The Ivory Rose (6 page)

Mrs McKenzie leant over, took Miss Rutherford’s hand and squeezed it.

‘The poor wee soul, losing her parents in such tragic circumstances,’ Mrs McKenzie sympathised. ‘Georgiana is indeed blessed to have you to care for her. I know it is a difficult burden for you to bear, looking after such an ill child. We have all been praying that the good Lord will see fit to cure her.’

Miss Rutherford closed her eyes and dropped her head, overcome by feelings. She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, nodding briskly. ‘We all have our trials.’

Jemma wondered what was wrong with Georgiana.
She seems like a normal, lovely girl to me, although a trifle pale and thin. The women are talking about her as though she might die at any moment. What is going on here?

‘Now, Harriet, I’m hoping you will be able to help me with a little project I’ve planned,’ suggested Mrs McKenzie, changing the subject. ‘There are so many families who are struggling through these difficult financial times.

‘Some of the children are skin and bone, dressed in rags – their fathers are out of work or dead or have disappeared. The mothers are desperate and the children are kept home from school to earn a few pennies selling flowers or working in the timber yards and factories.’

Miss Rutherford nodded her head sympathetically, her face creased with concern.

‘It is a dreadful disgrace – the law requires all children to go to school,’ Miss Rutherford replied. ‘The poor do not take sufficient care of their children, but what can be done? Times are tough for everybody. Goodness knows we’ve had to make many economies ourselves.’

Jemma glanced around the lavishly furnished parlour, with its fine bone china figurines of shepherdesses and horses, its overstuffed floral chintz armchairs, the silk Persian rugs, the paintings of rural landscapes, the marble fireplace and huge gilt mirror. Miss Rutherford seemed oblivious to the irony of her protestations of poverty.

‘Yes, this depression has hit all levels of society,’ agreed Mrs McKenzie. ‘However, I’m hoping to organise a small group of ladies from the congregation who could bake extra bread each week and deliver it to some of the deserving,
poor working families in the area – the widows and those with sick children.’

Mrs McKenzie sighed, shaking her head so the hat feathers bobbed, before continuing, ‘It would make a huge difference to those families and might enable some of the children to attend school more regularly.’

Miss Rutherford picked up her silver fork and took a delicate nibble of her lemon teacake. She patted the corner of her mouth with a starched white damask napkin. Jemma wondered if she was going to make an excuse not to help.

‘The Johnson sisters have agreed to help, and so too have Annie and Nellie,’ Miss McKenzie said. ‘They thought they could spare some dripping as well.’

Miss Rutherford smiled brightly, straightening her silk skirts and brushing imaginary crumbs from her lap.

‘I think it is a marvellous idea,’ agreed Miss Rutherford. ‘I will certainly contribute loaves of bread and dripping, and have it delivered to whomever you suggest. We could also make soup for the poor families?’

‘Splendid,’ replied Mrs McKenzie, nodding her head. ‘I knew I could count on you, Harriet. You certainly are a credit to our congregation. I’ll draw up a list of four families and their addresses for you. They’ll be extremely grateful.’

Mrs McKenzie rose to her feet, tweaking out her full skirts and pulling on her gloves.

‘Well, thank you so much for the tea, Harriet,’ offered Mrs McKenzie. ‘And I do hope we solve the mystery of young Jemima very soon. Good afternoon, Jemima – I pray your memory and good health return promptly.’

‘Goodbye,’ replied Jemma in a small voice, but the two women were already walking towards the front door.

‘Will I see you at the Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting tomorrow?’ came Mrs McKenzie’s voice from the hall. ‘We are planning the activities for the church bazaar next month. I hope it will be the biggest one yet – I hope to make many pounds for the desperate poor.’

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Miss Rutherford, soothingly. ‘And do not worry, we will take good care of Jemima – starting with some
decent
clothes.’

The two women tittered.

