‘Miss Georgiana,’ scolded Agnes, her meaty arms on her hips. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing down here? You know it’s your rest time. Miss Rutherford will be so worried if she’s sees you down here – you know how she frets about you.’
‘I … I heard voices and thought I’d investigate,’ Georgiana tried to explain.
Agnes did not answer but scuttled into the room, flapping her apron as though Georgiana were an escaped chicken that must be shooed back to the henhouse.
‘Up to bed at once, young lady,’ ordered Agnes. ‘I’ll bring you your medicine and some broth as soon as I can. Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than run around after you? There’s so much to do in this house, and I don’t have nearly enough help as it is.’
Georgiana looked thoroughly chastened by this rebuke and hastened out of the room, mumbling an apology. She paused at the door, behind Agnes’s back, and pulled a face at Jemma, waved goodbye and hurried off. Jemma smiled. She felt a flood of affection for Georgiana wash over her.
But Jemma didn’t like Agnes – she seemed like someone who would have been the schoolyard bully in her childhood.
Agnes glared at Jemma distrustfully.
‘And as for you, Miss Whoever-you-are?’ boomed Agnes. ‘Perhaps it’s time for you to be getting back to wherever-it-is you came from?’
Another wave of panic washed over Jemma. How can I get back? Where should I go?
‘I … I …,’ began Jemma, the tears welling up again. She felt she should get up under the weight of Agnes’s glare. She struggled to her feet woozily.
At that moment the doorbell jangled. Agnes glared again and swung on her heel to answer it. Jemma collapsed.
Agnes returned in a moment, followed by a middle-aged woman in a pale grey gown.
‘Take a seat, Mrs McKenzie,’ offered Agnes. ‘I’ll just see if Miss Rutherford is available.’
The newcomer took a seat graciously and examined Jemma. She seemed to have a kind face, with creases around the eyes when she smiled. Her hair was piled into a roll on top of her head, her hat dancing with feathers.
‘So you must be the poor child who was knocked down by the carriage?’ asked Mrs McKenzie sympathetically. ‘Jemima, isn’t it? I heard they’ve had no luck in finding your family? Do you remember where you came from? Was it perhaps the orphanage?’
Jemma didn’t know what to reply. Ned had already reported back that no-one had heard of her in Breillat Street or anywhere else. She needed to find a way to stay here, where it was at least familiar, until she figured out a way home again – home to her own time.
‘I … I don’t … I don’t remember,’ stammered Jemma. ‘I hit my head … It’s all a bit fuzzy.’
Mrs McKenzie pursed her lips. ‘Let me feel your pulse,’ she requested. ‘You look quite pale – perhaps you have a concussion. We ought to send for Doctor Anderson. He may need to shave your head and apply leeches to your scalp to reduce the inflammation on the brain.’
Jemma baulked at this suggestion. ‘No, no,’ she insisted, sitting up straighter. ‘I’m quite all right, thank you – just a little faint, but definitely not concussed.’
Jemma’s heart rate had probably jumped at the suggestion that she have her head shaved and leeches applied to suck her blood, because Mrs McKenzie seemed satisfied by her pulse.
‘Do you remember your name?’ Mrs McKenzie pressed.
‘Yes, Jemma … Jemima Morgan,’ she replied.
‘And your parents’ names? Are they still alive?’
‘Yes – Elizabeth and Daniel Morgan.’
Mrs McKenzie nodded, thinking carefully.
‘How old are you? About sixteen? You look quite old enough to be working. Do you remember what work you normally do?’
‘I’m only thirteen,’ Jemma replied. ‘I had a job looking after a little girl, but I’m mostly –’
‘Aaah, a nursemaid.’ Mrs McKenzie seized on this information enthusiastically. ‘Thirteen – I would have thought you were older than that. You’re very tall for your age. Well, at least we’re getting somewhere. I was quite intrigued when young Edward came enquiring at the Manse to see if we knew of you. My husband is the minister at the Hunter Baillie Memorial Church, you see, and I pride myself on knowing simply everyone in Annandale.’
