The Ivory Rose (8 page)

Georgiana pulled a face – she was obviously tired of invalid food. ‘I’m sure a couple of lamb chops and creamy mashed potato would be much better for me.’

Doctor Anderson smiled indulgently. ‘Definitely not lamb chops,’ he replied. ‘Maybe in a few weeks when your digestion is stronger, Miss Georgiana. You just need plenty of rest and good food to build your strength.’

He turned to Jemma.

‘I’m glad you are here to help look after Miss Georgiana. Her aunt, Miss Rutherford, has been working tirelessly to look after her, and I fear she has been feeling the strain. It will do her good to have some of the worry alleviated.’

The doctor suddenly looked at Jemma with renewed interest.

‘I know who you are,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re the young girl who was run over this morning by Miss Rutherford’s carriage.’

‘Yes. My name is Jemma Morgan.’

‘Young Edward said that your parents couldn’t be found and that you have lost some of your memory?’ probed the doctor.

Jemma swallowed, fighting down the fear. ‘I hit my head,’ she explained hesitantly. ‘I’m not quite sure how I got here.’

‘That’s not unusual,’ Doctor Anderson assured her. ‘It’s quite common to have some memory loss after a head injury – usually you’ll fully recover most of your memory in a few weeks. You may never recover the memory of what happened immediately before and during the accident, though.’

The doctor’s reassurances were not really helpful, since Jemma’s concern was not really with her memory but whether she could return to the future where she belonged. She twisted the ivory pendant between her fingertips.

‘Do you mind if I examine you briefly? I want to make sure you don’t have a serious concussion or brain inflammation.’

Jemma remembered Mrs McKenzie’s suggested cure for that ailment – a shaved head and leeches!

‘I just had a headache for a while, but I’m feeling much better now.’

Doctor Anderson checked her eyes, pulse, temperature and heart rate before asking her a few questions. He ran his fingers lightly over her scalp. Jemma winced when he touched the bruise on the back of her head.

‘You seem a model of health,’ the doctor pronounced. ‘Well nourished and very tall for your age. Most working-class girls of your age would be quite a few inches shorter, and significantly undernourished.’

He means skinnier
, Jemma thought wryly to herself.
Well, I guess hunger would do that to you!

‘I’m sure you’ll be completely recovered in a couple of days, but please tell me if you have any concerns,’ Doctor Anderson continued. ‘I’m sure that, in no time at all, both you and Georgiana will be up to the usual mischief of girls your age.’

Georgiana and Jemma smiled conspiratorially at each other. Doctor Anderson’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

‘In the meantime, I think Georgiana is well enough to get up for a couple of hours and engage in some quiet activities, and perhaps Jemma can keep you company for awhile – that might help with the boredom, do you think? I will instruct Miss Rutherford that I prescribe some fresh air on the verandah, and perhaps a few card games.’

Agnes was very put out that her new helper was to keep Georgiana company, rather than scrub the bathroom. Miss Rutherford felt that the girls’ time would be better spent working on embroidery than card games, but when Miss Rutherford left to pay her afternoon calls in the carriage, driven by Ned, Georgiana and Jemma escaped to the front verandah, away from Agnes’s prying eyes.

They sat in white cane chairs with a small table between them, Georgiana with a rug over her knees. Jemma looked in dismay at the sewing basket, with its rainbow skeins of embroidery silk and the fine Irish linen, which they were expected to embroider with daisies and forget-me-nots.

‘I can’t sew,’ confessed Jemma, ‘and I couldn’t embroider anything to save my life.’

Georgiana laughed, tossing her half-completed handkerchief back in the basket.

‘It’s boring, isn’t it? But Aunt Harriet insists that all ladies should be able to embroider exquisitely. Why can’t you sew? I thought all girls were taught to sew. Didn’t your mother teach you?’

Jemma shook her head emphatically, trying to imagine her mother threading a needle.

‘No way. I don’t think Mum can sew either.’

‘So who made your clothes, or mended them when they tore?’ asked Georgiana. ‘Or did you have a servant to do it?’

Jemma shrugged.

‘No, we’ve never had servants. We just buy all our clothes ready-made, and if we tear them we throw them away or put them in the charity bin.’

Georgiana stared at Jemma aghast. ‘You throw out clothes instead of mending them? What a terrible waste!’

‘I suppose so,’ agreed Jemma. ‘I’ve never really thought about it. I guess in my time … I mean, my family … we throw away lots of things that we shouldn’t.’

‘Shall we play cards?’ asked Georgiana, pulling out a pack that she had hidden in the bottom of the sewing basket. ‘We could play cribbage or old maid?’

‘I don’t know those games,’ Jemma confessed, moving the sewing basket down onto the floor. ‘Do you know either fish or spit?’

