The Diary of Cozette

by Amanda McIntyre

  As I write today, my thoughts reflect the change of seasons. In less than two months, I will see my nineteenth birthday and there are days when I feel as though I have lived a lifetime.

  Weeks have passed since the incident at the picnic. Master Archibald comes and goes, and is away on business much of the time. When he is here at the manor, he is like a ghost wandering the rooms, unseen and unspoken to. I believe Mr. Coven is the only one with whom he has any association. There are events that challenge any marriage, and I daresay this incident and its bleak consequences have gone far beyond the normal boundaries. Though given my observations, I have to wonder of their solidarity before the incident. Perhaps after each has ad time to consider all that has happened, they will renew their commitment, perhaps truer than before. It is too early to say and truly not my place to judge. Perhaps my master holds out hope that my mistress will forgive him, or it may yet be his part in losing their child from the overstress that gives him reason to stay. Yet neither his loss nor my mistress’s health has kept him from his frequent travels. Though upon his return I have noted his manner no different.

  To that, I address my mistress’s demeanor. More and more I realize the remarkable woman she is. Since her release from the physician, she has embraced fully a number of charitable works that keep her schedule full. I see her driven with a purpose to succeed in these organizations, and yet I suspect she fills her time so as not to think about all that has occurred.

  This renewed interest in charity has given her an even greater mission to edify me. I have become with great interest, her latest project of reform. Today, with much delight, she has instructed that I make haste with my duties so that I may welcome two very special guests she is bringing from the train.

  “I am absolutely certain, Cozette, that you will find our guests most interesting. You already know Lady Graham, of course.” She clasped her hands under her chin. “Today I am bringing her and her nephew to stay with us. I cannot tell you what it means to have guests again at Willow Manor, especially a noted artist such as Mr. Rodin.”

  My mistress adjusted her hat before she pulled on her cloak and gloves. How could I forget how that beady-eyed woman had stared at me most uncomfortably the entire afternoon? “Yes, mum.” I folded my hands and waited dutifully, eyes lowered.

  “Cozette, my dear.”

  She took my chin in her gloved hand and lifted my gaze to hers.

  “I feel that under the circumstances that you should no longer refrain from offering eye contact when I speak to you. I understand that Miss Farrington has trained you thus, and she is most wise, but in truth, I feel as though you and I…”

  “Begging your pardon, mum, but Mrs. Farrington has shared her secret and it is safe with me.”

  My mistress gave pause, her gaze searching mine. I waited, taking note of the shimmering of unshed tears in her eyes. She cupped her hand on my cheek in a way I remember my mother doing.

  “I am glad you understand her circumstances. She is a good woman. The three of us have been through much together, have we not?”

  “It has been an honor, mum.”

  She pulled her hand away. “You have been more than a housemaid to me, and now it is my turn…” She brushed her glove over her cheek and sniffed once, blinking as she smiled.

  “It is my turn to introduce you to the full potential that lies inside you, my dear. Already you excel in reading and play a little piano, we can work on that too this winter. And perhaps we will see to your writing as well.”

  “My writing, mum?” Had she read my journal? Out of habit of living in the orphanage, I kept it tucked discreetly under my mattress. Did she know about François?

  “Now don’t think I haven’t seen you writing dutifully in your journal. Oh, yes, I have seen you with your head bent, your pencil scribbling across the pages. And yes, I have noted those books disappearing from the library as well.”

  “I am sorry, mum.” My face burned with my guilt.

  “Oh, heavens, child, think nothing of it. I will keep you well supplied and perhaps one day you will honor me with some of your thoughts.”

  I wanted to draw her into my embrace. “Thank you, mum.” She did not know how many times she had been the subject of many pages.

  She placed her hands together in front of her, touching her soft pink mouth with her fingertips.

  “But, my point is that you have in many ways been trained in all of the rudimentary skills required to be a productive member of society. As much as any proper young woman of wealth or status, and perhaps due to your extraordinary circumstances, you hold a greater advantage in having overcome many an obstacle. Still, to succeed, one must use every possible avenue to enrich your life. You must quench your thirst of all your senses.”

