Scotland or Wales, but her tongue was decidedly British.
Her attire for travel was made of robin’s-egg-blue silk with a short waistcoat with perfect tucks taken in to accent her trim waist. Beneath, she wore a high-neck white blouse with blue ribbon tied at the collar in an elegant bow. Even in her finery, she did not appear aloof, and I felt at ease with her. I ventured she could not have been many years older than me. Twenty, perhaps a few years my senior, certainly a great deal younger than her husband, on that I would stake my life. Oh, he was a stern-looking man, though I could see where in his youth he might have been handsome. His top hat covered the salt-and-pepper gray of his hair that he wore in deep waves over his ears. A coarse silver moustache and dark brows set over even darker eyes, rounded out his untouchable look of authority.
As I regarded the pair, I could not help but wonder what type of arrangement was made to unite the two. True, it is presumptuous for me to assume, but I would have to wonder what a woman like her would see in the stony likes of the man seated across from me, his hands perched atop his cane positioned between his knees, for the better part of two hours.
“My name is Anne Cozette, mum, but I prefer to go by Cozette, if you please.”
She regarded me with an arched brow.
“And do you have a last name?”
“Bennett, mum.”
“What of your family? Isn’t there someone you’d like us to send your wages to?”
It was my turn to regard my austere new mistress. It was clear, and more so becoming with each passing moment, how very different our worlds are. Her world revolves around the power of family ties, where any ties that I presume to own are simply cast-offs from brothel clients.
“No, mum, it’s been a number of years since my father’s passing. I’ve not heard from my mother since, so I am led to believe she is also dead.” Dare I tell this woman of the relatives who cast me out? Might they change their benevolent manner toward me if they knew I’d run away from the orphanage?
I did what I needed to survive and called upon the acting skills that Betsy had taught me from her American actor.
I averted my eyes from hers, and stared out the window, sniffing once in hope it would terminate the conversation.
After what seemed a stretched-thin moment of silence, I heard Lord Archibald clear his throat.
“Well, now, all will be fine, you will see,” his young wife cooed. She darted a look at her husband’s sour expression. “Master Archibald and I have more than ample room. You can board with the others in the servants’ quarters. Miss Farrington, our cook, is a most kind woman, fiercely loyal and very particular of her kitchen. Other than that, there is only the stable groomsman, Mr. Coven, and our coachman, Mr. Jensen. We live simply and believe that one should use one’s talents for the good of all.”
I tried not to feel as though I was her new doll, a new charity to play with and dress up at her leisure. She was indeed the more social of the two, given to bursts of ideas as though they exploded without warning in her head, and needed an escape through her mouth.
I glanced at Lord Archibald, who by now had turned to look out the window. In all my years of brothel living I could easily detect when a man was annoyed with a woman’s behavior.
“It sounds lovely, mum,” I replied, not wanting to appear ungrateful. I lowered my eyes to my entwined hands, all at once aware with an ever-increasing sense of humiliation how filth had collected under my nails. Though I know I should be, and am most truly indebted to this woman of substance, I cannot help but ponder whether I shall be able to meet her expectations. To that end, I searched my talents, in hope to build my worth in her eyes.
“I am able to read, quite well actually, and sew a bit…oh, and I do play a little piano.” I chanced a look at her, finding her gaze filled with admiration…and pity.
Pity
Her attire for travel was made of robin’s-egg-blue silk with a short waistcoat with perfect tucks taken in to accent her trim waist. Beneath, she wore a high-neck white blouse with blue ribbon tied at the collar in an elegant bow. Even in her finery, she did not appear aloof, and I felt at ease with her. I ventured she could not have been many years older than me. Twenty, perhaps a few years my senior, certainly a great deal younger than her husband, on that I would stake my life. Oh, he was a stern-looking man, though I could see where in his youth he might have been handsome. His top hat covered the salt-and-pepper gray of his hair that he wore in deep waves over his ears. A coarse silver moustache and dark brows set over even darker eyes, rounded out his untouchable look of authority.
As I regarded the pair, I could not help but wonder what type of arrangement was made to unite the two. True, it is presumptuous for me to assume, but I would have to wonder what a woman like her would see in the stony likes of the man seated across from me, his hands perched atop his cane positioned between his knees, for the better part of two hours.
“My name is Anne Cozette, mum, but I prefer to go by Cozette, if you please.”
She regarded me with an arched brow.
“And do you have a last name?”
“Bennett, mum.”
“What of your family? Isn’t there someone you’d like us to send your wages to?”
It was my turn to regard my austere new mistress. It was clear, and more so becoming with each passing moment, how very different our worlds are. Her world revolves around the power of family ties, where any ties that I presume to own are simply cast-offs from brothel clients.
“No, mum, it’s been a number of years since my father’s passing. I’ve not heard from my mother since, so I am led to believe she is also dead.” Dare I tell this woman of the relatives who cast me out? Might they change their benevolent manner toward me if they knew I’d run away from the orphanage?
I did what I needed to survive and called upon the acting skills that Betsy had taught me from her American actor.
I averted my eyes from hers, and stared out the window, sniffing once in hope it would terminate the conversation.
After what seemed a stretched-thin moment of silence, I heard Lord Archibald clear his throat.
“Well, now, all will be fine, you will see,” his young wife cooed. She darted a look at her husband’s sour expression. “Master Archibald and I have more than ample room. You can board with the others in the servants’ quarters. Miss Farrington, our cook, is a most kind woman, fiercely loyal and very particular of her kitchen. Other than that, there is only the stable groomsman, Mr. Coven, and our coachman, Mr. Jensen. We live simply and believe that one should use one’s talents for the good of all.”
I tried not to feel as though I was her new doll, a new charity to play with and dress up at her leisure. She was indeed the more social of the two, given to bursts of ideas as though they exploded without warning in her head, and needed an escape through her mouth.
I glanced at Lord Archibald, who by now had turned to look out the window. In all my years of brothel living I could easily detect when a man was annoyed with a woman’s behavior.
“It sounds lovely, mum,” I replied, not wanting to appear ungrateful. I lowered my eyes to my entwined hands, all at once aware with an ever-increasing sense of humiliation how filth had collected under my nails. Though I know I should be, and am most truly indebted to this woman of substance, I cannot help but ponder whether I shall be able to meet her expectations. To that end, I searched my talents, in hope to build my worth in her eyes.
“I am able to read, quite well actually, and sew a bit…oh, and I do play a little piano.” I chanced a look at her, finding her gaze filled with admiration…and pity.
Pity
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