The Ivory Rose Page 8

  ‘Do you like your Aunt Harriet?’ asked Jemma, folding the discarded dress slowly to give her more time to question Georgiana.

  ‘Of course I do, she is Mama’s sister – I must love her. Although I wish she wouldn’t make me take so much medicine. She is always anxious that I might die like Mama and Papa, so she protects me from everything, and wraps me up and keeps me quiet.’

  Georgiana sighed, flicking one of her ringlets over her shoulder.

  ‘It was much more fun when Papa was alive,’ Georgiana explained. ‘Then I could ride my pony and play in the park, and go for carriage rides and picnics. Now I cannot even go out into the garden in case I take a chill.’

  Jemma tried to imagine how stifling and boring it would be to have her whole life prescribed like this.

  ‘Look, here are the photographs of my mama and papa.’ Georgiana held out a double silver frame with sepia portraits of her parents, which sat on her bedside table.

  Her father looked very serious, with a thick moustache, slicked-back hair and a stiff necktie and jacket. The woman looked very much like Georgiana – curly brown hair piled high on her head, a high-throated, pintucked blouse and a narrow, belted waist. Jemma imagined she had a merry twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘Is your mother wearing your ivory rose pendant?’ asked Jemma, noticing a delicate necklace around the woman’s neck.

  ‘Yes,’ Georgiana replied. ‘She never took it off, which is why I’ll wear mine always.’

  Jemma fingered her own ivory rose tucked inside her black servant’s dress.

  Georgiana climbed under the bedcovers. She glanced at Jemma imploringly. ‘Please don’t make me drink my medicine. It really does taste horrid and makes me feel so sick.’

  Jemma sniffed the concoction in the glass. It smelt bitter and unpleasant. Jemma thought quickly. She glanced towards the open door, then strode to the window. She opened the sash and tipped the liquid out.

  ‘Shhhh,’ warned Jemma with a sympathetic grin. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

  Georgiana beamed.

  ‘Thank you. I won’t tell, I promise. I think it will be fun having you live here.’

  Jemma felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach. ‘I won’t be here long. At least I hope not! I’ve got to find a way home somehow!’

  Georgiana squeezed Jemma’s hand in sympathy. ‘Your memory will come back soon. You can tell me everything you remember and that might help you.’

  Jemma’s smiled wavered.

  ‘It’ll be so nice to have someone to talk to,’ Georgiana continued. ‘It gets so boring stuck in bed all day.’ She thumped her pillow in frustration, trying to make it comfortable under her restless head.

  ‘I’d hate that too,’ agreed Jemma. ‘Why don’t I come back when I can and talk to you?’

  ‘Would you?’ begged Georgiana, her voice alight with hope. ‘That would be lovely. Aunt Harriet sometimes reads to me from the Bible, which I must confess does make my head ache worse. Aggie is always too cross to do anything for me, and Miss Babot was lovely but Aunt Harriet sent her away for filling my head with nonsense.’

  Aggie? thought Jemma. Wasn’t Sammy’s ghost friend, Georgie, scared of Aggie? Maybe it’s Aggie who’s the murderer.

  ‘Who is Miss Babot?’

  ‘She was my governess,’ Georgiana offered with a sigh. ‘Papa chose her to teach me when Mama died, but Aunt Harriet sent her away two months ago. She was the kindest, sweetest governess, and I loved her dearly, but Aunt Harriet disapproved of her teaching. It was not suitable for a “proper young lady”. I started getting sick soon after she left. At first I thought it was heartsickness, but I just grew worse and worse.’

  Jemma gave Georgiana a hug. ‘Don’t worry, Georgie,’ she assured her. ‘I’ll look after you. I’ll find out what’s wrong.’

  ‘Georgie – that’s what Mama and Papa called me … I love that name.’

  Jemma patted Georgiana on the shoulder and ran to the door. A cross Agnes would be scolding her soundly, if not beating her, at this rate.

  Back in the kitchen Agnes set Jemma and Connie to work polishing all the silverware. There were mounds of it, and Agnes checked each piece meticulously. Jemma had to do most of hers again because she had missed some miniscule speck or smudge, which earned her a sound scolding from Agnes.

  Relief came when the bell rang again, but this time it was the front door.

  ‘That will be the doctor,’ Agnes predicted, holding a candelabra up to the window to see if she could find any hidden tarnish. ‘Jemima, go and let him in – show him up to Miss Georgiana’s room. Wait while he does his examination, then escort him down to the sitting room to see Miss Rutherford.’

  Jemma opened the front door to reveal a sandy-haired, middle-aged man with a moustache and round belly, carrying his leather medical bag in one hand and his hat and cane in the other.

  ‘I’m Doctor Anderson,’ he said. ‘I’m here to examine Miss Georgiana.’

  ‘Come in … ah, sir,’ beckoned Jemma, showing him into Georgiana’s room. Jemma stood quietly by the door observing everything.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Georgiana,’ the doctor greeted, his eyes twinkling kindly as he laid his things down on the end of the bed. ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Bored,’ Georgiana answered crossly. ‘I’m so tired of being in bed and staying quiet. I just want to go out and have some fun.’

  ‘That’s a good sign,’ agreed the doctor cheerfully. ‘If you’re bored then you must be feeling better.’

  Doctor Anderson unpacked his bag, taking out a stethoscope and a thermometer. He listened carefully to Georgiana’s heart, took her pulse and temperature.

  ‘All seems fine,’ remarked Doctor Anderson with a frown. ‘You seem quite well today.’

  Jemma’s mind was bubbling with questions. If someone had murdered Georgiana, did her illness have something to do with it? Could it be the medicine Doctor Anderson prescribed her that was causing the sickness? Perhaps Doctor Anderson had accidently given her the wrong dosage – or could it have been deliberate?

  ‘Excuse me, doctor,’ asked Jemma politely. She pulled herself taller to look older and more responsible. ‘What exactly is wrong with Georgiana? I’ll be taking care of her, so I’d like to know what you think.’

  The doctor looked surprised – it was obvious he was not used to being asked questions, particularly by young serving girls. He took his stethoscope off and folded it neatly back into his bag. Jemma thought he was not going to answer her question. The doctor glanced at Georgiana, a worried expression on his face, then back at Jemma, summing her up. He seemed satisfied.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he answered truthfully. ‘It’s frustrating for a doctor not to know why a perfectly healthy young child suddenly falls ill recurrently. Georgiana has been prone to vomiting with neuralgia, or, in layman’s terms, violent stomach cramps and frequent headaches. She seems to have remissions of a week or two, then falls ill again.’

  He pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose, peering at Jemma thoughtfully, as though reassuring himself that he was doing the right thing discussing his patient with her maidservant. Jemma smiled at him, encouraging him to continue.

  ‘We now know that most gastric illnesses are caused by bacteria, which is why cleanliness of the sick room is absolutely essential,’ insisted Doctor Anderson. ‘Everything should be thoroughly scrubbed every day with carbolic acid. The patient needs to be regularly bathed as well with soap and warm water.

  ‘The patient needs fresh air, light and warmth. You should keep the window open slightly so the air can circulate and a fire burning in the grate to keep her warm. She needs simple, nourishing food, such as chicken broth, mutton broth or gruel.’

  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 mu
shy 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?