and suck my cheeks to stop myself erupting. I set myself to thinking why she was a Mrs Briskett. If she was Mr Buchanan’s wife, why did she not bear his name? Was she perhaps a neighbour of his, come to fetch me as a favour?
‘Excuse me, ma’am, but do you live at Mr Buchanan’s house?’
‘Of course I do, you silly girl.’
‘And – and
Mr
Briskett?’
‘There is no Mr Briskett. It is a courtesy title,’ she said.
I thought on. I remembered all the cook’s
Police Gazettes
I had secretly read at the hospital.
‘Then are you – are you under Mr Buchanan’s protection?’ I asked.
I thought I’d asked the question delicately, but she coughed and spluttered, her face flushing darker than her bonnet.
‘How
dare
you suggest such a thing! I can’t believe my own ears!’
‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to cause offence. I didn’t understand. I simply thought—’
‘I am Mr Buchanan’s cook-housekeeper,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘I cannot
imagine
how you could possibly have dreamed otherwise. However, you are a poor ignorant orphan, Hetty Feather, so I suppose you simply do not know any better.’
‘Oh no, I’m not an orphan, ma’am. I have a very dear mother, Ida Battersea. In fact, I’m not really called Hetty Feather at all – that was just the name the Foundling Hospital inflicted on me. My name is Sapphire Battersea. Please may I be called by that name? It could be my courtesy title.’
‘
Sapphire?
What kind of ungodly, fanciful name is that for a little servant girl? Don’t be ridiculous, child . Were you christened when you arrived at the Foundling Hospital as a babe?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And what name did they christen you?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Hetty Feather, but—’
‘No buts! That is your name, and you will not be known by any other. Sapphire indeed!’
Yes, Sapphire, Sapphire, Sapphire
, I said silently inside my head.
It is a beautiful name and it is
my
name, and you can ‘Hetty Feather’ me a thousand times a day, but I know my
real
name now and you cannot take it away from me
.
‘I don’t care for that expression on your face, Hetty. I hope you are not a sullen girl. Do you realize how lucky you are to be given this opportunity?’
I felt like the least lucky girl in all the world, but I rearranged my face into an ingratiating smile and nodded vigorously. It was clear that Mrs Briskett had a quick temper and her fingers seemed as sharp as meat hooks. I was sure my shoulders were all covered over with bruises.
The horse slowed down and stopped, and Mrs Briskett nudged me to climb out of the cab. We were in front of a vast, imposing building, practically as big as a palace. It seemed dimly familiar.
‘Is this Mr Buchanan’s house?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘Dear goodness, how can you be so stupid, child? This is Waterloo Station! We are continuing our journey by train.’ She paused, then said slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton, ‘A train is a huge carriage with a massive engine at the front, powered by steam.’
‘I know what a train is, Mrs Briskett,’ I said with some satisfaction. ‘I travelled in one when I left my foster home in the country.’
She snorted. ‘You must have been only five or so at the time. I doubt you can remember anything about it.’
‘Indeed I can! I remember it all very vividly,’ I said. ‘Mother took Gideon and me, and we were so sad. My dearest brother Jem came with us to the station, and he told me to be a good brave girl, and he promised he would come and fetch me home one day–’ And then I stopped and moaned as if in pain.
‘What is it? Did you bite your tongue?’
‘Oh, Mrs Briskett, we have to go back!’ I said, trying to clamber back into the hansom cab.
‘What are you doing? Don’t be so tiresome, child. We’ve finished with the cab. We have to go and catch the train.’
‘No! No! I’ve only just realized – that young man waiting at the gate! It might have been Jem.’
I couldn’t be
C. Dale Brittain, Brittain