The Diary of Cozette by Amanda McIntyre

her and her older, decidedly dour, husband.
    “Splendid.” She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward where their carriage and coachman awaited. “My name is Lady Archibald and this is my husband, Lord Archibald.”
    She carried on even as I sensed her husband’s eyes boring into the back of my head. I determined immediately, he and I were not destined to be friends.
    Still, what fool would turn away an offer for food and a roof away from the filth of the city, all for a few hours of work? I was not afraid of getting my hands dirty. I’d been on my own long enough to find it a means to survive. And my future, in the last few moments, looked far more promising than caring for the women at the brothel, who spread their legs for any stranger for a price that held them prisoner to his darkest desires.
    On the other hand, I had my doubts about our agreement as I finished their market chores with them, pointing out the best places to buy what they requested of me. He spent his money lavishly on her, a trait I added to his growing list of strange quirks.
    The stories of the orphans being enslaved to wealthy men for their private pleasure passed through my thoughts more than once and the thought that my fate would be in his hands, made my skin crawl. However, having found my way before, I knew if I found my life in jeopardy, I would find my way again.
    Yet, I eagerly embark on the potential of a new life, and soon will climb into the coach after my new mistress and I will never look back.
    ~A.C.B.

August 28, 1873
    The journey to their manor was long and the road hideous with dust. I kept myself occupied for a time by assessing the plush interior of the coach, noting its polished black sheen and rich brown tufted leather seats. Small lanterns hung near the coachman’s feet, gleaming brass, and I was thankful for the covered portion over our heads for all the filth the horses kicked up.
    The horses, I noted, were a fine pair of dapple gray, nigh onto nineteen hands high and quite comely. Ernest had instructed me once a bit about horses, instilling a particular love for the animal or his instruction, I suspect a bit of both.
    The coach, the stately sort, polished and elegant in stark black and gleaming white, rocked side to side on its stately wheels with white-painted spokes. Rather overt for a travel carriage, but I took it for foreign, as I’d seen few like it in the city. True, between manner, carriage and dress, my two would-be angels, I determined, must be well kept.
    I kept my gaze on the road as much as I could and only spoke when addressed. Her ladyship was by far the chattier of the pair, and Lord Archibald by contrast, expressed few words. Occasionally he would dart a dark glance at me as if reassessing his wife’s choice to take me in.
    “You will love Willow Manor, my dear. It’s modest by some standards, but we call it home and it serves us well,” she spoke as she peeled off her black lace gloves and folded them in her lap.
    “Madam, perhaps the child would like to rest,” her husband muttered quietly, his gaze holding to hers, insistent on making his point.
    The carriage jerked, tossing the refined woman against me.
    “Good heavens, you’d think with the wages we offer that man, he would have sense to avoid the ruts.”
    “I will speak to him immediately, my dear.” Her husband glanced at her and looked out the window.
    I watched the trees along the road, the rocking motion and the dreary silence causing my eyes to drift shut from time to time.
    “Do you have any skills? And heavens, where are my manners? I’ve not even learned your name. Do you have any family, at all?”
    My weary gaze turned to the woman beside me. Lady Archibald—Virginia, he’d called her—was indeed as elegant as her name. Had she been a whore, those long auburn tresses would have men lined up at her door for one night with her. She had beautiful eyes, light green, rimmed with dark lashes. At first I would have thought her from