The Ivory Rose

by Belinda Murrell

  Connie gave Jemma a sympathetic smile. She had obviously heard every word of her altercation with Agnes.

  ‘Would you mind carrying up Miss Georgiana’s ironing for me, please Jemma?’ asked Connie, swapping her cool iron for a hot one. ‘I’m running out of room.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Jemma, picking up the pile of freshly washed and ironed clothes. She breathed deeply the smell of soap, lavender, sunshine and warm cotton.

  ‘Don’t take any mind of Agnes,’ warned Connie. ‘She hates to see good food wasted.’

  Connie sprinkled the sheet with lavender water and smoothed out the crinkles with the hot iron.

  ‘Then why would she throw it in the garbage? You’d think poor Merlin could at least finish it.’

  ‘Just to be mean,’ retorted Connie with a laugh. ‘She hates cats, but she hates rats even more.’

  Jemma slowly climbed the backstairs to Georgiana’s room, her arms laden with nightgowns, pinafores, petticoats, caps and stockings. Georgiana lay back on the pillows, her face pale and wan. She picked listlessly at the coverlet.

  Jemma moved around the room, putting away Georgiana’s things while she chatted.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Georgiana?’ asked Jemma, realising that the girl was not answering her. ‘You seem to have become suddenly pale.’

  ‘I … I don’t feel very well,’ Georgiana said. ‘I don’t think that gruel really agreed with me.’

  Georgiana suddenly doubled over in pain, clutching her stomach. She gagged violently.

  ‘Oh, it burns!’ Georgiana whimpered, holding her throat. Then she vomited.

  Jemma leapt towards her, throwing the remaining clothes down on the chest of drawers. She grabbed a towel from the washstand and threw it over Georgiana’s lap. Georgiana retched and coughed, gagging on the bitter bile.

  Jemma wrung out a cloth in the wash bowl and dabbed Georgiana’s sweaty brow and mouth, concentrating hard not to feel sick herself.

  ‘Oh,’ Georgiana sobbed. ‘I hate being … sick … I haven’t been sick for days now. I feel terrible.’

  ‘There, there,’ soothed Jemma. ‘You poor thing. Can I get you a glass of water? Why don’t you clean your teeth – that will make you feel better …’

  Georgiana struggled to her feet, holding her stomach with both hands. She collapsed back on the bed, writhing.

  ‘It hurts,’ she screamed, clutching at Jemma desperately. ‘The pain is terrible. Do something! Please help me.’

  Jemma felt a wave of panic engulf her. She stroked Georgiana on the forehead, trying to soothe her. The girl’s skin felt cold and clammy, like the belly of a dead fish. Jemma recoiled.

  What’s wrong? Why was Georgiana perfectly fine one moment, then vomiting and thrashing about in agony the next? It doesn’t seem normal.

  Georgiana vomited again, and this time there was dark blood mixed with the bile.

  Jemma panicked at the sight. ‘Stay here, Georgiana,’ she instructed. ‘I’m going for help.’

  Jemma ran down the main stairs, no thought of being silent or invisible.

  ‘Agnes!’ yelled Jemma. ‘Georgiana is terribly sick. She’s vomiting and screaming in agony. She’s vomiting up blood!’

  Agnes leapt to her feet, her face pale. ‘Run and tell Ned to ride for Doctor Anderson,’ she ordered, fumbling for her keys. ‘Tell him to come at once.’

  Agnes used her keys to open the pantry, which was usually locked, and reached for some medical bottles on a high shelf.

  Jemma obeyed and ran out to the stables, yelling for Ned.

  Ned listened carefully to the instructions, then slipped a bridle into Butterscotch’s mouth and vaulted onto her, bareback.

  ‘I will be as quick as I can,’ Ned promised. ‘Do no’ fret.’

  Jemma ran back into the kitchen, where she noticed the pantry door swinging wide. She automatically moved to close it – Agnes normally never left the pantry door unlocked for more than a moment.

  As she closed the door she noticed a small box had been knocked to the floor. She picked it up and scanned the label:

  With shaking hands, Jemma opened the top of the box. It was half-filled with a grainy powder, not unlike sugar or flour. Jemma carefully sniffed inside – odourless.

  Jemma put the rat poison back on the top shelf, her mind churning.

