Sapphire Battersea Read online

  Dear Nurse Winnie! She was the only person in the whole hospital I cared for now, apart from Eliza, my little sister. Eliza was brought to my old foster home in the country when she was a babe. I was sent off to the hospital before I turned six – and five years later Eliza followed me.

  I had greeted my little foster sister joyfully, desperate for news of home. It was a hard blow when she spoke of our brother Jem so fondly. I had adored Jem passionately when I was a tiny girl. He had cared for me tenderly and played with me patiently. He had even taught me to read and write … He had been like a mother and father to me as well as a foster brother. I’d hoped that one day, far in the future, he’d be my dear husband too. When I played dressing up as a bride, Jem had kissed my finger and promised that he’d put a ring on it one day.

  I had believed him utterly. I had thought of him as my Jem, but when little Eliza chatted away innocently enough, I realized that he was her Jem too. He had played all the same games with her. I could not bear it. I felt he had betrayed me. I stopped writing loving little messages to him in my weekly letters home. There seemed little point in writing anyway, as he never bothered to reply. Though perhaps he had written? Miss Smith had actually admitted that many of our letters were confiscated.

  Tears sprang to my eyes when I thought of Matron Pigface’s trotter-fingers fumbling with my precious letters, tearing them to shreds and tossing them into the fire. I wondered what Jem would have written …

  No, what did I care? I had been a silly little child and he had been a kindly lad, that was all. It was ridiculous to believe that our love had been real. I would not be wearing my green ribbon for Jem, or for any other young lad, come to that. I did not want foolish followers. I only cared for Mama.

  I WOKE VERY early and sat up in my narrow bed. I looked down the long dormitory of sleeping girls in the silvery dawn light. This was the very last time I would ever see them!

  I clasped my hands around my knees, hugging myself. It was not unduly cold but I shivered in my nightgown. Today I was leaving the hospital for ever. Hetty Feather was no more. I would leave her behind, along with my brown gown and apron and cuffs and stupid great floppy bonnet.

  I peeped down at the basket at the end of my bed. My new clothes were neatly folded, waiting for me. I felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of putting them on, though they were ordinary work clothes – a plain grey dress and coarse cream apron. I knew nothing of fashion after all my years of incarceration in the hospital, but I could always dream of a real silk dress to match my green ribbon, long frilled skirts, fine lace, white silk stockings, and shoes as elegant as Cinderella’s glass slippers. I had no new shoes at all – my hideous brown clumpers still fitted me, so they were deemed suitable for my new position.

  I was going as an under-housemaid to a gentleman who lived in the suburbs of London.

  ‘Not just any gentleman, Hetty,’ Miss Smith had told me excitedly. ‘He’s a writer! Mr Charles Buchanan.’

  ‘Do you know him, Miss Smith?’

  ‘I know of him, dear. He writes children’s stories for the Religious Tract, as I do. Very moral tales. He is apparently a very moral man. He applied to the hospital because he thought it an act of charity to take a foundling child into his employ – and I did my best to persuade the Board of Governors that you would be an ideal candidate, Hetty. It was a hard task. Matron Bottomly seems to feel that you are quite unsuited to such a worthy gentleman’s establishment, but I argued your case, stressing that Mr Buchanan might be a very good influence on you. Why are you staring at me like that? Surely you’re pleased?’

  ‘I’m pleased you stood up for me, Miss Smith, of course I am, but if I’m completely truthful I do not really want to be this very moral gentleman’s servant,’ I said.

  ‘Well, whose servant do you wish to be?’ said Miss Smith, looking aggrieved.

  ‘I don’t want to be anyone’s servant,’ I said, folding my arms obstinately.

  Miss Smith sighed. ‘So how do you propose to earn your living, Hetty?’ she asked tartly.

  I swallowed hard. Wasn’t it obvious? I clung to my own elbows to give me strength to come out with it. ‘I – I hoped my memoirs would be published, and I would earn money that way,’ I said.

  ‘Oh good Lord, Hetty, how could you possibly think such a thing!’

  ‘Well, you said as much – in a roundabout fashion. You said I had a vivid turn of phrase and excellent powers of description, and a powerful imagination.’

  ‘That’s all too true.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean that your memoirs are fit for publication!’

  ‘But why have you praised them so?’

  ‘I wanted to encourage you, my dear. I never dreamed you thought you could publish such a work!’

  ‘I know it’s a little childish in parts because I wrote most of it years ago – but I can polish it a lot, maybe rewrite sections. Oh, Miss Smith, surely it stands some chance of publication?’

  ‘It’s a wonderful piece of work, Hetty, but only as a private journal. It is not fit for publication. Be reasonable! Only recollect the things you’ve written about Matron Peters and Matron Bottomly!’

  ‘But they’re true, every last word – I swear it!’

  ‘I dare say, but there would be the most terrible scandal if such a fiercely condemnatory document about such a well-respected charity were published!’

  ‘Well, surely a scandal would be good. It might sell more copies!’

  ‘Hetty, you’re incorrigible! You can never publish your memoirs – they’re much too bold, too personal, too passionate, too violent, too bitter, too unladylike, too ungrateful, too every single thing!’

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell me this years ago?’

  ‘Because I felt it was very good for you to have a private outlet for your pent-up feelings. I know how hard it’s been at the hospital. It’s been exceptionally good for you to develop a writing discipline. You have remarkable literary skills, far beyond your age and station, but you must channel them carefully if you ever hope to write for publication. Oh, please don’t upset yourself so, dear!’

  I had started crying bitterly, utterly cast down. I had so believed my memoirs would be published and make my fortune so that Mama and I could live together without serving a soul.

  Miss Smith lent me her lacy handkerchief. When I continued to cry, she put her arm round me and mopped my face herself. Her kindness softened me, and I tried hard to stop sobbing.

  ‘There now, perhaps you really will be a writer some time in the future. But not yet a while, my dear. You can accept this perfect position with Mr Buchanan and be patient. I am sure you will observe good writerly habits if you work in his establishment.’

  ‘I’d sooner work for you, Miss Smith,’ I said.

  ‘If you were my servant, I’d expect you to go “Yes, missus,” and nod obediently every time I spoke to you,’ said Miss Smith.

  ‘Yes, missus,’ I said, bobbing her a curtsy – and she burst out laughing.

  ‘I scarcely recognize this new persona, Hetty! Carry on in a similar vein at Mr Buchanan’s like a good sensible girl. You really must try to act humbly and do as you’re told. I’m starting to feel a little worried about Mr Buchanan. There he is, thinking he’s taken on a meek little foundling girl who will be very grateful for her good position. You are a little grateful, aren’t you, Hetty?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Smith,’ I said, because I supposed I was grateful to her. I did not see why I should be grateful to anyone else. Even after nine years’ hard training at the hospital, I still did not see why I had to be content to be a servant.

  Every Sunday in the chapel we sang:

  ‘The rich man in his castle

  The poor man at his gate,

  God made them, high or lowly,

  And ordered their estate.’

  Why did I have to be stuck being lowly? Why couldn’t Mama and I be rich women in our castle?

  ‘You wait, dearest