  Her words whirled around my brain like honeybees to a hive. Her expression held determination and one thing more, confidence. She was confident of my abilities and willing to teach me what she knew of this world of hers that courted social status and wealth.

  Oblivious to the puzzled look on my face, she rambled on about her plans for my instruction.

  “I surmise that Mr. Rodin will advise you what you are to wear, so we shan’t concern ourselves for now. I believe the Brotherhood prefers an earthier, plain subject.”

  To that, I nodded in agreement, though admittedly still confused why any artist, seasoned or aspiring, would find me, of all women, a subject adequate for their work. I had no knowledge of anything with regard to the dealings of “the Brotherhood,” unless by this she meant a division of the church.

  “Jensen is taking me to the station to meet Mr. Rodin and Lady Graham. They will stay on for the next few weeks as Master Rodin completes his study of oils on canvas. I have asked that in return for using you as a subject that he would tutor you with his artistic skills and instruct you in the ways of the fine arts. How would you like that?”

  I wanted to tell her that I would be most willing to sit for hours learning about canvas texture, if it would keep me from peeling potatoes for Mrs. Farrington. “I am speechless, mum, thank you. I shall go straight away and prepare the guest rooms.”

  “Master Archibald has sent word that he must travel straight from London to Amsterdam and does not plan to return home until the end of the month. Please put our esteemed guest in his room.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  “Oh, and one tiny request, Cozette.”

  “Of course,” I responded.

  “I do not wish any more to be said, even in private, regarding the situation between Lord Archibald and me. It is, for now, a closed subject.”

  “Consider it done, mum. There is not a one of us on staff that would show you less than our complete loyalty.”

  Her body relaxed with her smile.

  “Thank you, you all take such care of me. However, Lady Graham revels in the glories of meddling in other people’s business and while I consider her a dear friend, I do not know how she would take to my situation. I desperately need her to believe that I intend to carry on with fund-raising for the League’s new project.”

  “Yes, mum.” That bit of news came as no surprise to me. “I will make it a point to caution the staff.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Now…” She grabbed her soft woolen purse and touched her gloved hand to her auburn hair. For a woman scorned, she appeared quite confident and sure of herself, making her all the more beautiful in my eyes.

  “Jensen is waiting and he gets cranky if he has to wait too long. The poor man, I think I try his patience much too often. Please have tea ready, we should be back in time.”

  I stood at the open door and watched her scurry toward the carriage, where Jensen dutifully held out his hand and assisted her inside. Though Master Archibald could easily afford one of the new horseless carriages, the horse-drawn landau somehow suited her genteel character. She waved as Jensen prodded the horses and the carriage lurched forward.

  ~A.C.B.

  September 24, 1874

  After prepa
ring the guest rooms, I sat on a chair in the kitchen, a bowl of green beans in my lap, snapping off the ends. Mr. Coven had brought Cook a fresh load of wood and he sat on the straw bench near the fireplace, nibbling on an apple. Mrs. Farrington stood at the large worktable in the center of the room, kneading a loaf of bread to be baked for supper.

  “Mum has asked us not to speak of the situation between her and the master,” I spoke out loud, glancing up at Mrs. Farrington.

  She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Coven who acted as though he was neither interested or listening.

  “As if there is much to say. If you ask me, someone needs to take a switch to that Livengood woman’s hide, behaving in such a manner. Not that I’m judging, of course. That I shall leave to the good Lord.”

  In all likelihood, she would enjoy the switch. I kept my thoughts silent as I watched Mrs. Farrington’s sturdy hands punch at the bread dough.

  I glanced at Mr. Coven, waiting for him to respond. He would have been a most handsome man, had it not been for the grave scar that disfigured his left cheek. The patch he wore covered most of the welt that remained as though it had not been treated properly. Many times, I wanted to ask him how it happened, but I never had the courage.

