The Diary of Cozette (23 page)

After preparing 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.

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 the 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.”

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.