The Diary of Cozette

by Amanda McIntyre

  “Good day, miss, the wind is crisp, but the sun is bright and the sky clear. You should have a clear view of your way back to the house.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Coven, for your generosity and please consider what we discussed.”

  He nodded but had already gone back to his work. I’d never known a man that did not leap at the opportunity to bed a woman. Most puzzling.

  I paused at the door, the spot reminding me of a comment he’d made. Unable to leave with the matter yet resolved it was obvious he’d mistaken me for someone else. With the initial belief on fire in his eye and in his manner, I could not help but think of the woman responsible for turning his heart to stone. “Mr. Coven?” I looked over my shoulder and caught his gaze.

  “Yes, Miss Cozette?”

  “I am sorry I am not who you thought I was.”

  He stared at me and lowered his eyes as he nodded.

  “Mrs. Farrington is planning dinner at three. We may expect you, then?”

  He raised his hand in response, but did not look at me.

  Mr. Coven’s strange behavior has weighed heavily on my mind the rest of the morning. Fortunately, Mrs. Farrington believed my story of Mr. Coven’s insistence I sleep there. Whether she believed nothing happened, she did not remark, but went about her dinner preparations with as much intent as if for a large gathering.

  She sent me out to the rain barrel to chop away a piece of ice to melt for tea later in the day. With the day clear and the trees barren, it provided ample view of the entire estate, including the stables and snow-covered meadow beyond. A movement caught my eye and I shaded my eyes to the sun reflecting its brilliance off the freshly fallen snow.

  I expected to see Mr. Coven or Jensen emerge from the stables, but was surprised upon closer inspection to find Lady Archibald. I eased around the corner, so I wouldn’t startle her return. Her face was radiant, her cheeks a rosy hue and there was a smile on her face. That smile, I knew very well. It was the smile of a woman wholly satisfied.

  She adjusted her bonnet and fussed a moment with her hair, which this morning she wore undone and free, blowing beneath her bonnet. Since I’d arrived at the manor, she’d always worn her hair wound beautifully atop her head and secured neatly with combs.

  Was it possible then that Mr. Coven would have conceded to my proposition and in such timely fashion? The thought made me giddy with delight and at the same time left me with an odd sensation in the pit of my stomach. Perhaps, it was merely the hunger created by the glorious scent of Mrs. Farrington’s holiday feast.

  It was awkward to be seated at the table, dressed in our finery, but it was at Mistress Archibald’s insistence that for this one day, we set aside our social differences and stations and break bread together, as she called it. True it was, that her festive holiday mood continued, clearly opposite to her manner the day before. I glanced at Mrs. Farrington, having rarely seen her in anything beyond her black-and-white uniform before. She wore a plain gray dress, with a high bodice and a lovely tucker around her neck made of ivory lace. Jensen and Mr. Coven sat across from us. Jensen was in a fine tweed jacket and Mr. Coven in a soft brown wool; both were bathed and clean-shaven. It was by no mistake that the master’s chair was left vacant in hope, my mistress stated, though not with a great display of faith, that he might make it home for Christmas. He was due to send word of his arrival at the train station.

  There was small talk, mostly of the horses and the new foals coming in spring. The mistress tried with valiant effort to engage Mrs. Farrington in a discussion on the newest designs in London’s fashions, but the conversation died most miserably when it became clear that Mrs. Farrington would likely never need to worry about such things.

  She did share news which came not only as a shock, but deeply saddened me, stating she had heard from the Worthingtons by way of a holiday postcard, that Andrew had been mortally wounded just after his assignment to the mounted military patrol. She indicated only that Lady Worthington was comforted that he did not suffer long after being shot in a skirmish between the militia and whiskey traders.

  My eyes fell upon my plate, remembering the Christmas just a year past, Andrew’s youthful smile and his determination to make something of himself. I dabbed my napkin to my mouth, tipping my head to touch my eye. Under hooded lids I noticed Mr. Coven’s curious gaze upon me.

