Sapphire Battersea (9 page)

‘Don’t be silly, child. It will just have been a spider – or maybe a mouse.’

‘Oh! Help!’ I screamed louder, and hurtled out of the privy.

The hospital’s facilities had been dark and depressing, but they were in their own special building, free of wildlife. I resolved to severely limit my visits to the privy. Maybe I could commandeer a chamber pot and use it privately?

Sarah caught hold of me, dragged me into the scullery, and held a cloth under the tap. She then proceeded to wipe my face fiercely while I wriggled and squirmed.

‘Hold still, child – you’re covered in soot and smuts from the train!’

‘I’m not a baby. I can do my own face!’ I protested indignantly.

‘You certainly
act
like a baby,’ said Sarah. ‘And whatever’s happened to your hair? You’re a right little mophead. Come here!’

She whipped off my cap, combed my hair with her hard fingers, and then pulled it up into a knot, securing it with a couple of pins from her own head. Then she jammed my cap back on, pulling it down to my eyebrows, and twitched at my apron to
straighten
it.

‘There! You still look a funny little creature, but at least you’re clean and tidy,’ she said. She turned my shoulders to show me off to Mrs Briskett. ‘Will she do, Mrs B?’

‘She’ll have to,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Though I still think she’s going to give the master a bit of a surprise.’

Sarah led me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I was very nervous now, but I took comfort in the fact that I had something in common with this mysterious master. We were both writers. Miss Smith had told him all about me. Maybe he wouldn’t treat me like a servant at all. I wouldn’t be a maid of all work – of
any
work. Maybe he would let me sit in his study and write beside him. We could have interesting conversations about the joys of composition. Then, at the end of the day, he’d read my stories and give me gentle advice and encouragement.

This idea was so beguiling that I almost believed it. I skipped up the stairs eagerly, scarcely taking in the green embossed wallpaper and the many painted portraits staring down at me, eyebrows raised.

‘That’s it, look lively,’ said Sarah. She led me along a crimson-carpeted landing and gave my face another polish with the hem of her apron. Then she
knocked
on a door. We stood waiting.

‘Yes, yes, yes?’ muttered a male voice.

Sarah opened the door and pushed me inside. I thought she would come in with me, but there I was, all alone with this strange new master. For a few seconds I was so dazzled by his room I could scarcely take him in. I felt as if I’d stepped into fairyland. There were books everywhere: books arranged upright on shelves; books piled sideways on the floor; books balanced on desks, tables, even chairs; books lining the floor like a leather carpet. I looked around, mesmerized by beautiful big brown volumes, little crimson pocket books, fancy white vellum, gilt-embossed gift books.

The master sat at the biggest desk behind two huge piles of books. He was a surprisingly small, light man, half the size of Mrs Briskett and Sarah. He wore an odd orange fez with a tassel on his head, and a quilted crimson jacket with gold cord fastenings. I blinked at him, bewildered. He didn’t
look
like a gentleman at all. He was dressed like an organ-grinder’s monkey. His features were disturbingly simian too, with dark circles under his eyes and wrinkles puckering his face. I had to fight the urge to peer behind his desk to look for a long tail.

I bobbed him a curtsy instead, and arranged my face in a subservient smile. He had rescued me from
the
hospital, after all. I needed to show true gratitude.

He didn’t smile back. He frowned at me, increasing his wrinkles alarmingly. ‘Ah! You must be the new maid from the Foundling Hospital. But, oh dear, oh dear, surely you’re not old enough for service, child!’ he said, in a reedy voice.

I sighed a little. ‘I’m fourteen, sir.’

‘Good heavens! But you look so poor and puny!’

I felt he was being rather rude, but I realized it wasn’t my place to take offence.

‘I
am
small, sir, but I am sure I will grow a little,’ I said.

‘I wanted a good strong girl to help my two servants. They are maturing in years and starting to need assistance.’

‘I am very good and very strong,’ I said, lying on both counts.

