The Ivory Rose (7 page)

Connie pulled a comical face at Jemma. ‘That’s if old Agnes is in a generous mood!’ she joked, rolling her eyes. Jemma couldn’t imagine Agnes ever being in a generous mood.

Jemma felt a rising sense of anger. ‘That’s not fair!’ she cried. ‘You should be at school. It’s no life for a child slaving away as a scullery maid.’

Connie put her knife down and gazed at Jemma.

‘It’s better than starving, Jemma,’ replied Connie quietly. ‘It’s better than watching your brothers and sisters slowly starve. I know how that feels, and it’s a whole lot worse than working as a scullery maid.’

Jemma bit her lip. She had never known what it was like to be truly hungry. Jemma attacked the burnt pot with renewed fury, swirling the filthy, black-speckled water down the drain hole.

A brass bell jangled in the kitchen, over the door. There was a row of bells with brass plates below, indicating which room was ringing for attention.

‘It’s the mistress in the small sitting room,’ observed Agnes. ‘You might as well go and see what she wants. Remember what I told you – silent and invisible. And for goodness sake, tidy your hair and cap before you go.’

Jemma obediently tucked her hair back under her cap and wiped her wrinkled, wet hands on her apron as she answered the summons.

Miss Rutherford sat at a small desk, writing letters. Georgiana was sitting on a stool, reading aloud from a leather-bound book of Tennyson’s poetry.

Miss Rutherford gestured to Georgiana to stop reading. She glanced over at Jemma and nodded approvingly, noting the transformation in her appearance. Jemma ran through the list of instructions in her head: maintain eye
contact, don’t fiddle, don’t speak unless required to answer, be invisible.

‘That’s much better, Jemima,’ approved Miss Rutherford. ‘Doctor Anderson is on his way to visit my niece. I’d like you to take her upstairs now and prepare her for bed. Make sure Georgiana has her afternoon medicine. Agnes or Connie will tell you what to do.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Jemma nodded to show she had understood.

‘I hate that medicine,’ complained Georgiana. ‘It makes me feel worse.’

‘Georgiana, you must not argue with me,’ replied Miss Rutherford patiently. ‘Doctor Anderson knows what is best for you. He has ordered bed rest, lots of fluids and medicine twice a day. Now please, be a good girl and go back to bed, or the doctor will be most upset with me.’

Georgiana stood up, resigned to her instructions, and placed the volume of Tennyson on the sideboard. She couldn’t risk upsetting her aunt. Miss Rutherford turned back to Jemma.

‘My niece has been very ill – I expect you to keep her as quiet as possible,’ instructed Miss Rutherford. ‘Do not overexcite her. And make sure you follow the doctor’s instructions to the letter. Her life may depend upon it. That will be all.’

Jemma retreated, keeping her back to the door, and Georgiana followed her.

Once outside, Georgiana turned and climbed the stairs, dragging her feet.

Upstairs, Jemma had the same odd sensation of the house being totally familiar yet so very strange. She
followed Georgiana into the middle bedroom, which would in a hundred and sixteen years become Sammy’s. It looked quite different, and Jemma realised that it was significantly larger without the bathroom and built-in wardrobe on the right.

The room was pretty with a white iron bedstead, a green-and-blue patchwork quilt, an ornate cedar dressing table with a mirror, a jug and bowl covered in garlands of pink roses and a green damask upholstered armchair. In the corner was a white wicker doll’s pram containing a large china doll with a rosy painted face, a crimson velvet dress and perfectly curled brown ringlets.

Agnes was already there, standing impatiently by the window. ‘Come now, Miss Georgiana,’ she scolded. ‘Hurry up. I don’t have all day.’

Georgiana sat on the edge of her bed to remove her black stockings and shoes.

‘Put them away,’ Agnes ordered gruffly, gesturing to the cedar wardrobe in the corner of the room. Jemma folded the stockings and placed them in a drawer full of similar items. She neatly stowed the shoes next to a pair of embroidered slippers.

Agnes took a small brown bottle from the dressing table and carefully measured a few crystalline grains into a glass, topping it up with water from the jug. She handed it to Georgiana, who dutifully sipped from the tumbler, her lips pursed with distaste. Agnes nodded with approval.

‘You help Miss Georgiana into bed,’ Agnes said. ‘I have dinner to cook. Make sure she drinks all her medicine, then sponge her down, dress her in her nightgown, put away all her clothes, then come downstairs. You’ve a pile
of vegetables to chop and a stack of dishes to wash, so don’t dawdle, girl. If you take a moment more than you should, you’ll be feeling my wrath with a wooden paddle about your shoulders.’

Jemma reluctantly nodded her agreement. No-one had ever spoken to her like this, and she didn’t like it.

Georgiana took another teensy sip from her glass.

Agnes bustled away downstairs, secure in her position as chief tormentor and brow beater of Rosethorne.

Jemma turned back to Georgiana, examining her closely. Georgiana put the half-filled glass on her bedside table with a grimace and untied her pinafore. She turned, offering the back of her dress for Jemma to unbutton.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Jemma delicately, taking a sponge from the dressing table and wetting it in the bowl. ‘Are you sick?’

Jemma clumsily sponged Georgiana’s face and hands. She felt awkward bathing the girl as though she were a baby. Georgiana took the sponge from Jemma and continued washing herself.

‘The last few weeks I’ve been having terrible headaches and griping stomach pains,’ Georgiana confessed, running her hand across her belly. ‘Aunt Harriet has called the doctor, but he’s not sure what’s wrong with me. I’ve been vomiting a lot, feeling quite light-headed and sleepy. It’s nothing really – I’m sure it’s just one of those peculiar agues that are spread around. I seem prone to them.’

Georgiana pulled the dress over her head and donned a white cotton nightgown.

‘Your aunt seems to be very worried about you being sick?’ probed Jemma.

Georgiana rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘Yes. Aunt Harriet is a worrier – she’s Mama’s sister. She came to live with us when Mama died, to look after me. When Papa died, Aunt Harriet became my guardian.’

‘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.’