  Lady Archibald refused us serving her, and insisted that all the meal preparations should be brought at once to the table. I can say with all assurance that I’d never seen a more bountiful meal in my life. Not one of us, except my mistress and Mrs. Farrington, knew their way around the proper etiquette of table manners. I found myself following Mrs. Farrington’s lead, even as Mr. Coven and Jensen followed mine. There were moments of awkward silence, punctuated with the clink of a knife, or a comment in praise of Mrs. Farrington’s cooking. Master Archibald’s empty chair sat as a constant ghostly reminder to all that had transpired and it was not long after we’d finished our meal that Lady Archibald suggested retiring to the parlor for tea.

  I was asked, no, required, to play piano and I did so, poorly, though by good fortune the brandy laced in the tea after the evening repast aided greatly in providing a deaf ear to my inadequate playing.

  “Milady, would you honor us with a selection or two?” I asked. Surely if Mr. Coven could see that the mistress was both alluring and talented, his admiration and hence his incentive would grow with equal measure.

  With a sweet blush brightening her cheeks she straightened her frock, a lovely simple design with a high bodice and long sleeves, made of the most beautiful velvet the color of the evening sky. Her voice and playing both reflected her inner beauty and I sat fascinated, as did the rest of the staff, in rapt attention to her playing.

  I first heard the rapping on the door, and rose to answer the call, believing it to be word of Master Archibald’s train arrival.

  “There now, this is most certainly in regard to the master’s arrival. Jensen, how quickly can we ready the sleigh to depart for the station?” She accepted the note from my hand and daintily unfolded it. As she read in silence her expression grew pale, her hand crept to her mouth.

  I glanced at Mrs. Farrington first and when she said nothing I took matters into my own hands. Propriety or not, clearly she was distraught. “Mum, what is it? Has there been a delay in the master’s arrival?”

  Her eyes turned to meet mine, tears welling in her expression of utter horror.

  “It’s Robert, there’s been a train derailment due to the snow and the authorities found my name in his belongings…” Her voice trailed off.

  I asked the one question that no one dared to ask. “Mum, is he alive?”

  “Oh…yes, they cannot report on his condition. He’s been taken to the Petersborough hospital.”

  “I’ll ready the sleigh, mum.” Jensen stood dutifully and strode toward the door without further delay.

  “I must pack a bag, I don’t have any idea how long I’ll be in Petersborough.” Her gaze rose to the window and the sight of Jensen in full stride heading toward the stables.

  “Is there any way I can be of service, mum?” I asked.

  As though lost in her thoughts, my mistress faced us and frowned. “I must go to Petersborough. Jensen will see to me getting there, Mr. Coven, if you will keep watch on the manor until we return.”

  He stood and bowed at the waist. “Certainly, mum.” He too left, refusing to meet my gaze as he walked by.

  Milady’s distress was obvious as I helped her to pack.

  “It is my fault, you realize.”

  “You mustn’t say such things, mum. It’s simply not true.” I folded the last of her clothing and tucked it in the small trunk. I hoped it would be enough for her stay.

  “It is. I have not been as forgiving with him as I should have been. I have held him at arms’ length, not accepting him, and now, look what God has done to garner my attention.”

  “Mum, I beg you, please do not torment yourself in
this way. God had nothing to do with that train accident. It was only an accident, likely of human error or uncontrollable circumstances. But I do not believe that God would do so horrendous an event only to punish you.”

  She held her face in her hands, sobbing softly and I placed my arm around her. “There mum, now dry your eyes. Jensen will be here soon with the sleigh. You’ll need to be sure to take several blankets and I’ll go downstairs and pack you something to eat on the way.”

  “Thank you, Cozette, you have been most kind to me these past few days. I can’t express my gratitude enough.” She held my hands and squeezed it tight.

  “You have shown me your gratitude every day, mum.”

  It is Christmas Eve, and the house is quiet with both the master and mistress absent. Mr. Coven retired early stating he was in the middle of a good book. After our nightly tea, Mrs. Farrington retired so she could rise early tomorrow and scrub down the kitchen from top to bottom, a chore that with any good fortune, I will get out of, if I can find adequate reason. All we can do now is wait until we have word of Master Archibald’s condition.

