The Diary of Cozette

by Amanda McIntyre

  “Straight away, sir,” the boy replied. I saw him from my vantage point scurry away from view.

  “I would beg you to understand, Mr. Coven. I had no intention of what happened a moment ago to occur. My heart, and I will not lie to you, belongs to another. Most assuredly—”

  “Please, no harm was done. Let’s not speak of it again. It was regrettably, a most unfortunate mistake, nothing more. My deepest apologies for taking advantage of the situation.”

  He faced me then as he raked his hands through his thick hair, as though to brush away the incident from his mind.

  “Yes, a most unfortunate mistake. One we would do well to keep between us for the sake of our employment. Are we agreed, then?” I pulled my skirts around my legs to manage the ladder and hesitated glancing up at him to be certain he heard me.

  There was anguish etched on his face, more than a simple eye patch could hide. He nodded and returned his gaze to the floor.

  “Good day, sir,” I replied. My ego was admittedly tarnished some by his dismissal of my passion.

  “Good day, Miss Cozette.”

  ~A.C.B.

  June 21, 1874

  Sleep is not an easy commodity this night. It has been a most unusual time. First Mr. Coven’s attentions, François’s lack thereof, and now Mrs. Farrington has received news that her husband is due home on a surprise leave. She was giddy when she told me that Lady Archibald had given her leave from her duties this evening if I didn’t mind filling in.

  “I daresay Miss Cozette, I feel like a new bride on my wedding night. It has been a long time between—” She held her hand to her mouth and chuckled.

  I knew I should not be jealous and in fact, I am truly very happy for her.

  “You are a dear to see to matters for me this evening.” She gave me a quick hug and scurried off to bathe. He arrived not long after and they shared a meal alone in the servants’ kitchen. I was not blind, though perhaps a bit envious, to Mrs. Farrington’s fidgety manner and the lust shimmering in her husband’s eyes.

  “I think we shall dispense with dessert tonight,” she whispered in my ear as she carried their dinner plates to the tub of suds.

  “Go on then, I’ll see to this and leave your shoes, so I can give them a good polish for tomorrow.” I pointed at her feet with my hand towel.

  She giggled and unlaced the ties, slipping the shoes off in haste. She kissed my cheek (unheard of!) and grabbed Patrick’s hand, dragging him down the stairs to her bedroom. Given the look of utter joy on his face, I am confident she need not worry of his faithfulness.

  For the remainder of the evening, I busied myself in the servants’ dining hall, seated near the fire and read, trying to turn a deaf ear to the sounds coming from below the stairs.

  It was well after midnight when the sounds subsided and I took haste to tiptoe to my room and close the door, hurrying to change into my bedclothes and crawl beneath the covers.

  After a fitful time of getting to sleep, I awoke a few hours later to the muffled sound of Mrs. Farrington’s scream of rapture followed by their joined quiet laughter. Unable to sleep I chose to pen my entry.

  Their playful romp creates a lonely ache for François. I wonder if it is prudent to set my eyes on a prize such as Lord Deavereux, knowing I will never attain acceptance from his peers, given my social rank. Though it is apparent his rebellious nature is very much like one of the studs in the meadow and he no doubt is accustomed to challenges. He has surely smitten my heart and stolen not only my virginity, but also my desire for any other man. Which leads me to be exceedingly puzzled by the incident with Mr. Coven, as surely I cannot deny to some measure my attraction, if only carnal, and at least for that moment. Am I too blind to see that the woman to capture Lord Deavereux must possess not only passion, but substantial dowry as well?

  At present, I find myself challenged to concentrate given the escapades in the next room. Mrs. Farrington’s quiet gasps mock my prison of celibacy and my fingers clutch my pen, my breath still in my chest, as I listen once again to the rhythmic thud of the bedposts thumping against my wall. I cannot bear this solitude. I am but a human with needs of my own. Frustrated beyond comprehension, I hurry to my bed and crawl between the cold sheets, lying still, my gaze riveted to the dark ceiling. If I close my eyes, perhaps I can steel myself against their sounds of passion. Nevertheless, I am drawn in with each soft thump of the wall beside my shoulder.