  Why would Agnes keep a box of arsenic – a deadly poison – in her pantry? Agnes made Georgiana a bowl of gruel shortly before Georgiana became sick. She was stirring it just before I carried it up? Did Agnes put rat poison in Georgiana’s gruel? Why would Agnes want to kill Georgiana? Is that why she took the gruel away from Merlin?

  Jemma felt sick in the stomach. She reached up to the mantelpiece and pulled down Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. She flipped quickly to the pages dealing with first aid. Her hands shaking, she turned to a page marked ‘poisoning’. Her finger scrolled down the page until she found:

  Arsenic: Mostly seen in the form of white arsenic or fly-powder … Symptoms produced in those who have swallowed it: faintness, depression and sickness, with an intense burning pain in the region of the stomach, which gets worse and worse … vomiting of dark-brown matter, sometimes mixed with blood … burning in the throat … The pulse is faint and irregular, and the skin sometimes cold and clammy, and at others hot. The breathing is painful. Treatment: Give a couple of teaspoonfuls of mustard in a glass of water to bring on or assist vomiting … simple milk is also useful. A little castor oil should be given to cleanse the intestines of all the poison.

  Jemma’s hands trembled. Arsenic! It might be too late by the time the doctor arrived – Georgiana might already be dead.

  Jemma searched the pantry. She filled a glass with water, stirring in two teaspoons of mustard powder. She filled another glass with milk from the pail in the icebox, then grabbed the bottle of castor oil from the medicine shelf.

  She took the stairs two at a time, trying not to spill the potions she carried. Jemma found Agnes bending over Georgiana, who was screaming, her back arching in agony. Jemma’s heart thudded – what is Agnes doing?

  ‘Fetch some more towels,’ barked Agnes, swinging around to face Jemma. ‘And go tell Miss Rutherford while I clean up this mess.’

  Jemma thought quickly, too frightened to speak. I have to get Agnes away from Georgiana.

  ‘Why don’t I clean up the mess, Agnes?’ offered Jemma with a trembling voice. ‘It might be better if you break the news to Miss Rutherford gently. You know how worried she gets about Miss Georgiana. The doctor should be here in a few moments.’

  Agnes pondered the vile mess and then nodded. ‘You’re right. We don’t want Miss Rutherford to have one of her nervous fits. That’s to be avoided at all costs.’

  Agnes thrust a cloth into Jemma’s hand. ‘Strip the bed and change Georgiana into a clean nightdress. I’ll bring more towels and some rags.’

  When Agnes had left the room, Jemma ran to the bed. ‘Georgiana, drink this,’ she urged. Georgiana shook her head adamantly.

  ‘Please,’ begged Jemma. ‘It will help you. We need to get rid of whatever is making you sick.’

  Jemma held Georgiana up behind her shoulders – cajoling, begging, pleading with her to swallow the disgusting mustard brew. Georgiana sipped, gagged, then gulped it down.

  Then the vomiting started again. Jemma cried as she cradled Georgiana in her arms, wiping her forehead with wet cloths, mopping her face, her lips, her chin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Georgiana. I’m so sorry, but I had to make you sick again. It’s for your own good.’

  Georgiana finally settled back against the pillows, exhausted, with Jemma on her knees beside the bed.

  Everything seemed to happen at once. Doctor Anderson huffed up the stairs, followed by Miss Rutherford, Agnes and Connie. Doctor Anderson dropped his bag and strode to Georgiana’s bedside.

  ‘Oh, my poor dear girl,’ screamed Miss Rutherford hysterically. ‘Oh, doctor – do something, do something!’

  M
iss Rutherford collapsed on the floor beside the bed, covering her face with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Agnes bent over her, patting her shoulders and making soothing clucks.

  ‘Agnes, please help Miss Rutherford to her room,’ ordered Doctor Anderson. ‘Give her a small dose of laudanum to calm her down – I will come and check on her soon. Whatever you do, don’t leave her.’

  Agnes obeyed, uttering soothing ‘there, there’ noises. Miss Rutherford leant heavily on her arm, a handkerchief in her shaking hands.

  ‘Connie, could you please fetch me some clean cloths and a bucket of warm water?’ asked Doctor Anderson. Connie ran to obey.

  Doctor Anderson felt Georgiana’s skin, took her pulse, listened to her heartbeat, examined the soiled bedding. He gestured to Jemma. ‘Would you mind stepping outside, please Jemma? I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.’

  Once they were alone, Doctor Anderson asked, ‘When did she start vomiting? What has she had to eat today? When did she start feeling ill?’