  “Well, if the good Lord is passing out judgments then he would do well to remember Master Archibald as well.” I snapped a few more beans.

  That garnered Mr. Coven’s attention.

  “You think this was all his doing, then?”

  His voice was calm, but his gaze he kept focused on the core of his apple.

  “A man with a lady of Mistress Archibald’s standing should be satisfied well enough not to succumb to a strange woman.”

  “Yet she is no stranger to you, is that so?”

  Too late, I realized that I’d wandered into a bramble bush and was about to be pricked by its thorns. “It is true that Miss Livengood and I met once, years ago.”

  His singular gaze, accentuated by a dark brow turned to mine.

  “And where would you have met such a woman with Miss Livengood’s skills?”

  I swallowed, keeping my chin up as I held his gaze. Something in how he looked at me waxed vaguely familiar. “Is there a point, Mr. Coven, to your thoughts? For I fail to see how this is any of your affair.”

  I’d never mentioned the details of my life to anyone. Mr. Coven was the only one who knew I’d worked in a brothel. He knew that and yet he offered me a direct challenge. Mrs. Farrington busied herself, intent with shaping the bread dough into a perfect round form.

  He chuckled under his breath.

  “The point I am making, Miss Cozette, is that we all have regrets in our lives. Things we have either done or failed to do.”

  His austere attitude challenged my pride. “And which is it for you, Mr. Coven?” I did not know why the man had a way of touching the barest of my nerves, but he truly was most skilled at it.

  “That, young lady, is none of your affair.” He tossed the apple in a waste barrel as he strode out the back door.

  “What has happened to make him so cross?”

  Mrs. Farrington shrugged. “Mr. Coven has dealt with many a ghost from his past. For his age, he has had experiences that most men will never live to see.”

  “Such as?” Perhaps now I would discover why he wore the patch on his face. I took the beans to Mrs. Farrington and stood across the table from her so I could hear her plainly.

  “He would not like me to speak of it.”

  “So you know then, what happened?” I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the table suddenly very curious as to the reason for Mr. Coven’s patch.

  “It was many years ago, in his youth. It was an accident or so he says.” She shrugged.

  “It must have been an awful ordeal.”

  “He told me once that it was a slip of his former employer’s riding whip, as he held his horse.”

  “Poor Mr. Coven, how terrible!”

  “That is all he will say on the matter.”

  I was curious why Mrs. Farrington would think there was more to his story. “What do you suspect?”

  She lifted the flat wooden paddle that held the bread and slipped it into the brick oven built over the fireplace. Her face flushed from the heat, she brushed her hands on her apron. “A man as good with horses as Mr. Coven wouldn’t have encouraged the use of a whip. Besides, I don’t believe any horse under his care would have need of one.”

  “I would also agree to that assumption, so may I query what your view on this is?” A horrid cold fear trickled slowly through my blood. A fear that she was about to tell me of something much more vile and sinister. Nevertheless, I am young and my imagination is both a blessing and a curse. She leaned forward, her gaze intent on mine.

  “I think he was struck…by my guess, with grave purpose, meant to do severe harm. Though I dare not know who could be so dreadful as to take a riding whip to a young boy,” she whispered, leaning back and slowly shaking her head.

  My mouth dropped open and I immediately felt ashamed that I’d been so distant in my dealings with him. Perhaps it was the patch and his attitude that had made it thus, but I could no longer feel the same having now this parcel of knowledge. “I have treated him so poorly.”

  “Ah, now, dear, do not be so hard on yourself. Mr. Coven carries around his demons, keepin’ to himself most days. I think he prefers to be alone. He never eats with Jensen and me, preferring instead to take his plate to his room. In addition, he reads constantly. Always borrowing books and reads them at night, bringing them back before morning.”

  “That’s why then I have seen him so late at night walking in the house.” All those times I had run into him in the shadows, now made sense. He was concerned that I would tell his secret about the books.

