The Ivory Rose (23 page)

Jemma smiled, ticking off items on her fingers. ‘I want to have my four best friends over for dinner – just something simple, like spag bol. I want to listen to music, sing, dance and laugh. I want to watch DVDs till late, then have everyone sleep on the floor of my room. I want to stay up half the night chatting, then wake up early in the morning and cook up a big batch of pancakes.’

Ruby laughed. ‘I’d better help cook the pancakes,’ she suggested. ‘The last batch you made was gross!’

‘There’s not much room in here …’ Elizabeth hesitated.

‘A hundred years ago there were probably six kids sleeping in this room every night! Maybe seven!’

Elizabeth examined the familiar face of her daughter. It had somehow changed since the fall down the stairs. She looked more determined, more confident, a little older, a little sadder. Above all, she looked infinitely precious.

‘Sounds wonderful,’ agreed Elizabeth. ‘A sleepover it is! A perfect, sleepless birthday celebration.’

Jemma threw her arms around her mother’s neck.

‘Thanks, Mum. That would be awesome.’

A week later, Jemma was well enough to walk around to Rosethorne. It felt strange walking the busy streets of Annandale, and she was sad to see the ugly blocks of flats replacing two of the gracious Witches’ Houses. It was odd to see the beautiful gardens of Kentville replaced by tiny semis and terraces that were actually a hundred years old.

It felt great to be wearing denim leggings and her black Fantastique sparkly T-shirt and silver ballet slippers, instead of layers of stifling petticoats, stays and heavy boots.

A blond-haired boy, one of her neighbours, rode past on his skateboard. He saw her, then stopped, holding up his hand in a salute.

‘Hey, Jemma,’ he called. ‘Glad to see you up and about again. I heard you were pretty sick.’

‘Hi, Tom,’ replied Jemma, shyly pushing a tendril of fair hair behind her ear. Tom had never spoken to her before. ‘I was in hospital for a week in a coma, but I’m okay now.’

He smiled at her. Jemma noticed he had dark, chocolate eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

‘That’s pretty rough.’ Tom kicked at an old aluminium can in the gutter. ‘Glad you’re okay now. Will you be back on the bus soon?’

Jemma smiled back. ‘Next week – I go back to school on Monday.’

Tom jumped back on his skateboard with a lazy wave. ‘Awesome, see you then.’

Jemma smiled to herself and continued down around past the Abbey into Johnston Street and along the front row of the Witches’ Houses.

She ran her fingers along the rough stone wall spotted with lichen and moss. She paused on the footpath and glanced down onto the bitumen road between the parked cars. That was the spot where she had first seen Ned and his dancing green eyes. She glanced up at the stone facade of Rosethorne, with its gracious tower and turret. There was movement at the window.

A lace curtain twitched and a small, pale face of a little girl peered down, smiling in welcome – then disappeared.

Jemma took a deep breath. She opened the latch on the high, arched gate and climbed the steps. The garden at the front was overgrown with weeds, but a thick vine of purple wisteria wound up over the face of the house, its chandelier blossoms filling the air with a sweet scent.

The front door flew open and Sammy raced out, flinging her arms around Jemma’s waist.

‘Jemma,’ she squealed. ‘Jemma, you’re back!’

Jemma hugged Sammy hard. ‘Yes, I’m back,’ she replied.

Maggie came running to the door, panting breathlessly. As usual, her caramel hair was piled in a wispy, messy bun. She had streaks of grey clay on her face and hands, but she beamed with pure joy to see Jemma again.

‘Jemma, it is so good to see you. We were so worried. Are you feeling all right? Come in, come in.’

Jemma stepped through the front door into the entrance hall of Rosethorne.

It was so, so different to the way it looked in 1895. And so, so different to the way it had looked a couple of weeks ago, when she had fallen down the stairs.

Maggie and Sammy had obviously been busy. All the boxes had been cleared away, and the reception rooms had been freshly painted in a pale, soft green. The floorboards had been polished to a golden, honey hue and the rooms simply furnished with a few pieces of old timber furniture.

‘It looks beautiful.’ Jemma stroked the freshly painted walls with her finger. ‘How did it happen?’

‘When you fell down the stairs, I felt terrible,’ explained Maggie. ‘Somehow I blamed myself because the house was so dilapidated. I couldn’t work on my exhibition because I was so worried about you.’

‘Oh, Maggie – your exhibition?’ cried Jemma.

Maggie shrugged and continued. ‘I started working on the house to keep myself busy. Your dad came around to let me know how you were doing, and he pitched in and started helping, then Ruby’s parents came around to help too, and in a couple of days we seemed to achieve miracles. It made us all feel better to be doing something, anything, to keep ourselves preoccupied.’

‘Wow.’ Jemma gazed around. ‘I think it looks great.’

‘We made a lovely little discovery while you were away, too,’ added Maggie. ‘Shall we show her, Sammy?’

Sammy nodded vigorously, skipping ahead towards the stairs. ‘Naughty Shadow ran away,’ she called, jumping up the stairs two at a time, her plaits flying. ‘We called and searched everywhere when you were in hospital.’

Jemma and Maggie followed behind Sammy more sedately.

‘Oh, no.’ Jemma looked at Maggie with concern. ‘Did you find her?’

‘We found her hidden behind some boxes in the studio,’ shouted Sammy from the top of the stairs. ‘Just about when you woke up again. That’s where we found her when we first moved in – living in the old stables – and she just sort of adopted us.’

Sammy ran into her own room, the door flying open. Jemma and Maggie followed closely behind.

Sammy was kneeling beside a cardboard box on the floor, which was lined with a red flannel sheet.

‘Is Shadow hurt?’ asked Jemma, frowning, crouching down beside the box.

