The Ivory Rose by Belinda Murrell

Author:Belinda Murrell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Australia
Published: 2011-10-26T04:00:00+00:00

As they made their way towards the main intersection of Annandale, where Johnston Street crossed Booth Street, a bustling crowd began to grow.

Jemma watched, entranced as the scene unfolded.

The wide roads were swarming with horsedrawn traffic – drays, carts, chaises, carriages, sulkies and buggies. Pedestrians and bicycles darted amongst the traffic. Fashionable women wore large feathered hats, long skirts and jackets with puffed leg-o’-mutton sleeves, while poorer women wore more practical versions, their heads covered with simple shawls or bonnets. Men wore caps or bowler hats and dark three-piece suits. The road was dusty and rutted, paved with timber blocks and littered with steaming piles of pungent horse manure.

A steam tram trundled down Booth Street on its iron rails, horn blasting to clear the way. Jemma stared at the lively chaos, reluctant to get down from the security of Butterscotch’s back.

‘Hop down here and get ye’r chores done,’ instructed Ned. ‘I will wait for ye and give ye a roide back to Rosethorne, but hurry or I will be late getting back to harness the horses for the mistress’s afternoon visits. Mind the trams now, lass. They cannot stop quickly, and every week some poor soul gets killed tryin’ to run in front o’ one.’

Jemma did as Ned suggested, picking up a parcel of ribbon and thread from the haberdashery and then visiting the apothecary.

The apothecary was a dark treasure trove of shelves piled high with bottles, boxes, canisters, jars and packets. The air smelt of dried herbs, strong alcohol and something sweet and sugary.

‘Good morning, young lady,’ said the teenage lad behind the carved wooden counter, winking at her. ‘Can I help you?’

He had a red, pimply face, ears that stuck out like jug handles and brown hair slicked back with grease. Jemma smiled in return and handed him Miss Rutherford’s note. He quickly perused it and gathered up six small brown bottles and a couple of cardboard packets of pills, which he neatly wrapped in brown paper and string.

‘I’ll put that on Miss Rutherford’s bill then, shall I?’ asked the apothecary’s assistant.

‘Thank you,’ replied Jemma, taking up the parcel and placing it in her basket.

As she was leaving the apothecary, she recognised the striking, white-haired gentleman from the first day she arrived. She stared at him, trying to think why he looked vaguely familiar with his wild mane of hair and his smart black suit and waistcoat. A flashback came to her of a formal black-and-white photograph in her history book.

The gentleman noticed her staring and politely raised his top hat.

Then a look of recognition flashed across his face.

‘Good morning, young miss,’ he greeted her. ‘I know you. Aren’t you the young lady who was knocked down by Miss Rutherford’s carriage last week?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jemma. ‘And I think I know who you are? Aren’t you Sir Henry Parkes? The Father of Federation?’

A beaming smile spread across the old gentleman’s craggy features. ‘Well, that’s a quaint title, and it would be a huge honour if it were true, but alas, despite all our efforts, federation of the Australasian colonies seems as distant as ever.

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