The Diary of Cozette (18 page)

I write today on the topic of illusion. I find there to be a great chasm in current society between protocol and the reality of the truth. Not that I claim to judge wisely what is appropriate or not, most certainly I do not. Still, I am discovering with alarming clarity, that most of what appears on the surface of society’s standards is simply no more than an illusion. Pity, that we (especially where women are concerned) are not allowed freedom to express the true nature of ourselves, but then again…perhaps the truth would destroy us.

It is, for example, unheard of that I should have such thoughts regarding societal propriety and politics. Women are not to fill their minds with such lackluster subjects. Their station, and only station accordingly, is to marry well, provide a substantial man with ample heirs to his kingdom and at best, know how to set a proper tea.

True, the charge of the household running at its peak is also expected of the dutiful wife. If she is well instructed in reading, sewing, and is able to entertain at the piano or with song (better if with both), then she is viewed as the model of a good wife.

How sad that it is better for a woman to hide her true passions under a veneer of social expectancy, propped up as some glass doll on a shelf, who appears whole and yet whose fancy coverings hide the hole in her fragile breast.

Better to be poor I say, and uneducated, and have the expectations of a low-life with no need to ignore that which makes you happy. Is my mistress indeed…happy?

Rarely do I ponder the discrepancies between the social classes, for they are what they are, and until women have greater say in the making of such mandates of protocol, there exists division.

~A.C.B.

“I will need your help with the scones, Miss Cozette.”

Miss Farrington glanced over her shoulder as I passed behind her with the water bucket full of water from the rain barrel outside the kitchen door. Even the brothel in London had a pump of running water, though irregular and tainted brown, but it was by far at its worst, better than having to carry bucket after bucket to the upper floors in this godforsaken morning ritual.

“Yes, mum, as soon as I finish with the mistress’s bath.” I paused, dropping the bucket to the floor, wiggling my fingers to quell the numbness in my hand. I noted the secret glances that the deliveryman offered to Miss Farrington and chose to keep quiet as to the things I’d heard coming from her room in the middle of the night. Indeed, I do not judge the poor woman for her needs, or for how she satisfies them. Only that I wish she could learn to be more discreet so the rest of us might sleep.

I continued my laborious journey up the narrow back stairs with some measure of relief that it only took seven pails to fill the tub to my mistress’s liking.

I was on my sixth.

Lady Archibald, on a new crusade to show her responsibility with her wealth, claimed that such items here at the country estate, where they lived only part of the year, were luxuries. She believed the money saved, could be given to greater causes.

Nevertheless, for the pain in my back, if I could convince her it was charity to do so, I would beg most heartily that she reconsider an indoor pump.

It was on my last trip that Mr. Coven blocked my passage to the winding stair. My black cotton uniform and pristine starched apron clung to my skin like paper after my frequent trips up and down the steps. Indeed, I was in no mood, between my restless night and my tedious present task to comply with his annoying behavior.

“May I be of service?”

I held the last bucket in both hands, glancing briefly in the room where Miss Farrington and the deliveryman drank morning tea. I was petrified as one still so new to the staff that Miss Farrington might overhear his blatant request and hand me my walking papers for not keeping to task. “No, thank you,” I whispered. My patience was stretched thin as it was. Dampness from my labor trickled down my spine.

I yanked my skirt up around my knees, tucking the folds between my legs to gain a more stable footing on the stairs. He stepped aside to allow my passage, but no sooner had I begun my ascent when I realized he had followed me.

Was the man daft?

“Mr. Coven, are you trying to create trouble or does it simply come as second nature to you?” His presence in the tight stairwell made his size all the more impressive. His broad shoulders were encased today in a black shirt with its buttons left undone from his collar to his midchest, revealing the dark, smooth muscle beneath. His stone-gray breeches left little to the imagination as to what lay beneath. With his black leather riding boots completing the ensemble, he gave the dashing appearance of a gentleman farmer. For a moment, I wanted to ask what filly had inspired such dress, but felt it wise to dismiss the thought.

Two steps below me his height was even with mine, his gaze situated directly on my eyes. It was there in the dim morning light that I noted the deep slash, now scarred white across his cheek. My finger itched to touch the edge of his mouth where the injury had long since taken place.

“I assure you, miss, my intentions meant you no disrespect to the importance of your duties.”