  Giving in to the muse of my passion, my hand moves slowly over my breast, touching me as I imagine François would, rolling my nipple between his finger and thumb. Sweet is the familiar sensation between my legs, as I draw my gown over my hips exposing my lonely quiver. I imagine what François would do, if he were here, how expertly he would stroke, teasing at first, and then with deeper insertion. He would taunt me, pushing me toward the edge of bliss, even as the rapid squeak of the bedsprings next door increase with urgency.

  My imaginary lover would fondle my breasts, tormenting me with his thick member, his penetration deep, sliding full, and stretching my hood, moving with tantalizing ease as he draws me closer to the dark bliss of pleasure. In my haze of passion, the low-timbered sound of his male satisfaction sweetens my ears even as he thrusts hard into me, compelling his release.

  There is no warmth of his body, no hint of his unique, masculine scent, yet the pleasure is for now, adequate. In my mind, my faceless lover urges me to completion. My hand leaves my breast and I grab the rail over my head as tension builds deep inside me. I am wet with delicious heat, sweat trickles over my breast, setting my body to flames. My heels brace against the mattress, dig in deep, moving my hips in unison to my ghost lover.

  “Oh, Patrick!” Mrs. Farrington calls out in a broken whisper. The wall shook again twice more before her beloved husband’s groan gave indication he too, was spent.

  So joined vicariously with my lover, my body climaxed hard, shattering in shards of exquisite pleasure releasing my tension and for the moment, easing my frustration. I drew in a gasping breath, even as I repositioned my bedclothes and for a moment lay still listening to their quiet whispering. No doubt endearments and promises for their future, I venture.

  Though I am far from being one of religious persuasion, I lay my hand on the faded yellow, floral wallpaper and make a wish in my heart they will always have such passion between them. Moreover, as I am quite certain that my actions should require a long stay in a nunnery, I cannot deny a tinge of desire in wanting to possess the type of devotion of one man for all of my days.

  I smiled at the silly nature of my sentimental thoughts. It is so unlike me to believe in anyone but myself, even in the cases of spiritual matters. Self-reliance is all I’ve known…or ever trusted. Yet since my stay, I’ve found acceptance, if only from the female members of the house. Perhaps I am softened by this in some manner and true to her mission and perhaps my mistress is indeed succeeding in molding me into a woman to be accepted by proper society.

  However, in debate to that thought, I am not at all sure that I wish to comply, or to aspire to become a woman accepted by Britain’s proper society. With few exceptions, it has been my experience that a number of British women preoccupy themselves with pleasing a man’s whims, or competing with one another for them.

  Certainly, I have no desire to compete with any woman, or man for that matter. Only to give and take on an equal plane, sharing hopes, dreams and passion with one who accepts and understands me for who I am.

  It is in the Farringtons’ marriage that I see this aspect, as well as in their passion, to be honest and true. The pleasures of their bodies shared and not necessarily only for the purpose of procreation as our society encourages.

  I have no way of knowing what lies in my future, but I shall endeavor to be true to myself and honest in my passions. Good heavens, the bedsprings are groaning again.

  ~A.C.B.

  July 8, 1874

  I have taken to assisting my mistress with rolling bandages to send to our British troops. L
ady Archibald and the Ladies League feel it a noble and worthy cause to keep the British army’s medical needs well-supplied.

  She made a brief comment that Lord Deavereux has at last returned from his travels! To celebrate my mistress is planning a picnic, scheduled for three weeks from now to allow our neighbor the chance to get resettled and make proper preparations. So much time has passed. I wonder if he yet still thinks of me?

  ~Lady C.

