Jemma felt herself floating up and up. From the very top of the four-metre-high ceilings she hovered, staring down at her crumpled, lifeless body in its black dress. She saw running figures – Sammy, followed by Maggie. Maggie crouched over her, feeling for a pulse. Maggie shouted something at Sammy, who turned and ran into the library. Jemma couldn’t hear anything and just watched the action below in a dispassionate, hazy daze.
Shadow sniffed at the hair of the body below, flicked her tail and stalked off. Jemma turned away from her earthly body far below and floated up, up, through the ceiling, through the attics and into the beautiful, blue sky above.
In Johnston Street below, she could see flashing red lights and the speeding form of an ambulance. It screeched to a stop outside Rosethorne. Then she could see the sparkling blue of Blackwattle Bay, studded with white sailing boats. In the distance was Anzac Bridge, the harbour, the giant coathanger of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the white sails of the Opera House – the whole city of Sydney spread out far below. Jemma spread her arms wide and soared into the blue.
A strange smell wafted to Jemma’s nostrils – rotting vegetation, putrid swamp water and dry, tickling dust.
Jemma felt her body thud to the ground, knocking all the wind from her. Noises battered her ears – horses neighing and prancing in fright, iron-shod hooves striking the ground, a man cursing, a woman screaming. Jemma’s eyes flew open in confusion.
Two bay horses were rearing and plunging, their hooves crashing the ground centimetres from her head. A clod of earth spat up and hit her cheek. Jemma curled up into a protective ball, huddling away from those deadly hooves. She closed her eyes again with a moan, waiting for reality to return.
Nothing changed – the noise, the smell, the pain remained.
Jemma’s whole body hurt. She had a splitting headache and a foul taste in her mouth.
‘Whoa, Sugar! Whoa, Butterscotch! Aisy does it, me lovely lasses. Aisy does it. Come here and take their heads for me, therrre’s a good lad.’
Jemma’s head rolled and slowly, slowly, she opened her eyes a crack.
A young man, about sixteen years old, was crouching over her, talking softly and feeling her pulse. He had dark, curly hair and the most beautiful green eyes she had ever seen. Jemma closed her eyes again, her head throbbing.
‘Are ye all roight, lass?’ pleaded the young man in a strong brogue. ‘Do not slip away again. Open ye’r eyes.’
Jemma thought carefully. What is that musical accent? Oh, Irish, of course. It sounds beautiful.
Her thoughts slipped away again like a fish escaping a net.
‘Please lass,’ begged the Irish brogue. ‘Can ye wriggle ye’r toes?’
Jemma almost giggled, except her head felt like cottonwool. Why did the Irish brogue want her to wriggle her toes? She obeyed and moved her feet.
‘Grand, and ye’r fingers?’
He picked up her hand gently. Jemma could feel his rough calluses. She wriggled her fingers. He placed her hand down on the rough ground, and she could feel something warm placed over her body – it smelt like sweet hay and horse, mixed with wood-smoke and sweat. It was a comforting smell.
Jemma’s eyes fluttered open once more and she tried to focus. She blinked twice, her brain refusing to accept the images it saw.
‘Thank God, ye’re alive,’ the Irish boy continued. ‘Ye came out o’ thin air and I nearly ran ye clear over. Ye gave the horses a fair froight, ye did.’
Sure enough, there really were two horses, now calm again, their heads held by a small boy in an oversized cap, who watched all the proceedings with great curiousity. Behind the horses was a black carriage with a woman’s face peering through the dusty window, a huge feathered hat on her head.
Jemma blinked again, shaking her head to clear the remarkable image. What happened? The ghost, the ivory rose pendant, the flash of the old-fashioned girl, running down the stairs, tripping, falling … falling, banging my head and floating away, away high up into the sky …
Jemma felt for the gold chain around her neck and pressed the cold ivory between her fingers. Its sharp carving felt solid and real.
‘What is ye’r name? I have not seen ye around here before. Where do ye live?’
Jemma opened her eyes again. She was outside on the ground, lying on a road made of rough timber shingles and dirt, covered by a dark, grey jacket. A jostling, murmuring crowd had gathered around, all dressed oddly in sombre colours with hats and caps and long skirts. Where am I? Why is everyone dressed so strangely? Am I dead? I never imagined heaven would smell of stagnant water and horse manure.