  I shall endeavor to be kinder to him.

  ~A.C.B.

  September 25, 1874

  I am smitten.

  Thomas Rodin, aspiring artist, the nephew of the barely tolerable Lady Graham, was as beautiful (if a man can indeed be called beautiful) as any painting that hangs in a museum. All the intent of my vows of celibacy after François’s painful dismissal poured out from the teapot as I served Mr. Rodin.

  “Thank you, miss, the train ride here was horrendously long. This is most refreshing.”

  His eyes were soft gold tinged with brown, as warm as the color of the tea I splashed over his teacup.

  I realized my error with horror, but he lifted his hand to the saucer and deftly dabbed it with his linen cloth before either woman detected it.

  I gathered my wits about me and picked up the silver tray to serve Mrs. Farrington’s fresh-baked scones. They are by far the best in all of Britain. I had picked the red raspberries the day before and waited most of the morning, breathing deep their delectable aroma.

  “These are magnificent, Virginia,” Lady Graham mumbled, her mouth still full from her first bite. “You must get your cook to give me the recipe to take back to mine.”

  “I am quite fortunate to have Miss Farrington. She is a gem of culinary expertise,” my mistress replied with pride laced in her voice.

  Mr. Rodin gave me an ornery grin as if to say this highbrow protocol was silly pish-posh. I hid my grin, but when I captured my mistress’s eye, she nodded and her mouth slipped into a quiet smile.

  I served the scones and by fortune for me, he could not decide which to take, which gave me ample time to inspect the deep wave of his thick chestnut hair combed back over his ears. It hung to the collar of his white collared shirt, fastened with matching ascot. He had a firm, clean-shaven jaw.

  The color of his coat was a soft golden brown, accentuating most pleasingly the languid brandy color of his eyes. I dared not look any farther down for fear of dumping the entire tray in his lap. However, my mind did entertain ever so briefly the thought of finding the crumbs myself. Oh, my wicked mind, stop now before you do something you will most assuredly regret.

  “This one, I think. What say you, it appears to have th
e largest chunks of berries, wouldn’t you say?”

  I bit back a silly giggle, too much caught in my own musings at the moment and could but simply nod my approval.

  “How old does one have to be to enter into the Brotherhood, Mr. Rodin?” My mistress tipped her head in the direction of the teapot and held her cup at the edge of the saucer.

  In haste, I cleared my besotted manner and hurried to pour. Before Mr. Rodin could respond past his mouthful of scone, Lady Graham slurped her tea and dabbed her mouth readily.

  “My heavens, I don’t believe that there is an age requirement. There are several others however, or so Thomas here I’m sure could tell you….”

  Mr. Rodin took a sip of tea and opened his mouth to speak, but his aunt spoke again ahead of him.

  “It is vital to have a true loyalty to nature, simple design, intricate attention to detail and a belief in realism. Wouldn’t you say that covers everything, Thomas?”

  He chuckled as his brows rose. “Indeed, my dear aunt, it seems you have covered the Brotherhood terms most exceedingly. Have we answered your question to your satisfaction then, Mrs. Archibald?”

  My mistress smiled and lifted her cup to her lips with a slight nod of her head. I suspect, she as much as I was assessing Mr. Rodin’s attributes. Lady Graham was the only one in the room not charmed completely by the new artist.

  My gaze caught Mr. Rodin’s as his lips touched the edge of his cup. He possessed a full lower lip and I admit the way it caressed the delicate china made my heart race a bit faster.

  For a man who lifted a brush for a living he was a most impressive man, both in form and manner.

  His shoulders, though not as broad as François’s (oh, I detest that I have little else to compare) appear firm and filled out his coat most adequately. He was dressed well, but has a look about him that is common, comfortable…somewhat roguish.

  “Lady Archibald, with your kind permission, would you allow me to remove my coat? It serves me well in the brisk out-of-doors, but in the company of three such fine ladies, well, I am feeling slightly flushed.”