  I sit here near the fire in the servants’ hall and my thoughts drift to Ernest, wondering where he is tonight on the cusp of another new year. My tea has turned cold, and so it must be time for me to end this entry. Happy Christmas, Cozette, I remember my mum saying to me as she sat by my bed. Happy Christmas, mum.

  ~C

  February 15, 1875

  There is word that François is married. Lady Graham stopped for a visit, bringing the news and her niece, Chastity, who grows more beautiful each time I see her.

  “It was scandalous of course, he and his bride. She is of Indian descent, imagine! I wonder how they met. They say she is dark and lovely, and wears a jewel in the middle of her forehead. There is talk that the whole affair was arranged quickly by her father, a man who is an inventor or physician, or something.” She waved her hand. “Quick marriages of course can only mean one thing. Lord Deavereux is going to be a papa.”

  The tea I was pouring missed Miss Chastity’s cup entirely and it was fortunate for the girl she possessed quick reflexes.

  I was horrified that I’d let the discussion affect me as it had. I glanced at my mistress. “I apologize, mum, and to you Miss Chastity. I seem to be all thumbs today.”

  “It’s quite all right. Why don’t you see if Miss Farrington needs help with Master Archibald’s lunch? I’ll pour out.”

  Fortunately, my mistress knew all too well what hell we’d suffered as of late. The master had become in his convalescence a tyrannical monster, demanding everything from spoon-feeding to fastening his bedclothes. Mr. Coven had taken on the responsibility of bathing him and on more than one occasion, I would see my mistress and Mr. Coven standing alone, intently speaking in confidence to one another.

  “Oh, mum, that reminds me, the messenger brought by another note from Lord Deavereux.” I handed it to her and waited.

  “You’re excused, Cozette, I’m quite sure this is another of his notes inquiring after the master’s health. The man reminds me of a buzzard, flying overhead.”

  Lady Graham chuckled. “Now I want to start our plans for the charity ball. Thomas has lined up some of the Brotherhood to match our earnings from the auction of his paintings.”

  I eased through the kitchen door spying, as I did, my mistress fold the note and slip it into her skirt pocket.

  I am not sure if she responds to the notes from François, but his sudden marriage leads me to believe that his luck with flitting from flower to flower may have run out. A trite and evil notion I know, but well deserved. Perhaps fatherhood will teach him more about responsibility. At nineteen, I find it curious that in all my lovers, though preventive measures have not always been taken, only once did I have a scare, when my monthly didn’t arrive on time. And good Lord Deavereux was cause for that as well.

  My mistress continues to be burdened with a feeling of guilt regarding her husband. The physician confirmed her greatest fears by telling her that Lord Archibald will not walk again and further that the possibility of children no longer exists. My mistress did not take the news well, nor did she realize I’d overheard the physician speaking to her. For now, she has chosen to keep the information to herself, but when she is ready, I am sure the staff will be the first to know.

  I have on occasion thought of what it might be like to have a child. Though I am not at all sure I would make a good mother. I have too much of a restless spirit in me, too self-centered at present for my own good, Mrs. Farrington might say. The truth of it is, that unlike most women, I do not desire at this time to have several children, like my poor mother. The heartache she must have felt when she could do nothing to help her dying children is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps one day, I may find someone with whom I could see settling down with and making a home together. Perhaps, if there is a God who arranges such things, this is why I remain childless. Yet, that is no better line of thinking than to say the train derailment that made the master crippled was God’s design. Perhaps I should not spit on my good fortune.

  ~C.

  May 18, 1875

  I have noted in recent weeks Lady Archibald making frequent visits to the stable, or making excuses to go for walks. It is my suspicion that she is meeting with Mr. Coven. We have spoken only in terms necessary to our working together, but I have not spoken again of that night this past winter.

  It was Mr. Coven who finally convinced Mistress Archibald to follow through with plans to attend Lady Graham’s ball. He has offered to stay with Mrs. Farrington and attend to the master.

