The Ivory Rose (19 page)

Everything seemed to happen at once. Doctor Anderson huffed up the stairs, followed by Miss Rutherford, Agnes and Connie. Doctor Anderson dropped his bag and strode to Georgiana’s bedside.

‘Oh, my poor dear girl,’ screamed Miss Rutherford hysterically. ‘Oh, doctor – do something, do something!’

Miss Rutherford collapsed on the floor beside the bed, covering her face with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Agnes bent over her, patting her shoulders and making soothing clucks.

‘Agnes, please help Miss Rutherford to her room,’ ordered Doctor Anderson. ‘Give her a small dose of laudanum to calm her down – I will come and check on her soon. Whatever you do, don’t leave her.’

Agnes obeyed, uttering soothing ‘there, there’ noises. Miss Rutherford leant heavily on her arm, a handkerchief in her shaking hands.

‘Connie, could you please fetch me some clean cloths and a bucket of warm water?’ asked Doctor Anderson. Connie ran to obey.

Doctor Anderson felt Georgiana’s skin, took her pulse, listened to her heartbeat, examined the soiled bedding. He gestured to Jemma. ‘Would you mind stepping outside, please Jemma? I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.’

Once they were alone, Doctor Anderson asked, ‘When did she start vomiting? What has she had to eat today? When did she start feeling ill?’

Jemma did her best to answer his questions, her arms and legs trembling with shock and fear.

‘Did someone give her mustard to induce vomiting?’ asked Doctor Anderson.

‘Yes,’ Jemma confessed. ‘I did. I read that it was the best thing to give someone for … for … arsenic poisoning.’

Doctor Anderson examined Jemma piercingly over his spectacles. ‘Arsenic poisoning?’ he demanded, inhaling sharply. ‘What makes you think Georgiana has arsenic poisoning?’

Jemma suddenly felt very foolish. What if she had imagined everything? What if she had made Georgiana worse by her rash actions?

‘I found rat poison in the pantry,’ gabbled Jemma before lowering her voice. ‘I think Agnes might have put arsenic in Georgiana’s gruel today. She wouldn’t let me feed the leftover gruel to the cat. It’s very odd how Georgiana is quite well, then suddenly deathly sick. I think Agnes is trying to poison her.’

Doctor Anderson shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefingers. ‘Now, now Jemma. Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would Agnes want to poison Georgiana? Every house in Sydney has rat poison in the pantry – that’s no proof of anything.’

Jemma went ghost-white, then brick-red. ‘Agnes is horrible,’ she whispered, her eyes on the floor. ‘She hates everyone. She locked me in the coal cellar overnight.’

Doctor Anderson patted Jemma gently on the arm. ‘I know Agnes can be harsh, but I’m sure she’s not capable of attempting to murder a young girl,’ he insisted. ‘Why would she do it? What could Agnes possibly gain from Georgiana’s death?’

Doctor Anderson paused before continuing. ‘Miss Georgiana has been recurrently sick for many weeks now. I know it’s distressing but I’m sure she’ll be all right with the correct care. What
is
important is that you don’t try to medicate Georgiana yourself. You could, with the very best of intentions, make her much, much worse.’

Jemma scuffed her feet on the floor. She felt sick and helpless. She knew something the doctor didn’t know – that a girl called Georgiana Rose Thornton had been murdered in 1895, and someone in this house must have done it.

‘But doctor, you yourself said it is odd that only Georgiana is sick. She has terrible bouts of vomiting, then is quite well for weeks, then gets sick again – that’s not normal,’ insisted Jemma, grasping him by the arm.

Doctor Anderson patted Jemma on the hand and smiled. ‘Yes, initially that did concern me. Usually gastrointestinal illness is caused by an infection or bacterial toxin
that is easily spread within a household, and the diagnostic tests have ruled out a more serious disease. However, I’ve been doing some research, and I believe Georgiana has Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome.

‘It’s quite unusual, but Georgiana displays many of the symptoms – ghostly pallor, headaches and lethargy, but most importantly recurring bouts of severe vomiting followed by periods of wellness. While it can be very debilitating, there is no cure and no risk of mortality. Most affected children seem to grow out of it by puberty.’

