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.
May 21, 1874
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 d
eep 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.
“I was but complying with your request, that the staff should not think we are planning some devious rendezvous.”
“Ah, yes.” He lifted his chin, shadowed still, offering greater appeal to his rugged look.
“For the servants’ sake,” I reminded him.
His eyes narrowed on mine, offering a wicked grin.
“Of course, then with your permission, I shall walk beside you and keep my hands firmly clasped at my back, so as not to give the wrong impression.”
He walked up to me, within a breath of my face, and demonstrated his intent.
“Shall we?”
As I gazed into his rugged face, his morning beard shadowing his jaw, I admit, had I allowed my passion to dictate, I would have shoved him into the tall grass, and encouraged his request with sufficient enthusiasm.
Instead, I smiled and clasped my hands at my back. “Shall we?”
He proceeded and I feel that perhaps I may have found a new confidant in Mr. Coven.
~A.C.B.
Later, May 21, 1874
I am yet assessing what transpired between Mr. Coven and me today. And I pray that it will not impede our ability to work on staff together. He is indeed a man of great mystery and in my vulnerable state (which I confess I ache most desperately for François) perhaps I was too coy and abetted the reaction from Mr. Coven. Oft times, I find that it is in my writing as I look back on the event that I am able to piece together the events and discover things about myself I may not h
ave otherwise considered. Such as the fact that despite his brooding and elusive manner, I find Mr. Coven a man of many talents, quite informed on a number of subjects, in particular horses, and he maintains an agreeable air to those about him. Perhaps it is my overactive imagination, but I detect a deeper passion seething below the surface. Other than his beloved horses, I do not fathom what would so greatly capture his attention. Regardless of his strange behavior, my heart does go out to the man for he seems lonely and yet appears so content. I would like to continue getting to know more about him, but for the present, find it best to attend to my duties and let Mr. Coven attend to his. Thinking back on the day, I am unsure that I would have done or behaved in any way different.
Mr. Coven, despite his disfigurement, is a most handsome man, though not polished as François in manner and dress. He is formidable and he rarely ties his hair back, though I suspect it is to cover his cheek. He seems to wear his leather patch as if he guards some terrible secret. It does, admittedly, lend an air of mystery as does his lack of kinship to his razor.
We walked the winding, tree-shrouded lane that spilled out into a large open area, where stood one of the most impressive structures, next to the manor, that I had ever seen. Set within a grove of trees, the stable was made of fieldstone and wood, its exterior was a testament to Mr. Coven’s hard work and no doubt, pride. A thick curtain of dense ivy climbed its outer wall, draping with easy fullness over the arched-roof entrance. I breathed deep, taking in the mix of morning air, mingled with straw and the moist earth.
I followed Mr. Coven, my head on a swivel as our path took us under the ivy vine, and into the cool shadows of the interior of the barn.
The Diary of Cozette Page 18
