Jemma tipped the glass containing Georgiana’s medicine down the sink and raced up the backstairs to Georgiana’s room, carrying the empty glass.
‘Come on, Georgie,’ she hissed. ‘They’ve gone.’
‘My aunt?’ asked Georgiana, her face creased with concern.
‘Reading in the small sitting room,’ Jemma confirmed.
Jemma and Georgiana fashioned a small body in the bed out of cushions and a rolled-up blanket. Jemma placed Georgiana’s china doll under the blankets, artfully arranging the long, brown curls over the starched pillowcase, topping it with Georgiana’s frilled nightcap. She placed the empty medicine glass on the bedside chest.
Then Jemma helped Georgiana change into one of her own black servant’s dresses, with its white collar and cuffs. They pulled Georgiana’s hair into a bun, instead of its customary long style, and tucked it under a straw hat. Georgiana looked older with her long, dark skirts and pinned-up hair. She looked like any one of the many maidservants whom Jemma had seen walking in Annandale.
Georgiana jiggled with excitement.
‘Perfect,’ crowed Jemma. ‘Let’s go.’
The girls slipped from Georgiana’s room, tiptoeing along the hall and down the backstairs. They were just creeping through the kitchen when they both heard the sound of quick, light footsteps coming from the other side of the door.
‘Quick!’ hissed Jemma. ‘Hide.’
Jemma flung open the door down to the coal cellar and urged Georgiana to duck inside. Jemma shut the cellar door behind her and raced to the stove, busying herself with the kettle.
Miss Rutherford swung the other door open and stepped into the kitchen. Jemma slowed her breathing and willed herself to look calm and innocent.
‘Oh, Jemima, you’re still here?’ asked Miss Rutherford. ‘I thought all the servants had gone out for the afternoon. I’ve just come to take Miss Georgiana her medicine. I thought her outing this morning would have tired her dreadfully.’
Jemma smiled brightly, bobbing her head in a quick curtsey. ‘Agnes told me to take up Miss Georgiana’s medicine and prepare her for her nap before I went out,’ she explained, gesturing to the medicine bottle, which was still on the kitchen table. ‘She looks like she will sleep for hours.’
Miss Rutherford picked up the medicine bottle and held it up to the light to see how much was left. She put it back on the table and smiled.
‘Well, she deserves a good sleep, the poor little lamb,’ agreed Miss Rutherford. ‘I hope I did not overtax her strength by taking her to church this morning.’
A loud clang sounded from the coal cellar below. Jemma’s heart leapt to her mouth.
‘What was that?’ begged Miss Rutherford, heading briskly to the cellar door.
Jemma rushed forward. ‘Oh, just Connie fetching more coal for the stove. Would you like me to bring you a cup of tea before I go out?’
Miss Rutherford smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you, Jemima, but no,’ she replied, patting her on the arm. ‘You run along and enjoy yourself.’
Jemma breathed a huge sigh as Miss Rutherford left the kitchen for the front of the house. She listened carefully to make sure her mistress was safely settled in the small sitting room before calling softly to Georgiana.
Georgiana hobbled up the stairs, a black streak of coal dust on her cheek. ‘I tripped over the coal scuttle,’ she explained ruefully, rubbing her shin.
‘I thought we were discovered for sure.’ Jemma giggled with relief. ‘Now you look like a real servant with a smudged face.’
Jemma wiped the black mark from Georgiana’s face with a damp cloth.
‘Now we should hurry,’ urged Jemma. ‘Ned must have been waiting for ages. I hope he’s still there.’
Ned was there, lounging against the sandstone wall of the Abbey’s stables, his hands in his pockets, dressed in his Sunday best with his dark hair slicked back. He wore a white shirt and a grey three-piece suit, which made him look older. Jemma thought he was more handsome now than in his work-a-day clothes.
Ned looked surprised when he saw that Jemma had a companion, and even more surprised when he recognised Georgiana dressed as a maidservant.
He whistled low, then a broad grin spread across his face. ‘Lovely afternoon, Miss Jemma, Miss Georgiana. Are ye ready for our afternoon of gaiety and fun?’
The two girls grinned conspiratorially.
‘Lead on, brave knight,’ Jemma ordered.
The three companions crossed the road and entered the shady grounds of Kentville.