I had to force my gaze from the sensuous line of his full lower lip. “Be that as it may, sir, you are indeed preventing me from accomplishing my task.”

He plucked the bucket from my hand without preamble as though it was filled with feathers instead of water.

“Then we had best hurry before she disrobes and cause us both to blush.”

I slapped his hand, causing water to slosh over the side. “You will give me that bucket before I am forced to scream for Miss Farrington.”

He smiled, with a quick look over his shoulder. “She seems rather occupied this morning.”

Was there more to her relationship with the deliveryman than I was privy to? Was I the only one left in the dark as to what went on below stairs? The knowledge that I was obviously not the only one prone to bursts of passion heightened my curiosity to speak at the earliest date, to my mentor.

Mr. Coven’s gaze turned toward the kitchen and I took liberty to note the length of his dark hair, pulled back loosely at the nape. I could not explain what connection I sensed when around him. Though it was clear he was not the type of man I could see myself with. He was much too quiet, highly opinionated and most annoyingly tenacious.

~A.C.B.

They’d married in secret after Miss Farrington’s employment at Willow Manor! I could not have been more surprised, and at the same time intrigued.

“My apologies, Miss Cozette, for not revealing this news to you sooner. I could not be certain that I…that is to say, that you’d…”

“That I might be given trust to your secret, Miss…or shall I say,
Mrs
. Farrington?” I leaned forward and whispered with a sly grin. The poor woman seemed so ill at ease with her confession. If she only knew half of my experiences and besides, I am not so blind to know that romance is alive and well. She simply does not knock upon my door.

She sighed, took a sip of her tea and nodded. We sat in the servants’ kitchen late that afternoon with our tea. Rare it was that we had occasion to do so, but the afternoon chores were complete, Lord Archibald was away on a short trip, and the mistress was out with Mr. Coven on a ride of her dapple-gray horse, Grace. Yes, despite my thoughts of Mr. Coven’s more annoying qualities, he is a most loyal and protective servant to the Archibalds.

I poured out more tea in both cups, splashing fresh cream in mine, thanks to the timely arrival of the deliveryman. “Does the mistress know about your husband?”

Mrs. Farrington placed her cup gently on the saucer before she spoke.

“You must swear your oath, Miss Cozette, on what I am about to reveal.”

“More than what you already have, mum. Such scandal!” I giggled. “You have my oath, good woman.” I slashed my finger in the form of a cross over my heart, more for good measure than anything else.

“It was Lady Archibald’s idea to refer to Patrick, that’s my husband—” her cheeks turned rosy with a blush “—as the
delivery
man.”

Indeed, my regard for my mistress rose yet another notch. Perhaps there was hope for England’s women.

“Indeed?” I was delighted. “I had no idea that our mistress was one given to the idea of romance.” She kept that part of her as well hidden as her loneliness, I suspected. Perhaps it was the very reason she understood Miss Farrington’s position.

“What is your husband’s true line of work then, Mrs. Farrington, that keeps you separated at such lengths?”

“I met him just after he signed on to the Queen’s Navy. Regulations state that soldiers cannot be married, but we were able to find a parson over the border in Scotland who agreed to marry us.”

And I had mistakenly thought the propensity of scandal more sedate in the country.

“It must be horrid for you, having to wait for him. The months apart must be excruciating.”

She blushed again, lowering her gaze from mine, quiet a moment before she spoke.

“The mistress is most lenient when he is ashore. I do receive letters from him often.”

“Aren’t you afraid the master will see them?”

“Patrick’s friend, our…true dairyman, brings them to me.”

“I had no idea that this manor held so many secrets.” I grinned as I took another sip of tea. The sweet scent of rose hips and chamomile gave ease to my tongue.

She smiled but her happiness did not travel into her eyes. For the first time, I saw the loneliness my superior endured. I reached out, covering her hand with mine. “When is he due on shore again?”

She sniffed and looked away, dabbing her nose with her apron.

“Late summer,” she choked.

I patted her hand, though my heart bled for the dear woman who I knew would remain faithful to her husband. It was the way with her. I prayed only he would be as loyal to her while in various ports in his tour. Still, there was no reason to concern her despite what I had seen firsthand in my days in London. “It will be no time at all before then. With the flower and vegetable gardens to occupy your time, he’ll be here sooner than you can wink.”

