The Ivory Rose Page 12

  Back in the kitchen, Agnes was banging pots and pans furiously.

  ‘At last,’ she snorted. ‘Here’s Queen Victoria herself!’

  Jemma hurriedly placed the basket on the kitchen table, her heart hammering with apprehension.

  ‘Where have you been, you lazy good-for-nothing?’ demanded Agnes. ‘Peering in the windows of the Booth Street stores, I imagine, or sighing after the apothecary’s lad, I’ve no doubt. Get your apron on. The mistress wants us to bake scones for the Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting. You’re to go and wait on all the fine ladies, while I cook dinner. As if I haven’t enough to do without you disappearing for half the day. Tell me you can bake scones?’

  Scones! Scones! Jemma hung her bonnet over the back of the chair and pulled her apron over her head.

  ‘I’ll be back in half an hour, and you’d better be ready to go, with perfectly baked scones.’

  Agnes shot Jemma a nasty look and bustled out of the kitchen.

  Jemma had never baked scones in her life, but she wasn’t going to let Agnes gloat over her again. Jemma pulled the chair over and stood on it. On the mantelpiece over the fireplace was a battered old copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. Agnes rarely referred to it, but Jemma had noticed Miss Rutherford looking up a recipe for a home remedy a few days ago.

  Jemma quickly flicked through the pages on kitchens, servant management and children’s health until she found the baking recipes.

  She assembled the necessary ingredients – flour, salt, butter, milk and baking powder – and weighed out the quantities. She sifted together the flour, salt and baking powder. Using the tips of her fingers, she rubbed the softened butter into the flour gently, then added the milk, mixing it altogether into a soft dough. Mrs Beeton’s book admonished her not to knead the dough too heavily. The dough was then rolled out into a flat shape. Jemma used the scone cutters to cut out the rounds and placed them close together on a greased baking tray.

  The hardest part was knowing which oven to bake them in. At home, when Jemma had cooked with Ruby and Milla, the recipes had clearly marked oven temperatures. This recipe simply said ‘a hot oven’. With the coal fire, the top oven was hotter, while the bottom oven was cooler. Jemma crossed her fingers, glazed the scones with milk and put them in the top oven for ten minutes.

  While the scones were baking, Jemma spooned strawberry jam into a crystal bowl, then whipped cream with the egg beaters until it was light and fluffy, all the while checking the instructions in Mrs Beeton’s book. After ten minutes, Jemma pulled out the tray of scones, which were lightly browned and had risen to little fragrant puffs. She slid them off the hot tray, into a small basket, and wrapped them in a clean cloth. One of the scones split, and Jemma couldn’t resist popping the fragment in her mouth – it tasted light and fluffy and hot.

  Jemma was elated that she had created the scones all by herself. She quickly filed Mrs Beeton back on the shelf, tidied away the mess, rinsing the implements and wiping down the pine table.

  Agnes bustled in a few moments later.

  ‘I hope you’re ready to go,’ Agnes grumbled. ‘You’re to take the afternoon tea out to the stables now. Ned is bringing the carriage around the front for the mistress.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ replied Jemma, hurriedly replacing her flour-smudged apron with a clean, freshly starched one. She picked up her bonnet and took the basket over her arm.

  Agnes looked quite put out to find that Jemma was ready to go and that the afternoon tea had been prepared as ordered. Jemma had the feeling Agnes was hoping to find her completely disorganised, up to her elbows in uncooked flour or crying over rock-hard failures.

  Jemma smiled to herself and swept out of the kitchen, through the garden to the stables. Ned had Sugar and Butterscotch harnessed to the carriage. He was wearing his driving coat and top hat with a long whip in his hand.

  ‘Grand,’ Ned called. ‘Ye’r ready to go. The mistress hates being kept waiting. Those scones smell good. Now make sure ye sit with ye’r back to the horses in the far corner and do no’ speak to the mistress unless she talks to ye first.’

  Jemma scrambled up into the carriage and Ned flicked his whip, clicking his tongue so the horses stepped out. The carriage rumbled over the rough potholes. In a few moments, Ned pulled the horses up again out the front of Rosethorne, standing by the horses’ heads until his mistress appeared down the stairs.

  Jemma used those minutes to quickly tidy her hair back in its bun, straighten her bonnet and apron, and sit up straight.