‘They were quite extraordinary, weren’t they?’ agreed Mrs McKenzie in a puzzled tone. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them. Although some of the local families say their children cannot attend church because they have little more to wear than sugar sacks.’

‘I think she might be a little
simple
,’ confided Miss Rutherford. ‘She seems completely overwhelmed by everything.’

Jemma’s ears burnt once more as the two women discussed her with little regard to whether she might overhear them. She pulled the rug up around her shoulders, seeking comfort in its warm folds.

Simple! Simple! I am
not
simple!
retorted Jemma to herself in disgust
.

When the front door eventually banged shut after more gossiping and farewells, Miss Rutherford returned to the sitting room and rang the bell.

‘Jemima, as I have discussed with Mrs McKenzie, the local minister’s wife, you will stay here with us until we can locate your family.’ Miss Rutherford spoke slowly and
clearly, to ensure Jemma could understand. ‘I expect you to help Agnes with the domestic tasks and to assist with caring for my niece, who is very ill. In return, you will receive a uniform, food and board. You can start today with some light duties until you are fully recovered.’

She stared at Jemma, obviously awaiting a response. Jemma stared back, her eyes round with dismay.

‘Aaah, thank you,’ Jemma replied.

‘You should address me as “ma’am”,’ reproved Miss Rutherford. ‘And domestic servants are expected to curtsey when addressed by their superiors.’

Miss Rutherford paused again expectantly.

‘Oh … um … thank you … ma’am,’ Jemma replied.

Miss Rutherford raised her eyebrows.

Jemma bobbed a quick curtsey, similar to those she had seen Agnes perform. Agnes herself had arrived at the door and smirked as she watched Jemma’s discomfiture. However, the smirk quickly changed to a scowl as Miss Rutherford explained that Jemma would be staying to help and rattled off orders about clothes, boots, linen and bedding.

‘And make sure she washes well,’ insisted Miss Rutherford. ‘These workers’ children often have lice.’

‘I don’t have lice,’ retorted Jemma, finally stung into defending herself.

‘She can share with Connie,’ continued Miss Rutherford firmly, ignoring Jemma’s outburst. ‘And be sure you teach her what behaviour is expected. I suspect she has not been exposed to genteel houses like ours.’

A thought of her own graceful, elegant home flashed into Jemma’s mind. Her mum would be horrified to hear
this woman suspect that Jemma lacked genteel manners and intelligence.

‘Thank you, Agnes. That will be all.’

Agnes nodded and stood at the door, waiting.

Jemma stared from Miss Rutherford to Agnes, unsure what to do, then realised they both seemed to be waiting for her.

‘Come along then, girl,’ urged Agnes impatiently. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

Jemma trailed Agnes up two flights of backstairs to a tiny attic chamber. Unlike the rooms on the lower floors, this one was very plain and bare, with two simple iron bedsteads – one made up and the other supporting a stained, thin mattress. An old chest of drawers stood behind the door, with a chipped, spotted mirror on top and a timber, ladder-backed chair squeezed into the corner. Jemma stared around, distress written all over her face.

‘Heaven spare me!’ Agnes exclaimed. ‘As if I haven’t enough to do in this house without having to be saddled with a half-witted serving girl. You’d better pull your weight while you’re here or you’ll be sorry you were ever born. You can start by making up your bed. I presume you
can
make a bed?’

Jemma nodded uncertainly.

Agnes pointed towards the pile of old, frayed sheets and a stained blanket, and stomped out. Jemma slowly made
up the bed, feeling a little dismayed by the dreary-looking linen. Then she had to lie down to recover, her headache returning in full force.

Agnes soon returned, grumbling and groaning as she dumped an enamel pitcher of warm water into a bowl on the chest, beside a handtowel and a pile of clothes.

‘Make sure you have a good wash,’ directed Agnes. ‘The mistress can’t abide filth. Then get dressed and come down to the kitchen.’

Jemma nodded but could not obey – she wondered how she could possibly have a good wash with a bowl of water and a handtowel!

