Tattycoram by Audrey Thomas

Hattie.
    Georgina was in and out of every room, always criticizing her older sister, digging at her in little ways, almost mocking her now that she was heavy and slow with her pregnancy. When I brought Charley down, she would grab him and say, “Thank you, Coram, you may go,” as though
she
were the lady of the house.
    And when Mr. Dickens was around, it was plain that she worshipped him. Of course he liked that and never really saw her other side. I had known one or two girls like her at the hospital, girls who took pleasure in criticizing others in subtle ways, goading them into bad behaviour or tears; girls with amean streak, telltales as well, but who could be all sweetness and light when it suited them. They were usually favourites with the more gullible adults.
    Twice Georgina nearly cost me my place. Mrs. Dickens could be slow and forgetful, whereas Miss Georgy was swift and clever and as keen on order as her brother-in-law. Once, when she came upon her sister crying (Mrs. Dickens had forgotten to do something important — decline or accept a dinner invitation — and this had led to some awkwardness), she said, “For heaven’s sake, stop that crying. You know how Charles hates it when you cry. What’s done is done, and crying won’t make it any better.”
    A proper little madam, she could be. Very unchildlike.
    One afternoon, she called me back just as I was leaving the parlour.
    â€œOh Coram, would you stop a moment please? I wish to ask your advice about something.”
    Sensing a trap, I returned reluctantly and stood in front of her. Mrs. Dickens smiled encouragement as she peeled an orange and fed slices of fruit to her son. He struggled to get down when he saw me come back; Charley and I got on very well. I shook my head at him and told him I would be back for him later. Miss Georgy watched this exchange with a little smirk. She removed a length of brown material from a large paper parcel by her chair.
    â€œI have been invited to a fancy-dress party at the end of the month, and I decided it would be great fun to go as a Foundling Girl. Mama has bought the material but we have no pattern. I wonder, do you still have your old uniform by you?”
    â€œNo, Miss Georgy. I left it at the hospital.”
    â€œWhat a pity, but never mind, you can describe it for meinstead. I could ask Charles when he comes in, I know he goes to the chapel every Sunday, and he is so observant, but I do not like to trouble him with so trivial a matter.”
    I remained silent; I couldn’t believe my ears.
    â€œWell?” She had taken out a writing tablet and a pencil.
    â€œI don’t remember, Miss Georgy.”
    â€œYou wore that outfit every day for ten years and you don’t remember?”
    â€œYes, Miss Georgy.”
    She looked me full in the face. How she was enjoying this! My cheeks burned.
    â€œI don’t believe you.”
    I stared straight at her — insolent servant! — and said nothing. I may even have shrugged.
    â€œGeorgy,” Mrs. Dickens said, “leave it, dear. You can ask Charles. He’ll be down soon.”
    â€œI will
not
ask Charles. I will ask Coram, who for some strange reason refuses to reply. The material is already bought, as you can see, and I am determined to use it.”
    At that moment Charley reached for his mother’s teacup, which she was just raising to her lips, grabbed it and would have tipped it over her frock if I hadn’t darted forward and taken it from him.
    â€œKate,” Miss Georgy said, “pay attention to what you are doing.”
    That was too much — this high and mighty little baggage with her superior airs. In my anger and frustration, and barely conscious of what I was doing, I threw the cup at the wall. Then I ran out of the room and up the stairs to the very top, to my room.
    How dare she! To pose as a Foundling Girl at a party; towear once, and as a kind of joke, what I had had