  Jemma did her best to answer his questions, her arms and legs trembling with shock and fear.

  ‘Did someone give her mustard to induce vomiting?’ asked Doctor Anderson.

  ‘Yes,’ Jemma confessed. ‘I did. I read that it was the best thing to give someone for … for … arsenic poisoning.’

  Doctor Anderson examined Jemma piercingly over his spectacles. ‘Arsenic poisoning?’ he demanded, inhaling sharply. ‘What makes you think Georgiana has arsenic poisoning?’

  Jemma suddenly felt very foolish. What if she had imagined everything? What if she had made Georgiana worse by her rash actions?

  ‘I found rat poison in the pantry,’ gabbled Jemma before lowering her voice. ‘I think Agnes might have put arsenic in Georgiana’s gruel today. She wouldn’t let me feed the leftover gruel to the cat. It’s very odd how Georgiana is quite well, then suddenly deathly sick. I think Agnes is trying to poison her.’

  Doctor Anderson shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefingers. ‘Now, now Jemma. Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would Agnes want to poison Georgiana? Every house in Sydney has rat poison in the pantry – that’s no proof of anything.’

  Jemma went ghost-white, then brick-red. ‘Agnes is horrible,’ she whispered, her eyes on the floor. ‘She hates everyone. She locked me in the coal cellar overnight.’

  Doctor Anderson patted Jemma gently on the arm. ‘I know Agnes can be harsh, but I’m sure she’s not capable of attempting to murder a young girl,’ he insisted. ‘Why would she do it? What could Agnes possibly gain from Georgiana’s death?’

  Doctor Anderson paused before continuing. ‘Miss Georgiana has been recurrently sick for many weeks now. I know it’s distressing but I’m sure she’ll be all right with the correct care. What is important is that you don’t try to medicate Georgiana yourself. You could, with the very best of intentions, make her much, much worse.’

  Jemma scuffed her feet on the floor. She felt sick and helpless. She knew something the doctor didn’t know – that a girl called Georgiana Rose Thornton had been murdered in 1895, and someone in this house must have done it.

  ‘But doctor, you yourself said it is odd that only Georgiana is sick. She has terrible bouts of vomiting, then is quite well for weeks, then gets sick again – that’s not normal,’ insisted Jemma, grasping him by the arm.

  Doctor Anderson patted Jemma on the hand and smiled. ‘Yes, initially that did concern me. Usually gastrointestinal illness is caused by an infection or bacterial toxin that is easily spread within a household, and the diagnostic tests have ruled out a more serious disease. However, I’ve been doing some research, and I believe Georgiana has Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome.

  ‘It’s quite unusual, but Georgiana displays many of the symptoms – ghostly pallor, headaches and lethargy, but most importantly recurring bouts of severe vomiting followed by periods of wellness. While it can be very debilitating, there is no cure and no risk of mortality. Most affected children seem to grow out of it by puberty.’

  Doctor Anderson began to pack up his stethoscope into his leather medical case.

  ‘But Doctor Anderson …’ Jemma felt confused and exhausted. ‘Miss Rutherford sounds convinced that Georgiana might die.’

  Doctor Anderson squeezed Jemma’s hand reassuringly. ‘I think Miss Rutherford is overreacting. All we can do is ensure Miss Georgiana does not become dehydrated, and minimise the potential causes. The report I read suggested the vomiting bouts were usually brought on by exhaustion, indigestible food, exposure to cold or particularly by overexertion and excitement. It is highly likely that Miss Georgiana has done something unusually stimulating in the last forty-eight hours, which has brought on this latest bout.’

  Jemma thought carefully. Could it be that taking Georgiana to Kentville for the afternoon on Sunday had actually caused her illness? Could it be my fault that Georgiana is so sick? Perhaps it wasn’t poison at all. Jemma took a deep breath, mulling over the evidence. No – not possible! Someone is trying to murder Georgiana!

  Doctor Anderson seemed to read her mind. ‘Now, Jemma, it’s best you don’t dwell on this too much. Please put these foolish thoughts of poison out of your head. Why don’t you go and wash up and get changed? You’ve had a nasty shock.’

  Jemma nodded in reluctant agreement and dragged her feet out the door. Despite the doctor’s assurances, Jemma knew, without a doubt, that there was something quite sinister about Georgiana’s illness.

