“Oh, now, don’t look so down, I will return by the weekend. I’ll be back before you know it and I know, perhaps an outing on Sunday would lift your spirits?”
My attention turned back to the library, awaiting my mistress’s response.
My mistress’s voice lowered in a calm tone. “You know very well, Robert, that I adore outings. What did you have in mind?”
My brow rose and I leaned forward straining to hear his answer.
“Do you think it wise to listen—”
Mr. Coven’s warm breath tickled the exposed flesh on my neck. Good lord, was the man blind in his other eye as well? Could he not see I was trying to listen?
“Sssh.” I leaned away from him so as not to be further distracted. I wanted Master Archibald to sweep her into his arms and take her right there on his grand high-brow, polished mahogany desk.
He cleared his throat. My shoulders slumped in despair.
“Perhaps the opera? A picnic, it matters not, I will let you decide. How long will it take you to arrange something?” he remarked.
“She wants more than a picnic, you ninny,” I whispered, wanting to butt my head against the wall behind me. Men could be so daft.
“Excuse me?”
Mr. Coven leaned closer and I caught the scent of night air and sweet hay on his skin.
“I do love picnics, it’s true. That is a wonderful idea, but impossible to make before next Sunday, simply impossible.”
Her voice had returned to its normal submissive tone.
“Why don’t you check your schedule and see what can be arranged?”
I smiled. Perhaps the lure of nature would provide a healthy stimulant to their marriage.
“Come now, my sweet wife. I have been on a horse these many days and thought of nothing but you each time my crotch hit the saddle.”
I closed my eyes and smiled. At last. “Saints be praised,” I whispered.
“Are you of Catholic persuasion?” Mr. Coven whispered.
His hand rested on the wall near my head. I turned my back to the wall and sighed with relief. Perhaps there was yet hope for my mistress’s happiness. Mr. Coven’s question sank into my brain. “What? No, of course not, what gave you that notion? I have no religious affiliations, Mr. Coven, the Lord and I have an understanding.”
The light in the parlor faded, pitching Mr. Coven and me into an inky black darkness. The only light came from my lamp perched on the kitchen worktable.
Miss Farrington groused often that Master Archibald could afford electricity, but the mistress preferred the romance of firewood and kerosene lighting. Certainly there was more labor involved for the help.
“An understanding?”
I waited until I heard the sound of their footsteps ascend the stairs before I allowed myself to move. My gaze lifted up to Mr. Coven’s staring down at me, a mere inch or two from my face. “My religion, Mr. Coven, like my concern for my mistress, is none of your affair.”
I made my way carefully to the butler’s sideboard where the silver box lay open. So many times had I put them away, it took little time, even in the dark, to return each piece. I shut the lid with firm resolve and buckled the leather straps in place.
I would have forgotten his presence had he not moved from the shadows to block my return to the kitchen. His dark eye glittered in the low light.
“Forgive me, Miss Cozette, if my comment was ill-timed. I meant no harm. But you must tell me, is this concern you have for our mistress one that the rest of the staff should be aware of?”
“I accept your apology, Mr. Coven and in turn extend my apologies for being so cross. As to the rest, I have no comment and now if you’ll excuse me, I have greater concerns pressing on my mind. My day starts very early as I’m sure does yours. May I bid you good-night?”
As I attempted to walk around him, he grabbed my arm and held me firm, though without inflicting pain.
“I was trying in my own rudimentary way, to apologize. I do find your concern for your mistress most admirable.”
His words uttered with his silky deep tone caused a shudder to ripple through my stomach, but I quickly dismissed it. “There is no need for apology. In truth, you are correct, I should not have eavesdropped on their private conversation.”
“But you expressed concern. What basis do you have for this?”
Dare I tell him that a woman of my background with little difficulty can recognize the hungry look of sexual need in another woman? The lifelessness in her eyes, the downward turn of her mouth. I could have given him many such examples but could not bring myself to share with him all I had witnessed in my former employment. Much less the scores of men I’d seen pay handsomely for a woman while away from their homes on business. Many who stopped by with great frequency for a night of carnal exploration that they would not dream of asking of their wives. Perhaps, if they did there would be less need for brothels.
“I cannot say with any proof of my concerns, but my feminine instinct,” I clarified, “warns me on occasion.”
“I see and I can accept that, Miss Cozette. What is your feminine instinct telling you at this very moment?”
There it was again, an elusive all-male challenge sliding covertly into an otherwise normal conversation. Well, almost normal. His insistence to try to startle me with his baited comments causes me to, I daresay, pity the poor man.
Not that I found him repulsive, he was quite handsome despite the mysterious flaw he wore beneath the patch. He was most agreeably built, strong and virile, with long legs, and muscular thighs and firm buttocks in his tight riding breeches. Blessed with a narrow waist and broad shoulders, his gait too was quite impressive. Not with the same swaggering confidence as François, but with purpose that is admirable for any man.
Despite my thoughts of Mr. Coven’s stellar qualities, I could not reveal them here in the dark with him standing so very, very near.
“My instinct, sir, is warning me of an early sunrise. And with the master leaving tomorrow, I venture your day will come as early.”
He released my arm and stepped toward me, leaning his hand on the wall as he pinned me with his intense gaze.
“Perhaps we should make ourselves a cup of tea and watch the sun rise from the garden gazebo?”
I opened my mouth to speak but chose better and shut it determining I would not be afraid of the advance or aroused by his offer.
He is without a fiendish bone in his well-honed body and were I not determined that one day François and I were destined to be together, Mr. Coven might well scatter my wits like marbles on a polished floor.
My discomfort at present, I realized, had more to do with not seeing François for a considerable length of time. And as much as I hate to admit being lured by his aristocratic manner, and perhaps his wealth (I cannot lie!) I have most assuredly missed the regal scent of his skin, despite my brief tryst in London. That I resolved to be of benevolent duty to one shipping off to military service. In truth, I am not sure that I am more obsessed with the “idea” of François and I, more than the reality of it occurring. Either way it is not a discussion I wish to have with Mr. Coven in the middle of the night.
“I bid you good-night, Mr. Coven.” I left him standing in the dark hall as I grabbed the lamp from the kitchen counter. With a last look over my shoulder as I descended the stairs I saw him pass behind me headed to the back door. The open door illuminated his massive silhouette against the moon shining outside.
“Good night, Miss Cozette,” he said quietly and left.
I could hear Miss Farrington’s gentle snoring next door. I quickly undressed and scribbled this entry before crawling beneath my covers. It has been a most unusual last few days.
~A.C.B.
April 23, 1874
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.
April 24, 1874
“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.
April 25, 1874
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 deliveryman.”
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.”
The Diary of Cozette Page 17
