The Diary of Cozette (8 page)

True it was that we could leave, and probably find marginal safe haven for the night in the doorway of some cannery warehouse where we could hunt for food scraps with the dogs, or we could survive.

That option was all the inspiration I needed. I pulled Betsy to her feet, and I shoved her up the steps of the stage, following close behind. With a sly wink to the stage manager, I drew the feathered drape wound around the French woman’s neck. Applause and laughter rose from the crowd.

“More!” came shouts from the riotous audience.

I handed them to Betsy and whispered in her ear, “You are now Fannie and all you have to do is play along.”

Betsy caught my reference to her same comment earlier and nodded.

The cowering manager escorted the distraught singer from the stage, visibly upset by the crowd’s sudden animosity.

I left Betsy on stage and made my way to the piano player.

“Can you play a tune that might inspire a woman to take off her clothes?”

He blinked at first and said nothing, but the quick glance over his shoulder at the unhappy crowd was all that was necessary to convince him that something spectacular was needed to garner their attention. He knew as well as I did that something was needed and most urgently.

His brow furrowed as he searched for the manager’s approval. The frantic man clung to the edge of the stage curtain.

If a fight broke out, it would most assuredly involve the local authorities and that would risk an arrest of everyone in the brothel. From the looks of things, too many upper-crust gents were spending their money too freely to squabble long about his options.

“For heaven’s sake, do what she asks, and with haste, man.” The stout manager called from his hiding place behind the side curtain.

I glanced up at Betsy, her face pale in the row of lamplights, her dress hanging like an old potato sack on her frame, as she held the exquisite stolen French plume. I do not know what prompted the courage to do what I did next.

“One of you gents might offer the poor woman a pint,” I yelled. Immediately a horde of young sailors leapt up with pints sloshing over their hands as they rushed the stage.

The attention brought out the best in Betsy and immediately her dour expression evaporated, replaced by her sweet smile and batting eyes.

The piano player gave a shrug and began to play a slow, rhythmic beat.

I nodded my encouragement to Betsy as her gaze darted to mine. I slid my jacket off my shoulder, prompting her to do the same.

With quick dexterity, Betsy had the crowd eating from her hand as she teased and strutted across the stage, using the feather boa in ways I would never have imagined. It was clear by the whistles of the crowd that she was not a disappointment; indeed, despite her skinny frame, her attitude won the men in the audience immediately. I saw the grin on the manager’s face, and knew this was to be our new home, at least for tonight.

My gaze was drawn across the room to where a substantial woman stood at the end of the bar. She was dressed in a red satin dress that draped her large body, giving special attention to her sizable breasts barely concealed in the bodice. Her hair was red as sunset, piled high and adorned with a short plume of black feathers and a fancy glittering hairpin, and her cheeks were painted with heavy blush, as were her ruby lips. She stood alone, though the barkeep handed her a glass that I noted she did not pay for. With her gaze on Betsy, she was not aware of my staring at her, wondering if she was the madam of the West Indies brothel I’d heard of. It was rumored to be high-ranking and exclusive.

A man dressed in a brown tweed business suit and matching derby appeared at my side with a glass of whiskey on a tray.

“Compliments, sir, of Madam Rose.”

He lifted the tray to my reach, but his gaze was fixed on Betsy showing the gents in the front row a bit of thigh.

“She’d like to have a word with the woman’s manager. Would that be you?” he asked, his gaze bouncing briefly to me and then back to the stage.

He and the madam apparently thought I was a man by the looks of things. I tipped the amber liquid to my lips as I’d seen the giant do earlier and opened my throat, letting it burn all the way, it seemed, to my toes. My eyes watered and I squeezed them shut, taking a deep breath to keep from screaming at the sensation of fire in my throat.

“Meet us after the number in the back room, we’ll talk.”

I could only nod for the blaze in my throat.

That meeting has led to a new life for both Betsy and me. We each have a room in the lodge, and I manage to keep my identity from all except Betsy. It is best for now and I quite enjoy being treated with the same respect as other men.

If I’d learned anything from my deception as a man, it is that greater allowances are given to them. To have a mistress, even in what would be considered a “good” marriage, is not out of the ordinary. Women, like those working for Madam Rose, are used by these men to release the pent-up stresses of their lives.

I have given up hope of ever seeing Ernest again. Far too long I have held hope that he would find me, but months have passed with no word. He was my first love, sweeter than a child’s dream. Nevertheless, I am no child and can no longer cling to youthful dreams. If there is a future for me, then I alone must find my way, as always I have. I have those I work alongside, and Betsy, and it is enough for now.

~A.C.B.