Jemma shook her head and tried to sit up, clutching the jacket around her throat.
‘Jemma. My name is Jemma. I live in Breillat Street.’
‘Jemma – now tha’ tis a lovely name. Lie still a few moments to recover, Jemma, then I will droive ye home. Tis just around the corner. Are ye’r parents there? Is there someone to look after ye?’
‘My parents are at work. My neighbour Milla might be home – or Maggie at Rosethorne.’
The Irish boy looked confused.
‘I do not know a Maggie at Rosethorne.’ He looked back over his shoulder. Jemma’s eyes followed his glance.
A high sandstone wall ran along beside the road, broken by arched gateways with painted name plaques above each one. Behind the wall could be seen the steep-pitched roofs, turrets and verandahs of the Witches’ Houses of Annandale. But they looked different – sharper, darker, newer …
A creamy lace curtain twitched in a high window. Jemma could see a girl peering from the shadows, her pale face framed with dark ringlets. She looked wistful, like an old sepia photograph.
Jemma’s eyes suddenly darted to the left, where she expected to see the ugly block of flats sprawled on the corner. The flats were gone. Another house stood instead, an identical replica of Kenilworth, where Sir Henry Parkes had once lived. Jemma’s heart beat faster, pounding in her chest. She struggled to breathe. Where are the flats? What’s happening to me? Am I going mad? Where am I?
‘How are ye feeling now, Jemma? Ye look loike ye’ve seen a horde of leprechauns.’
Jemma smiled wanly. Leprechauns would have been less surprising than the jostling scene before her.
The crowd of onlookers parted suddenly, deferentially, the men pulling their caps and the women bobbing their heads, to allow someone to stride through towards the accident. The man was imposing, rather stout with a full white beard, a frock coat, top hat and cane.
‘What’s happened, Ned?’ he asked in a booming voice, his craggy brow creased with concern. ‘Is the girl badly injured? Where’s she from?’
Ned stood up and pulled the brim of his cap in greeting.
‘Good day to ye, sir,’ Ned replied. ‘The lass just appeared from nowhere. I did no’ see her till it was too late. The horses almost reared o’er backwards when I pulled them up. She seems a trifle dazed, but otherwise nothing appears to be broken.’
At the appearance of the stout old man beside Jemma, another person hurried forward from the direction of the carriage. It was a middle-aged woman, wearing a black silk skirt, pulled back into a bustle behind and a black silk jacket. Her puffed, leg-o’-mutton sleeves were buttoned tightly from elbow to wrist. Her hand smoothed her hair, tucking a wisp back into a tight chignon, under a huge hat covered in feathers.
Ned took off his cap and twisted it in his hands.
The woman stooped to examine Jemma, patting her gently on the shoulder with a gloved hand.
‘Poor child,’ she murmured and stood up briskly, turning to the older man and smiling brightly. ‘Good morning, Sir Henry,’ she greeted the man. ‘What a blessing the child was not seriously injured. It is ridiculous how these children constantly run out on the road without looking. It is a wonder none of us was hurt, although I thought my heart would stop beating with the shock.’
Sir Henry bowed graciously, removing his top hat. ‘It was indeed a blessing, Miss Rutherford,’ he a
greed, flicking the tails of his coat back with his hands. ‘I’m sure the accident must have been a shock, but we shouldn’t leave the poor patient lying in the gutter. Perhaps Ned could convey her into my drawing room – my housekeeper will make her a cup of tea.’
Miss Rutherford glanced searchingly down at Jemma in the gutter, who was shivering under Ned’s warm, comforting jacket. Jemma quailed, but Miss Rutherford smiled at her.
‘No, indeed not,’ contradicted Miss Rutherford, twirling her parasol. ‘It was my carriage that knocked her down, so we will take her into my drawing room. Would you like to join us for a cup of tea as well, Sir Henry, so you can satisfy yourself that our patient will survive?’
Sir Henry shook his head gravely. ‘Thank you kindly, Miss Rutherford, but I’m sure she’ll be in excellent hands. I must be on my way.’ Sir Henry smiled down at Jemma. ‘My best wishes for a speedy recovery, young lady. I’m very glad that you’re not badly hurt.’