  The carriage ride to Lady Graham’s is not a great distance, an afternoon if that to her estate outside of London. We shall return in the morning and not tarry, according to my mistress’s wishes.

  Mr. Archibald’s condition declines each day and as of late he has summoned legal counsel where they converse for hours at a time. He has a special chair, but refuses, often requesting that Mr. Coven carry him up and down the stairs. It seems my mistress is empathetic to his condition, herself in recent weeks taken to fever and chills. Unable to define its origin, she claims that it is lack of sleep in caring for the master. She is able at times to keep down only tea and crackers.

  As we journeyed today on the rough road, I watched her profile staring outside at the lush green trees shading the road. Her dress was plain, none of her magnificent outfits of satin and velvet, but a high-waist loose-fitting dress, with a beautiful sheer ivory tucker that accentuated her fair skin. Her bonnet and cape completed her simple attire.

  She wore her hair up on her head and I had taken liberty to weave a few small daisies in her fiery tresses. My concern was her pallor; quite ashen, she bravely held her chin high.

  “You’ll let Jensen know, mum, if he needs to stop.” I placed my book on the seat beside me, unable to read further for the uneven road. The carriage pitched and swayed in the ruts left from the hard winter. My mistress’s color went from ashen to an odd green.

  “Milady?” Her tired gaze turned to mine and she then forced her head through the open window and promptly emptied her stomach.

  To his civility, Jensen halted the carriage and came to her aid, offering water from a jar and a cloth he kept in his pocket. He took her arm and they walked for a few moments until she regained her composure. I watched them speak to each other very little, but could not hear what they were saying. Her color returned, Jensen helped her into the carriage and she leaned her head back and rested for the remainder of the trip.

  As we turned onto the road to the grounds, the sun was high in the sky, before noon. A rectangular reflection pool preceded the house, with three ornate stone fountains in its center, the carriage drive, curved between it and the front door, making a grand entrance to the estate. I am struck by the enormous wealth of some, to live in such castles, really. The manor itself is most adequate, but considered a cottage by comparison. Fortunately, Lady Graham is one of the least snobbish women of wealth tha
t I know. Once I was able to get past her eccentricities, I have found that I enjoy her immensely and find her most agreeable.

  She met the mistress and me at the door, a miniature dog in one hand. It lapped at my mistress, causing her to laugh, and my heart was glad. There had been far too much tension in the house, and the ride and change of scenery would no doubt do her good.

  Grand is not a suitable enough word to describe the splendor of Lady Graham’s preparations for the charity ball. Charities not being new to the English most certainly, one that is to raise money for a training home for women’s occupations is nonetheless a rare choice during the season. Tucked into my perch from above I can with leisure walk from portal to portal and gaze down on the entire ballroom.

  She told us earlier as she led us on a short inspection of the house that it was built in the seventeenth century, with the influence of Roman and French design. Every wall was covered with exquisite paintings, many from young Mr. Rodin and Brotherhood members, others portraits of Lord and Lady Graham’s lineage. Throughout the inspection, she credited her nephew and niece for helping her maintain the old world splendor that Lord Graham so loved. Ostentatious as it may be to some, I found it to be as eccentric and exciting as the woman herself.

  The ballroom, able to accommodate more than one hundred guests, was gleaming to perfection. Several servants bustled about the room making last-minute touches to the refreshment tables and décor. Chairs were placed along the walls to offer rest to those weary from dancing and at one end of the room, a small chamber ensemble practiced for the evening ahead. I walked behind my mistress, aware of the stares of the servants dressed impeccably in their fine uniforms.

  “Are you quite sure we cannot persuade you to join us this evening, Cozette?” Lady Graham asked as we dined on the veranda.

  I felt out of place, most certainly being served instead of serving. I could barely eat the delectable pâté on my plate. “Thank you, mum, your invitation is most kind, but with your permission I would be more at ease observing rather than participating this evening. Perhaps I could help in the kitchen?”