My mistress held her hand to her mouth and giggled and his aunt cast a tolerant gaze to the heavens. Had I not seen it firsthand, I would not have guessed she was capable of being coy.
“You naughty boy, flirting with older women. Your reputation will not improve, my dear lad, if you cannot learn to control such tendencies.” His aunt waved her hand in dismissal of his rakish comment.
He shrugged off his coat and handed it to me, lingering his hand over mine as I accepted it from him.
“And this delightful and utterly silent creature is? Neither old, or I wager, near as stuffy as my good aunt.”
He had a way about him that drew me like a bee to honey. I gazed up at him, smitten entirely with his eyes, and the delightful way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me.
“That, my dear nephew, is your new study, the same girl I spoke to you about. She happens to be your new student in return for sitting for you. See to it then that you mind your manners.”
He stood a good head taller and in his eyes was a knowledge that both intrigued me and sent alarm bells ringing in my head. Certain attributes I have learned to take note of in a man. Some certainly are more readily apparent—the sound of his voice, the shape of his mouth, and his lingering gaze.
He smelled of the fall air, crisp and woodsy, making my senses spin with enamored delight. The image of Mr. Coven’s prize stud appeared in my head and a shiver skirted my shoulders.
I stepped away, embarrassed for holding his gaze much longer than appropriate, especially for one of my station.
“Go ahead then, girl, tell him your name. You can speak, can’t you?” Lady Graham chuckled.
“My name is Cozette, milord.”
“My lord?”
He glanced over his shoulder at my mistress. “I don’t recall that in all the many names bestowed upon me that milord has ever been used.”
As I searched my rattled mind with how best to rectify my mistake, he faced me and gave a bow.
“Please, my child, call me Mr. Rodin. While I am most honored to be addressed as lord, I am not worthy of the title, trust me.”
He leaned in close, his face inches only from mine as he offered me a grin, both white and even.
Despite his rakish manner and exquisite physique, to one (namely me) who had not been with a man for many months, I clung to the only thing that would see me through the moment—Mrs. Farrington’s training.
I curtsied, tugging the coat gently from his grasp as I hurried to hang it in the hall.
“See here you clever rascal, you’ve gone and frightened the poor thing,” Lady Graham stated before she drained the last of the tea in her cup.
“Will there be anything else, mum?” I stood rigidly in the doorway as far from Mr. Rodin as possible without appearing rude. My cheeks still burned from his taunting. Though I am no stranger to a man’s advances, his are subtle, charming in a way that draws you in before you know what has happened.
“Posh, now Aunt Violet. She is not yet used to my unique nature. I promise we will be great friends by the end of our stay.”
His grin held the devil behind it, yet I was not afraid, but surprised by my reaction to him.
“I take note of how radiant her complexion and the tone of her skin, how her eyes glitter with brightness. I am after all an artist of the human form, my dear aunt. My apologies most sincerely, Miss Cozette, and to you Lady Archibald if my method offends. However, see what passion lies inside you, my dear. It is evident by the rise of color in your cheeks. It is in the quite ordinary face that beauty has its place.”
I listened to his poetic words with every sense freely alert and perhaps most amazing of all—I understood what he said.
“Cozette?”
My mistress’s voice beckoned from the haze in my brain. My gaze caught once more to Mr. Rodin’s. Like a spider trapped in his sensual web, I was not able to respond.
“Cozette?”
Her tone, more urgent, broke me free from his mesmerizing gaze. “Yes, mum.” I blinked three or four times before his image cleared my senses.
“Please see to helping Miss Farrington with supper. We will need to eat promptly as Mr. Rodin wishes to retire early. We have a very busy day tomorrow.”
“Did I not tell you that my nephew was well versed in what he does?” Lady Graham laughed. “Why, I would never think to find beauty in such an ordinary subject.”