Today my disguise was revealed to another besides Betsy. Her name is Charmise, and I’d seen her now and again, knowing she was a favorite among the men. She is older than the other girls in Madam Rose’s lodge. No doubt, she must have been quite beautiful in her youth. Men on the randy requested her despite her age, with her piercing violet eyes, smoky French accent, and her raven-black hair that drapes over her pale, slim shoulders. Betsy, Charmise and I have developed a camaraderie being the odd members of Madam Rose’s troupe. And it was while sipping leftover champagne from one of her clients, that my true identity was revealed.

“I was to have married.” Charmise took a quick puff on her cigarette. She bought them from officers in the Royal Navy. “’Ee was an English lord, a wealthy one too, from the looks of ’is estate. However, I soon discovered that one temperament ’ee saved for public and quite another ’ee ’ad in private. More than once, I ’ad to explain the bruises ’ee left on my arms. I covered them with my clothes when we would attend ’is social outings. And ’ee was kind and charming, but once we were in private, ’ee was a monster.”

I swallowed my champagne and my thoughts drifted to my cousin Edward. That was exactly the kind of man I’d expect him to grow to be. “It’s a miracle you’re alive,” I stated as my mind began a slow, easy descent into a drunken euphoria.

“I wouldn’t let a man treat me in such a way,” Betsy retorted. She was on her second glass of champagne and lay stretched out on a chaise lounge. Her gown gaped open to reveal new hosiery given to her as a gift from an admiring American.

I poured more of the bubbly liquid into my glass and leaned back against the headboard.

“It was not so easy to get away from ’im.” Charmise wagged her cigarette at Betsy. “Alone in a foreign country and speaking little English, ’ee knew I was trapped, like a caged animal ’ee kept me.”

I listened to her and thought how brave and courageous she was. Between the champagne and her adventurous storytelling, I was enthralled. “Tell us, how did you manage to get away?”

“Simple, by fucking ’is deliveryman.”

Champagne spewed from my lips and Betsy roared with laughter.

“It’s true. While my gallant fiancé was reading in his study with strict orders I was not to disturb him, I met the deliveryman with my bag of clothes and I offered ’im my peach to take me to London and forget ’ee ever saw me.”

Betsy’s gaze rolled to Charmise. “And was
it
worth it?” She grinned wickedly.

“Indeed,’ ee was a man of good proportion. Besides, what man do you know that would refuse such a proposal? ’Ee brought me to the city, where I gave ’im another quick ride in the back of his wagon before ’ee left.”

I wiped the liquid from my chin and drank another healthy swallow. “Go on—what happened next?”

“For a time, I could not find work and one day, I am sleeping on a bench in the park and Madam Rose awakens me and invites me here for a hot meal. I never left.”

She glanced at me. I was still dressed like a man.

“I like the men here. They suit my particular needs.” She rose from her chair and crawled on the bed toward me.

“Oh, I am afraid there is something you should know,” I cautioned, my gaze darting to Betsy. She smiled, seemingly taking much joy in my dilemma.

Charmise slid her hand up my leg, over my thigh, and finally rolled her fingers over my crotch. Her hand stilled and her iris-colored eyes met mine. “You have something you wish to explain?”

“I am a woman.” I held her steady gaze and hoped a woman of her circumstances would understand my reasons.

“For pleasure, or are you in hiding as well?” She looked me over with an assessing eye.

“I suppose it is hiding in a way, at least for now. You won’t tell Madam Rose?”

She sat back on her heels, her hands in her lap. “Still, you prefer men,
oui?
”

“One man in particular, but I’m afraid he may never materialize.” Betsy toyed with her stocking.

“Indeed, but I fear I have much to learn about them.” I smiled and I’m certain it was punctuated with my champagne-induced silly grin.

“
Fantastique!
Charmise will teach you,
oui?
I have much that I can show you. We will be great friends, no?”

Indeed, despite Betsy’s teasing, Charmise and I have become good friends. She has instructed me on many of her techniques she uses to arouse and sustain a man and allowed me to try on her exquisite corsets and French gowns. Betsy too, of course, participates in our secret parties, though she has become aloof to most of the women at Madam Rose’s. She keeps busy with the tutoring she said she was getting from her American stage director. Meanwhile, Charmise is a most willing and learned teacher in the ways of men and sex.

“Cozette…” She would speak my name, rolling it from her tongue with such eloquence. “You can do
eenyting
if you have passion.”

She would beat on her chest to emphasize her words. “You must live life to a full measure, let
life
be your teacher, let it give you the wisdom and above all my sweet child—” she would light the tip of her cigarette laced with opium and offer me a grin “—one more ting I tell you and it is very important. Fuck only those you find worthy of your peach.”

