Sapphire Battersea (14 page)

He frowned at me. ‘You surely aren’t suggesting that I pay you an extra wage, Hetty Feather?’ he enquired.

‘Oh no, sir, that would be ridiculously impertinent,’ I said quickly. ‘But perhaps you might see fit to proffer me with a very tiny reward every now and then?’

‘A
reward
?’

‘Perhaps a stamp?’

‘A stamp?’ (There he was, boasting about his vocabulary and grammar, but all he seemed capable of was repeating
my
nouns).

‘Or two? Or three or four or five?’ I said, risking all. ‘I write to Mama a great deal, sir, and I have already used up the stamps you so generously gave me.’

He took another morsel of malt bread. ‘Mm. Well, I will give you a weekly stamp allowance, Hetty Feather, so long as you work quietly and neatly and do not neglect your household
duties
. Now, off you go. Take the tray with you.’

‘But you’ve scarcely touched your tea, sir.’

‘I have had sufficient, thank you.’

So I took his tray and dawdled on my way back to the kitchen, celebrating my stamp-earning success by eating his scone smothered with a jarful of jam and a jug full of cream.

Mrs Briskett and Sarah were astonished when I told them of my new duties.

‘How can a little orphan like you write posh enough to please the master?’ Mrs Briskett said indignantly.

‘I’m
not
an orphan. I have a lovely dear mama,’ I said.

‘Show us this writing, then, Hetty,’ said Sarah, fetching the kitchen pencil and some brown wrapping paper.

‘Well, I really need ink and proper paper,’ I said.

‘Ah!’ said Sarah, convinced I couldn’t follow through.

‘But I will do my best to demonstrate even so,’ I said.

I wrote, in an excessively swirly and elaborate hand:

I am Hetty Feather and I am a maid of all work, and Mrs Briskett and Sarah are very kind to me and teach me my duties
.

Mrs Briskett and Sarah read my message aloud, slowly, almost as if it were a struggle. Sarah said each word a beat behind Mrs Briskett.

‘Can’t you read properly, Sarah?’ I asked, astonished.

‘Of course I can read,’ she said, pouting. ‘It’s just you write in such a fancy way. It’s hard to make out the lettering.’

‘But she does write it lovely,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘You’re a funny little slyboots, Hetty Feather. You’ve only been here five minutes and you’re ingratiating yourself with the master something chronic.’

‘Yes, what’s your little game, Hetty? Why would you take on all this extra fancy writing work. Is it just to show off to the rest of us?’ said Sarah.

‘No, of course not,’ I said fiercely, though perhaps this accounted for ten per cent of my motivation. ‘I seized the opportunity so that I could ask a favour from Mr Buchanan.’

‘Aha!’ said Sarah. ‘So we’re right, Mrs B! What sort of favour, eh?’

‘Stamps,’ I said.

They peered at me.

‘So I can write regularly to Mama.’

‘Oh, my dear – oh,
now
I understand!’ said Sarah. ‘Would that I could write to my own mother! Isn’t that touching, Mrs B?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Mrs Briskett, beaming at me. ‘What a dear good daughter you are, Hetty Feather. Here, sit yourself down, and try one of my scones. They’re fresh out of the oven and extra light today. See, even Mr Buchanan has eaten his up, every crumb.’

So I sat and ate my second scone, glowing. I hadn’t told a lie at all. I just hadn’t told them that I was also writing to Jem.

My initial reply had been brief:

Dear Jem
,

Of course I remember everything about my little-girlhood. I remember our special squirrel tree. I remember every single one of our special games. They meant a great deal to me. Every night at the hospital I would think of the happy times we spent
.

I know little Eliza thinks of almost identical happy times. She is convinced you will be waiting for HER when she is fourteen
.

Kind regards
,

Your sister Hetty

There! I thought that would show him. I did not really expect to hear back from him. But within a
day
I received another reply. Luckily it was one of my tasks to collect the letters when they fluttered
through
the letterbox onto the hall mat. I saw several dull-looking bills and circulars to be served up to Mr Buchanan on a little silver tray like sweetmeats – but also a letter addressed to me in Jem’s distinctive hand.

Dear Hetty
,

I think from the tone of your letter that you are angry with me. Surely it is not because I tried so hard to be a good brother to little Eliza? I was so achingly lonely after you’d gone to the hospital. I don’t think you have any idea how much I missed you. Eliza was a restless baby who cried a great deal. I had always had a knack of soothing you, so I did my best to calm her too – and as she got older I did sometimes play ‘our’ games with her, to amuse her and console myself. She is a sweet child and I was very fond of her – but she never meant anywhere near as much to me as you. You must know that
.

Please tell me more about your new position and whether it truly suits you
.

With deepest affection I am still

Your Jem

I read this letter many times. It was like a salve to a deep wound. So Jem truly preferred me to Eliza! I felt a thrill of happiness – and then a prickle
of
guilt. Poor little Eliza, still fantasizing about Jem marrying her one day. Jem should never have let her think that. He had not behaved admirably – but he said he had been so lonely.
Achingly
lonely. For me!