Her smile was wobbly as she nodded. “Lord Archibald is such a staunch advocate of protocol. He would not allow me to stay on here at the manor if he knew I was married. I shudder to think what might happen to my dear Patrick, were his commander to find out. That’s why we went to Scotland. We gave the parson a good portion of our combined wages and he agreed to keep silent on the matter for the sake of our desire to make our union holy.”

I held her sad gaze. “There now, Mrs. Farrington. We all carry secrets, don’t we? The important issue is the trust between friends, don’t you agree? Your secret is safe with me, be assured.” I stood, gathering our dishes to return to the kitchen with them.

“You can trust Lady Archibald, Miss Cozette. I am quite sure of it. And you can trust me but do not test me further than absolutely necessary.”

I smiled at her over my shoulder, at ease more now than I’d been since I arrived. “Indeed, Mrs. Farrington, I wish there to be no secrets between us.”

~A.C.B.

It is by far and away an exceptional morning, my mistress having given me permission, once my morning duties are complete, to walk the estate, though she cautions I should not wander unaccompanied too far into the meadow. Her concern is the wild boars that live far back into the wooded hillside. She has requested as well that I gather a spring bouquet of lilac and hydrangeas for the parlor. This is no hardship for I spied their heads full and hanging low to the ground alongside the heady sweet scent of the lilac bushes.

The master and Mistress Archibald left before sunrise to travel to the summer home of a business associate for lunch and shall not return until late. With whispered caution, Mistress Archibald has instructed me to stay from underfoot of Miss Farrington, who is out of sorts these days. Understandably, with her husband off to sea. I do not envy her station, but do admire her constitution. I pray only that her loyalty is reciprocated.

It has been my observation, tainted though it may be, that men seem to find it well within their right, if not their duty to relieve their bodies of sexual need. Yet women possessing the same desires are to behave as though sex is not for pleasure but rather duty.

For me, I find the pursuit of companionship and pleasure one and the same, and one that I sample most happily.

It is interesting to study Mrs. Farrington, and listen to how she speaks of Mr. Farrington’s many virtues. There are moments when she gets a wistful look in her eye and I am able to see the woman inside her longing for her mate. Perhaps this is what love in its purest form is, yet I doubt that my heart is receptive enough to accept such cloud-filled notions. Give me the earth below my feet, the scent of rain in the meadow, and the sweet, heady scent of an armful of the garden’s offerings. I can grasp these things. Romance is much harder to grasp and perhaps better left to those who are able to dream such things.

However, today I do not wish to dwell on musings that will only lead me to pine for François, or some other ghost of a suitor. I will claim the day as mine to enjoy to its utmost!

So, pleased with the timely effort and care in my morning chores, Mrs. Farrington offered me a reward of a slice of freshly baked bread, an apple and a slab of cheese wrapped in a cloth for my venture. Though in all likelihood my journey will not take me beyond sight of the house, the freedom in my soul warmed by the brilliance of the sun on my face is enough to take my breath away.

A dirt path, wide enough for a carriage, stretches from the back of the house where the flower and vegetable gardens empty to the rolling meadow beyond. Morning dew glistens on the dark ivy-covered stone wall separating the road from the garden path.

Great oak and ash trees line the road providing shade when the sun is high, their gnarled roots made visible from age and weather and soft moss their carpet. The earth is cool and soft underfoot, churned by the constant plod of a hoof and wheel of the carriages. I remove my slippers, relishing its velvety softness.

To my delight, I spot a mare and her new foal grazing in the mist-shrouded meadow. Their serene beauty mesmerizes me, these creatures that I have admired from afar, while hanging the linens at the back door. I can see them, specks in the valley, if I step on tiptoe from the stone wall enclosing the cook’s garden. Their spirit draws me like no other creatures, perhaps as I long for the freedom they appear to possess. Sleek and wild they are allowed to run free, with an occasional request to pull a carriage or carry a rider, they otherwise are well cared for, and allowed to roam freely, loving and living at will, unencumbered by social status or earthly concerns. What joy to live their life! I could stand here and watch them for hours.

My mind wanders in these quiet moments and I think of my father and mother, my brothers, and a sister I never knew. In these times, I feel every moment of being alone in this world, and yet most often I feel an advantage to having no ties.

Pastor Moore, of Butterfield parsonage, personal friend to the Archibalds, stated plainly at afternoon tea last week, “God has a purpose for all creatures.”

