The Diary of Cozette

by Amanda McIntyre

  His hands woven in my hair, he lifted my face to his. I licked my lips like a satisfied kitten.

  “I want to give you pleasure, my dear Cozette,” he whispered before his mouth captured mine in a fierce kiss.

  Pushing me to the bed, his mouth slanted over mine, hungrily thrusting his tongue to mate with mine. At once, he pushed upright, glared down at me with wild-eyed lust, and took my arms, shoving them over my head. He lowered his head and drew my rosy breast between his teeth until I winced between the pain and the pleasure.

  “Do you trust me, Cozette?”

  His dark hair spilled over his broad shoulders, making him appear dark and dangerous. At that moment, I cared little how, but was filled with the anticipation of when I might have him inside me. “I am your servant, milord.”

  A flash of excitement glinted in his steely gaze. He kissed me hard, drew the tie holding his hair in place and stretched my arms upward, tying them to the iron bed frame. It was as Betsy and I had once done to her unruly client. A thrilling shiver skittered down my spine and between my legs. His gaze dropped to mine before it drifted lower, raking over my body stretched out before him.

  He leaned down and flicked his tongue over my breast, eliciting a moan from my lips. I was surprised at the titillation this domineering act had over me.

  I admit the desire to reach out and touch him nearly drove me mad, but how masterfully he stroked and teased, his kisses trailing over my belly, his attentions focused on my yearning rose.

  “I trust this will please you,” he whispered as he knelt over me. The view of his form had awakened the need for him again and I gazed up at him in complete trust that the tensions previously between us were dissipated.

  “I trust you, milord,” I replied, delighted with full ardor when he leaned forward in haste and kissed me full on the mouth. It was my first kiss with a man who had as much desire for me as I for him. My heart tumbled in my chest fully allowing his tongue full entrance, blinded by passion. He swept through my mouth, each kiss growing with greater demand, his tongue dancing with mine, fanning a sensuous and slow burning betwixt my legs. I sought to embrace his muscular shoulders, only to discover my hands tied firmly in place to the bedpost.

  I cannot deny a moment of fear that shot through me when I realized the helplessness of my situation, but François was thorough in his attentions. His hands brushed over me, slow and gentle and he kissed me with such care, I was released of my fear and embraced something greater—trust.

  He would catch my gaze as he pleasured me and offer an easy lover’s smile meant, I knew, for me alone. I felt no bindings, but instead sensed his worship of my body. It was a luxurious sensation, tormenting in that I yearned for him in delirious abandon.

  “Open for me, Cozette,” he whispered low, “let me see your sweet peach ready only for me.”

  I did his bidding, caught in a spiral of ecstasy as he lavished my parted petal, straining against my tethered restraints. Tears slid down my temples as a dizzying tension grew out of control inside me.

  “Sweet girl, sweet Cozette,” he whispered, his breath hot against my garden.

  I squirmed, silently pleading for him to end this agony with his mighty staff. My heart beat wild in my chest, a pitiful moan escaped my lips, and my hands twisted against the ties at my wrists.

  “Yes, that’s it, my sweet.” He nibbled, finding a spot that brought my hips off the bed. He held my thighs firm in his large hands as he drove my body blindly to the edge. My body broke free, shattered in wave after wave of sensual pleasure.

  Before the ringing in my ears could subside, his body covered mine and entered me swiftly. I opened my eyes, my gaze drawn to a crack in the ceiling and I surrendered to the weight of his body thrusting against mine, the flesh of my hip captured in his powerful grasp.

  My body tightened on the edge of exquisite pleasure, my breasts straining against the firm, warm plane of his chest to mine. How I wanted to hold him to me, and never allow him to leave my bed. Sweet heaven, is there any act of human connection greater than this?

  My thoughts were snatched completely as a shattering release washed over me. I bit my lip, holding back a scream of utter delight as he drove into me harder.

  “Ah…sweet Cozette,” he growled and with a quiet groan, gave over to his release, pressing his teeth to my shoulder and biting me softly. He collapsed on me, both of us exhausted.

