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
e gave a little screech and bared all his teeth: this was laughter!
‘Very well, I am convinced. If Mrs Briskett and Sarah can spare you for an hour every afternoon, then you may come and copy my work. It may help you with your own compositions, child. You will have a chance to study my grammar and learn complex vocabulary.’
‘Yes, sir – and that will almost be reward enough in itself.’
‘Almost?’ He peered at me, chin on clasped hands.
‘Well, sir, you did say that employing a secretary would incur considerable extra expense—’
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 compl
iment, 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.
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