Miss Rutherford swept into the sitting room, followed by Agnes carrying a tea tray. Miss Rutherford clasped Mrs McKenzie’s outstretched hand then took a seat. Agnes poured out tea from the silver teapot into delicate china cups, offering one to each of them.
‘Isabella, I see you’ve met our mystery guest?’ began Miss Rutherford, indicating Jemma with a wave of her hand. ‘She seems to be recovering well from her ordeal. She’s been asleep on our sofa for most of the day, but unfortunately we have had no luck discovering who she is or where she came from.’
Jemma flushed with embarrassment to be talked about as if she couldn’t hear. Mrs McKenzie, the minister’s wife, laughed merrily as she stirred sugar into her tea.
‘Well, Harriet, it seems I have managed to find out more in a few moments than you have all day. Allow me to present Jemima Morgan, a thirteen-year-old nursemaid. Her parents – Elizabeth and Daniel – are alive, but she seems to be suffering from amnesia as a result of her fall.’
Miss Rutherford nodded, glancing at Jemma appraisingly as she sipped her tea. Jemma had a quick gulp of her own, wondering what her fate would be.
‘As we cannot find where she lives, we thought perhaps we should deliver her to the Protestant Asylum for Female Orphans,’ suggested Miss Rutherford. ‘She could stay there until her memory returns or her parents come looking for her. Or perhaps the nuns at the convent would take her in.’
Mrs McKenzie shook her head decisively, placing her teacup down on the crowded side table. ‘No, she’s too old for the orphanage,’ she decided. ‘They send the girls out to be apprenticed when they turn thirteen. And I’m sure we don’t need to send her to the Catholics.’
Mrs McKenzie looked slightly horrified, as if that option would be like sending Jemma to the devil himself. ‘I’m hoping that perhaps we could find sanctuary for her within our own flock. One of our own congregation should take her in as a nursemaid or a domestic servant. It would be a noble, Christian thing to do.’
Miss Rutherford took a sip of her tea, playing for time to think. Jemma held her breath, glancing from one woman to another. She felt completely helpless – she did not like the sound of being a domestic servant sent to live with strangers, but what else could she do?
‘She has no references – no recommendations. She could be a thief or a criminal,’ Miss Rutherford objected.
‘Look at her,’ suggested Mrs McKenzie dramatically. ‘She looks like an innocent. I’m sure the good Lord had a purpose for her when he struck her down in front of your carriage.’
Miss Rutherford searched Jemma’s face, huddled miserably down in its blanket.
‘Of course, you’re right, Isabella,’ agreed Miss Rutherford, smiling brightly. ‘I had not properly thought it through. I would be delighted to take the girl in until the whereabouts of her parents are discovered.’
Jemma breathed a silent sigh of relief – at least Rosethorne was familiar.
Mrs McKenzie clasped her hands together. ‘My dear Harriet, I did not mean for you to take the poor child in,’ she replied. ‘You already do so much for our congregation and have a great regard for your Christian duty. I’m sure there must be someone else who could help.’
Miss Rutherford glanced down into her lap, repressing a smile. ‘No, no,’ she murmured. ‘We all do our small parts.’
‘Perhaps I could ask Mrs Snodgrass,’ continued Mrs McKenzie thoughtfully. ‘Or the Wilkins sisters might need an assistant in the haberdashery.’
Miss Rutherford sat up at once. She examined Jemma huddled under her rug, the girl’s eyes huge and wary. She nodded her head briskly, making a decision.
‘It was my groom who knocked her over, and it is my duty to l
ook after her until she can be restored to her family,’ insisted Miss Rutherford. ‘She can help nurse my poor darling Georgiana. Mary packed up and left weeks ago, leaving us to struggle on with Georgiana. Maids are so inconsiderate these days.
‘The child is still ailing terribly. Doctor Anderson seems to be able to do little to ease her suffering …’ Miss Rutherford lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together. ‘It is a terrible strain on all of us …’
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. J
emma 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.’
The Ivory Rose Page 6