Jemma nodded her head, too dazed to speak. Sir Henry strode back the way he had come, a path opening through the crowd. Miss Rutherford swept through the closest archway, her feathers bobbing. The crowd lost interest and turned away to continue with their own activities.
‘I will help you into the house,’ Ned offered, bending over to pull her up. ‘Tis roight up those stairs.’
Jemma struggled to her feet, then swayed as a wave of dizziness washed over her.
Ned steadied her and scooped her up into his arms, carrying her through the gateway and up the steep stone steps.
‘No, Ned,’ protested Jemma, her face burning with embarrassment. ‘I can walk. I’m quite all right. I’ll be fine in a moment.’
Ned ignored her, breathing heavily as he strode up the steps. Jemma glanced at the house. It was Rosethorne, yet it was not Rosethorne. It was a beautiful, transformed, gracious Rosethorne.
The house was freshly painted in pale cream, the woodwork picked out in deep, forest green. The front of the house was covered in blooming chandeliers of purple wisteria, its soft fragrance banishing the swampy stench from the road. The copper weathervane on the chimney was bright and untarnished, the windows sparkling, and the garden was perfectly tended with roses, daphne, hollyhocks and daisies. Jemma’s eyes darted about, taking everything in.
Ned carried her through the open front door, pausing for a moment inside to catch his breath. The first thing Jemma noticed was the profusion of furniture, rugs, pictures, knick-knacks and artifacts. While the hall and reception rooms of Rosethorne were spacious, they seemed less so because they were crammed with furniture. Every surface was covered in lace doilies, pot plants, figurines and vases.
The timber floor was painted black and covered with vivid Persian rugs. On the right, Jemma could peek into the drawing room and library, which were just as crowded as the other rooms. A stairway wound overhead. At the hall table, Miss Rutherford placed her hat and parasol, and picked up a small brass bell, tinkling it.
‘Put her in the small sitting room, Edward,’ ordered Miss Rutherford.
Ned obeyed, gently lowering Jemma onto an overstuffed sofa.
‘Ye all roight there?’
Jemma nodded, her cheeks still flushed, her heart floundering.
Ned stepped back, awaiting further orders from his mistress.
Miss Rutherford entered the room, followed by another woman dressed in a long black dress, a white mob cap and white apron. ‘Now, my dear child. What is your name?’ she asked. The other woman scowled at Jemma, staring suspiciously.
‘Jemma.’
Miss Rutherford frowned slightly, shaking her head. ‘No, no,’ she demanded. ‘What is your proper Christian name, girl?’
‘Jemima,’ amended Jemma hurriedly. ‘Jemima Morgan.’
‘A good biblical name,’ approved Miss Rutherford. ‘One of the three daughters of the persecuted Job.’
Miss Rutherford was like an army captain, quizzing Jemma about her address and parents, giving orders to Ned and her servant, Agnes, and organising details.
In a few minutes, Agnes had returned with a pot of tea, some shortbread biscuits and a rug to replace Ned’s jacket. Ned had been dispatched to visit Jemma’s house and inform her parents or neighbours about her accident and whereabouts. The house buzzed with orders and activity.
Jemma’s head ached. She closed her eyes and tried to shut it all out. It was madness.
When Jemma opened her eyes again, the light had changed. The untouched tea and biscuits had been removed, but much to her despair she was still in the strange crowded and over-furnished sitting room, in the house that looked like Rosethorne but couldn’t possibly be. Jemma bit her lip hard. It hurt. She wasn’t dreaming. She was still here in this strange place.
Jemma could hear low voices coming down the hall. She closed her eyes again and strained to hear what they were saying.
‘She’s still asleep,’ announced the voice of Agnes, her accent rougher than her mistress’s.
‘I do not know what to make of it,’ confided Miss Rutherford. ‘Edward said that no-one in Breillat Street had ever heard of a girl answering her name or description. He asked in all the streets around, as well enquiring of the ministers, the storekeepers, the school headmaster, Doctor Anderson and at St Anne’s Hospital. Absolutely no clues. Perhaps she lost her memory when she was knocked down?’
‘She doesn’t look like one of the girls from around here,’ offered Agnes. ‘Her hands are fine and soft and have never done a day’s work, if you ask me. She looks healthy enough, but perhaps she’s had a fever or illness, because her hair has been cut off. Maybe she’s one of those foreigners from India or the Far East.’
