The Ivory Rose (20 page)

Jemma ran back to the house, heedless of the dark and the rough stone path, which grazed her bare feet. She crept up the stairs, but instead of climbing to her own attic bedroom, she tiptoed into Georgiana’s room. Jemma listened carefully until she identified the girl’s shallow, even breathing. Jemma sighed with relief and lay down on the floor beside her bed, using a cushion for a pillow and curling up under her thin, grey blanket.

The night was an endless stretch of broken, delirious dreams of faceless men led by Ned, creeping up the stairs with hoes, Georgiana screaming. Jemma would wake drenched with sweat to find Georgiana sleeping peacefully. But for how much longer?

In the morning, Jemma woke well before dawn and crept downstairs to stoke the stove and put the kettle on to boil. Her eyes ached with tiredness. Once she was washed, dressed and had made the tea, she set about her morning chores, moving easily through the now-familiar routine.

As she did every morning, Jemma cleaned out the coal ash from the stove and hefted the buckets out to the compost pile.

Ned was sitting on the steps of the stable, mixing a potion in a bucket between his knees. He wore his usual working outfit: a blue shirt, open at the neck, moleskin trousers and riding boots. Merlin lay beside him, basking in the warm sunshine.

‘Well, here is a soight for sore eyes,’ Ned called, his own green eyes teasing. ‘A fair maiden speckled with ash.’

Jemma laughed, despite herself. She stared intently at Ned. He looked relaxed in the early-morning sun, his long
legs sprawling on the ground, his dark, curly hair tousled and his strong hands busy. Could Ned have been planning murder in the night?

He grinned up at her, making her heart melt.

‘What are you concocting?’ Jemma asked curiously. ‘Is it something for the horses?’

‘No, I am making up a mixture for the vegetable garden,’ replied Ned. ‘The caterpillars are munching their way through the lettuce, and everything needs a good spray in springtime.’

He stood up and sloshed some of the potion into a metal spray canister.

‘Nothin’ that a good dose o’ lead arsenic spray will no’ fix,’ Ned joked, pointing the canister at Jemma and pretending to fire.

‘Lead arsenic spray?’ repeated Jemma in horror. ‘Ned – that stuff is deadly poison. It could kill you.’

‘No,’ scoffed Ned, stirring the pesticide vigorously. ‘Tis only potent enough to kill the wee beasties. I use it all the toime.’

‘But you’re not wearing gloves or a mask or anything. And you’re spraying it on our food.’

‘Och, Jemma,’ replied Ned, smiling. ‘Are ye anxious about me?’

Ned staggered up, clutching his hands around his throat as if he was choking to death, then collapsed back on the step, laughing. Merlin stood up and stalked away in apparent disgust, his tail erect like a question mark.

‘Oh, Ned – stop it, you idiot.’ Jemma couldn’t help laughing at Ned’s dramatic death throes.

‘Och, now I am an eedjit, am I? And I thought ye cared for me!’

Jemma thought back to the mysterious shadows visiting the stable last night, the whispered conversation half-heard and Ned skulking around the timber yard. Did she really know Ned? He seemed so kind and funny … Could he really be planning to harm Georgiana?

‘Ned, what did you do last night?’ blurted Jemma, carefully examining his face.

Ned stopped clowning around and concentrated very hard on testing the spray canister.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ he replied casually. ‘Just the usual point o’ beer at the pub with a few lads, then back to share my sorrows with Sugar and Butterscotch.’

Jemma bent down to stroke Merlin, thinking carefully, weighing up her options.

‘Ned, I thought I saw some men skulking around the stables last night,’ Jemma began tentatively.

‘No,’ Ned shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes. ‘Ye must have imagined it. Why would anyone be skulking around here?’

‘I didn’t imagine it,’ Jemma retorted hotly. ‘I was looking out my window. I couldn’t sleep – it must have been late – and I saw three men creep into the stable, stay for a while, then sneak off to the back lane.’

She couldn’t tell him that she had spied through his window and eavesdropped on his conversation.

Ned glanced around the garden to make sure no-one was within earshot.

‘Plaise do no’ tell anyone, Jemma,’ Ned begged, his eyes serious. ‘’Twas my brother and a couple o’ friends. Miss
Rutherford does no’ like us to have personal visitors, and Agnes would happily report me if she had the chance.’

‘But they weren’t here on just a social visit, were they Ned?’ pushed Jemma.

Ned glanced away, vigorously stirring his poisonous potion.

