upkeep. That means of course that it is to appear presentable at all times, clean and neatly pressed each day, and your shoes…”

  She glanced down at the worn mud-covered boots. The state of affairs of my attire, deplorable as it most assuredly was, changed with my mistress’s instruction. But for the time I needed their warmth and protection, my trousers, tweed coat and wool cap had served me faithfully.

  “The child has suffered a long trip, Virginia,” Lord Archibald pointed out.

  My stomach growled plaintively.

  “A plate of food is in order, I think or else she will not have the strength for all of your intentions…noble as they may be.” He offered a hand to assist his wife as she stepped from the coach and led her across the wide stone path. I did not follow immediately, mesmerized by the enormous front doors that looked as though they belonged on a cathedral.

  “Sir?” I heard the coachman say by way of a prompt.

  I hopped from the carriage, ignoring his hand. Stretching side to side, I took a deep breath of fresh country air, glad to be free of the confines of the carriage. My gaze traveled the breadth and height of what my new mistress referred to as her modest home.

  Its enormity could easily house more than ten of Madam Rose’s theaters. My feet planted firm as was my gaze, unable to move.

  “Come, Cozette, it grows dark. Miss Farrington will not wish to be up too late, duties at Willow Manor come with the dawn.”

  She glanced over her shoulder as I followed quickly, fearing that I would soon awaken from this fantastic dream.

  “Perhaps it would be best if we met at the kitchen entrance in the back, Lady Archibald?”

  My new mistress turned. “Ah, Mr. Coven. Prompt as always.”

  I drew my foot from the first step and waited.

  A tall man, undistinguishable in the shadows of the house, appeared at my side.

  “Permit me, milady, to show Mr….?”

  “This is Miss Cozette, Mr. Coven. She will be our new house servant and yes, you are wise to use the rear entrance. We wouldn’t want to muddy up Miss Farrington’s clean floors.”

  “My pleasure.” He bowed at the waist and turned his attention to me. I saw for the first time, a large black patch covering his left eye. The cloth covered part of his cheek as well. It was apparent he’d been in some sort of accident. He said nothing for a moment and simply stared until I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

  “Your bags, Miss…Cozette? Did I pronounce the name correctly?”

  Perhaps his vision was marred by his lack of one eye?

  “Yes, it is Cozette, um, Miss Cozette, and as you can see—” I squinted up at his face in the dusky twilight “—I have no other bags.”

  He did not respond as I thought he might to my comment; instead, he lifted his hand, waving the coachman to the road going around to the back of the manor.

  “Please follow me. I will show you the servants’ entrance. It isn’t far, but I wager that after your carriage ride a bit of a stretch is good for the legs, eh? You come from London, then?”

  He seemed amiable enough, this Mr. Coven, quite tall and broad through the shoulders. I would have perhaps enjoyed his company in our short jaunt as I had many questions about my new employers, but I could barely keep up with his long-legged stride through the arbor path leading to the back of the house. I searched the deepening shadows, wanting to view the garden area, but we rushed too quickly through the passage.

  “What, may I ask, was your previous occupation, Miss Cozette?”

  He vaulted the question over his shoulder as he continued his rapid gait. I gathered the man was neither interested in knowing about me, nor making me feel welcome. Perhaps I could gain his attention with a candid answer. I smiled, sure that my wicked answer would stop him in his tracks. “My former employer was of the oldest profession there is, sir.”

  “Wine-making?” he tossed back.

  Wine-making? I glanced wearily at the dark sky above. Indeed, he was more sequestered than I thought out here in the country. “Not directly sir, but there surely has been a number of bottles emptied on any given night. No, Mr. Coven, much older a profession, I wager. Whoring, high-class whoring, mind you, but whoring just the same.”

  If I had anticipated shock, it was my own at the lack of his response. He did not comment, nor did he turn around, but continued on, each foot stepping solid along the stone path. I waited a moment, curious about what judgments he may already have pronounced in his head. “You heard me, then?”

  He came then to a sudden halt, causing me to stumble and run headlong into his back. With an easy turn, he faced me, his height most reliable. I sensed his steady gaze on me. Had I been prone to intimidating situations, this might have been one for me. However, I was so weary that I could not muster the will to quake in my boots.

  “Indeed, I may be void of sight in one eye, but my hearing is impeccable, I assure you. I simply did not wish to humiliate you.”

  He hesitated and in my shock, I was, perhaps for the first time, speechless. “Pardon, sir, humiliate me?”

  He hesitated to respond, his gaze searching the perimeter of where we stood in the middle of the ivy-covered tunnel-like passage. His gaze returned to mine and I sensed him assessing me.

  All at once, his meaning became quite evident.

  “No doubt you will likely earn better wages as a housemaid to Mistress Archibald.”

  My mouth opened in response and I snapped it shut, refusing to give the glock the satisfaction of my handprint on his face. Still, he had rankled my ire, and perhaps deliciously so, for I rather enjoyed the gauntlet he’d tossed before me.

  “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 cho
re.

  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.

  August 29, 1873

  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.

  September 14, 1873

  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.