  August 7, 1874

  I liberally sprinkled the lavender oil that I use for the laundry in my bathwater this morning in anticipation of seeing François. I suppose that my behavior is not that of a mature woman, one confident of her place in life, but my youthful passion consumes me with the very thought of being with him again. In addition, after so long, I want our time together to be one he will cherish and remember always. Many a night I have looked out at the stars and wondered if he thought of me as I have thought of him. To this end, I intend to show him and if my courage permits me, tell him, of how deep are my feelings for him.

  The incident between Mr. Coven and me is faded now with my thoughts focused on François and my memory of his body on mine. I find his passion noble, most exciting and so plan to utilize this later. He has remained perhaps conveniently absent for several weeks and perhaps for now it is best. It was not easy for me to reveal so hastily my feelings for another, especially in the presence of one as powerful and admirable as Mr. Coven. Further, how can I expect a man whose life revolves around horses and hay not to be overcome by his desires when left alone in the presence of a woman?

  I suspect his absence has more to do with his bruised ego than anything else. Once I have spoken to François and admitted my highest regard for him, I will visit Mr. Coven and soothe over any misunderstandings between us. After that, I will begin my plans to propose to him that he take on my mistress as her secret lover.

  “Cozette, are the baskets ready?”

  My mistress flounced into the kitchen, her ruffled white parasol tucked over her shoulder like a soldier in her queen’s army. She was dressed in a pink-and-white striped skirt with matching jacket, looking very much like a porcelain doll in a toy shop. Despite the repeated delays by her husband to be present for the picnic that he had suggested months ago, it looks as though he will follow through this time.

  “Jensen has the carriage and we are to meet Lord Deavereux and his party within the hour at the crossroads. Please hurry.”

  Her face possesses an ethereal glow, radiant as I have ever seen. She is blushed with excitement. There is no doubt that there are certain events that please my mistress more than others. Outings are one of her favorite passions. In this, we are kindred spirits, she and I, for there is no greater splendor, no deeper sensuality than the freedom of being outdoors with a blanket, a bottle of wine and a lover.

  “Straight away, mum, I am finishing with the last basket now.” I tucked an extra bottle of champagne in the basket and secured the lid. Picnics for the well-to-do are far different from those of ordinary social standing, as I had learned by observation. It had taken Lady Archibald more than three weeks to decide on a menu, send out the invitations and prepare the proper ensemble. All the while, I believe, praying that her husband would not sweep in and destroy her plans with yet another delay.

  The trunk with blankets for the ground and the meal itself were fastened to the back of the carriage. I handed the last of the smaller dessert baskets up to Jensen, shading my eyes to the rising sun. I was surprised when Mr. Coven reached around Jensen and snatched the basket from my hand. He did not let his gaze linger, for which I am grateful. I want nothing to spoil this memorable day, one that may decidedly change my life forever.

  With my book as a prop for my facade of sneaking away to read, I climbed into the carriage unable to quell my insistent collywobbles. My mistress followed, with Jensen’s assistance.

  “You look especially radiant this morning, Cozette.”

  My mistress arranged her skirts as she settled in the carriage seat across from me.

  I nodded my head with a perfunctory smile, trying not to allow my excitement to show on my face. “Thank you, mum. May I return the compliment by saying I have never seen you look lovelier.”

  Unlike my secretive measures, her smile in response was radiant and my heart, though still cautious of his bout of temper, grew hopeful that perhaps her husband had come around at last to treating her as she truly deserved.

  Her gaze darted to her husband emerging from the house. He was dressed not for an outing, but for more of a business meeting in an all gray suit and coat, with matching derby. With him, he carried his walking stick.

  She grabbed my hand and leaned forward, about to burst with excitement. “I am with child, Cozette. I cannot believe it. They thought me unable to conceive, but Robert insisted we try. It has been a rather long and difficult task.”

  She hesitated, moistening her lips, her gaze unsure of how much she should reveal to her housemaid.

  “Yet it has been a most pleasurable task nonetheless?” I suggested with a smile. I risked speaking to her with the same candor, but I wanted her to see my elation in her news. Whatever bond there was between us, it was discreet.

  Her cheeks blushed crimson as her gaze dropped to her gloved hands.