Doctor Anderson began to pack up his stethoscope into his leather medical case.

‘But Doctor Anderson …’ Jemma felt confused and exhausted. ‘Miss Rutherford sounds convinced that Georgiana might die.’

Doctor Anderson squeezed Jemma’s hand reassuringly. ‘I think Miss Rutherford is overreacting. All we can do is ensure Miss Georgiana does not become dehydrated, and minimise the potential causes. The report I read suggested the vomiting bouts were usually brought on by exhaustion, indigestible food, exposure to cold or particularly by overexertion and excitement. It is highly likely that Miss Georgiana has done something unusually stimulating in the last forty-eight hours, which has brought on this latest bout.’

Jemma thought carefully.
Could it be that taking Georgiana to Kentville for the afternoon on Sunday had actually caused her illness? Could it be my fault that Georgiana is so sick? Perhaps it wasn’t poison at all.
Jemma took a deep breath, mulling over the evidence.
No – not possible! Someone is trying to murder Georgiana!

Doctor Anderson seemed to read her mind. ‘Now, Jemma, it’s best you don’t dwell on this too much. Please put these foolish thoughts of poison out of your head. Why don’t you go and wash up and get changed? You’ve had a nasty shock.’

Jemma nodded in reluctant agreement and dragged her feet out the door. Despite the doctor’s assurances, Jemma knew, without a doubt, that there was something quite sinister about Georgiana’s illness.

‘Jemma?’ Doctor Anderson called her back, smiling. ‘I thought you’d like to know that I paid a visit to Ma Murphy’s house in Breillat Street.’

Jemma swung around, hope blazing in her eyes, quickly dashed by despair. Would Doctor Anderson say it was once again all in her overactive imagination?

‘What happened?’ Jemma demanded.

‘You were right about the infants,’ Doctor Anderson replied softly. ‘They were being sorely mistreated. Several were desperately ill. I have organised for them to be removed to St Anne’s Hospital where I have undertaken their medical care. I have confidence that, with proper nutrition and medication, all of them will survive.’

Jemma grasped Doctor Anderson’s sleeve. ‘Oh, thank you, doctor! That’s wonderful news. And Ma Murphy?’

‘I don’t think she will be looking after any more babies,’ replied Doctor Anderson. ‘I believe we found sufficient evidence of neglect that she will be convicted and sent to prison.’

Jemma’s heart thudded with elation. ‘I’m glad,’ she replied and turned away towards the servants’ stairs. Then she stopped and swung back towards Doctor Anderson.

‘There is something very strange about Georgiana’s illness, Doctor Anderson,’ Jemma insisted. ‘Don’t wait until it’s too late to believe me.’

Doctor Anderson looked at Jemma appraisingly. ‘Thank you, Jemma. I’ll keep that in mind.’

In the evening, Connie and Jemma helped Agnes prepare a meal of lamb’s tongue in parsley sauce and crumbed lamb’s brains with mushy peas and boiled potatoes. Jemma couldn’t bring herself to eat it.

She pushed the offal around her plate with her fork, picked at the peas and boiled potatoes, and surreptitiously fed Merlin skerricks of shredded lamb’s brain under the table.

Agnes tutted as Jemma carried her barely touched plate to the sink.

‘Her Highness didn’t enjoy tonight’s supper,’ Agnes told Connie. ‘Perhaps she would prefer roast peacock.’

Jemma ignored her, heading up the service stairs to check on Georgiana. The patient was weak and pale with dark, bruised circles under her eyes. Jemma helped her sip some water.

‘How do you feel, Georgiana?’ asked Jemma, fluffing up her pillows.

‘Like I’ve been hit by a steam tram,’ confessed Georgiana in a croaky, weak voice. ‘I think that is the sickest I have ever been. It was awful. Thanks, though, for helping me. I felt better knowing you were there.’

Jemma mopped Georgiana’s brow with a damp cloth and the girl closed her eyes.

‘Doctor Anderson told me some good news today,’ confided Jemma. ‘He went to visit the babies I saw at Ma Murphy’s house. He’s taken them to hospital and is treating them there – he thinks they will all survive.’

