Sapphire Battersea Read online

  I SAW VERY little of Mr Buchanan each day, though I became all too intimate with his personal linen and his chamber pot. Mrs Briskett and Sarah still sent me up to his cluttered study to serve afternoon tea, but after our first conversation and my bold request for stamps, we did not talk further. I knocked at his door at four o’clock, and then edged my way into his room, bearing my tray of freshly brewed tea and wondrous cakes: Victoria sponge, orange and lemon cake, chocolate gateau, cherry and sultana slices, fruit tartlets, iced butterfly cakes – oh, the joys of Mrs Briskett’s baking!

  Mr Buchanan rarely looked up from his blotchy manuscript as I entered the study. When I returned half an hour later to collect his tray, most of his cakes were nibbled, but he frequently left a slab here, a slice here.

  ‘Don’t you want to finish up all your cake, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Mm?’ Mr Buchanan squinted at me through his spectacles as if he wasn’t quite sure who I was. He smacked his thin lips ruminatively, considering. ‘No, not just at the moment. I am far too busy writing.’

  Now, I considered myself an overly eager writer, but it never interfered with my appetite. How could the wretched man leave a large slice of sponge utterly untouched? This was a particularly beguiling sponge too, positively oozing raspberry jam and thick buttercream! Mrs Briskett commented on his increased appetite, however, because somehow his plate of cake diminished radically as I carried his tray back to the kitchen. I nodded happily, licking away the crumbs from my mouth.

  I wished Mr Buchanan could somehow be winkled out of his study. He shuffled in even before breakfast, and was frequently muttering away there late at night. Sarah sighed and shook her head because she could rarely give it a little dust, let alone subject it to a proper weekly turn-out. I sighed too, because I was all too aware of the stamps in his desk drawer.

  I wrote weekly to dearest Mama, and I also seemed to have embarked on a regular correspondence with Jem. (More about this later!) I badly needed stamps, and Mr Buchanan had many. I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t miss just a couple.

  I knew that stealing was wrong – a very, very bad thing to do – but I didn’t see that I had any alternative. Well, during the daytime, I thought that, and had the actual theft all worked out in my mind: I would wait until Mr Buchanan vacated his room at last – on a visit to his publishers? A meal at the chop house with an old friend? A stroll around the garden to clear his head? Even a fleeting trip to his splendid water closet? There had to be some opportunity when I could whisk into his room, duster in hand. Even if Sarah accompanied me, it should not be too difficult for me to slide that little desk drawer open beneath my duster, and grab a handful of precious stamps. I even practised the action, two fingers raised beneath the imaginary duster, two fingers intent on pulling the little knob of the door and lifting out the stamps.

  By day I could rehearse this eagerly – but every night I dreamed I’d actually performed the deed. I did not get caught by Sarah or Mr Buchanan himself, but I felt observed all the same. I had attended chapel at the hospital every week for nine whole years. It had been drummed into me that God was omnipresent. I imagined a Supreme Being striding through the city on colossal legs, bending down and applying his huge holy orb to the window of Mr Buchanan’s study. He’d shake his great and glorious head in horror. He’d not threaten me with Hell. No, far worse: he’d grow great angel’s wings, fly straight to Mama and tell her that her only child was a common thief. Mama would shake with tears of shame – and I’d wake up with tears running down my own cheeks.

  I could not do it. But I so needed those stamps. As soon as I had my first quarter’s wages I could purchase my own and replenish them, I reasoned to myself. But that was months away. Perhaps I could simply ask Mr Buchanan for more stamps? But he’d been reluctant to give me more than one; he had clearly thought himself excessively generous to give me a handful. Would he not think me ungratefully greedy if I begged for more?

  I could explain truthfully enough that I was devoted to Mama. I could even say that she was not very well. In one of her letters she had mentioned that she had a slight cough and had entreated me to wrap up as warmly as possible and rub goosegrease on my chest to prevent myself from catching a similar chill. I could exaggerate her illness and say I was unduly worried about her. But this might tempt the Superior Being to smite her in order to punish me. And I now had two correspondents. Even if Mr Buchanan was excessively understanding about my need to write regularly to Mama because she was my dear relation, he would never slot Jem into the same category, even though he was my foster brother.

  I resolved all the same to try asking Mr Buchanan for more stamps. He could always say no. It wasn’t a crime to ask, unlike stealing.

  My hands were trembling the next day as I lugged the tea tray upstairs (containing a pot of Earl Grey with lemon slices, several portions of buttered malt bread, and a scone fresh out of the oven, with a little pot of strawberry jam and another of whipped cream – I hoped Mr Buchanan’s appetite was birdlike today).

  I put down the tray, took a deep breath, and knocked smartly on the door. I was a little too smart. I clearly made Mr Buchanan start, because he cried out. When I went into his room, I discovered he’d blotched his page with ink.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Hetty? You banged on the door like a veritable thunderbolt. Now look at this page! I shall have to copy it all over again.’ He blotted and sighed, while I endeavoured to find a resting place for his tea and cakes.

  I saw over his shoulder that he was in the habit of making blots even without sharp knocks at his door. Although he had a whole sheaf of blotting paper, he did not use it effectively, because several pages were badly smudged. Even where they were totally unsullied, it would be a terrible task to figure out more than a few words because his handwriting was such a spidery scrawl.

  ‘Goodness, sir, how do your publishers read your stories?’ I asked.

  ‘With great difficulty! They complain bitterly, and suggest I find myself a secretary to copy out my manuscript in a fair hand. I am sure it will incur too much expense, however, and I would find working with some young lady too much of a distraction,’ said Mr Buchanan, wiping his spectacles, smearing them more thoroughly in the process.

  My heart started thumping. ‘Would you find me a distraction, sir?’ I asked, bowing my head and hunching my shoulders, trying to make myself seem even smaller, so that he might see me as part of the study – an inkstand, say, or a volume of poetry.

  Mr Buchanan blinked at me.

  ‘I could transcribe your work, sir, a little at a time. I have a very clear hand, and I never ever blot. We used to get our knuckles rapped at the hospital if we blotted, and it made us extra careful.’

  ‘But what of your duties around the house?’

  ‘Oh, I am sure I could fit in an hour or so in the afternoons, when I would otherwise be mending. I could get up early and go to bed later to fit in any sewing. Sarah says I am very neat at darning,’ I added, wanting to put myself in the best possible light.

  Mr Buchanan sipped his tea and nibbled a corner of his malt bread, contemplating. ‘Give me an example of this fine hand, Hetty Feather,’ he said, holding out his pen and a clean sheet of paper.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ I said.

  I had nowhere to sit, and hardly any room to rest the paper, but I dipped the pen confidently in the ink, tapping it on the edge of the bottle, making sure it was not so full that it would drip and not so empty that it might scratch. I commenced writing in a clear, careful copperplate:

  Dear Mr Buchanan,

  Please let Hetty Feather copy out your stories for you. She has an excellent hand, as you can see for yourself. You will not regret it, I promise you.

  Yours respectfully,

  Hetty Feather, maid of all work and potential excellent secretary

  Mr Buchanan read it out loud, giving the sparse hair under his fez a little scratch, so that he seemed more monkey-like than ever – especially when h