  “I am afraid I am not as well-versed in these things as a wife ought to be. My husband has been most patient with me.”

  I held my tongue to my true thoughts on the matter regarding her husband. Her gaze lifted to mine with renewed joy.

  “Surely it is by God’s design that this child has come to be,” she commented firmly, her bright eyes twinkling.

  I wanted to remind her of her Christian belief that speaks of but one Immaculate Conception. I chose wisely to remain silent on this point. “Indeed, mum.”

  The carriage listed to one side as Lord Archibald entered the carriage, taking the empty seat next to his glowing wife.

  “Ah, Cozette, I see you are traveling inside with us today.”

  It was his veiled way of showing his displeasure in the fact.

  My mistress tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. He squeezed it as she smiled up at him and continued to hold the walking stick upright in front of him in stately fashion.

  “My dear, with both Jensen and Mr. Coven occupying the driver’s seat where else would she ride?”

  “And pray tell, madam, why is it again that Mr. Coven joins us?”

  “You remember Jensen’s accident last week with the bales of hay that fell on him? The pain in his back persists. I felt it would not be wise to invite further complications, but he insisted on driving today.”

  Lord Archibald frowned, but did not look at her and I surmised, given his lack of attention to his wife, that perhaps she had not yet surprised him with her latest news.

  “Very well.” He tapped the carriage roof with his walking stick and the carriage rocked as it started down the stone path to the gates.

  I watched my mistress look upon her husband with adoring eyes, and took note of how he held himself rigid from her touch. Perhaps she was closer to speaking the truth about divine conception than I previously thought.

  Our carriage arrived first at the shady intersection where we were to meet François and his guest. My stomach fluttered in anticipation as I watched his carriage approach and then stop before us. When the door opened, my disappointment couldn’t have been greater. “Betsy?” I muttered quietly as I watched François assist her with his hand from his carriage. When I heard that Lord Deavereux’s guest was an aspiring theater actor, I assumed most readily it would be a man.

  Betsy’s smile was bright as François made his introductions to my master and mistress, his gaze briefly flitting over Jensen, Mr. Coven, and me before he focused on the beauty beside him.

  “I want to thank you both for making me feel so welcome,” she said sweetly. “You are most kind to include me on your picnic. I am mesmerized with the beauty of the countryside. I am afraid my schedul
e does not permit much time for such pleasures.”

  “Oh, François, she is simply delightful. Miss Livengood, you must tell us all about your work on stage. I simply must hear your thoughts on the latest in the American theater.”

  I watched silently from my veiled vantage point behind my mistress, astounded at Betsy’s transformation from a skinny, frightened girl to the elegant woman that stood before the small group, feigning her humility. There was something in the way her familiar gaze swept back to Master Archibald as the four spoke of menial topics and my instinct cautioned that perhaps my master and Betsy might already be acquainted.

  Her blond ringlets were upswept from her neck and captured with ornate combs encrusted with pearls and beads. The pale heart-shaped mouth that I remembered holding audience in quite another fashion was painted red, and a paler version of the same color dotted her high cheekbones. Her frock was a deep emerald-green, a rich color that accentuated her ivory complexion and pale blue eyes. Her bodice was cinched as tight as I daresay her breathing would allow around her tiny waist.

  She was an elegant, delicate creature amid a rural setting that made her beauty even more apparent. It was obvious too, that she did not recognize me. Perhaps because my hair is now to my shoulders and I had it pulled back in a braid. I have gained back some of the weight I had lost while in London and I surmise the fresh air has been kind in putting the color in my cheeks.

  “Well, we should get started if we want to eat before the heat of the day.” My mistress turned to the waiting coach and hesitated for her husband to aid her into the carriage. By fortune, Jensen stood at the ready and offered his hand with a cordial bow. Lady Archibald lowered her gaze to her feet and accepted his hand, not once looking back. If she had, she would have seen her husband assessing Lord Deavereux’s team with great interest, his gaze diverting to inside the carriage now and again.