Georgiana opened her eyes and smiled weakly up at Jemma. ‘That is wonderful. Doctor Anderson is a good man. It must be so satisfying for him to be able to help people and make them better. I only hope he can help me get well again too … I don’t want to die.’

Georgiana sobbed, her eyes round with fear. She clutched Jemma’s hand, begging her for reassurance.

‘You won’t die, Georgie,’ Jemma insisted, her voice clouded with fear. ‘I won’t let you die. Doctor Anderson won’t let you die.’

Jemma squeezed Georgiana’s hand firmly, wishing she felt as confident as her words.

‘Doctor Anderson says you should feel much better in the morning,’ Jemma assured her. ‘You need to keep drinking lots of water, though, because you are severely dehydrated. Do you feel like being sick again?’

‘No. I just feel like sleeping for days.’

Jemma didn’t – that night she couldn’t get to sleep. She tossed and turned feverishly. Visions of Georgiana’s illness kept recurring.

Connie slept peacefully in her bed, the deep sleep of perpetual exhaustion.

Jemma paced to and fro across the small attic bedroom in the darkness.

She paused at the window. She could see a nearly full moon skimming across a cloud-skudded sky. The stars were paler tonight, dimmed by the milky moonlight. Jemma glanced at the stables, which were dark and still. Ned must be asleep.

A sudden movement caught her eye, down in the garden, near the stables. The cloud sailed past the moon, and the garden was illuminated. A shadow moved again, then Jemma realised the shadow was a man, creeping furtively through the garden towards the stable. As Jemma’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the forms of three men moving stealthily from the back lane gate towards the stable door.

She saw the stable door open, then the figures disappeared. A moment later, a candle flame danced around inside the building, gleaming through the chinks in the wall.

Is that Ned? Or are there intruders in the stable? Intruders that might harm Ned or steal the horses?
Jemma was torn between fear and anxiety.

Quickly, Jemma reached for her blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She slipped noiselessly down the stairs and through the kitchen. The back door was locked, but the huge iron key hung on a hook in the scullery.

With trembling hands, Jemma opened the door, holding her breath as it creaked on its hinges. She crept out through the flower garden, past the vegetable garden and washing line, to the dark shadow of the stable. She tripped over an uneven stone in the path but saved herself before she sprawled face-forward in the dark.

Outside the stable she found Ned’s hoe, which she gripped like a knight’s lance.
What to do now? Should I charge into the stable, or spy through the window and find out what’s happening first?

Jemma crept to the window and peeked in. The stables were dark and shadowy. She could vaguely see the horses, Sugar and Butterscotch, shifting in their stalls, and further to the left was the stall where the carriage was parked. To the right was a ladder leading up to the loft where Ned slept and the feed was stored, and further still, the tack room. The door to this room was open, light spilling out from a kerosene lamp. Inside, four men sat on bales of hay, their heads together in deep conversation.

With a start, Jemma realised one of them was Ned.

She moved closer to the tack room, pressing her ear against a chink in the timber wall, straining to hear.

The men’s voices were low, but occasionally one of them would raise his slightly.

‘Got to do
something
…’

‘… calls for drastic measures …’

Mumble, mumble
.

‘… is only a
child
…’

Mumble, mumble
.

‘… a
child
will
die
…’

‘It’s the only way …’

‘Are they with us?’

‘When?’

‘Wednesday – it’s definite.’

Jemma heard a rustling and creaking. Peeking through the chink, she saw the four men standing and shaking hands. Then, one by one, they slipped away out the stable
door and into the night. Jemma pressed herself into the shadows, not daring to breathe, then she moved back to the window. Ned moved around, putting things away before climbing the ladder. He passed just a few centimetres away from her face on the other side of the wall.

Thoughts churned through her head.
The men are obviously planning something. That something will happen on Wednesday. But who is the child? Who will die on Wednesday? Georgiana? What was the parcel Ned had collected from the timber yard? Was it poison? How could Ned be involved in something so terrible? I thought Ned was our friend?