  Miss Rutherford stepped into the carriage, leaning on Ned’s hand, the long feathers on her hat bobbing and swaying. She seated herself on the leather bench opposite Jemma and, without saying a word, busied herself gazing out the window.

  The horses moved forward, breaking into a jog, and the carriage rolled away down Johnston Street towards Booth Street. Once more Jemma enjoyed watching the passing scenery, amazed by the strange similarities and many marked differences between the Johnston Street of the nineteenth century and the modern one she knew so well.

  The drive only took a few minutes and Ned pulled up outside the Hunter Baillie Memorial Church, with its tall gothic spire, sandstone walls, flying buttresses and leadlight windows.

  Ned opened the door and Miss Rutherford climbed down into the roadway, her hand on his strong arm for balance. She beckoned for Jemma to follow. Jemma ignored Ned’s proffered arm and scrambled down with the basket over her arm.

  Following Agnes’s instructions, Jemma walked a few paces behind her mistress into the manse across the road from the church.

  The door was opened by a young maid, who showed Miss Rutherford into the parlour and Jemma out to the kitchen, where she was to help prepare and serve the afternoon tea.

  It was a few minutes later when Jemma was directed into Mrs McKenzie’s parlour. The room was crowded with heavy, dark furniture, cream doilies and wide feathered hats. Eight middle-aged ladies sat in overstuffed armchairs and spindly dining room chairs, their voluminous silk skirts pooling on the floor.

  The feathers bobbed and swayed in a complicated bird dance as the ladies gossiped and nodded.

  Jemma’s job was to pour out fresh tea and hand around delicate plates of scones and cream, while Mrs McKenzie’s own maidservant worked in the kitchen.

  ‘I was hoping you might have brought dear Georgiana along today,’ said Mrs McKenzie from her throne in the centre of the buzzing ladies. ‘She could have played the piano for us while we had our meeting.’

  Miss Rutherford placed her teacup down on the side table and shook her head sadly.

  ‘Alas, no,’ replied Miss Rutherford, her face puckered with concern. ‘Georgiana is still far too ill to come visiting. Doctor Anderson is at his wit’s end.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ clucked one of the ladies across the room. ‘The poor child.’

  ‘Poor Harriet,’ added Mrs McKenzie. ‘Georgiana’s illness has been a terrible strain on you these last few weeks, especially when you remember what happened to your dear sister.’

  Miss Rutherford nodded sombrely, her eyes downcast.

  ‘Has Doctor Anderson no idea what could be causing it?’ asked another woman beside Mrs McKenzie.

  Miss Rutherford shook her head, pulling a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule. Jemma stood still by the side table, pretending to be invisible, her eyes on the floor and her ears opened wide.

  ‘He … he thinks she may just have a weak constitution,’ Miss Rutherford sniffed, her eyes welling with tears. ‘She seems to catch any trifling illness that is going around.’

  ‘Doctor Anderson told me he thought she seemed improved this week?’ added another.

  Miss Rutherford dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief and blew her nose bravely.

  ‘Yes, there has been some little advancement,’ she agreed. ‘I am hoping that if Georgiana continues to get better, she will be fit enough to come to church on Sunday.’

  ‘Let us pray that will be the
case.’ Mrs McKenzie clasped Miss Rutherford’s hand encouragingly. ‘We would be so delighted to see Georgiana there.’

  The other women nodded, gazing at Miss Rutherford with sympathetic eyes, their feathers bobbing.

  ‘Poor, dear Harriet.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem fair for you to have to bear such a burden.’

  ‘If there’s anything we can do to help, please do let us know, Harriet.’

  Miss Rutherford dropped her eyes to the floor and basked in their consideration.

  ‘More tea, anyone?’ offered Mrs McKenzie, gesturing to Jemma. ‘Harriet, these scones really are delightful. You must send me the recipe.’

  Jemma glowed with pride as she poured out more milk and tea into each outstretched teacup.

  ‘Now we should move on to discussing the church bazaar.’ Mrs McKenzie picked up a list from her side table. ‘I hope it will be our most successful fundraiser yet. Who will be in charge of the cake stall? It is always our biggest money earner.’

  ‘I would be delighted to run the cake stall,’ Miss Rutherford offered.