‘No,’ Ned agreed finally. ‘Promise ye will no’ tell anyone, Jemma? My brother Patrick works at the timber yards. The master there is a terribly hard man. They slashed the workers’ wages during the worst o’ the depression, but things are looking up now, and they are making a tidy profit.

‘The men work twelve-and fourteen-hour days, six days a week, and hardly make enough to keep body and soul together. There are boys working there as young as eight, fetching and carrying heavy loads of timber all day long. If they falter and drop their loads, they are beaten.’

Jemma remembered the gangs of young boys she had seen toiling at the timber yards, pushing overladen carts and hauling heavy beams, being harangued by the overseer.

‘My younger brother, Johnny, broke his leg when a log rolled over him, and he was turned off without a penny. He could have been killed. He is only twelve and the doctor thinks he will be a cripple. We think it is only a matter of time before one of the boys really is killed.’

Understanding dawned on Jemma. Could the child they were speaking of be Ned’s brother Johnny? Hadn’t they said ‘one day a child will die’, meaning one of the timber workers?

‘Oh, that is terrible,’ cried Jemma, her face twisted with concern. ‘Can’t they do something?’

Ned shot her a grateful glance.

‘Patrick and his friends are planning a strike next Wednesday to get some justice for the timber workers – shorter hours and better pay,’ Ned continued. ‘They needed somewhere clandestine to meet, and I said I would help them. But I would lose my job if Miss Rutherford ever found out. Plaise do no’ tell, Jemma.’

Jemma swallowed.
Can it be true? And what was the parcel Ned had collected?

‘I saw you at the timber yards the other day,’ replied Jemma. ‘You looked like you didn’t want anyone to see you. Someone gave you a small parcel.’

Ned looked shocked, then laughed. ‘Well, a fine spy I’d make,’ joked Ned. ‘Being found out so easily by a pretty lass …’

Jemma blushed but would not be fobbed off with a compliment.

‘The parcel was the copy for the pamphlets,’ continued Ned. ‘I took it to the printers for Patrick, because I can get away during the day when I’m doing errands for Miss Rutherford. We printed hundreds of pamphlets to gain support from all the timber workers and their families about why they need to strike and why it’s important to hold out against the mill owners.’

Ned gazed at Jemma imploringly. ‘’Tis hard for a father to look his hungry wife and children in the eye and explain why he is not going to work. But if the workers do no’ make a stand, more children will be hurt or go hungry, while the mill owners live in lavish luxury.

‘But ’tis important the strike remains secret until the
last moment, or the mill will just bring in scab labour from outside – and it will all be for nothing.’

Jemma nodded, feeling Ned’s passion and sincerity.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Jemma agreed with a smile. ‘But promise me you won’t spray that terrible poison around. I’m scared that, if you don’t kill yourself, you might murder someone else.’

Ned grinned back, relieved.

A loud clang sounded from the kitchen door. Agnes waddled out onto the back path, her meaty arms on her hips, her face red with anger.

‘Uh oh,’ whispered Jemma, jumping to her feet. ‘Agnes on the warpath! Better go!’

‘What are you doing now, you lazy, good-for-nothing hussy?’ roared Agnes. ‘If I catch you gossiping to that stable boy again, I’ll beat you till you’re black and blue. And you, Edward, surely you have something more useful to do than prattle with that guttersnipe.’

Jemma flashed a conspiratorial grin at Ned, picked up her buckets and ran for the house, ducking past Agnes as she swiped a blow at her shoulder.

Georgiana was feeling much better today. The vomiting did not recur, leaving her feeling weak but human. She stayed in bed most of the day but was able to sit up for a while down in the sitting room in the afternoon, and she even complained of being hungry. Jemma kept checking on her, taking up iced water and hot tea.

Agnes set Jemma and Connie to work making a chicken broth for Miss Georgiana. First they had to chop and fry an onion in dripping. The chopped onions made Jemma’s eyes water and nose twitch.

While the onion was frying, Connie chopped carrots and potatoes to add to the pot. Jemma went out to the garden to fetch thyme and parsley. Connie was then distracted by Doctor Anderson ringing the front doorbell.

Agnes came into the kitchen carrying Miss Rutherford’s tea tray, just as Jemma entered with a fistful of herbs and Connie returned from the front door.

The kitchen was full of acrid smoke and a thick stench.

‘You’ve scorched the onion, you stupid girl.’ Agnes glared at Connie. ‘How many times have I told you to watch the stockpot?’