Georgiana gazed at Jemma in consternation.

‘
Spit
?’

Jemma picked up the cards and shuffled them. She quickly dealt out the cards face down into five piles for each of them.

‘The object is to get rid of all your cards as fast as you
can,’ explained Jemma. She dealt out the remaining cards into two separate piles. ‘This is your spit pile.’

Jemma flipped over the first card from her spit pile so it was face-up in the centre. Georgiana copied.

‘Now look to see if you can throw out any of your top cards.’

Neither of them could throw out a card.

‘Spit again!’ instructed Jemma. Both girls flicked out another card.

The girls played a few practise rounds and Georgiana quickly got the hang of it. Soon they were both shrieking with laughter, racing to flip, spit and throw down cards, slamming their hands down on the smallest pile.

In the last round, when there was only one pile left, Jemma slammed her hand down hard, just a second too late, on top of Georgiana’s.

‘I win, I win,’ shrieked Georgiana. ‘That was so much fun. Far more exciting than tedious old cribbage, although it’s a terrible name for a card game. I’ve never even heard of it. Who taught it to you? Do you remember?’

Jemma remembered playing the game many times at Ruby’s kitchen table on rainy afternoons, or in front of the fire with her dad. The memory was painful. Jemma’s face closed down.

‘I … I don’t remember.’

Georgiana leant over and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. Your memory will return and we’ll get you back home again, I promise.’

In the evening, Jemma and Connie helped Agnes cook dinner – a lamb pie with mashed potatoes and peas for Miss Rutherford and mutton broth for Georgiana. The mahogany dining table had to be set exquisitely for one – heavy silver cutlery, cut crystal glass, ironed white damask cloth and napkin, blazing candles in the candelabra and silver condiment containers. Agnes rapped Jemma over the knuckles with a heavy spoon because a knife was crooked and the napkin imperfectly placed.

Jemma had to carry the broth up to Georgiana’s bedroom on a tray with her evening medicine. There was no time to stay and chat, but once again Jemma tipped the medicine out the window, earning a grateful smile from the invalid.

Then it was time to serve Miss Rutherford’s dinner in the dining room. All the dishes were placed separately on the table – the whole pie, the dish of peas and the silver salver of mashed potato. Jemma carried in the heavy tray, arranged it on the table, served a portion to Miss Rutherford, then cleared the whole table when she had finished.

The aroma of the food made Jemma’s mouth water – but she was not to be fed yet. A serving of Miss Rutherford’s leftover pie had to be carried out to Ned in the stables. Jemma then made coffee for Miss Rutherford and served it in the drawing room.

By the time she and Connie sat down to eat at the kitchen table, the pie was cold and congealed, the potato unappetising, and the peas mushy and overcooked. Connie didn’t seem to mind, tucking in with gusto, but Jemma lost her appetite, pushing the soggy food around her plate with a fork.

Then there were pots to be scrubbed, dishes to be washed, tables to be wiped, the fire to be banked to keep the coals alive until the morning, and food to be stored.

Finally, Agnes sniffed her approval and told Jemma and Connie they could retire for the night.

The servants had to use the outhouse in the garden instead of the indoor bathroom. Connie led the way, carrying a kerosene lantern, then trudged up the backstairs to the little attic bedroom. Jemma politely waited outside on the landing so Connie could have some privacy while she undressed.

‘I’m in bed,’ Connie called softly. ‘You can come in.’

Connie had curled up in bed facing the wall. All that Jemma could see of her was a long plait of brown hair on the pillow and a frilled nightcap tied on with ribbons.

Jemma stripped off her heavy, hot boots and thick black stockings with relief. She struggled to undo the many tiny buttons of her dress and the fiddly hooks of her stays with tired, swollen fingers. Her cotton nightdress felt as light and soft as a cloud after the confines of the tight, layered day clothes. Jemma ignored the nightcap and twisted off the lamp light, leaving the room in darkness.

‘Goodnight, Connie,’ whispered Jemma. The only response was the steady, even breathing of sleep.

Jemma crawled into her narrow bed, pulling up the blanket. It smelt of camphor and musty dampness. The darkness pressed down on her suffocatingly. After a few moments, Jemma crept up again and tiptoed to the window.

Outside, the darkness was not so deep. Thousands of stars blazed up in the sky. Jemma could not remember
ever seeing so many stars in the sky. They crackled and sparkled and glittered with cold, white light – a sight at once beautiful but ancient and forbidding. They were so, so far away.

Jemma stared into the darkness for ages. She felt completely alone and frightened and helpless.
I am more than one hundred and sixteen years in the past. One hundred and sixteen years away from my parents and friends. How did I get here? How will I ever get home?