I picked up the teacups, arranging them on the tray, quickly reminded that beauty was indeed in the eye of the beholder. Lady Graham is a frank woman, exceedingly open with her opinions, perhaps because of her social status. I knew, however, that my mistress needs her financial support of her charitable project. Her tireless work with organizing houses for wayward women, training them in other jobs that are more acceptable and teaching perhaps safer ways to earn a living are dear to her heart. Though it would be hard to dispute the wages of a whore to a factory worker, I had known dollymops who worked days at the factory and came down to the pubs by night to turn a shilling or two.
Still, my mistress took great pride and determination in her work and I, in some ways, feel I am her first pupil. For her benefit alone, I will learn to set aside Lady Graham’s caustic remarks.
I straightened and looked at Mr. Rodin directly, my gaze unfaltering. “Thank you sir, for your most kind words. I am sure that I will learn a great deal under your instruction.”
“Virginia, do I have a few moments to retire to my room for a quick nap? I believe it would serve my digestion better for supper.”
Lady Graham groaned as she pushed her substantial body from the chair and stood. I picked up my tray and curtsied politely.
“Charming,” he whispered.
His gazeze raked over me and he turned to the other two. “We will begin bright and early tomorrow. I prefer the natural light on my subjects.”
“Splendid, I will be sure that Cozette is finished with her duties and is in the library promptly, Mr. Rodin. You have no concerns. Tomorrow, Cozette is entirely in your hands.”
I glanced over my shoulder and caught his grin and the gleam in his eye.
Perhaps a bit of lavender in my morning routine would be beneficial—to calm me, of course.
~A.C.B.
Later, September 25, 1874
It is late, but I could not for another moment hold these feelings inside of me. I confess I am most assuredly drawn to Mr. Rodin. Not as deeply as I had been with François, certainly whose behavior I am quite certain does not befit the name of lord, either. But I am off the path of my thoughts. It is no wonder, these emotions make me dizzy and I confess my passion is piqued.
These past weeks have taunted my passion, my zest for life itself. I have thought of little else but the happiness of my mistress, which I am loyal to, but also to the welfare of replenishing the cistern of my soul. Indeed, I have allowed it to run dry and this aspiring artist, this refreshment to my bones, brings to me his passion for life. I can see it plainly in his eyes. I feel it on my flesh as a breath of fresh air after a scorching day.
Oh, if I am so fortunate to drink deep from his reservoir of experience and knowledge to revive my spirit, then I shall happily embrace and drink deep and long of all that he has to offer.
Moreover, what better way to offer my humble part to my mistress’s noble cause?
I am quite unsure if I will be able to sleep now for the excitement building inside. However, it is not to my benefit to appear without rest. Therefore, here is to climbing on the back of passion and riding it fully, with my hair tangled in the breeze, and the wind caressing my face.
Oh, Ernest, who offered me my first taste of passion, I do hope you’ve filled your passion’s quest. I do so miss our nightly rendezvous.
~Lady C.
September 26, 1874
It is not yet dawn, and my nerves betray me. It is with clear intent that I agreed to my mistress’s wishes to sit as Mr. Rodin’s study, but I had not expected him to be quite so handsome or engaging. I f
ear that my dealings with Lord Deavereux may have bruised me irreparably. I contemplated how best to approach Mr. Rodin’s charm as I bathed this morning and realize that the task will be somewhat of a challenge due to the very nature of my excitable youthful passions. Why, even the scent of lavender has aroused me and without benefit of a male form in which to satisfy my urges. I have heard Mrs. Farrington speak of a new disease they call hysteria, found mostly in women, she has it on the utmost of authority that there are physicians treating the dreaded disease by mechanical means.
I have thought to contact Charmise in London and request one of her French-made dilettos. She believes they are to a woman’s benefit to satisfy her cravings most discreetly, and I have discovered by diligent practice that my hand by no means satisfies to the extent of a man’s cock. I held the object once, studying it to determine its effectiveness. Now, with such long periods between opportunities, I must make it a priority to write and inquire where to obtain one of these handy items.