Throngs of people, attired in their Sunday best, strolled down the pathways and up the road leading from the ferry wharf. Women laughed, arm in arm with their husbands or friends, showing off a new ribbon or whispering the latest gossip. Children ran, chasing hoops and throwing balls, their faces scrubbed and sparkling. Girls flirted and giggled with handsome young beaus, their cheeks flushed from whispered compliments. Young men tussled and jostled each other, their boaters set cockily.
The gardens were gorgeous. Winding gravel paths meandered through the grounds. Wide, sunny lawns gave open vistas down to the sparkling blue water of Johnstons Bay. Groves of tall native and European trees provided shade and opportunities for privacy. Closer to the grand Georgian house, the gardens were laid out in formal flower beds and hedges, with stone seats and terraces.
A band played in a small rotunda, the jaunty music floating out over the gardens, providing a festival atmosphere. Jemma, Georgiana and Ned strolled along, soaking up the sights and sounds.
On one lawn a group of lads were playing cricket while girls cheered them on. On another lawn, people were rolling balls across the smooth turf, shouting with excitement as they tried to bowl their own black balls closest to the smaller white ball.
‘Would you like to play quoits or skittles or archery?’ Ned asked, stretching his arm out to offer them the many options open to them. ‘Or we can play cricket or bowls or just stroll through the gardens? Kentville is renowned for having one of the finest gardens in Sydney. Mr Young has collected rare plants from all over Europe.’
‘All of it,’ cried Georgiana, skipping with excitement. ‘I want to play skittles, then quoits, then archery, then cricket!’
Jemma and Ned laughed at her enthusiasm. They flung round, metal quoits, trying to land them over wooden pegs hammered into the turf. Georgiana’s first attempts were metres off target, nearly striking a cross old dame in a black bonnet, who shook her fist at Georgiana.
Georgiana apologised profusely, but her efforts made them all laugh. They played bowls next, which Jemma had never played before.
Ned was a demon with a bowling ball, smashing the girls’ balls away from the white jack every time they landed close by.
Georgiana raced across the lawn to retrieve her ball from the shrubbery.
Ned gave Jemma a lesson in technique, standing behind her and holding her arm lightly as she crouched low and bowled the ball across the green. At first, Jemma didn’t use enough force and the ball dribbled only a short way.
‘Och, ye daft lass,’ Ned cried with a laugh, retrieving the ball. ‘Not like that. Where are ye’r muscles?’
Ned lifted up her right hand, turning it over and back again by the wrist, then cradling it in the palm of his own hand. ‘Look at ye’r poor hands,’ he murmured. ‘When I first met ye the day I ran ye down, they were soft and white and delicate. Now they’re ruined.’
Jemma snatched her hand back, her face flaming. She glanced at her hands – red, chapped and cracked like Connie’s from the harsh lye and soap that was used to scrub floors, stairs, tables, bathroom, pots and clothes. She stepped away from Ned, hiding her hands behind her back, embarrassed that he had noticed them.
‘They used to be toffs’ hands, but now they’re working girls’ hands,’ Ned assured her with a grin. ‘And there is nothing to be ashamed of with that. ‘Come on, let me see that determined fire in ye’r eyes. Pretend that bowl is my head and give it a good smashing.’
&nbs
p; Jemma laughed and bowled again, sending her ball spinning across the grass.
Georgiana ran back to try again, but moments later Ned had smashed her ball again, sending it spinning into the undergrowth.
‘That wasn’t fair,’ shrieked Georgiana. ‘That was not a very gentlemanly thing to do.’
‘I am not a gentleman, Miss Georgiana,’ Ned assured her, his green eyes flashing with merriment. ‘I am an Irishman. And so I think, my lovely lasses, that makes me the winner.’
Georgiana and Jemma laughed.
‘I’m sure you cheated,’ Jemma accused him. ‘Okay, let’s try our luck at archery.’
Georgiana had never attempted archery before, but Jemma had learnt at school camp. The girls stood sideways, their left shoulders pointing towards the target, their feet planted apart.
Ned showed Georgiana how to nock her arrow, pointing it to the ground, then drawing it back and taking aim.