  ‘Are you sure, Harriet?’ asked Mrs McKenzie. ‘Would you rather wait and see how Georgiana is before you commit to such a huge job.’

  ‘No, no,’ Miss Rutherford insisted. ‘Georgiana would not want me to neglect my duty.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’ Mrs McKenzie smiled over her list. ‘We all appreciate your hard work and commitment. Now – what about jams and preserves?’

  Jemma nearly fell asleep on her feet as the ladies debated tombola stands and sweet stalls back and forth. She was relieved when it was finally time to clear away the teacups and cake plates to the kitchen and go home.

  Miss Rutherford was surrounded by ladies squeezing her hand and patting her on the back.

  ‘Look after yourself, too, dear Harriet. Don’t wear yourself to the bone, looking after Georgiana.’

  ‘I’m sure Georgiana will be fine, Harriet. Doctor Anderson is an excellent doctor.’

  Mrs Mackenzie walked Miss Rutherford to the carriage, arm in arm.

  ‘Take care, Harriet. I’ll be praying for both you and Georgiana.’

  On Friday, Miss Rutherford had decreed that the staff would bake extra loaves of bread to be distributed to worthy poor families in the area. Agnes supervised while Jemma mixed the yeast, milk and water mixture into a bowl of flour, stirring it with a wooden spoon until it had formed a sticky dough. Agnes added a large pinch of salt, then showed Jemma how to briskly knead the dough to ensure the yeast was thoroughly mixed through the flour.

  When Agnes was satisfied with the consistency of the dough, it was set aside in a warm spot and covered with a clean cloth to rise.

  Jemma then started again to make and knead another batch of dough, which was set to rise, and then a third, fourth and fifth batch. It was hot, hard work, kneading, punching and stretching the dough over and over again.

  When each batch had been sitting for about an hour, Jemma checked to make sure the dough had risen to about double its size. It was then lightly kneaded again, to punch out some of the air, and shaped into a couple of loaves and left for another forty-five minutes to prove again. The loaf tins were lightly greased with butter to stop them sticking, and Jemma cut two incisions on the top of each loaf to help them rise.

  Finally, the loaves were slid into the oven and left to bake for about an hour. The kitchen filled with the hot, yeasty aroma of freshly baking bread. At last the loaves were pulled from the oven and turned out upside down to cool. It had taken all morning to bake ten loaves.

  Agnes pulled aside one of the smaller loaves and sawed off several thick slices. She passed a slice each to Jemma and Connie, which they ate with thick slabs of molten butter. What a simple meal, but it tasted heavenly. Jemma thought it was the best bread she had ever tasted.

  When she had eaten, Jemma was ordered to stack eight loaves of bread in a large, deep basket with four jars of grey-brown fat dripping, all covered by a clean cloth. One of the jobs that Jemma and Connie had to perform each evening was to pour the hot fat from the baking trays into glass jars to cool.

  ‘Here is the list of the four families who will receive the bread,’ instructed Agnes. ‘You are to visit each one, deliver two loaves and a jar of dripping, then return here. No dillydallying or you’ll be sorry.’

  Outside, the weather was overcast and cold with a sharp, strong breeze. Jemma danced out into the crisp air, a knitted woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders for warmth, happy to be escaping the steamy kitchen and Agnes’s acerbic tongue. She checked the list. One of the families was the Bryants of Breillat Street – that must be Molly’s family, who lived in her own house. Jemma decided to visit there first.

  Her feet hurried along the rutted dirt lanes, eager to reach her familiar, old street. Once again, a gang of sharp-faced children were playing outside, shrieking and shouting as they chased each other with sticks and wooden swords. Their dirty bare feet seemed oblivious to the cold. They stopped to watch Jemma’s progress up the street.

  One threw a rock that skittered past her feet, sending up a puff of dust. ‘What’cher lookin’ at, fish-face?’sneered another.

  A shambling horse and rickety cart stood in the centre of the road, its load covered by a tarpaulin.

  ‘Rabbitoh,’ bellowed the driver. ‘Come and buy your fresh rabbits. Roast rabbit, rabbit stew, fricasseed rabbit for tea tonight. Come and get your fresh rabbits.’

  A couple of women, shawls over their heads, emerged from their dark houses to haggle for their rabbit carcasses.