For now, however, I must keep my attention squarely on my mistress’s welfare. Her commission of this artist is a grand opportunity to further my instruction, even as I hope to benefit her charity. My future acceptance in the proper social circles one day seems very far, if not impossible, but perhaps I will be the woman who makes changes, instead of cowering to the background and complaining about them.
Still, as I ponder the subject, I am not at all certain I feel society’s standards are what they ought to be. Certainly they derive from a man’s point of view, which is far too often being the dominant creature with the woman beneath him. I much prefer the notion of balance in relationships, whereupon on occasion the man should be the one beneath the woman on top!
There my mind wanders again, and my journal is prone to the spots of water from my hand. I shall dress most discreetly, being sure not to provoke the imagination of the young artist any more than already fills his enormous imagination. I shall wear my proper black uniform, with a starched apron, and beneath, many layers and my undergarments in order to quell any manner of temptation.
I pray that he not gaze at me too long, for surely I will be unable to resist those golden eyes that seem to see through to my very core.
Now, if I am to uphold these declarations of chastity with Mr. Rodin, I must banish altogether thoughts of a picnic under the autumn sky and the sensation of Mr. Rodin’s mouth upon my breast. I scold myself for thinking of them, but find it difficult on days such as today to dwell on such naughty musings. However, I have also discovered that once you have tasted the goodness of the honey, one is far more likely to desire to make friends with the bee.
With anticipation of riding unbridled my passion,
~A.C.B.
September 26, 1874
A most rapturous day with Mr. Rodin!
My gaze followed him as he set up his easel and positioned his canvas. He was dressed less formally than when he arrived, quite comfortably, I suppose, so as not to impede his work. The flowing white shirt he wore reminded me of a roguish pirate, loosely knotted at the neck with a same colored white tie as if thrown on in haste. It was tucked haphazardly into his coal-black breeches that fit his form well, though I did not linger long in the region to determine how well they conformed to his body.
“Good lady, since we are to become partners in this intimate quest to create a portrait that captures your very essence, I shall need to know in what form to address you that will suit your comfort?” Mr. Rodin paced in front of us, scanning the room, as if checking the light and shadows.
He stepped back, holding his hand to his chin, brows knit together as he surveyed the room. His sudden movement to snatch a coverlet from the settee caused both Lady Archibald and I at once to gasp. She glanced my way and offered a timid smile, quite as unsure as I was of Mr. Rodin’s creative eccentricities.
To quell her unease, I spoke clearly to indicate that I was not intimidated by his manner. “You may call me Miss Cozette, if you wish.”
He whirled to face me, his eyes afire with excitement.
“Miss? Let us go with Cozette, shall we? It’s much less stuffy.”
He offered me a brief grin as he began to roll his shirtsleeves. My gaze drew to the sinewy flesh of his forearms sprinkled with dark hair, and it gave rise to my curiosity where else his dark hair lay as inviting. I blinked away my musing and cast a brief glance at my mistress who appeared to be as enamored of Mr. Rodin as I was. He shoved furniture at odd angles to the light of the window, moving a vase here, a stack of books there. Now and again, he would utter a quiet sound indicating that something did or did not suit him well.
While my mistress watched enthralled with how he upset the decorum of the library, I found myself drawn to his hands. Never before had I been in the company of a true artist and my keen interest bordered on obsession. Were his hands crafted of clay or stone, they would most assuredly be displayed as fine art. Exquisitely large, with long, slender well-groomed fingers. I marveled how he could master such a fine and delicate tool as a painter’s brush.
“Your cheeks betray your thoughts, Cozette. Certainly what ’ere thoughts have captured your fancy give your countenance the brilliance of the morning sun.”
He assessed his latest arrangement, glancing at me with a smirk of a smile that bordered on wicked. “Countenance, sir?” I asked, for in my limited experience, I didn’t understand. He spoke with great command of the English language, as though he was a poet and while I am, if I may so boldly admit, well and knowledgeable for a woman of my station, his command of words was far and above mine. I found the gift of his tongue intriguing…in a most painfully stimulating manner.