Jemma’s first shots fell wide, landing harmlessly on the grass halfway to the target or completely overshooting it. Then her eye improved and her muscles remembered what she had been taught at camp. Her fifth arrow hurtled towards the target and hit the second ring.
‘Bravo, Jemma,’ Ned cried, applauding her shot. ‘A little higher and that wouldha’ been a bull’s eye.’
Jemma tried again, lifting the bow slightly, taking a deep breath and letting her arrow fly. The arrowhead buried itself right in the centre of the board in the red circle.
‘Bullseye!’ cried Georgiana. ‘Congratulations, Jemma, that was excellent.’
Jemma felt a thrill of achievement surge through her. She loved aiming the bow, firing the arrow and watching it skim through the air and hit the mark.
All three took turns aiming for the target. Ned was not as skilled at archery as at bowls.
‘Och, tis a toff’s sport,’ Ned complained, retrieving a fallen arrow. ‘Give me a good working-man’s game any day.’
‘You’re just complaining because you’re not winning,’ crowed Jemma. ‘I love archery.’
After a few rounds, Ned suggested they visit the ice-cream van. ‘My treat, lasses.’
Under a tree was a brightly painted wagon, like a gypsy caravan, painted crimson with blue trimmings and gold swirls. A huge chestnut draught horse was nuzzling into a hessian feedbag, swishing his tail to scatter the flies.
‘Ice-cream. Come and get your cold ice-cream,’ called the vendor as he ladled creamy scoops into glass dishes. A queue of merry people waited patiently, chatting and laughing.
Jemma, Ned and Georgiana joined the queue. Inside the wagon, a young boy of about ten washed and dried the dishes and spoons. The ice-cream was packed in large rectangular blocks wrapped in cardboard, then in hessian and stored in a big wooden ice chest.
‘Here ye go,’ Ned offered, passing first Georgiana then Jemma a dish piled high with soft yellow ice-cream. He passed over a few copper pennies in payment.
‘Aren’t you the lucky lad with two beautiful lasses in tow?’ joked the ice-cream vendor. ‘You Irish always have the luck of the blarney.’
‘That I do, sir,’ replied Ned. ‘No luckier Irish lad e’er walked the streets of Sydney.’
The three found a shady spot under a huge gum tree to eat their treat. Jemma licked the ice-cream from her spoon. It was the creamiest, most delicious she had ever tasted. Her tongue tingled with the cold sweetness of it.
‘Thanks, Ned,’ said Jemma. ‘This is fantastic.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ Georgiana agreed. ‘I can’t remember the last time I ate ice-ream. Aunt Harriet doesn’t approve of it.’
‘Begging your pardon, Miss Georgiana, but I’m sure your good aunt does no’ approve of many fun things,’ replied Ned. ‘Ice-cream is one of the simple joys in life.’
Georgiana laughed, lolling back on the grass and staring up at the blue sky overhead.
‘I don’t know why they don’t make ice-cream like this in my ti –’ Jemma amended herself hurriedly: ‘Where I live.’
‘What – do you mean Breillat Street?’ asked Georgiana, sitting up attentively. ‘Or have you remembered where you live. Why would they make ice-cream differently there?’
Jemma flushed at her slip-up. This ice-cream tastes wholesome and homemade, she thought.
‘No, I just meant it tastes so much better when you eat out of doors with friends,’ Jemma explained lamely.
‘Food always tastes better on Sundays and holidays,’ agreed Ned. ‘Here’s to friendship and fun toimes, then.’ Ned lifted up his loaded spoon in a toast, then licked it clean.
When everyone had finished the last drop of ice-cream, they returned the dirty dishes and spoons to the wagon and wandered further through the Kentville gardens. A loud shouting from the lawn alerted them to a rowdy game of cricket.
A group of young men had taken off their jackets and boaters, and rolled up their sleeves. The batting team lounged in the shade, yelling instructions and encouragement.
A tall bowler with a bushy, thick moustache shrieked triumphantly as the ball smashed the stumps. A new batter strode out to take his place.
The three onlookers watched for a while until one of the fieldsmen invited them to join in.
It was a wild game, with much shouting and catcalling – and much cheating, Jemma was sure. There was no sign of helmets, faceguards, gloves or leg pads.