‘And you have bright red hair! No wonder Miss Smith was so determined that I take you under my roof. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I can see why now. No one else would take on a redhead like you – it’s asking for trouble. I’m not having any temper tantrums, do you hear me?’

‘Certainly not, sir. I never ever give way to temper tantrums,’ I declared, telling three lies in less than a minute.

‘I should have asked to see you before acceding
to
Miss Smith’s suggestions. I only agreed because I felt obliged to support a literary colleague.’

‘If you please, sir,
I
am a kind of literary colleague too,’ I said. ‘I have been writing my memoirs. Perhaps Miss Smith spoke of this. I’ve been showing her my work for years.’

‘Ssh, now!’ said Mr Buchanan, a finger to his thin lips. ‘I am surprised. I thought the hospital would have taught you to speak only when you are spoken to! Yes, Miss Smith did indicate that you have a penchant for romancing. If you work diligently, I might be willing to give you a little guidance in the future. But we will have to see how hard you work, missy, and whether you learn our ways quickly enough. I am taking a grave risk in employing you, but I am a charitable man and keen to do my Christian duty.’

He bobbed his monkey head at me and I nodded back, though I felt my face flaming the colour of my unfortunate hair. I hadn’t realized Miss Smith had had to work so hard to get him to employ me. I wasn’t specially chosen as a promising candidate for his household. I seemed to be practically unemployable, judging from Mr Buchanan’s blunt words. Doubtless he’d prefer any other girl from the hospital – stuttering Mary, slow Freda, even poor mad Jenny.

I did not feel like Sapphire Battersea any more.
I
was Hetty Feather, despised by everyone – except my dear mama. I thought of her, longing to pour out my heart to her in a letter. But how was I to send a letter to her now? I had always given my letters to Miss Smith. Would she come and visit me here, in my strange new home? Perhaps not as regularly, if at all.

I thought hard about the vital penny stamps I needed. Mr Buchanan seemed to have run out of things to say to me, and was making dismissive waves at me with his monkey paws.

‘Off you go, then, child. Be a good girl and mind Mrs Briskett and Sarah. I’m sure they will instruct you admirably.’

‘If you please, sir,’ I said. ‘I – I will be earning a wage, will I not?’

He peered at me as if I’d said something impertinent. ‘Yes, fourteen pounds a year. I negotiated with the Board of Governors at the Foundling Hospital. It’s a very generous sum for an untrained child.’

‘Yes, sir, certainly, sir – but will I be receiving the generous sum at the end of the week, or the month, or the quarter?’ I asked anxiously.

‘I cannot see that that is of any consequence to you, Hetty Feather. You do not require any money while you are under my roof. You will receive all your meals free of charge, and I believe Sarah will
give
you a length of material so you can sew more clothes as you require them.’

‘Yes, sir, but I also require several postage stamps,’ I said, desperation making me bold.

‘Why do you need to correspond with anyone?’ he asked.

‘I need to write to my mother, sir.’ I thought hard. ‘I wish to tell her how lucky I am to have been taken on in your household. I want to tell her how kind you have been,’ I added artfully.

He looked surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware that there was any contact between foundling children and their maternal parents,’ he said.

‘There isn’t usually, sir – but my mama is especially concerned,’ I said, bobbing a curtsy to seem deferential. ‘I would very much like to reassure her that I have an extra special position in a lovely place.’

‘I can understand your desire, child. You will be paid quarterly, like Mrs Briskett and Sarah, but I shall take it upon myself to provide you with postage stamps. Here you are, child …’ He opened his desk drawer and gave me one.

I swallowed again. ‘Please, sir – might I have some more?’

I thought this a risk. I did not want to make him angry with me.

To my great relief he chuckled. ‘You’re a
veritable
Oliver Twist, Hetty Feather,’ he declared.

I wasn’t sure who Oliver Twist was, but if he encouraged Mr Buchanan to be generous, then he seemed a fine friend. Mr Buchanan counted me out six stamps, which I seized eagerly, tucking them into my apron pocket.

