The Ivory Rose

by Belinda Murrell

  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.’

  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.’