At first they fielded then, when the teams changed over, Georgiana was offered the bat. She tentatively took her place in front of the wicket and swung wildly as the ball was bowled, missing it several times. She finally tapped the ball, dribbling it along the pitch. She dropped the bat and ran, her petticoats flying.
‘No – don’t run, Miss Georgiana!’ screamed Ned, tearing at his hair from the other end of the pitch. But it was too late. Georgiana was bowled out for a duck. She laughed breathlessly as she was escorted off the field.
Jemma was the next batter up. She had played numerous games of cricket with her dad and cousins on beach holidays, but never wearing long skirts and layers of petticoats. She threw her bonnet down on the ground and pushed a hank of hair behind her ear.
The bowler sized her up and, smirking at his team mates, threw a nice, easy underarm bowl. The ball sailed in a slow, lazy arc. Jemma took a deep breath and swung, making contact. She didn’t wait to see where the ball went – she ran as fast as her skirts would allow to the stumps at the other end of the pitch, exchanging places with Ned.
‘Six,’ yelled Ned triumphantly. ‘You hit it for six!’
Jemma managed to add twelve runs to her team’s score, which was not enough for them to win but enough to earn some cheers.
Finally, Jemma realised that the sun was slipping down towards the western horizon. The three friends stood on a small rise and watched the sky flush rose-pink, violet and deep, streaky-crimson.
‘Beautiful,’ Georgiana sighed. ‘I think sunset is my favourite time of day.’
‘We’d better get back and tuck you into bed,’ Jemma suggested with a sigh. ‘Before Agnes and Connie return.’
The three walked home in the shadowy dusk, through the Kentville gardens and across the dusty road. The gaslights had already been lit on Johnston Street, shedding a blueish glow.
At the end of Piper Lane, Ned paused, leaning against the sandstone stables of the Abbey.
Ned gestured at the turrets, garrets and gargoyles of the rambling sandstone mansion over the wall, barely visible in the clinging darkness.
‘Ye know that John Young, whose gardens we spent the day in, built this house as a gift for his wife,’ explained Ned. ‘’Twas inspired by a Scottish castle, and no expense was spared in building it. It has fifty rooms, yet his wife did no’ loike it after all, so only a housekeeper and the cats have lived here for the last few years.
‘So now they live at Kentville – a simpler house. I do no’ know why he does no’ rent the house out like all the other ones he built. Maybe he does no’ want anyone else to live in the house he built for his belove
d wife …’
Jemma shivered. ‘That’s kind of sad, that his wife did not like the house he built for her.’
‘He must really love her,’ added Georgiana, ‘to go to so much trouble to make her happy.’
‘Twould be lovely to be so rich to be able to afford to buy your love such riches,’ retorted Ned, his eyes on the ground. ‘I am sure he made his fortune from the blood, sweat and tears of many young lads loike me, who could barely afford to buy bread and bacon for their loves.’
Jemma glanced suddenly at Ned, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. He was usually so light-hearted and full of jokes. Ned flushed.
‘I will watch ye home safely from here,’ suggested Ned, rapidly changing the subject. ‘It would no’ do for Agnes to catch us coming back together.’
‘We should hurry,’ suggested Georgiana anxiously. ‘My aunt might check on me and discover I’ve gone.’
Back to Rosethorne, thought Jemma sadly. The brief holiday was over, and now it was back to drudgery and toil. She wished with all her heart that she did not have to go back.
But where else can I go? The only other people I know in this time are Molly Bryant and Sir Henry Parkes and Doctor Anderson, and I can hardly turn up on their doorsteps with a strange tale of being lost in time. They would think I am mad and send me to the insane asylum at Callan Park.
‘Thanks so much, Ned, for a wonderful day,’ Jemma sighed. ‘The afternoon passed so quickly.’
Ned bowed gallantly at both Jemma and Georgiana, his hand over his heart and a broad smile across his face.
‘Why ’twas my pleasure to escort two such beautiful lasses,’ he replied, but his laughing eyes lingered on Jemma. ‘Perhaps we can do it again another time?’
The girls ran down the rest of the laneway. The garden was filled with shadows. Butterscotch and Sugar shifted in their stalls, whickering softly. Jemma felt something brush against her leg and jumped in fright. A soft miaow sounded and she realised it was only Merlin, invisible in the darkness.
The Ivory Rose Page 15