Free Sapphire Battersea by Jacqueline Wilson

the week, or the month, or the quarter?’ I asked anxiously.
    ‘I cannot see that that is of any consequence to you, Hetty Feather. You do not require any money while you are under my roof. You will receive all your meals free of charge, and I believe Sarah will give you a length of material so you can sew more clothes as you require them.’
    ‘Yes, sir, but I also require several postage stamps,’ I said, desperation making me bold.
    ‘Why do you need to correspond with anyone?’ he asked.
    ‘I need to write to my mother, sir.’ I thought hard. ‘I wish to tell her how lucky I am to have been taken on in your household. I want to tell her how kind you have been,’ I added artfully.
    He looked surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware that there was any contact between foundling children and their maternal parents,’ he said.
    ‘There isn’t usually, sir – but my mama is especially concerned,’ I said, bobbing a curtsy to seem deferential. ‘I would very much like to reassure her that I have an extra special position in a lovely place.’
    ‘I can understand your desire, child. You will be paid quarterly, like Mrs Briskett and Sarah, but I shall take it upon myself to provide you with postage stamps. Here you are, child …’ He opened his desk drawer and gave me one.
    I swallowed again. ‘Please, sir – might I have some more?’
    I thought this a risk. I did not want to make him angry with me.
    To my great relief he chuckled. ‘You’re a veritable Oliver Twist, Hetty Feather,’ he declared.
    I wasn’t sure who Oliver Twist was, but if he encouraged Mr Buchanan to be generous, then he seemed a fine friend. Mr Buchanan counted me out six stamps, which I seized eagerly, tucking them into my apron pocket.
    ‘Now run along and try not to take any more liberties, child,’ he said, though he did not look annoyed.
    So I did indeed run. Sarah was waiting for me outside the door.
    ‘I hope you weren’t giving the master any cheek, my girl,’ she said.
    ‘No indeed. We were getting along like a house on fire,’ I said.
    Sarah looked at me sideways. ‘Don’t you get above yourself, missy,’ she said. ‘Come along. I’ll show you all over the house and give you some idea of your duties.’
    She took me into the drawing room and dining room, rattling off detailed dusting and polishing and sweeping instructions. I tried to pay attention, but was constantly distracted by the splendour of the house. Every room was crowded with furniture and ornaments and assorted knick-knacks. There were two sofas, four easy chairs, and six uprights in the living room alone. Mr Buchanan only had one behind, and a puny one at that. Why would he need such an immense variety of seats? It would surely take an entire regiment of maids to dust every single item adequately. I’d no idea this was how proper folk lived their lives. I imagined what it would be like to lounge on the purple-velvet chaise longue, to dine at that polished table, to prop my feet on that intricately stitched footstool.
    It grew ever more fascinating upstairs, peeping into Mr Buchanan’s best bedroom, picturing him in his nightgown and cap tucked up beneath those sheets. I could not help also picturing him getting up in the night and making use of the chamber pot under the bed – though it was disconcerting to be told that it was my job to empty it.
    Mr Buchanan’s lavatory arrangements were a matter of total astonishment to me, because he also had his very own bathroom with a water closet. Sarah demonstrated how you pulled the chain so that everything was neatly flushed away.
    ‘This is splendid! So why do we use that awful, scary, spidery privy in the garden when we could use this water closet?’ I asked.
    Sarah looked horrified. ‘This is the master’s private room! We could not possibly use the same facilities!’
    I resolved then and there that when I was set to scrubbing the bathroom, I would quite definitely use the facilities. I pulled the chain