‘No.’ Maggie assured her. ‘Quite the opposite.’

Shadow looked up at Jemma with her wide, unblinking green eyes. She twitched her whiskers in welcome. Curled up beside Shadow were six fat, black slugs. On closer inspection, they were kittens, dark as midnight, their eyes shut tightly against the light.

One moved its head upwards and opened a milky eye just a slit. It looked like he was winking at Jemma.

‘Look, Mama,’ shrieked Sammy. ‘Her eyes are opening.’

‘You can cuddle one if you like, Jemma,’ offered Maggie. ‘Shadow doesn’t mind as long as you’re very gentle.’

Jemma carefully picked up the kitten that had opened its eye and cuddled it to her chest.

‘You can choose one, Jemma, for your very own,’ announced Sammy, stroking the soft, velvety black fur between the ears.

Jemma’s heart jumped with exhilaration, then plummeted. She shook her head regretfully.

‘No, Sammy. I can’t. I’m not allowed to have pets at home, but I can come and visit the kitties lots while they’re here.’

Sammy jiggled up and down with excitement. ‘But you can, you can! Your mama said.’

Maggie smiled at Jemma and Sammy. ‘I rang your mother this morning,’ she explained. ‘I told her about the kittens and asked her if you would be allowed to have one for your own. At first she wasn’t sure, so she talked to Ruby and Milla. Then she rang me back and said yes.’

Jemma’s heart danced. ‘Wow!’ she was lost for words – her very own kitten!

‘You can’t take it home for another few weeks, until its old enough to leave its mother, but you can choose whichever kitten you like,’ offered Maggie. ‘They’re all black, so it’s hard to tell them apart – we might need to paint its paw with nail polish so you can tell which one’s which!’

Jemma cuddled the kitten closer to her face, brushing his soft, milk-scented fur with her chin.

‘I choose this one,’ decided Jemma, smiling at Maggie. ‘Thanks so much.’

Maggie checked his fat, round belly. ‘He’s a boy.’

‘What are you going to call him, Jemma?’ demanded Sammy, bouncing up and down with excitement. ‘How about Blackie, or Sir Galahad or Sooty, like the cat in the Enid Blyton book we read …’

Jemma looked down at the kitten in her arms. He yawned, stretching his mouth wide to show his tiny, sharp needle teeth and pink tongue. He half-opened one eye again.

‘Merlin,’ Jemma decided. ‘I’m going to call him Merlin.’

‘A perfect name,’ agreed Maggie, stroking Shadow.

‘Are you going to come back and look after me, Jemma, so Mama can finish her exhibition?’ begged Sammy. ‘Please?’

‘I’d like to, Sammy – if it’s all right with Mum and Dad, and Maggie too.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sammy punched the air, and danced around delightedly. ‘You can finish reading me
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
, and we can play with Georgie.’

Jemma started, nearly dropping the kitten. She placed Merlin down safely in the box next to his mother.

‘Georgie?’ asked Jemma, her heart in her mouth.

Sammy pointed across the room, her cheeks dimpling and her eyes sparkling.

‘Georgie’s my new doll,’ Sammy announced. ‘Well, she’s really old, but we found her in that little space I was hiding in the day you fell down the stairs.’

Jemma glanced to the corner of the room where Sammy’s soft toys were piled high on the cane rocking chair. There in the centre, in pride of place, was Georgiana’s china doll. Her brown ringlets were tangled and snarled. Her crimson velvet dress was faded and torn, and her rosy, painted face had a noticeable chip on the nose, but it was definitely the same doll.

Jemma stood up, walked to the rocker and picked it up.

‘She’s beautiful, Sammy. But why did you call her Georgie?’

Sammy shrugged and turned back to the kittens, who wriggled and mewled and were far more interesting than the old doll.

‘She just looked like a Georgie,’ decided Sammy. ‘And I used to have an imaginary friend called Georgie, so it seemed like a good name.’

‘It is indeed a beautiful name, Sammy. I think her proper name is Georgiana Rose.’

Maggie frowned, pushing her fringe out of her eyes with her clay-stained fingers.

‘We discovered something a little odd with the doll,’ confided Maggie. ‘I don’t really understand it. Look inside her handbag, Jemma.’

Jemma noticed that the china doll was wearing a small velvet bag on a shoulder strap that matched the faded crimson of its dress. Jemma lifted the flap and realised there was a folded paper parcel inside. She wondered what it could be.

The paper was yellowed, with words inscribed on the outside in faded, elegant handwriting:

Jemma Morgan, Breillat Street, Annandale

With trembling fingers, Jemma unfolded the package. A gold chain fell out, with a delicate ivory rose pendant.

‘What a beautiful pendant,’ cooed Maggie. ‘But what a peculiar note. I suppose the pendant is meant for you, but how could it be when the note seems to have been written twenty years before you were born?’

Jemma slipped the gold chain around her neck and fastened it. Unlike the one she had worn for so long, the chain wasn’t snapped. She pressed the cool, cream ivory with her fingertips.

‘You didn’t hide the note there, did you, Jemma?’ asked Sammy, tickling a kitten on the tummy.

‘No. But I had some special friends who lived here long ago. They meant a lot to me and taught me many things.’

Jemma paused, lifting up the china doll and stroking her chestnut curls. Sammy put down the kitten she had been holding and gazed at Jemma.

‘They taught me about fun and hard work, and friendship, but most of all they encouraged me to make the most of my opportunities.’ Jemma smiled. ‘They taught me to stand up for what I believe in, and they taught me about love.’

Maggie smiled at Jemma and stroked a clay-smeared finger down her cheek. ‘Very special friends.’

Jemma nodded, her throat thick. She grasped her ivory rose in her fingertips.

‘I’ll never see them again, but I’ll never, ever forget them.’