While I know that his comment was not issued to my ears, I have kept it hidden inside and I cannot help but wonder if God ever looks down upon the likes of Ernest or Elizabeth, or even the ruthless greed of Mr. and Mrs. Abbot and sees his purpose being played out?

Then there is me. Though I choose not to dwell on it, I sometimes wonder about my purpose. Perhaps, whatever deity has made the array of beauty before me may yet have direction for me as well. Perhaps it is not too immature to think that it is to have found François? Nevertheless, I must not pine as though a character in a Shakespearean sonnet.

As Mrs. Farrington states when she waxes maudlin at Mr. Farrington’s absence, “We do what we must to survive, Cozette. It may not always be to our liking, but what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”

Above the sun is baking off the mist, revealing more horses grazing farther in the valley. Near a grove of trees to the side of a small group, I notice a stallion and his mate nuzzling one another, their soft nickers wafting across the quiet hillside.

My heart stills as the great beast mounts the mare and she stands still, occasionally shaking her brown mane, her noble gaze seemingly locked to mine. There is no pretense, no shy foreplay, only the raw hunger of what comes naturally. I sense the power in the stallion’s hind legs, and my wicked mind is drawn to François. The great strength of his presence, the simple hunger of desire satisfied in the still of his last night at Willow Manor. I am most hopeless in the eyes of heaven, I am quite certain. It has been since my eighteenth birthday since we were last together. My lust, however battles with reason, cautioning me that our stations in life may keep us at opposite sides of life. Perhaps that night was meant to be special and its memory is what gives greater beauty to this morning? Each time the breeze blows across my skin, whisper-soft, I am reminded of François’s gentle touch.

I must detour my thoughts before I find myself lost in my woe. For some time now, I have observed my mistress and it is far easier to assess another’s situation than to look at your own.

Lady Archibald seems content with her life, though I sense she is lonely for companionship. Is that the sacrifice then of the marriage vows, to sacrifice companionship for passion, or passion for companionship? In that I have never had to make the choice, I know myself well enough that I would require both of any man that I would commit to for a lifetime. And yet, I am in no rush to be tied down to one man, for many reasons, I suppose, but certainly not to one who did not see me as equal to him in friendship and passion. I wonder if there is any such creature alive, or if my elusive lover will forever be present only in my vivid imagination.

I leaned against the fence and took in the sweet scent of dewy grass. I knew well that it was to be a warm day once the sun rose high. However, for now my simple chemise and frock would suffice against the lingering morning chill. A cool breeze rushed the leaves in the trees, and bowed the tall grass. I closed my eyes and breathed in the freedom that nature offers.

“Mornings are, by far, my favorite time.”

I did not need to open my eyes. I knew well who stood beside me by his scent. A sweet smell of fresh hay and oats mingled with the warmth of hard work. Of course, it was Mr. Coven.

“Do you make it a habit, sir, of accosting young ladies without first proper introduction?” I opened my eyes, keeping my focus on the foal intent on standing on wobbly legs.

A low chuckle came from deep in his throat, and I wisely ignored it.

“Pardon, miss, I saw no lady present, only the housemaid with whom I have previously made my introductions.”

The man might be well skilled in tending to these great and beautiful creatures, but his manner was by no means as grand. I admit that perhaps part of my purpose in a visit to the meadow was one of curiosity to see what manner of a man could handle such animals so noble and yet wild.

“Then again, perhaps my form of introduction does not please you as much as does our roguish neighbor.”

At
that,
I darted him a look that warned he was skirting my wrath. “You may think what you like of me, sir, but what do you know of François that you can be so bold with his character?”

He gave me a slow grin as if he’d caught me in a lie.

“Who said I was referring to Lord Deavereux?
François,
is it, then? That seems a bit familiar, particularly for a servant.”

I bit my lip, admonishing myself for having been taken in by his trickery. “I do not know what you speak of. I find Lord Deavereux very much the gentleman.”

His dark brow rose. “For one who polishes silver for a living, your manner of speech is quite educated.”

“For one who shoes horses for a living, yours is most annoying.” I’d had enough of his poking fun at my position and my speech. I’d come to find privacy and relaxation, and he’d given me neither.

He bowed then, a gentleman’s gesture, but I am certain it held a form of mockery.

