Sapphire Battersea (25 page)

Mrs Briskett sat me down and made me a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter in an effort to calm my nerves. I was still shivering so much that my teeth clanked against the cup and I could barely swallow my bread.

The two women put me to bed with an extra coverlet and a hot-water pig. They sat on either side of me, patting my hands, until at last the shivering subsided. I drifted off to sleep – but Saul pursued me in all my dreams that night, his crutch tap-tap-tapping as he searched for me.

‘I AM SORRY
if I got you into trouble with Mrs B, Sarah,’ I said the next day as we made Mr Buchanan’s bed together.

‘Oh well, it wasn’t really your fault, Hetty. You were just that worked up and over-excited. It happens frequently at Madame Berenice’s sessions. You’re a girl who’s for ever working herself into a passion, anyways – but I know you can’t help that. Your temperament’s fiery, just like your red hair.’

‘Perhaps I can work on it, Sarah. I feel it is time I learned to stay composed.’

‘That’ll be the day, Hetty!’ said Sarah. ‘Smooth out the creases your side of that sheet now. Hurry up – we should just about have time to do the master’s study while he’s still having his breakfast.’

We went into Mr Buchanan’s study together. He had clearly already been working on a story that morning. Papers were scattered across his desk,
and
several were screwed into little balls in his wastepaper basket.

‘Dear, dear, he’s always like this at the beginning of a story. He makes so many false starts,’ said Sarah, dabbing at a fresh inkstain on his desk.

I squatted down beside the wastepaper basket, picking up the crumpled pieces of paper and smoothing them out, thinking that I could use the unwritten sides for my own stories. I had in my hands a discarded version of his first page. I started reading – and my hands shook.

My name is Emerald Greenwich. Is that not the most beautiful name in the world? My dearest mama called me Emerald because my eyes are deep emerald-green. Oh, how I miss my mama now. I know she committed a grievous moral sin when she bore me out of wedlock, but she repented abjectly, and suffered greatly when she handed me in to the fine Christian guardians at the Foundling Hospital
.

I spent a few years with some simple country folk, but my true education began when I returned to that splendid institution and learned the hard but necessary lessons of obedience and humility. I am afraid I still find it a struggle to hold my tongue and remember my place, but I am
learning
from the kindly example of my benefactor and employer—’

‘
Kindly!
He has stolen my story – all of it, blatantly! How dare he! How
dare
he!’ I shrieked.

Sarah looked at me, astonished. ‘Hetty? For heaven’s sake, child, lower your voice! The master will hear!’

‘I don’t care if he does. He is a wicked hypocritical thief! I tell you, Sarah, he has stolen my story.’ I was shaking so badly I could barely stand upright. I seized the wastepaper basket and shook the entire contents over his desk.

‘Hetty! Have you gone mad? Dear heaven, stop it this instant. Get back to the kitchen.’ Sarah tried to grab hold of me, struggling with me so that we both toppled over with a thump.

‘What on
earth
is going on?’ Mr Buchanan came stamping into his study, his napkin tucked into his shirt, a fork still in one hand.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir, beg pardon, sir, the poor child is having some kind of fit. Let me carry her away until she recovers,’ said Sarah, struggling to her knees.

I had had all the breath knocked out of me, but I still could not keep quiet.

‘You wicked, evil, terrible thief!’ I screamed
hoarsely
at Mr Buchanan. ‘You said my story was coarse and unacceptable and no one would ever publish it. And now I know why!
You’ve
taken it,
you’re
writing it! You’re just changing the names and putting in long words and mealy-mouthed moral comments, but it’s still
my
story.’

‘Cease this ridiculous insubordinate babbling at once, or I shall turn you out of my house immediately,’ said Mr Buchanan.

Sarah tried to clamp her hand right over my mouth. ‘Oh no, sir, take pity on her. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s as if the Devil himself has got hold of her tongue,’ she said.

I prised her fingers away, refusing to be restrained. ‘I do
so
know what I’m saying! You’ve stolen
my
memoirs,
my
life! You’re a wicked thief. You think you’re so saintly, but I think you’re going straight to Hell with all the other devils!’

‘That’s it! Go and pack your bags. I will not have you in my house another minute. I am dismissing you forthwith,’ said Mr Buchanan.

‘No, no, please!’ Sarah begged.

‘Without a character reference!’ added Mr Buchanan.

‘But, sir, how will she get another position without one?’ said Sarah.

‘That’s not my concern,’ he said.

‘No, you are just concerned with stealing a poor girl’s work!’ I shouted.

‘Remove this terrible fishwife child from my presence,’ said Mr Buchanan to Sarah.

‘Not until you give me back my memoirs! I’ll not have you copying any more of them. Give them back to me!’ I cried. ‘Give them back this instant or I’ll … I’ll fetch a policeman!’

‘Hetty, Hetty,
hush
!’ said Sarah, struggling with me.

‘Lord save us, what’s happening?’ said Mrs Briskett, running into the study, her great bulk knocking over columns of books to the left and the right. ‘Oh, Hetty Feather, was that you shrieking at the master?’