‘I had to take Doctor Anderson up …’

Agnes reached over and slapped Connie hard across the face. ‘Watch what you’re doing, you useless, lazy pinhead.’

Tears sprang to Connie’s eyes from the pain and she reeled back. A flash of anger blazed through Jemma. She had had enough of Agnes’s taunts and cruelty.

‘Don’t you dare hit Connie,’ Jemma blazed. ‘You have no right to strike anyone – especially over a burnt onion.’

‘I’ve the right to do whatever I want to her – or you!’ snapped Agnes, reaching over to the table to snatch up a wooden spoon. ‘You’re both stupid slum girls. Who are you going to tell – your parents? You don’t have any. They probably abandoned you years ago.’

Agnes leant over to wallop Connie across the back with the spoon. Jemma charged and threw herself between Agnes and Connie, pushing away Agnes’s raised arm.

‘I do have parents, and they taught me never to hit anyone smaller than me,’ retorted Jemma. ‘I think you’re just a nasty, horrible bully.’

‘You little dimwit,’ exclaimed Agnes, turning the wooden spoon towards Jemma and lunging. ‘I’ll teach you to speak to me like that.’

Jemma feinted, jumping out of the way. Connie muffled a giggle as Agnes overbalanced and nearly fell. Agnes’s face turned a deep tomato-red, sweating with anger as she grabbed for Jemma.

Jemma, light on her feet, skipped around the chair. Agnes thrust with the wooden spoon, her large backside sending the cutting board of diced carrot and potato flying across the kitchen floor. Jemma danced around the table, her skirts billowing. Connie jumped back; her face beamed at the comic scene before her.

Agnes charged across the kitchen, bellowing like a bull, as Jemma skipped out of the way. A patch of diced carrot was Agnes’s undoing. She stepped, slipped and slid across the kitchen floor, sprawling on her stomach at Jemma’s feet.

At that moment, the kitchen door swung open to admit Miss Rutherford, Doctor Anderson and a pale, weak Georgiana.

‘What’s all this commotion?’ demanded Miss Rutherford, staring down at Agnes. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’

‘I … I,’ Agnes blabbered with embarrassment, floundering to get to her feet.

‘Agnes was trying to strike me with the wooden spoon,’ Jemma explained sweetly, dropping into a shallow curtsey.

‘She already clouted me,’ added Connie, pointing to the reddening welt on her left cheek. ‘Jemma was trying to protect me.’

‘Beating children?’ demanded Doctor Anderson, moving closer to examine Connie’s cheek. ‘Surely you don’t condone thrashing your staff, Miss Rutherford? This is a nasty welt on the poor child’s face. She could easily have been severely injured or blinded.’

Miss Rutherford flushed, glaring down at Agnes, who shrank against the floorboards, the wooden spoon dropping from her hand.

‘No, no,’ Miss Rutherford insisted. ‘Agnes, what were you thinking? Are you quite all right, Connie?’

Connie sniffed theatrically, holding her left eye halfclosed.

‘It hurts badly,’ Connie admitted bravely. ‘I don’t know if I can see.’

Agnes scrambled to her feet, her mouth working as she sought to defend herself.

‘Poor Connie,’ sympathised Georgiana, squeezing Connie’s shoulder. ‘You look terrible. Perhaps she should go and lie down, Aunt Harriet?’

Miss Rutherford seized on this suggestion.

‘Good idea,’ agreed Miss Rutherford quickly. ‘Jemma, help Connie up to her room so she can lie down. Agnes, you’d better clean up this mess. And
please
refrain from beating the staff in future.’

Doctor Anderson winked at Jemma behind Miss Rutherford’s back as she helped Connie towards the backstairs.

‘Perhaps you would be so good as to make her some hot chocolate, Agnes?’ suggested Doctor Anderson gravely. ‘It will help raise her blood sugar and may help avert any symptoms of shock. Jemma could probably do with some too.’

‘Hot chocolate, my foot,’ snorted Agnes derisively. ‘What she needs is– ’

‘Thank you, Agnes,’ interrupted Miss Rutherford. ‘Please do as the doctor suggests and make the girls some hot chocolate.’

Agnes fumed, glaring at Connie and Jemma.

‘I’ll take it up to them for you, Agnes,’ offered Georgiana innocently. ‘I know how you dislike trudging up all those stairs.’

Connie and Jemma muffled their giggles as they ran up to the attic. It felt so good to get the better of Agnes, even if it was just a fleeting victory. Jemma was sure that Agnes’s wrath would be formidable once Miss Rutherford and Dr Anderson were out of the way.