I have pinned her words to my heart and thus begins my thirst for knowledge. Madam Rose’s has become my grand classroom, where I study expressions, watch the flirtations, observe how men from all social levels come to the bawdy theater as ravenous travelers, seeking but a crumb of intimacy and belonging, however brief. The wealthy and poor, the rough and meek, tall and short, I never see a single one turned away, except for rude or violent behavior.

My duty, aside from managing Betsy, is to fetch water for the baths required by Madam Rose. She ordered them of both men and the women in effort to keep health issues from slowing down business. The task, though tedious to some measure, also gives me opportunity to see a variety of men. It is here that I have acquired my appreciation and ardent admiration of the male form.

Exquisite creatures, though not always wise, the human male, by the time they reach Madam Rose’s, have little else on their mind. At first, I had disdain for their primal needs over the more esthetic appeal of getting to know your lover before the actual act of sex. There were a few intellectual gentlemen who seemed to care about the comfort of the ladies, but most plunked down their money as quickly as they did their pants.

I have learned that there are many types of men and one should not judge based on the clothes he wears or the position of his employment. Betsy is doing well and word of her talents is creating full rooms every night. However, I see her success going to her head and she has become standoffish toward me. Charmise says not to worry. As soon as the American goes home, all will be as it was.

~A.C.B.

I know that I should not judge a man’s worth by his exterior, but tonight I saw a man who by his single glance stirred feelings in me that I had long buried deep inside. He was not, I am quite sure, looking at me, but past me to the stage where Betsy warbled her song, rehearsing for her evening performance. I went back to checking my receipts. The fake moustache I now used with my disguise tickled and I rubbed my fingers under my nose to relieve the itch. Betsy had helped me to keep my hair short and mannish looking, but I still wore the tweed cap that Tony had given me.

“They tell me that you are her manager?”

I’d been so busy with my work that I hadn’t noticed him sit down across the table from me. He was a remarkably handsome man, dressed in a dark blue riding coat and tight black breeches that encased his muscular thighs. His white shirt showed off his dark skin, but I did not detect any accent other than British. I cleared my throat, lowering my voice in my head before I spoke. “Indeed, and who wishes to know?”

He stood, bowing short and held out his hand in greeting.

“I am Lord François Deavereux.”

I barely touched his hand for fear he would sense my immediate reaction to him. With haste, I pulled my hand back and lowered my face. “Good day, Lord Deavereux.” Perhaps he would see that I was busy and not tarry.

“She is quite beautiful and very talented. Are you two…well, together, in a relationship?”

“In the carnal sense, sir?” I spoke, not looking up, counting the receipts.

His chuckle was rich and I fought a smile in response.

“Yes, I venture to say that is my meaning, sir, if you don’t mind.”

Oh, he was proper to be sure, but also sly, I suspect, when it comes to getting what he wants. And at the moment, he wanted Betsy. That much was clear. “If I did sir, you would be facing the floor with my foot at your neck.”

“True enough, perhaps. Am I to understand no is your answer?” he queried politely.

“No, we are strictly professional.”

“Splendid.”

“Nor is she for hire, sir. Madam Rose can accommodate you with that.” I glanced up and slammed headlong into his captivating gaze. He was aristocratic as they come, clean-shaven, smelling of wealth, and dressed like royalty.

“That is not my intent.”

“Then I must ask sir, what are your intentions?” I started to wonder whether my curiosity was for Betsy’s sake, or mine.

“I would like to invite Miss Betsy to dine with me this evening, with your permission of course.”

“Tonight, after the show?” I glanced at him through hooded lids, watching his gaze intent on Betsy. I wondered whether any man would ever look at me like that.

“Yes.”

“Here?” I asked blindly, part of me absurdly hoping that he might invite me along, as her manager of course. He gave me a puzzled look then and straightened in his chair. Perhaps he’d never before had his intent questioned? I didn’t wait for his response.

“I’ll see to it that Betsy receives your invitation, Lord Deavereux.”

He swallowed the rest of his drink, cast me a quick glance and scanned the empty room. “Thank you. Have her meet me at that corner table.” He stood and bowed.

“Lord Deavereux, may I inquire what you do for a living?”

He turned back, having the nerve to look humble, an attribute I suspect was not a true part of his nature. “I breed and sell horses for stud.”

I smiled. “Of course you do.”

I watched them later from my table near the piano as I added up the receipts from the evening performances. It was a good crowd. Madam Rose seems pleased. Her familiarity with Lord Deavereux was evident, with her serving champagne to his table personally. It was then as I watched her that I knew Betsy’s talents would take her far. The day was coming when she would no longer need my companionship. What will I do then? Where will I go? Betsy and I share one common aspect, apart from being women. We will both do what we must to survive.

~A.C.B.