‘I am not her master. She is no longer in my employment. Be so good as to turn her out of this house immediately. I will not be shouted at and abused by a wretched foundling child, especially when I’ve shown her every kindness!’ He was shouting too, his fez slipping sideways as he jerked his head in emphasis.

‘I won’t go! Not without my memoirs! They’re my property. You shall not steal them. Give them
back
!’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, you evil-tongued little harpy.’

‘Yes you do. You took them from me. Give them back – please,
please
! That book means the whole world to me. It’s my life, mine and Mama’s.’ I was crying now, tears of pure rage.

Mr Buchanan was breathing heavily, sweat standing out on his wrinkled brow. ‘You’ve clearly taken leave of your senses. I know nothing of these so-called memoirs. Now get out of my study this instant.’

‘You
liar
!’ I shouted.

Mrs Briskett gasped and crossed herself piously. She tried to seize hold of me, but I clung to a corner of Mr Buchanan’s desk, screaming.

‘If you please, sir, she means that little red notebook, scribbled all over. Are you sure you don’t still have it?’ said Sarah bravely.

‘I am
quite
sure – and if you don’t hold your tongue, you will find yourself dismissed as well,’ said Mr Buchanan, puffing himself up like a little bullfrog. A button on his waistcoat burst and his watch popped out of his pocket. It dangled there on his watch chain, along with an onyx seal and a little silver key. The key to his
desk drawer
?

It was no use asking politely. This was my only chance. I darted forward and snatched at the chain, tugging so hard that it broke. I had the key in my hand before he could stop me. I slotted it straight
into
the desk drawer – and there, inside, were two notebooks. One contained my own precious memoirs – and the other was an entirely new manuscript. I whipped open the first page.

Emerald Greenwich – the Story of a Foundling Child … by Chas. G. Buchanan

‘There!’ I said, clutching my own memoirs. ‘I
knew
it! You
did
steal my memoirs! You’re using them for your own story!’

‘Oh, sir!’ said Sarah, looking shocked.

‘Now now, Sarah – be warned!’ said Mrs Briskett anxiously.

‘Of course I haven’t stolen your ridiculous memoirs, Hetty Feather! I had no idea you called your pathetic little journal by such a grand title. “Memoirs” indeed!’

‘You’ve copied some of it out, and put it under your name!’

‘Yes, I
have
started copying out a new version. I have taken the time and trouble to try to improve your work, to show you the correct way to go about composition. I was then intending to go over it with you, carefully instructing you. Yet
this
is the way you repay me, screaming ludicrous accusations at me and attacking my person, actually breaking my
watch
chain. Just wait till I report these events to the hospital!’

‘No,
you
just wait till I report to Miss Smith on the Board of Governors that you’ve stolen my memoirs. Look, you’ve written your name by the title – that’s absolute proof!’

I tried to snatch that manuscript too, but Mr Buchanan was too quick for me this time. He picked it up and beat me hard about the head with it, sending me reeling.

‘Now, leave these premises immediately, Hetty Feather,’ he said. ‘Take her out of my sight this instant or I shall fetch a policeman myself. I shall report your behaviour and show him the broken links of my watch chain, and you will go straight to prison. It’s the best place for you, you wicked, ungrateful girl.’

‘Quick, Mrs B! Let’s get her out!’ said Sarah.

They took hold of me, each with a hand in my armpit, and hauled me out bodily, my feet scarcely brushing the floor – though I still had my memoirs clasped to my chest. They dragged me down all the stairs to the kitchen and then let me go.

‘Oh, Hetty, what have you
done
! He’ll never take you back now, no matter how we beg,’ said Sarah, starting to cry.

‘I wouldn’t stay here now even if
he
begged
me
,’
I
said fiercely, my head held high.

‘But what will you do, you silly child? You’ll never get another position as a servant without a character reference,’ said Mrs Briskett, wringing her hands.

‘I will – I will try my hand at something
other
than service,’ I said grandly, though my heart was beating fast. ‘I will make my own way in the world. Somehow.’

‘But where will you sleep tonight?’ Sarah asked.

‘She will have to go back to the hospital,’ said Mrs Briskett.

‘I am not going back there, not ever. I’d sooner walk the streets,’ I declared.

‘Oh, Hetty, if only you weren’t so headstrong!’ said Sarah. ‘You have no idea what life can be like for young girls cast out without a character. So many girls come to a bad end, through no real fault of their own.’

‘I won’t come to a bad end, I promise,’ I said.

‘But what will you
do
?’

I thought desperately. I remembered when I’d run away before. I’d sold flowers on the street with Sissy, and then Miss Smith had found me. Miss Smith had told us about one of her charities, set up to help destitute young girls. I supposed
I
was destitute now. The very word made me shudder.

‘
I
shall go to London and see my friend Miss Smith. She will help me,’ I said firmly. ‘Don’t worry, Sarah, I will be fine.’