“Countenance.” He swirled his hand through the air as though conjuring his explanation. With furrowed brow, he switched two pillows in his arrangement upon the settee and with a frown, tossed them over his shoulder as he continued. “It is that which allows what we are feeling on the inside to reflect on our face. It is the emotional response of our inner selves. When we are sad, our eyes are dull, our mouths drawn tight. When happy, our eyes are bright and there is an upturn to the mouth ready for a smile.”
He paused long enough to regard me and I felt my cheeks burn as though he could read every one of my thoughts.
“Have you never studied your face in a reflection? Perhaps a lake, or frosted windowpane?”
I glanced at my mistress and stifled a smile as I returned my attention to him. “No, sir.”
“Ah, of course, when would you have the time with your many duties? This reminds me, I must indeed find a more suitable way to thank your lovely mistress for allowing you to avert your duties for the sake of my study.”
He bowed with courtly grace, taking my mistress’s hand, and placed a kiss there, lingering perhaps a second too long. I was astonished to see the bright pink circles form on her cheeks like a virgin bride.
“I believe you must receive credit my dear lady, for sensing that our Miss Cozette might well be regarded within the Brotherhood as one we like to call a ‘stunner.’”
Her eyes widened as though he’d offered her a ransom of plenty. She placed her dainty hand over her heart. “Mr. Rodin, are you quite certain? How terribly grand! Of course, were we to relinquish her, I don’t know how we would manage. Yet, if Master Archibald agreed, I suppose we could try.”
My gaze flitted from one to the other quite unsure of the fuss. One point I was clear on, which apparently they were not, was that I had no intent of leaving Willow Manor. It is the only home I’ve known.
“True, it is that the headmasters of the Brotherhood will have to consult my sketches first to determine her suitability.”
Would she truly be so quick to send me off then with Mr. Rodin and his Brotherhood of noble artists?
“My dear woman, would you permit me to request your assistance with my work?”
She shook her head. “Of course, Mr. Rodin, I would be most honored. What shall I do first?”
I watched in fascination at how quick
ly he had taken charge of the room, the day and of Mistress Archibald. And the morning sun had scarcely reached the horizon.
“I need a mirror, of course.”
She gave me a perplexed glance.
“Of course,” she stammered a reply.
“Oval, preferably and large, though a rectangular frame will do as well if that is all you have.”
He spoke as he moved about the room, oblivious or so it seemed to my presence. With a frantic glance, he surveyed the room, spotted a lap blanket and plucked it up, placing it in his arrangement.
“Oh and I shall need a tray of bread and cheese, a nice port if you have it. Champagne, if not, and fresh fruit cut so that I can eat it with my fingers without concern of seeds.”
“I will see to it that Cook brings your tray and I shall retrieve the mirror from my dressing table, I’m sure it will work for your needs, which, if I may ask…”
“You may not, my dear lady. An artist never reveals to anyone his secrets of the trade.”
His tone gave a final note to the discussion.
“But of course, Mr. Rodin.”
My mistress looked at me and I started toward the door anticipating her instruction to bring the mirror from her quarters.
“Oh, no, my dear, I need you to stay, to absorb your aura.”
I hesitated, my hand on the library door, my gaze on my mistress, unsure whose instruction I was to follow. A fleeting look of shock passed over Mistress Archibald’s expression, dissipating as quickly as it appeared. I had no more idea what this aura was than I did understand a great many of Mr. Rodin’s words, but the idea sent a wicked shiver up the inside of my thigh.
“Of course, I shall enlist Miss Farrington to assist me.”
Her skirts swooshed as she brushed past me, our eyes meeting briefly as she closed the double doors behind her. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, as in a rainstorm just before lightning is about to strike.
“Now then, Cozette. Perhaps you will do me the honor of telling me a bit about yourself?”
The Diary of Cozette Page 23
