Sapphire Battersea Read online

  ‘Then you will need stays, Hetty!’ said Sarah.

  I saw that she had a point, but I couldn’t possibly make do with Mrs Briskett’s second-best whalebone stays – indeed, you could comfortably fit a whale itself inside them. I would just have to hold my breath, suck in my stomach and stick out my meagre chest in my new dress.

  I had observed a faded pair of curtains in the mending pile in Sarah’s cupboard. They had dark gold tassles and trimmings. I decided on a few secret snips so that my dress could have the perfect finishing touches.

  I wondered what Bertie would think of me in my new frock. I smiled as I stitched, because it was very pleasant to be liked, and it diverted me a little from fretting about Mr Buchanan – but then Mrs Briskett started preparing his afternoon tea: little cucumber sandwiches and honey cake. It was time for me to go and confront him!

  I trembled so much that the cup and saucer and plate played a tune on the tray as I stumbled up the stairs. When I knocked on the study door, my hand was slippery with sweat.

  ‘Come in,’ Mr Buchanan called.

  I’m not sure what I expected. My thoughts ran wildly between two options: he would either seize me, strike me, tell me I was a wicked, ungrateful girl to tell such tales of the hospital and turn me out of his house forthwith – or he might clasp me to his bosom and tell me I had written a compelling work of genius, not a word of which needed changing, and he would see that it was published immediately.

  He did not react in either of these ways. He barely raised his head. He was scribbling in his spidery writing in a new manuscript book. He did not stop when I balanced the tray precariously on an edge of his cluttered desk. I poured his tea and handed it to him. His hand went out for it automatically, but he was still intent on his writing and he spilled half of it. He jumped as scalding tea shot up his smoking-jacket sleeve.

  ‘Oh, take care, sir, you’ll burn yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m fine, it’s fine,’ he said, flapping his wet sleeve.

  ‘Shall I fetch you a dry jacket, sir?’

  ‘No, no, don’t fuss.’ He carried on writing, reaching out blindly again and stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. He could just as easily have stuffed the plate in instead, and crunched up the china with equal absent-mindedness.

  ‘You seem very busy, sir,’ I said.

  ‘I am indeed, Hetty Feather. I have started writing my new book.’

  I glanced at the page in front of him. His handwriting was even more blotched and sloped at a bizarre angle.

  ‘Take care not to get too carried away, sir – or even I won’t be able to read it,’ I said. ‘I’ll make a start on it as soon as I’ve finished copying your other work.’

  Mr Buchanan suddenly snapped to attention. ‘That won’t be necessary, Hetty. I think it’s better if I make a fair copy myself – then I can alter sentences as I go, rearrange paragraphs, et cetera. It will take longer but will be far more satisfactory in the long run.’

  I stared at him, appalled.

  ‘Don’t look so stricken! You can still continue with the old manuscript. You must not take this personally. You’ve worked hard, I grant you, and you write a very legible hand, if a little childish in appearance.’

  ‘But what about my stamps?’

  ‘What? Oh, your postage stamps! Yes, you can have the agreed ration until you finish the manuscript.’ He reached into his desk drawer, and took out the stamp box. ‘In fact, I will continue to provide you with stamps whenever you ask, so long as you don’t take it into your head to communicate with every child in the Foundling Hospital.’ He handed me another four stamps.

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you. And don’t worry, it’s just so I can write to Mama.’ I silently mouthed ‘and Jem’ when he started writing again, for honesty’s sake.

  Mr Buchanan gave me the old manuscript and a spare pen, and I started writing too, but I couldn’t settle properly to my task. I kept peering around the room, looking for my memoirs. It was so difficult to detect in this mad chamber, crammed to the ceiling with books and papers and manuscripts. I craned to look in the wastepaper basket, wondering if he’d tossed my poor work in there.

  ‘Do you have a crick in your neck, Hetty?’ Mr Buchanan asked.

  ‘Oh no, sir, I was just looking … I couldn’t help wondering …’ I couldn’t wait any longer. ‘What did you think of my memoirs, sir?’

  Mr Buchanan removed his fez to scratch his head vigorously. Then he set the quaint hat back on his head at a comical angle, wrinkling his nose to hitch up his spectacles.

  Tell me, you ridiculous little monkey man! I screeched inside my head, but I clamped my lips together to keep the words inside.

  ‘Oh yes, your “memoirs”,’ said Mr Buchanan. He said the word as if it were ridiculous, and I felt the blood flooding my face. ‘Mm, well, it was certainly a substantial effort, Hetty. I hadn’t realized it would be so long, when you have led such a short life.’

  ‘But what did you think of the content, sir?’

  ‘It was quite … startling. I’m surprised at you, child. You showed shameful ingratitude to your benefactors. Some of the passages about your good matrons were quite scandalous. Miss Smith was absolutely correct. Though vividly written, the manuscript is unpublishable.’

  ‘But it’s the truth, sir.’

  ‘Nonsense! It’s the truth as you perceive it – a childish tirade by an angry, undeserving creature, utterly self-absorbed and far too passionate. I am ashamed of you, Hetty. I cannot understand how you could write this.’

  ‘Then give me my memoirs back, sir,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘When I am less distracted by my own work, I will glance at it again. Perhaps there might be a few simple passages we can work on. Your childhood in the country might make a pleasing pastoral piece. People like to read about simple country bumpkins.’

  ‘They’re not simple country bumpkins,’ I said hotly. ‘They’re my family.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said soothingly. ‘And perhaps, when I’m not quite as busy, I’ll help you to construct a written portrait that will do them justice. Now, I think you’d better run back to the kitchen, Hetty. I don’t want you to copy any more today. I need a little space to continue my new story. You’re distracting me.’

  I peered all around.

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘I’m looking for my memoirs. Can I have my book back, please?’

  ‘I shall keep it safely here in my room, and if I have a spare moment in the next few weeks, I shall give it another glance.’

  ‘Oh no, sir!’

  ‘Are you arguing with me, Hetty Feather?’

  ‘No, sir. Well, yes, sir, I suppose I am, because I want my memoirs back. They’re mine, and I feel uncomfortable without them.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous, girl. The book is safe in my room.’

  ‘But where, sir? I can’t see it anywhere. It’s not on your desk, or on your shelves, or any of the piles of books.’

  ‘I have it safe, I assure you.’

  ‘Then please may I have it back?’

  ‘Of course you may, in the fullness of time, when I have finished looking at it.’

  ‘But that’s not fair!’ I wailed, stamping my foot in my passion. ‘It’s my book and I want it back now!’

  ‘Hetty Feather!’ Sarah came bursting in through the door, skirts flying. ‘Whatever are you up to, shouting at the master! Forgive her, sir – she’s just a wilful, ignorant orphan who does not yet know her place.’

  ‘I am not an orphan!’ I screamed as Sarah picked me up in her huge arms, heaved me over her shoulder like a coal sack, and bore me away.

  SARAH CARRIED ME all the way back down two flights of stairs to the kitchen and then dumped me on the rag rug in front of the range. Mrs Briskett stared at us both in astonishment, up to her elbows in uncooked pastry.

  ‘Oh my Lord, whatever’s the matter, Sarah?’ she gasped, wringing her doughy hands.

  ‘H