The panic that had come earlier in the day rushed back with a vengeance. It had been kept at bay all day by her curiosity about this strange world, the busyness of her chores and her attempts to avoid Agnes’s sharp tongue. Now there was nothing to suppress the thoughts and the fear.

A flash of warm, orange light caught her eye, closer to earth. Over where she judged the stables to be there was a light moving, slipping through the cracks in the timber walls, spilling under the door, then shining through the window. It must be Ned. The light bobbed and danced, then flickered away to darkness once more.

Jemma thought of Ned’s kindness that morning, covering her with his coat and carrying her into the house. She thought of Georgiana with her friendly chatter and concern, and her own sad situation as an orphan. She thought of Connie and her cheerful determination to make the best of everything. Perhaps she was not as alone as she thought.

If I could slip back in time, then I must be able to slip forward in time as well. Perhaps I’m here for a reason. Maybe I’m here to help Georgiana? Maybe I’m here to do something special?

Jemma realised her back and legs ached and her head hurt. Her arms hung heavily. She crawled back to the tiny iron bedstead and fell asleep.

Her head had no sooner touched the pillow, it seemed, than Jemma was being vigorously shaken.

‘Wake up, Jemma,’ demanded Connie. ‘It’s late and Agnes will be furious.’

Jemma opened one eye a slit and glanced at the window. It was still dark outside.

‘Wha’?’ Jemma grunted groggily. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Let me go back to sleep.’

‘It’s five-thirty and you have to get up and make the tea.’

‘No,’ wailed Jemma. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Jemma – get up at once, or I’ll tip this jug of water over your head.’

Jemma opened both eyes now to be greeted by the determined, thin face of a freckled girl with a frilled mob-cap on her head and a jug of water in her hand, tipping precariously. Memory came flooding back – Connie, Georgiana, Rosethorne, 1895! Jemma was immediately awake, as though Connie really had tipped a jug of freezing water over her head.

‘Get dressed,’ ordered Connie, satisfied that Jemma was awake. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

Jemma sighed wearily and sat up. She pressed a hand to the back of her head and winced as she felt the painful bruised lump. Once more she struggled to dress herself in the layers of clothes.

Downstairs Jemma found her way to the kitchen, where Agnes was indeed cross and ready to scold. Connie was down on her hands and knees in front of the stove, cleaning out the silky grey ash.

‘Good afternoon, your Majesty,’ mocked Agnes. ‘Nice of you to join us.’

‘I’m ready to make some tea,’ offered Jemma hurriedly.

Agnes huffed and puffed about the kitchen. ‘The stove’s not even hot yet and I have to cook breakfast.’

Connie showed Jemma how to lug buckets of filthy coal from the coal pile in the cellar up the stairs to the kitchen to feed the greedy flame. The coal was shovelled into the heart of the stove to keep it hot all day.

Jemma hefted a heavy iron kettle over to the scullery tap, filled it with water and placed it on the hob to boil. While the stove heated, Jemma and Connie mopped up the fine black dust and ash that had wafted all over the floor and billowed into the air, settling on the dresser, table and shelves.

The milko called out from the back lane, and Jemma ran out into the oyster-pale dawn with a pail to collect the day’s milk, which was brought in huge urns on the back of a horsedrawn cart. Next delivery was the iceman’s dray, with frozen blocks packed in sawdust and hessian to keep the icebox cold.

The chores followed, one after the other – making tea, cooking breakfast, carrying up Georgiana’s tea and porridge on a tray, serving toast and boiled eggs to Miss Rutherford in bed, clearing away trays, washing up again, dusting, cleaning, polishing.

Later in the morning it was Jemma’s turn to tend to the hungry coal stove in the kitchen, shovelling out the dirty ash and cinders and feeding in fresh coal. The two buckets of ash had to be lugged out to the compost heap behind the stables.

Outside, Ned was in the garden hoeing the rows of tomato plants and lettuce, whistling a tune.

‘Top o’ the morning to ye, young Jemma,’ Ned greeted her. ‘I hope ye’r feeling better?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Jemma said, putting down her two heavy buckets, glad of the chance to rest for a moment in the sunshine. Ned obviously felt the same way as he leant on the handle of his hoe.

Jemma suddenly noticed a black cat with canny green eyes, staring at her from the shade of the gum tree.

Jemma’s heart skipped a beat. She rushed forward and scooped the cat up into her arms.

‘Shadow!’ she cried joyously. ‘Shadow, how did you get here?’

The cat miaowed and twitched its black tail in answer.

‘Och, tha’ tis my cat,’ offered Ned. ‘Well, at least he moved in with me a couple o’ years ago. I call him Merlin because he looks like a magical cat – a magician’s familiar.’