Sapphire Battersea Read online

  ‘What’s the matter with you now, child?’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘You’re not about to cry again, are you? I told you, I can’t abide tears.’

  ‘She’s just wanting attention, so take no notice,’ said Sarah.

  Their talking about me as if I wasn’t even there made the tears roll down my face. I could not be Sapphire Battersea here. I wasn’t even Hetty Feather. I was simply ‘child’ or ‘girl’ or ‘missy’. It made me feel very small.

  ‘Come now, no tears,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Have a spoonful of syrup – that’ll sweeten you up.’

  I still hadn’t eaten more than a mouthful of meat and strange pickles, but I took the proffered sticky spoonful and sucked hard. The sweetness soothed me. I licked my lips, remembering the spoonfuls of sugar Mama had once pressed upon me as secret treats.

  ‘Aha, she likes that all right!’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘That’s a good girl. Stop that silly crying now. You don’t want to go and see the master all over tearstains – it won’t give the right impression at all.’

  They fussed over me considerably for this meeting with the master. Sarah took me out through the back door to the privy, and waited for me to relieve myself. The privy was very dark, and as I squatted there, something terrifying ran over my foot.

  ‘Lord save us, stop that squealing! Whatever is it, Hetty Feather?’

  ‘I don’t know! Something touched me!’

  ‘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.’