The Diary of Cozette (24 page)

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.

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 fear 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.

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 quickly 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?”

Mr. Rodin stood across the room, but his presence surrounded me. I bit my lip before I faced him and reminded myself that this was for benefit of my mistress. Mrs. Farrington has instructed me with the intensity of a general, that I am not to speak, unless addressed, and then to choose my words carefully. I am to be brief and give no opinion.

As if rules had ever added a single day to my life. “You wish to know about
me?
” My voice wavered slightly. My gaze was drawn to how precise he was in pulling the silk ascot from his neck followed by the methodical way he unfastened the buttons of his shirt. The material lay aside freely exposing a portion of his chest, lightly covered with dark chest hair.

I shut my eyes and swallowed against the dryness in my throat.

“I knew, Cozette, from the first moment we met, that you are a most passionate woman.”

I wanted to leave, but curiosity coaxed me to open my eyes. Mr. Rodin stood a few inches in front of me, a gleam in his eye.

“See how you blush, my dear Miss Cozette. Your cheeks are no less beautiful than a fully bloomed rose, and I venture as soft.”

He did not lay a finger upon me but I felt his gaze raking over me, making my body burn with the need to be touched.

“I can only imagine what soft beauty lies beneath the multitude of clothing you’ve chosen to wear. How many layers does it take to bridle your passion, Cozette?”

A small gasp escaped my mouth as his grin widened, white and even. How could he know what precautions I’d taken to assure that I would not be tempted by his charms?

I lifted my chin and kept my eyes averted as he walked slowly around me, his gaze burning through my clothing.

“Do I frighten you?”

Indeed he did, not for what he might do, but for what I wanted him to do. Was he teasing then? Simply to see how far to play this hand?

He came around to face me again, his gaze lingering at the position of my breasts.

“You are quite beautiful in an earthy manner. However…”

He reached out and touched my shoulder, turning me to face away from him. “You will need to be comfortable for our sessions and so, this must go.”

I sensed a tug at my waist as he undid my apron strings. The apron was a requirement of my uniform, a strict code with Mrs. Farrington and my mistress.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Rodin, but do you not wish to paint me as I am?” Though my curiosity rather enjoyed the little game he and I played, my duty as housemaid interfered, cautioning to not be cheeky with my mistress’s guest.

“Oh, very much, Cozette. It is fully my intent. But it is imperative that artist and subject first trust one another implicitly.”

I looked over my shoulder and met his gaze. He tugged at my apron, forcing me to face him as he drew it over my arms and tossed it over a bust of Master Archibald perched on the drum table in the library. At least I would not have my master’s empty gaze to contend with.

“You were telling me about yourself. Where are you from?”

“Was I?” I kept my smile from being too evident. I suspected he cared less about me, than what unseen treasure lay beneath my skirts.

His eyes assessed my hair, swept up and secured loose at my neck. As though hearing my silent plea of loneliness, his hands brushed the slope of my neck, unfastening the comb that held my hair in place. My tresses tumbled into his hands and he furrowed his fingers through it, positioning it to his liking over my shoulders. I had not touched a blade to it since having to cut it while living in London and it had grown back thick and a darker shade than its original light-brown wheat color.

His hands brushed over my scalp, his fingers combing through the strands, teasing my senses.

“Your hair is exceptional, but for your age, I would have expected it to be much longer.”

“I cut it once,” I admitted softly under the spell of his hands running through my mane.

“Why on earth would you perform such a travesty?”

He leaned in close, placing his face against a shock of my hair as he inhaled.

“Lavender? Am I correct?”

I could only nod. This man was different from any man I’d met. He seemed more aware of those things which a woman would find important, and yet he was every bit as virile, as far as I could tell.

I blinked, realizing his fingers had worked open the first few buttons of the back of my blouse. A knock on the library door alerted my senses to my mistress’s return and concern filled me that she should see me in half dress.

Mr. Rodin answered the door, opening one side only as he spoke with great delight.

“Ah, that is excellent, Madam Archibald, this will work wonderfully. Oh, there we go…now I have it, thank you very much. Please see to it that lunch is served promptly in two hours’ time. That should give us a good chance to get started. Until then, please see to it that I am not disturbed.”

I could hear, but not see, my mistress, but I sensed her shock at not being allowed back in the room. It was most irregular to allow servants to be alone with their own guests, much less guests of their employers.

“Are you quite sure, I shouldn’t stay in the event you have need of my services?”

“Miss Cozette has been most cordial, milady. I shall require nothing further from you at this time. However, I insist you join me for tea in the gazebo later this afternoon. Now, promise, I won’t take no for an answer. There now, see how sweetly your cheeks color. Run along now, oh and madam if I could trouble you to inquire if your cook has some of her exquisite scones left from yesterday?”

“Indeed, Mr. Rodin, if you need anything, simply ring and I’ll be in the kitchen with Miss Farrington, going over the menus.”

“Lovely, milady. You are most kind.”

He was as proficient at tossing dung as was Mr. Coven.

He shut the door and whether intended for my knowledge or not, I watched him turn the lock soundly. A shock of anticipation quivered low in my belly.

“Ah, now here is where the real creativity begins.” He wiggled his brows as he carried the mirror across the room. “Now, Cozette. I tell all of my subjects—”

“How many of those have been women, Mr. Rodin?” I watched in fascination as he busily removed the canvas from the easel and replaced it with the ornate gold mirror.

He shrugged, glancing once over his shoulder with a sly grin.

“You are a clever young woman. Come here, I won’t bite, well, not just yet anyway.”

He offered me a wicked grin. I had no cause to fear him and despite this preliminary game of cat and mouse that we play, I was most intrigued to see what he had in mind.

I walked to him and he positioned me in front of the mirror.

“Remember when I asked if you’d ever looked upon your reflection?”

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the drab color of my black uniform. My complexion appeared pale in contrast, my dark hair loose and of no real vibrancy as my mistress. My eyes, a deep blue, appeared lifeless, large and sad in a way that gave me pity for the wretched creature standing before me. I seemed rather pitiful at that. Had my anger at François and concern for my mistress taken its toll, making me look old and withered?