  He pushed from the bed and glanced down at me. Perhaps my concern should be greater, but I am too enamored with his attentions. I must learn to accept his mood changes even as I accept that he would not continue to meet with me, if he did not truly feel something for me.

  He seemed lost in his thoughts as he dressed in haste.

  “Milord, I should think there would be a great deal to explain come morning, if my hands were thus.” I wiggled my fingers.

  He leaned over and untied my constraint. My hands freed, I reached for him, intent to show him that I was sure of my emotions. But he turned away, finished dressing and paused briefly with his hand on the doorknob.

  “Good night, milady,” he said, his gaze averted from mine.

  His figure disappeared into the dark stairwell, the light from his lamp fading as he ascended to the kitchen.

  I lay in my bed for some time after, considering his strange behavior. I would need to be mindful of the marks left on my wrists and the bite left on the soft flesh of my shoulder. If asked, I would need to devise a reasonable explanation to protect his honor.

  As good as Master and Mistress Archibald are, I fear they would not understand our star-crossed plight. My beloved is of another social rank, and so our moments of unbridled passion must for the sake of all, be kept a secret.

  I must believe, and I do, that François would not wish my position with the Archibalds to be at risk. I bathed and dressed in my bedclothes and dreamt that night of a great knight who carried me from my imprisonment.

  ~Lady C

  November 27, 1873

  Miss Farrington says that the master has decided that we will return early to London for the opening of parliament this year. The tradition for the Archibalds has been, she says, to wait until closer to the Christmas holiday. News came of these plans less than a week ago and together, Miss Farrington, the mistress, and I have been busy covering furniture, cleaning and packing for our move. My mistress says there will be much activity, as the spring season gets underway in London. I have to admit, I am a trifle excited to be returning to London, this time from a different view.

  ~A.C.B.

  December 10, 1873

  This past week has been a flurry of activity at the manor and I have scarcely had time to breathe, much less to write. However, I am stealing a few moments to scribble a few notes in the event I am unable to do so in the days ahead. All the furniture has been covered, the fireplaces cleaned, and most of the clothes have been laundered, pressed and packed. Lady Archibald says they will all need to be relaundered after the trip, as well as all the linens—table and bed.

  The mistress’s fine china, tea service, silver and other special possessions are packed carefully in straw and tucked in wood crates. She insists they travel with her inside the carriage.

  Mr. Archibald has chosen to stay behind to see to the travel arrangements by rail of his horses to grazing pastures. He will follow in a few days.

  How I will miss my François; I have not seen him in almost two weeks and I dare say I won’t again before we depart for London.

  ~A.C.B.

  December 11, 1873

  The Archibalds’ London house is located northwest of the city, in an area suitable for the upper class and yet without the pretense of the nobility who have no need to think beyond what entertainment will suffice for the day. It is yet some considerable distance from the low-life area of the docks where I spent many a cold night shivering in a doorway. Perhaps I shall see a few of the livelier neighbors that once frequented Madam Rose’s theater. I can remember many a well-dressed gentleman,
seated in the dim theater boxes, reserved only for Rose’s “special” guests.

  Miss Farrington and I opened the house from the dank, oppressive stench of being closed for many months. True to his loyal service to my mistress, Jensen dutifully accompanied Lady Archibald as she made her social rounds, leaving her card where no one was home, and being welcomed by Lady Graham with no need of a card at all. It was that afternoon that Lady Archibald returned with the idea of hosting a charity Christmas dinner to raise support for the Ladies of Social Responsibility.

  Lady Graham (so I am told by Miss Farrington) is a wealthy, progressive widow and longtime supporter of charitable works. So elated was she at the prospect of the dinner that she asked whether she could extend the invitation to her niece, Miss Chastity, and nephew, Mr. Rodin, if they were in town at the time. Contingent, Lady Archibald stated with a glint in her eye, upon whether Mr. Rodin’s schedule freed him of his art studies in Paris.