I found myself whirling round and round the rooms as I dusted, running up the stairs two at a time, singing cheerily as I scrubbed and peeled and polished.

Jem still cared about me. He was still my secret sweetheart. And maybe one day …

I WENT WITH
Mrs Briskett and Sarah to the servants’ church service early on Sunday afternoon. It was a chance for me to peer around and see many new people. I stared in dismay at all the other girls. I felt so plain and shabby in my grey print frock and borrowed shawl. Mrs Briskett was wearing her meat-red costume, and Sarah sported an alarmingly purple velvet dress and mantle, fringed and tassled.

I did not care for either of their outfits, but I hung my head miserably all the same. I did not even have a bonnet, and had to cover my hair with my borrowed shawl.

‘Dear, dear, we’ll have to fashion you a proper Sunday outfit, Hetty,’ said Mrs Briskett, twitching at my dress. ‘If I gave you my old Sunday best, Sarah, do you think you could cut it down so it fitted young Hetty?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Sarah. ‘There, Hetty! Say thank you to Mrs B. What a kind offer!’

‘Thank you very much, both of you,’ I said. I very much hoped Mrs Briskett’s former Sunday best wasn’t red.

They sat me between them, spreading their skirts as if they wanted to hide me. I felt like an ugly little weed between two great overblown roses. When the service started, they pulled me up for the hymns and pushed me down for the reading of the lesson, though I had been attending church services weekly for nine years and knew exactly what to do. Mrs Briskett and Sarah nodded approvingly to each other when I sang each hymn without looking at the words and muttered the correct responses to the prayers.

‘Well, you might look a drab mite in your work clothes, but you
act
like a good little Christian,’ Mrs Briskett whispered.

She meant it as a compliment, but I felt more self-conscious than ever. There were two girls in the pew in front who kept looking round and nudging each other and giggling, clearly amused by me. When Mrs Briskett and Sarah closed their eyes at the start of a prayer, I pulled a hideous face at the girls. They both squealed, and an older lady leaned over and tapped them hard on their fancy bonnets, much to my satisfaction.

When it came to his sermon, the vicar in St John’s droned on for an unconscionable time. I
yawned
and fidgeted and picked the hangnails of my sore fingers. He told us how lucky we were to serve our masters and mistresses, because that way we were serving God. We might be lowly servants here on earth, but if we were humble and hardworking, we’d step up through Heaven’s gate and as angels lead a grand life free of toil. I did not find this argument particularly convincing. Why was it
our
place to serve here on earth? Why couldn’t we all take it in turns?

I imagined sitting in Mr Buchanan’s padded wing chair in his study, reading and writing at my leisure, while he dusted and scrubbed. It was a delightful idea, and I smiled.

‘Look at little Hetty taking it all in, bless her,’ Mrs Briskett whispered to Sarah.

She gave me a penny from her purse to put in the collection plate. I rather badly wanted to keep the penny for myself, and wondered if I could keep it tucked in the palm of my hand. I remembered the lucky sixpence Jem had given me the day I left for the hospital. I’d kept it in my mouth, I was so determined not to relinquish it. I had eventually hidden it in the knob of my bedstead – but someone had stolen it long ago. I wondered if Jem had given Eliza a sixpence too.

I held my hand over the plate, clenching my palm muscles to keep hold of the penny, but Mrs
Briskett
gave me a little nudge, waiting to hear a clink. I let go of the coin with a sigh.

We walked home from church – and there, sitting on the area steps, was Bertie the butcher’s boy.

I felt my face going the colour of Mrs Briskett’s costume. I hadn’t thought he would really come calling for me. I rather wished he hadn’t. I had Jem now, so I didn’t want any other boy in my life, thank you very much.

‘What are you doing sitting here, making my steps look untidy, boy?’ said Mrs Briskett.

‘Ain’t it obvious, Mrs B? I’ve been waiting to see you three lovely ladies come home from church,’ said Bertie. He blinked his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. ‘My, you’re a dazzling sight – enough to unsettle a simple lad like me.’

‘You’re simple, all right,’ said Sarah, swatting at him with her hymn book.

‘Why weren’t you in church too, you bad boy?’ said Mrs Briskett.

‘Is the church a place for miserable sinners, Mrs B?’

‘Of course it is!’

‘Ah, but you see, I’m
not
a miserable sinner. I’m a very cheerful little saint, so I don’t need no churching, do I?’

‘You need a good hiding, that’s what you need,’
said
Sarah, untying her bonnet strings. ‘Don’t you let our Hetty go walking with that boy, Mrs B – or he’ll lead her astray.’

‘I don’t have any evil intentions!’ said Bertie indignantly. ‘I just want to show her around a little, her being brought up in that queer hospital. She needs to see a bit more of the world than your kitchen and scullery, Mrs B, excellent and immaculate though they are.’