“My apologies, Miss Cozette, I meant no disrespect to your character or to Master Deavereux. Your acquaintance with him is a private matter, I understand.”

I eyed him with suspicion, as he deserved to my way of thinking. But I curtsied in reply, hoping he would take his leave and thereby allow me to continue to enjoy my day.

“So have you finally come to see my stables?” He leaned his forearms atop the splintered rail fence and gazed across the meadow. “It was, let me see, last fall when I offered the invitation?”

“I believed you would be too busy at this hour and besides, much has transpired, I have not had the time to trot off from my duties.” I glanced at him, but did not allow my gaze to linger.

His eyes roamed the field as he spoke, “On the contrary, I’ve been awake for hours, exercising the horses, and seeing to the cleaning of the stable as well as seeing Jensen off with the master and mistress early this morning.”

He turned his smoky gaze to me.

“So you see you present no hazard to my duties, unless you are afraid to be in my company.”

“I find you most annoying at times, Mr. Coven.” The words fell from my mouth in haste perhaps, but I felt he was toying with my pride.

He scratched his ear as he grinned and looked away with the most unconcerned display of snobbery I have ever seen.

“I admit I have been called worse things, miss. Still, I am not about to prod you further, do you wish to see the stables, or don’t you?”

What a scoundrel! To first insult me, then offer a tour of his quarters? Had it not been for my deep desire to be near one of the noble black steeds I’d seen pull the carriages, I would have sooner kicked him in the shin.

Then again, I considered if this man is this insufferable, surely he cannot have many friends. Perhaps I am doing him a kindness by accepting his invitation.

“Very well, Mr. Coven.” I smiled as I gathered my skirt and tiptoed through the long grass to the dusty road. “As it happens, I am deeply interested to see the stables and in particular if all horses’ asses look the same.”

He turned with a handsome grin, one that I found most intriguing. The movement caused the dark patch covering his cheek to shift just enough to reveal the view of pink puckered skin. I held back the gasp threatening to escape, considering if he would think me rude to inquire about his injury. Yet even as I pondered this, he bowed and all thoughts flew happily out of my head at the sight of his muscular torso beneath his shirt.

“
Touché,
miss. But promise me that you’ll not let on to the rest of the staff what you may discover about my ass.”

The scoundrel!

He held my gaze, his dark eye sparkling with mischief. The breeze ruffled his white cotton shirt away from his well-defined torso. No, he was not blessed with the same refined attributes as Lord Deavereux, but his bronze-colored chest touched by the sun and heavy labor I could not ignore. My gaze lingered in lazy assessment of the rest of him and I daresay my curiosity grew. His gaze, however, met mine, as I finished my silent assessment of his skintight breeches.

“Do you approve then, Miss Cozette, of my attire? Or were you simply admiring the form which it covers?”

His rakish grin accompanied his cheeky comment.

“I haven’t much time, there is baking that Miss Farrington wishes done this afternoon. I’m to return with a pail of berries.”

He tipped his head, studying the ground near my feet.

“Pray then, where is your bucket, miss?”

Caught again, the man was infuriating to be sure. “My plan was to use my apron. But now that you’re here, I will simply borrow a pail from you.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Come then, Miss Cozette, and I will escort you to the stables where we will find…your bucket.”

He grinned as he held out his arm, a gesture intended to impress or mock, I cannot tell. With a glance in his direction, I chose instead to walk ahead of him, ignoring his arm and his comment. When he had not yet appeared at my side after a number of steps, I turned on my heel to speak to him and ran headlong into his massive chest.

His grin was warm as he caught my arms to prevent me from toppling sideways. He held my gaze for a moment and I swore I’d seen the look before, somewhere long ago in my past. However, it evaporated as quickly as it had come and his ornery glint returned.

“I thought it best I should walk a respectable few paces behind your ladyship.”

His mouth quirked at the corner of his mouth, giving his rugged face a most appealing expression, the rogue could say what he chose, but his tented breeches were proof of at least a primal attraction.

I was inclined to join him in this gay dance of wills, seeing it as harmless in a way one might treat a charity case. However, my thoughts strayed to François and his fingers as they so gently touched my cheek (and other places!) with fondness. Truly, my heart is smitten and this I cannot deny.

“Would that I could know the source of that look in your eye, Miss Cozette,” he stated quietly.