  ‘Jemma?’ Doctor Anderson called her back, smiling. ‘I thought you’d like to know that I paid a visit to Ma Murphy’s house in Breillat Street.’

  Jemma swung around, hope blazing in her eyes, quickly dashed by despair. Would Doctor Anderson say it was once again all in her overactive imagination?

  ‘What happened?’ Jemma demanded.

  ‘You were right about the infants,’ Doctor Anderson replied softly. ‘They were being sorely mistreated. Several were desperately ill. I have organised for them to be removed to St Anne’s Hospital where I have undertaken their medical care. I have confidence that, with proper nutrition and medication, all of them will survive.’

  Jemma grasped Doctor Anderson’s sleeve. ‘Oh, thank you, doctor! That’s wonderful news. And Ma Murphy?’

  ‘I don’t think she will be looking after any more babies,’ replied Doctor Anderson. ‘I believe we found sufficient evidence of neglect that she will be convicted and sent to prison.’

  Jemma’s heart thudded with elation. ‘I’m glad,’ she replied and turned away towards the servants’ stairs. Then she stopped and swung back towards Doctor Anderson.

  ‘There is something very strange about Georgiana’s illness, Doctor Anderson,’ Jemma insisted. ‘Don’t wait until it’s too late to believe me.’

  Doctor Anderson looked at Jemma appraisingly. ‘Thank you, Jemma. I’ll keep that in mind.’

  In the evening, Connie and Jemma helped Agnes prepare a meal of lamb’s tongue in parsley sauce and crumbed lamb’s brains with mushy peas and boiled potatoes. Jemma couldn’t bring herself to eat it.

  She pushed the offal around her plate with her fork, picked at the peas and boiled potatoes, and surreptitiously fed Merlin skerricks of shredded lamb’s brain under the table.

  Agnes tutted as Jemma carried her barely touched plate to the sink.

  ‘Her Highness didn’t enjoy tonight’s supper,’ Agnes told Connie. ‘Perhaps she would prefer roast peacock.’

  Jemma ignored her, heading up the service stairs to check on Georgiana. The patient was weak and pale with dark, bruised circles under her eyes. Jemma helped her sip some water.

  ‘How do you feel, Georgiana?’ asked Jemma, fluffing up her pillows.

  ‘Like I’ve been hit by a steam tram,’ confessed Georgiana in a croaky, weak voice. ‘I think that is the sickest I have ever been. It was awful. Thanks, though, for helping me. I felt better knowing you were there.’

  Jemma mopped Georgiana’s brow with a damp cloth and the gi
rl closed her eyes.

  ‘Doctor Anderson told me some good news today,’ confided Jemma. ‘He went to visit the babies I saw at Ma Murphy’s house. He’s taken them to hospital and is treating them there – he thinks they will all survive.’

  Georgiana opened her eyes and smiled weakly up at Jemma. ‘That is wonderful. Doctor Anderson is a good man. It must be so satisfying for him to be able to help people and make them better. I only hope he can help me get well again too … I don’t want to die.’

  Georgiana sobbed, her eyes round with fear. She clutched Jemma’s hand, begging her for reassurance.

  ‘You won’t die, Georgie,’ Jemma insisted, her voice clouded with fear. ‘I won’t let you die. Doctor Anderson won’t let you die.’

  Jemma squeezed Georgiana’s hand firmly, wishing she felt as confident as her words.

  ‘Doctor Anderson says you should feel much better in the morning,’ Jemma assured her. ‘You need to keep drinking lots of water, though, because you are severely dehydrated. Do you feel like being sick again?’

  ‘No. I just feel like sleeping for days.’

  Jemma didn’t – that night she couldn’t get to sleep. She tossed and turned feverishly. Visions of Georgiana’s illness kept recurring.

  Connie slept peacefully in her bed, the deep sleep of perpetual exhaustion.

  Jemma paced to and fro across the small attic bedroom in the darkness.

  She paused at the window. She could see a nearly full moon skimming across a cloud-skudded sky. The stars were paler tonight, dimmed by the milky moonlight. Jemma glanced at the stables, which were dark and still. Ned must be asleep.

  A sudden movement caught her eye, down in the garden, near the stables. The cloud sailed past the moon, and the garden was illuminated. A shadow moved again, then Jemma realised the shadow was a man, creeping furtively through the garden towards the stable. As Jemma’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the forms of three men moving stealthily from the back lane gate towards the stable door.