The Ruby Talisman (3 page)

The salon was filled with chattering people, all dressed in their court finery. Both men and women wore tottering heels, dozens of flashing gemstones and powdered curls. The women towered above the men with their mountainous hair and massive skirts. Fans and handkerchiefs fluttered.

The ceiling soared overhead, the walls festooned with carved white marble, opulent gilding, silver mirrors and vast paintings. Musicians played softly in the corner. Footmen in their scarlet livery circulated with crystal glasses of bubbling, golden champagne on silver trays.

A table was laden with pink iced cakes, towering chocolate gateaux, fruit tarts and individual ices in delicate glasses – palest pink, lime, lemon, berry and violet. The centre-piece was a tree sculpture with each leaf, branch, knot and bird carved from coloured marzipan, surrounded by moulded sweetmeats in the shapes of flowers and animals.

Amelie stood behind her aunt with a forced smile. The women gossiped endlessly.

‘Mon Dieu,
the Queen has lost much weight this year. Her arms are looking quite scrawny and her bosom has sunk.’

‘Oui,
she is of course worried about her poor son, the Dauphin. It is said he has tuberculosis and will not survive many weeks. His spine is terribly twisted and he is in much pain.’

‘Poor Queen Marie-Antoinette. After losing her baby, little Sophie, eighteen months ago...’

The women chatted over the top of each other, laughing and flittering their fans, with one eye always on the passing crowd to see if there was someone else worth commenting on or more interesting to talk to.

‘Bonsoir, ma cousine,’
came a familiar, low voice from behind her. Amelie turned to see a tall, young man of about seventeen. He touched her elbow and drew her away from the gossiping butterflies.

‘Henri,’ cried Amelie in delight. ‘I did not know you were here in Versailles? How are you? I have not seen you for years.’

Henri was dressed in the height of fashion with tightly fitting fawn knee breeches, white stockings and a pale blue silk coat, his curls heavily powdered.

‘You have grown up indeed,
ma chérie,’
commented Henri with a laugh. ‘Last time I saw you, you were probably covered in mud from galloping your pony through the woods or falling in the stream. Life in the convent obviously suited you.’

‘Non,
it certainly did not suit me. It was horrible,’ Amelie declared. ‘I would much rather have stayed at the Chateau de Montjoyeuse with you and my pony, but your maman wouldn’t have it.’

‘And now I hear my dear maman is planning to marry you off to some wealthy old man, and you are supposed to make friends with the young Princess Marie-Therese to ingratiate Maman with the Queen.’

Henri glanced meaningfully at Queen Marie-Antoinette, who was seated at the far end of the salon, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. ‘A lot to fall on your pretty shoulders, Aimée.’

Amelie flushed despite herself. She did not know whether to be flattered or embarrassed by Henri’s comments. She pulled a face, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

‘You are not supposed to pull faces, Aimée,’ teased Henri. ‘A true lady of Versailles would flutter her fan, rap me on the knuckles and flirt.’

‘Well, obviously I am not a true lady of Versailles,’ she snapped.

‘You are far too young to be married,’ pronounced Henri seriously. ‘How old are you? Fifteen? It is positively medieval of Maman to try to sell you off to the highest bidder. However, I suppose these are very troubled times, and my father is deeply in debt.’

Amelie looked confused. Talk of her impending marriage made her feel queasy, so she seized on Henri’s last comment.

‘What do you mean “troubled times”? Is there some new intrigue at the court?’

Henri leant closer so that no-one could overhear.

‘Non,
my innocent! There is much happening in the world outside the gilded cage of Versailles – there is wild talk of revolution,’ whispered Henri. ‘The harvests failed last year, and this winter was the harshest in living memory. While the aristocrats went sleigh-riding and sledding, the peasants starved to death in the snow.

‘They blame Queen Marie-Antoinette for her extravagance and her hold over the king.

‘Do you know that she spends over a hundred thousand
livres
a year on clothes? And they say she never wears anything twice! Each new outfit is more extravagant than the one before. The people call her Madame Deficit, and much worse, too.’