When Agnes left she stared around helplessly, taking in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the cramped, stifling room. The air pressed down on her, crushing her spirit. The panic welled up again, and Jemma began to weep, sobbing as though her heart would break.

‘Did Agnes scold you?’ asked Georgiana from the doorway. ‘She often scolds me too. I hate it. Please don’t cry so much. You’ll make yourself ill.’

Jemma sat up, smearing the tears from her face with her palms and sniffed. ‘I … I just want to go home, and I don’t know
how
.’

Georgiana came and sat beside Jemma on the bed. ‘I’ve never been up here before,’ she confessed. ‘It’s not very nice, is it? I don’t think I’d want to sleep here either. Do you remember anything about your family?’

Jemma rubbed her forehead.

‘Yes, but I just don’t quite know how I got … here.’

Georgiana examined Jemma critically. ‘Aunt Harriet thought you couldn’t be respectable because of your
strange clothes. She says you’re a nursemaid, but you don’t look like a serving girl to me.’

Jemma glanced down at her clothes – long black leggings, a black smock dress over a long-sleeved white T-shirt and ballet flats. She compared her outfit to Georgiana’s starched white dress, ruffled white pinafore, black stockings and buckled shoes. It was then she noticed that Georgiana was wearing a creamy ivory pendant on a thin, gold chain.

Jemma reached out her hand and gently picked up Georgiana’s pendant. Yes – it was an ivory rose, almost identical to the one she wore around her own neck. The recognition sent a shiver down her spine.

‘You’re wearing an ivory rose?’ asked Jemma, dropping the pendant back into place.

‘Yes, it was my mother’s. Her name was Rose, so my father had it made for her. I never take it off.’

‘I have one too,’ Jemma confided, lifting her own pendant and showing it to Georgiana. ‘Except the chain on this one is broken.’

Georgiana cried out in surprise, her face beaming. ‘That’s remarkable. They’re almost the same except yours has yellowed – it looks very old. They could be twins. Where did yours come from?’

Jemma didn’t know what to say.
Would Georgiana think I’m mad if I told her I’d found it in this very house more than a hundred and sixteen years in the future?

‘Um … I found it … wedged in a hidden cavity in an old house. It looked like it had been lost there for over a hundred years.’

‘That sounds very romantic,’ enthused Georgiana, clasping her hands under her chin. ‘I wonder how it came to be there? What a shame the chain has broken.’

There was a loud clang from downstairs. Georgiana suddenly looked frightened and jumped to her feet.

‘Quick,’ she urged. ‘Agnes might be coming. You’d better get dressed, before Agnes roars at us both.’

Georgiana smiled quickly at Jemma and then raced away out the door.

Jemma sighed and carefully tried to stand. She felt faint and woozy. Gradually her head cleared again, and she was able to examine the stack of clothes on the chest – a black dress with buttons down the front and full skirts to midcalf, a white apron and cap, cream stays, white knee-length drawers, two plain petticoats, white collar and cuffs, black cotton stockings, grey shawl, black leather boots and a straw bonnet.

Slowly, Jemma began to dress herself, ignoring the layers of underwear but pulling on the stockings, dress and boots. The stockings were loose and rolled down her legs, and the buttons were fiddly and hard to manage.

Jemma clutched the pendant tightly. It was the only familiar thing in this peculiar, old-fashioned place.

Agnes clanked up the stairs, huffing and wheezing. She took one look at Jemma, then at the big pile of clothes that Jemma hadn’t put on.

‘Good Lord spare me,’ Agnes wailed, rolling her eyes to heaven. ‘If she doesn’t think she’s a fine lady who needs to be dressed like an infant. Why’re you only half dressed? The mistress’ll throw you out on your ear in the streets if she catches you walking around half naked like that.’

Jemma glanced down at her dress, then at the remaining pile of strange clothes helplessly.

‘Oh, take off that dress,’ demanded Agnes. ‘And get dressed properly.’