  “Lady Graham is most gracious to include a famous artist in our work. I have come to learn that she possesses a social conscience that embraces the consideration of the poor working class, especially the children. She believes it is England’s social responsibility to care for them,” my mistress stated upon her return. “She is very influential in many circles, and a woman of independence. I find that an admirable trait. I am hoping to speak to the guild to grant her membership to our cause.”

  I glanced at Miss Farrington, having not heard my mistress reveal this new love for social independence for women. Cook did not look up from her duties, only shook her head slightly to warn that I should not comment.

  My mistress went over the guest list with Miss Farrington.

  “In addition to Lady Graham and her niece and nephew, I have invited a number of Master Archibald’s associates from work. As a gesture of goodwill to our fellow man, I am asking each guest to bring a special gift to be delivered to the children’s home on Boxing Day.” Her eyes shimmered with excitement. “What do you think? It was Lady Graham’s idea really, I must give her credit.”

  “A lovely idea, mum,” Miss Farrington responded.

  “Indeed,” I replied quickly at Cook’s stern look. Yet I cannot help but wonder if all those invited, much less Lord Archibald himself, will support this mission with as much zeal.

  In her endeavor, and those of the Ladies of Social Responsibility, Lady Archibald chose to honor a cherished colleague, Mr. Dickens, who has found favor with the society in his efforts to remedy the plight of London’s poor. As such, she plans to ask Lord Archibald to read after dinner from Dickens’ recent book, A Christmas Carol. The Ladies Society, by unanimous vote, found this most agreeable.

  I must take a moment to speak of how my fond admiration for my mistress grows. Her passion and care for others is a rarity, in particular for those who have little to gain from their offerings. There are far too many who speak well of the need to be charitable, but Lady Archibald stands as a testament of being a woman of her word. Moreover, that trait is most often lost among the affluent and yet I am living proof of her kindness.

  It is with some disappointment that I have heard that Lord Deavereux will not be able to attend this season as most urgent business takes him to India where he is detained for the winter months. As much as I would like to believe it to be true, I doubt that he will spend the holidays alone.

  The holiday celebration at the Archibald home is by no means an extravagant affair, rather a private gathering of friends and business associates, many of whom either have the financial interest in new prospects, or simply believe as Mrs. Archibald that if England is to succeed, then its wealthy should lead the way. She had not even secured a small group for music, though when the subject was broached her response, enthusiastically supported by Lady Graham, was that the money would be better given to any number of strolling musicians singing alms for the poor.

  In spite of her careful regard for these expenses, she spared none when it came to preparing the menu, nor in lavish display (though not too much) in decorating the house for Christmastide.

  I spend my days from dawn until the deep night polishing, sweeping, and carrying coal daily to the various fireplaces throughout the house. To Miss Farrington’s complete joy the pump for water is situated immediately at the kitchen sink, though she still boils it.

  “I don’t trust the filth of the water in London. It’s not like well water back at the manor,” she’d comment in private to me.

  I, for one, would sooner carry bucket after bucket of the water over rolling meadow, than the black coal up and down the stairs.

  Jensen was given the dubious charge of finding the “perfect” Christmas tree which is to be the grand feature of the event. Lady Archibald must place great trust in Jensen to carry out this task for she has spoken of nothing since he left this morning on his mission. Upon his return, I found her response to Jensen’s choice most curious.

  “You have outdone yourself this time, Jensen,” she gushed, clasping her dainty hands beneath her chin. “It simply takes my breath away.” Her eyes shone with such admiration of his skill that Jensen fairly blushed, lowering his eyes as he cleared his throat. His response, save the pink to his cheeks, was oddly quiet. He twisted his cap in his hands and focused on brushing the stray pine needles off his worn jacket. Evergreen scattered across the newly polished wood. His gaze leapt to mine with concern.

  “I’ll go fetch the dustpan then, and we’ll clean up theses bits, mum. They’ll make a fine scent of pine through the house.”