Agnes sniffed disapprovingly.
‘Well, she is certainly not a lady,’ replied Miss Rutherford, sounding puzzled. ‘No respectable girl would be out in public clad like that. I’ve never seen clothes like them. Could she possibly have escaped from the lunatic asylum at Callan Park? I must send Edward to enquire. I just pray she does not make off with the silverware. Perhaps I should deliver her to the Protestant Asylum for Female Orphans. They can work out what to do with her.’
The voices faded towards the back of the house.
Jemma’s eyes flew open. An overwhelming sense of panic flooded through her. How has this happened? What is going on?
Jemma began to cry and buried her face in her hands, the panic threatening to engulf her. She was torn between running back out into the street and all the way home to Breillat Street, and terror at what she would find when she got there. Terror won, paralysing her in its tentacles.
‘Please don’t cry,’ came a soft voice from the doorway. ‘Does it hurt so terribly? I cry sometimes when the pains come. Aunt Harriet gives me medicine for it, but it doesn’t really help.’
Jemma’s eyes flashed open to discover a thin girl peering at her from the door. She looked about twelve years old, with long, brown ringlets and a ruffled white pinafore over her white dress. Her cheeks were wan and pinched, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Jemma recognised her – the girl from her vision. The girl who was murdered!
‘Georgiana?’ Jemma asked incredulously.
The girl’s face lit up. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I am Georgiana Rose Thornton. How did you know my name? I don’t remember meeting you before, although I saw you from the window. You just appeared from nowhere. Like magic! One moment the road was empty, then Aunt Harriet’s carriage drew up, and you just fell right beside it. Everyone thinks you were knocked down by the horses, but I saw everything.’
Jemma’s mind seethed – Georgiana Thornton? The girl who was murdered over one hundred years ago? How could it be possible! And who would want to kill a young girl like Georgiana? Why would anyone murder a child? What was going on in this spooky old house?
‘Are you a ghost?’ asked Jemma fearfully, shrinking back into the cushions of the sofa.
‘No,’ Georgiana laughed, coming closer. ‘I wondered the same thing about you. Feel my arm … See, I’m alive and bre
athing. What about you?’
Jemma tentatively felt Georgiana’s arm. It felt solid enough, although thin under the cotton sleeve. Georgiana felt Jemma’s hand in return.
‘So that settles it,’ Georgiana replied with a quick grin. ‘Neither of us are ghosts. But where did you come from?’
‘I … I don’t really know how I got here,’ Jemma hesitated. ‘What’s the date?’
‘October fifteenth,’ answered Georgiana.
What date was it when I fell? thought Jemma. That can’t be right. It was Monday, October twenty-fourth when I fell down the stairs at Rosethorne.
‘No,’ insisted Jemma, sitting up straighter. ‘It’s Monday, October twenty-fourth, or maybe now its Tuesday the twenty-fifth, but it can’t be October fifteenth.’
Georgiana shook her head decisively.
‘It’s definitely the fifteenth. The fifteenth of October, 1895. I remember the date because next week it will have been a year since my papa died.’
‘1895!’ squeaked Jemma. ‘That’s terrible.’
Jemma collapsed back on the plump cushions, her heart pounding and head thumping. It can’t be. It’s impossible! Could this really be Rosethorne in 1895? It would explain everything. Somehow I’ve fallen back in time. How could it have happened? How could it be possible?
Georgiana squeezed Jemma’s arm sympathetically, sitting down next to her on the sofa.
‘I know, it’s very sad,’ continued Georgiana, blinking back tears. ‘Especially as my mama died two years ago. At least I have my Aunt Harriet to look after me. She came to live with us when Mama died. She’s very kind to me and fusses over me ever so much. Aunt Harriet says I must be brave and pray to God that one day I will be reunited with Mama and Papa in heaven.’
Jemma mentally shook herself, pushing away the panic. Poor Georgiana – an orphan so young. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she replied. ‘It must be awful to lose both your parents.’
The sound of footsteps came down the hallway. Georgiana shrank back in the cushions, looking nervous. It was Agnes – her face red and sweaty, screwed into a perpetual frown. Her iron-grey hair was drawn back into a harsh bun under a stiff, starched cap.
The Ivory Rose Page 5