Jemma obeyed, undoing the buttons again with trembling fingers. Agnes passed her the drawers, then the stays and showed her how to hook it up across her chest. Next the petticoats and the dress – more fiddly buttons. Agnes showed her how to attach the white collar and cuffs, and then the garters to hold the stockings up, all the while groaning and complaining. Lastly, Jemma’s hair was pulled back, Agnes roughly examining it for lice, and confined under a starched white cap.

At last Jemma was dressed to Agnes’s grudging satisfaction. She nodded gruffly. ‘Now follow me down to the kitchen and I’ll give you your instructions.’

Jemma followed Agnes down the two flights of backstairs and into the kitchen. The kitchen looked quite different – a big pine table in the centre of the room, pots hanging from the mantelpiece, a coal-fired stove in the hearth, a pine dresser stacked with china and shelves of accoutrements, and a gaslight burning in the corner.

A young girl sat beside the table with a pile of potatoes in front of her, which she was peeling with a sharp knife. The girl had huge brown eyes in a thin, freckled face, framed by damp brown hair. She was wearing a similar outfit to Jemma’s, but the dress was swimming on her and the white cap was crushed and askew. When she grinned at Jemma, she revealed a set of crooked, stained teeth.

The girl cried out as she sliced her thumb, blood dribbling all over the tumble of white potatoes.

‘Oh, you stupid girl, Connie,’ bellowed Agnes. ‘Clean up that mess or I’ll box your ears. If I’d wanted blood in my potatoes I’d have sliced your fingers myself.’

Connie pulled a quick face at Jemma as she scurried past to the scullery to fetch a wet cloth.

Agnes sat down in the vacated timber chair, signalling for Jemma to stand beside the table. Jemma fiddled nervously with the ruffle of her apron, gazing out the window.

Agnes frowned. ‘Firstly, you must always stand still when you’re being spoken to, with your eyes on the mistress and your hands motionless,’ she instructed. ‘The mistress can’t abide fiddling. Always reply “ma’am” or “sir” or “miss”, when speaking to your betters, and
never
speak to them unless they ask you a question first.’

Jemma stilled her fingers obediently, and returned her gaze to meet the cook’s. Agnes glared at Jemma, ensuring she was paying attention.

‘A servant should always be invisible,’ insisted Agnes. ‘If you meet the mistress or one of her guests while you are going about your work, you should step aside, lower your eyes to the floor and make yourself as small as possible. Never turn your back on the family members; walk out of the room backwards. When accompanying the mistress in public, you must walk a few paces behind her, carrying any shopping or belongings.’

Right
, thought Jemma,
I must be silent and invisible.

‘You must not hang pictures or display personal belongings in your room. There must be no laughing, no singing and no gossiping with the other servants in the house,’ continued Agnes sternly.

Jemma felt a giggle rising up her throat.
This is ridiculous. Surely this must all be some terrible nightmare and I will wake up any moment in my own bed.

‘You must
never
receive visitors,’ admonished Agnes, frowning as though she sensed Jemma’s wandering thoughts. ‘Fraternising with male members of staff or having male followers is
strictly
forbidden and will result in instant
dismissal
. You will get the afternoon off on Sunday after lunch, if you have completed all chores, and you will get one day off per month. Any breakages or damages will be taken out of your pay. Be assured that even a broken teacup will take you weeks to repay!’

One day off per month!
thought Jemma.
What happened to weekends!

‘You must be ready to start work at 6 am – dressed and ready to make my morning tea. You will help me prepare breakfast for the household. Your chores include lighting the fires, sweeping and black-leading the grate, carrying coal to fireplaces from the basement, washing and dressing Miss Georgiana, taking Miss Georgiana for her daily walk, cleaning her room, emptying the chamber-pots and making the beds.’

Ewww – emptying chamber-pots! She must be kidding!