  Jensen eyed me briefly before bowing and seeing his way to the front door.

  “I’ll see to the horses, milady,” he mumbled as he stepped outside.

  I was sweeping up the last of the needles when from the window I spied my mistress standing on the front step speaking to Jensen. He smiled again, nervously twirling his hat in his hands.

  Despite their stations in life, I had to admit that between Jensen’s dark, Gaelic coloring and Lady Archibald’s fiery auburn tresses and fair skin, they did indeed make a most handsome pair. It seems they have had a long and comfortable relationship, a brother and sister, perhaps. Jensen serves as her footman, escorting her and doting on her every need. My youthful impetuousness leads me to wonder with what thoroughness he performs this task, but these thoughts will go no further than the pages of this journal. Part of me wishes my mistress would find a happiness she so well deserves, a return of her passion, strong, blazing and equal. If that is from her husband all the better, and yet she cannot mask her emotions well, for when Jensen enters the room, her face lights with a radiance I do not see when in the presence of her husband. We shall see what the days ahead may bring, but it is my suspicion that my mistress holds a secret or two close to her heart and perhaps she is too much of a gentlewoman to act upon them.

  ~A.C.B.

  December 23, 1873

  Master Archibald arrived a few days ago and with a perfunctory tour of the house was disposed to the bank to finish his books before the holiday. He wasted little time, leaving Jensen to carry his bags to the master suite, where I’d made two beds separated by a nightstand and a single lamp. More like bunkmates than wedded couple, I flirted with the idea of placing them together as a surprise, but thought better of it.

  Miss Farrington and I finished decorating the house from top to bottom according to Lady Archibald’s wishes. Indeed, the enormous tree sparkled with carefully wired taper candles, slices of dried apples, and small oranges strung with ribbon and embellished with whole cloves. Shimmering against the candle glow were Lady Archibald’s prized brightly painted German ornaments.

  This afternoon, we sat at the kitchen worktable, the three of us, as Jensen demonstrated how to fold foil papers into bright, small stars to hang on the branches. With the addition of Lady Archibald’s heirloom tin star at its top branch, another gift from her grandmother when she married, the tree rivaled anything ever described in a classic Christmas tale. And the scent…oh, my! The scent of thick pine mingled w
ith the subtle tang of orange and the nutty spice of cinnamon sticks bound to the apple slices provided a feast for the senses. I have never smelled or seen such a beautiful picture as that tree, adorned by the hand of us all, displayed in the front bay window of the house.

  ~A.C.B.

  December 24, 1873

  Nary has a night gone by when poor Mr. Coven does not enter my mind. Many times during the events of the day, his face enters my thoughts. Yet despite all the festive preparations, it is as if without him there is a hole where his presence is part of our family.

  I think of him at the manor, preferring to stay and keep watch on his favorite mare, Molly, and the one or two horses that remain through the winter. In my mind’s eye, I see him hunched over a book by his woodstove in the corner of the barn, Molly nickering for his attention. With his gentle smile, he speaks softly to her, taking no hurry as he saunters across the sweet earth floor. He dips his sturdy hand in the bucket of oats and holds it up, stroking her mane and speaking to her in low tones meant only for her ears. I hope he has pleasant thoughts as well when he thinks of us. It is strange or perhaps the season that lends such thoughts to my head. Yet in many ways, they are the only family I have.

  ~A.C.B.

  December 25, 1873

  “Cozette?” Miss Farrington’s voice drew me from my wandering thoughts. “The guests will be arriving soon, see to it that the fires in the dining hall and parlor are ready.”

  I curtsied, a habit these days, as I scurried down the long polished hall, taking a quick glance at the deep cloakroom and turning up the wick, to be sure there was enough light to hang coats and hats. Farther on toward the front door, I checked the sprigs of pine and holly stuck at the corners of the gilded hallway mirror. We’d looped fresh evergreen down the staircase banister, adding a rich, pine fragrance to the front hall.