‘Now run along and try not to take any more liberties, child,’ he said, though he did not look annoyed.

So I did indeed run. Sarah was waiting for me outside the door.

‘I hope you weren’t giving the master any cheek, my girl,’ she said.

‘No indeed. We were getting along like a house on fire,’ I said.

Sarah looked at me sideways. ‘Don’t you get above yourself, missy,’ she said. ‘Come along. I’ll show you all over the house and give you some idea of your duties.’

She took me into the drawing room and dining room, rattling off detailed dusting and polishing and sweeping instructions. I tried to pay attention, but was constantly distracted by the splendour of the house. Every room was crowded with furniture and ornaments and assorted knick-knacks. There were two sofas, four easy chairs, and six uprights in the living room alone. Mr Buchanan only had one behind, and a puny one at that. Why would he need
such
an immense variety of seats? It would surely take an entire regiment of maids to dust every single item adequately. I’d no idea this was how proper folk lived their lives. I imagined what it would be like to lounge on the purple-velvet chaise longue, to dine at that polished table, to prop my feet on that intricately stitched footstool.

It grew ever more fascinating upstairs, peeping into Mr Buchanan’s best bedroom, picturing him in his nightgown and cap tucked up beneath those sheets. I could not help also picturing him getting up in the night and making use of the chamber pot under the bed – though it was disconcerting to be told that it was my job to empty it.

Mr Buchanan’s lavatory arrangements were a matter of total astonishment to me, because he also had his very own bathroom with a water closet. Sarah demonstrated how you pulled the chain so that everything was neatly flushed away.

‘This is splendid! So why do we use that awful, scary, spidery privy in the garden when we could use this water closet?’ I asked.

Sarah looked horrified. ‘This is the master’s private room! We could not possibly use the same facilities!’

I resolved then and there that when I was set to scrubbing the bathroom, I would quite definitely
use
the facilities. I pulled the chain again myself, experimenting.

‘Stop messing about, Hetty. This isn’t a game. Come along now.’

She showed me the best guest bedroom and then the second-best guest bedroom – both seemed incredibly grand to me, especially the beds themselves. I was used to the narrow beds in the hospital. These ones were enormous. I stroked the counterpanes. They felt incredibly soft and silky. Perhaps I could occasionally sneak into one of these guest bedrooms and have a little lie-down?

‘Does Mr Buchanan often have guests sleeping in these rooms?’ I asked.

‘Rarely. The master isn’t one for entertaining. He’s too engrossed in his work,’ said Sarah, leading me up yet another flight of stairs. These had brown linoleum instead of carpet, and there were no paintings looking down at me from the walls.

‘These are the attic rooms,’ said Sarah. ‘You will dust and sweep and polish here too, but you don’t need to be quite so particular, because they are only
our
rooms.’

Sarah’s room was very small compared to Mr Buchanan’s, and the ceiling sloped sharply overhead. Her bed was narrow, her washstand basic, her chest small, with only three drawers. There was no
fireplace
there so it must be icy cold in winter. She had no ornaments whatsoever – just a brush and comb on her washstand, a Bible by her bed, and one small painting hanging on the wall. It was a portrait of a large lady, not very well executed. She looked like a stiff puppet, not a real woman at all. But Sarah looked up at her and gently touched her cheek, as if she were a real and lovely lady. I knew that gesture, that feeling.

‘She is your mother!’ I said.

‘Yes, dear Mother. My cousin Luke painted her likeness. It’s very good, isn’t it?’

I thought it very
bad
but for once I knew how to behave. ‘Yes, it is. Your mother looks a very fine lady,’ I said. ‘Does she live far away? Do you get to see her often?’

Sarah’s potato face flushed. She shook her head sadly. ‘Dear Mother passed away many years ago,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I still miss her so much.’

‘Oh, Sarah, I’m so sorry,’ I whispered.

A sudden new fear clutched at my chest. How would I ever stand it if
my
mama died? I had only known she was my mother for such a cruelly brief time. I could not bear it if she were snatched away from me.