‘Dirty laundry must be removed to the washhouse – the laundry maid comes on Thursdays. You will help me in the kitchen with washing up, scrubbing pots and preparing meals. You should be finished your work by 10 pm and may then retire to your room, however you must not retire until all chores are completed.’

Jemma’s head spun with all this information. How would she ever remember it all? She caught sight of
Connie, the scullery girl, behind Agnes. Connie was pulling faces and yabbering away with her one good hand, making fun of Agnes’s incessant instructions. With great difficulty, Jemma repressed the giggle that rose to her lips.

‘We only have three live-in servants now – when the master was alive we had many more but, like everyone, we’ve had to economise.’ Agnes paused, staring at Jemma intently, obviously expecting her to say something. Jemma swallowed.

‘Ahhh, yes,’ Jemma offered lamely, ‘it’s tough times.’

‘Lord, spare me from these half-wit slum girls,’ Agnes proclaimed, throwing her hands up in disgust. ‘Don’t be flippant – you’d know what tough times were if we’d left you back out on the streets. You can start by scrubbing out that burnt pot.’

Agnes flounced out of the kitchen with a loud sniff.

Jemma leant at the sink, where a pot stood soaking in hot water. She half-heartedly rubbed at the base with an iron-bristled brush.

‘Not like that,’ whispered a voice behind her. ‘Do it like this or Agnes will tan your hide and hang it out to dry.’

Jemma swung around. Connie stepped forward and grasped the brush, loading the bristles with soap, then scrubbed it back and forth over the burnt-on scum. Jemma noticed the skin on Connie’s hands was split with angry red cracks, her nails ragged and chewed.

Despite her small stature, she was strong. Large black flakes of burnt muck came away from the pot easily, floating in the greasy, grey water.

‘It’s usually my job to scrub the pots,’ Connie confided. ‘Sometimes I think Agnes burns them on purpose just so
I have something to do. Agnes would hate to see us sitting around! It’s Agnes’s mission in life to make sure the devil has no opportunity to lead us astray.’

Connie grinned at Jemma cheerfully. Jemma returned the smile, then took the brush back and tackled the grunge, scrubbing harder, puffing for breath.

‘How long have you been working here?’ Jemma asked after a few minutes of silent toil.

Connie sighed, pushing a long, lank strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘I’ve been here two years now – I started when I was ten,’ she confessed. Connie sucked her cut finger and rubbed a spot of blood off the table.

‘I’m one of seven children, and my ma needs my wages to feed the little ones,’ Connie continued, her knife skimming the potatoes expertly. ‘My pa lost his job at the candle factory about four years ago when the depression got really bad. He looked for work for months, then finally he decided to go outback searching for jobs.’

Connie scraped the peelings into an iron bucket at her feet.

‘At first Pa sent us a bit of money every now and again. Then the money stopped, and we haven’t heard from him for two years. Ma tells everyone he died.’

Connie smiled ruefully. Jemma’s heart flipped. She couldn’t imagine her dad running off and leaving her mum to raise seven children by herself. Then again, she couldn’t imagine herself having to work from the age of ten to support a gaggle of siblings either.

‘What about school?’ Jemma asked. ‘Aren’t you far too young to be working?’

Connie shrugged, tossing a peeled potato in the ceramic bowl.

‘I went to the public school at Annandale till I was ten,’ Connie admitted. ‘I was really good at lessons, and my teacher wanted me to train as a teacher’s assistant. She said I’d be good. But there was never enough food. Ma worked two jobs – cleaning offices early in the morning, then in the boot-making factory during the day, but women only get paid half as much as men, and there were eight mouths to feed.

‘So my sister and I had to leave school.’ Connie’s voice betrayed no sign of self-pity. ‘My sister got a job at the boot factory with Ma, so at least she still lives at home. Ma thought it best if I worked as a maid so I get my food and board. I see them every Sunday afternoon, and Ma cooks a special dinner. Sometimes Miss Rutherford lets me take some leftover bread or meat scraps home for them.’