  Jemma climbed the steps of her home – or the house that would be her home in well over a hundred years’ time. It seemed strange that the house was so shabby and crumbling when it was a hundred years newer. She knocked tentatively at the weathered front door.

  It was answered in a few moments by Molly, still clad in her dirt-coloured skirt and shawl, with her oversized scuffed boots and frayed petticoats.

  Molly frowned for a moment and then smiled. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Hello, Molly,’ murmured Jemma shyly. ‘My mistress, Miss Rutherford from Rosethorne, has asked me to deliver some provisions for you and the other children.’

  Molly frowned at the basket over Jemma’s arm. ‘We don’t need that old biddy’s charity,’ she replied stiffly, making to close the door. ‘Ma and I can earn enough to feed the children.’

  ‘Please, Molly,’ Jemma begged, holding out her hand. ‘Take the bread as a present. Miss Rutherford can afford it – she has so much. Besides, it took me all morning to bake it. I couldn’t bear to waste it!’

  Molly grinned at Jemma, a smile lighting up her whole face. ‘Well, if it’s to make you happy, I guess that’s different.’

  ‘There’re two loaves for you and a jar of dripping,’ Jemma explained, handing the items out of her basket.

  ‘Dripping,’ cried Molly with delight, smelling the fragrant fat. ‘That will make a nice change from bread and boiled potatoes.’

  Connie had explained that her family, like many very poor families, subsisted on a diet mostly of bread and butter, boiled potatoes, bacon, boiled cabbage and peas, tea and beer. There were few vegetables, and meat was reserved for Sundays and holidays. It was no wonder the street urchins looked so thin and rickety.

  ‘Molly?’ asked Jemma diffidently. ‘Would you mind if I had a peek inside your house? I haven’t seen the place for such a long while; I’d love to see how it looks now.’

  Molly looked over her shoulder into the dusty shadows of the hall. She shrugged.

  ‘Not much to see, really,’ Molly insisted. ‘But Ma’s out delivering shirts, so I guess it’s all right. The little ones are playing in the street.’

  Jemma stepped over the threshold, holding her breath. The first impression was the smell – damp, mildewy, greasy and stale. The hall was gloomy, the bare wooden floorboards scuffed and stained. The stairs rose up on the left, leading to darker shadows.

  ‘This room is ours,’ offered
Molly, opening the door to the front room.

  In the twenty-first century, this room was Jemma’s mum’s study, painted in pale cream and taupe, with vast white bookcases filled with thick legal tomes and delicate floral paintings on the walls. Elizabeth kept all her files neatly stacked on a wide timber desk.

  In 1895, however, the room was living and sleeping quarters to seven people: Molly, her ma and five brothers and sisters. Near the window was a scrubbed pine table with two timber chairs. Stacked on the table were piles of neatly folded white shirts, a sewing basket filled with needles, cotton, buttons and a roll of white cotton material. A single shirt was dropped on the table where Molly had obviously been working on it.

  Wooden boxes and crates made up a set of stools around the table, while others created storage cupboards. On the mantelpiece was a tin tea caddy, a chipped blue-and-white teapot, a selection of mismatched china cups and a tattered photograph of Queen Victoria as a young woman.

  The only other piece of real furniture was a treadle sewing machine on a small sewing table in the opposite corner. The bedding seemed to be nothing more than a big pile of stuffed sacks and grey blankets stashed against the wall near the small fire grate.

  ‘Home, sweet home,’ cried Molly, throwing her arms out expansively. ‘It’s not much, is it?’

  Jemma stared at the smudged walls, the smoke-stained ceiling, the grimy windows, the clutter on the floor.

  ‘Do you all really live in just this room?’ asked Jemma, then bit her tongue for her lack of tact. ‘Where do you cook?’

  Molly pulled herself up, tall and proud. ‘I told you – we used to rent the whole floor, which had a kitchen, but we couldn’t afford the rent. We cook up a bit of bacon and potato over the fire, or boil up some cabbage.’

  Jemma nodded, understanding why Connie was so happy to eat leftovers from Miss Rutherford’s meals.

  ‘The landlord confiscated most of our furniture to cover the money we owed him,’ continued Molly. ‘Ma had to beg him not to take her sewing machine. It would have been really tough if he’d done that.’