Amelie looked shocked. ‘I did not know,’ she confessed. ‘Tante Beatrice says that the Queen is kind and generous. She has told me many examples of how the Queen has given to the poor or helped people in need. She told me the story of a young peasant child who was run over by the Queen’s carriage. She nursed him herself and brought him back to Versailles to raise as if he was her own child.’

Henri nodded impatiently.
‘Oui,
I am sure the Queen has a kind heart, but she has no idea of the real world. She lives here in her ornate palace, surrounded by flatterers and popinjays. The greatest decision she must make is what she will wear each day and how she can introduce a quirky new fashion. She spends her time playing at being a shepherdess in her fake village – while the real shepherdesses starve.

‘You will find that Versailles is very beautiful, but rotten to the core.’

Amelie looked horrified. She had been so excited to attend her first ball, to be presented to the Queen, to wear beautiful clothes and gorgeous jewels.

‘You are very harsh,’ Amelie replied, her eyes downcast. ‘Surely the situation cannot be quite so dire?’

‘Forgive me,’ Henri apologised with mock seriousness, his eyes twinkling. ‘I forgot myself. We have not seen each other for many years, and I prattle on about politics and corruption. That is definitely not correct etiquette at opulent Versailles.

‘Will you dance the minuet with me? I promise I will not mention a word about starving peasants or politics. We can discuss my father’s vast snuffbox collection, or the pros and cons of the most fashionable hairdressers?’

Amelie gurgled with laughter and rapped Henri on the shoulder with her fan.

‘You jest with me. I cannot imagine anything more tedious than to discuss snuffboxes!’

Amelie’s laughter had caught the ear of Tante Beatrice, who was most put out to find Amelie and Henri laughing together all on their own.

‘Now, Henri, whatever is so amusing? You must not converse with Amelie-Mathilde like this. It won’t do. Ah look, Amelie-Mathilde, yonder is the Chevalier. We must go and introduce you to him.’

The smile dropped from both Amelie and Henri’s faces.

‘Oui,
Tante Beatrice,’ replied Amelie in a wooden voice.

Henri grasped Amelie’s hand and bowed over it, kissing the top gallantly.
‘Au revoir,
Aimée. It has been far too long since we last met, so I pray I will see you again soon, now that you are living with Maman.’

Amelie snatched her hand back, colouring, and replied with a whispered
au revoir.

‘Come along now, Amelie-Mathilde,’ snapped Tante Beatrice. ‘The Chevalier is waiting.’

Amelie glided obediently after her aunt through the salon, their wide skirts cutting a swathe through the crowd.

In the corner, a bored-looking, portly King Louis XVI was surrounded by a group of sycophantic courtiers. Amelie thought the king looked as though he would rather be out hunting or engaged in another of his amusements, like making locks in his workshop.

It was said that the King regularly fell asleep in ministry meetings, and had even dozed off during a sermon recently given by the Bishop of Nancy, contrasting the excessive luxury of Versailles with the terrible suffering of the peasants. Amelie stared at the King curiously.

Close to the Queen’s gathering was another group of older courtiers. One of these gentlemen started towards them.

He looked to be in his late fifties and was rather stout – his large girth creaked as he moved from the tight lacing of the stays under his puce velvet jacket. Only at Versailles would a pale-brown colour named after the word for ‘flea’ be so extremely fashionable.

‘Bonsoir,
Chevalier,’ gushed Tante Beatrice. ‘Allow me to introduce my niece, Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse. Amelie-Mathilde, this is Chevalier de Vallone.’

Amelie sunk into the curtsey she had been practising for weeks, particularly for this meeting. Her stomach sank lower than her curtsey.

My uncle and aunt wish me to marry this old man!
she thought. His powdered face was flushed from drinking large quantities of brandy, a black beauty spot drawn on his left cheek. The Chevalier leered at Amelie as he made his bow, handkerchief aflutter, his pudgy fingers laden with jewelled rings. He lifted his lorgnette and made a closer inspection.

‘Delighted, Madame la Comtesse,’ replied the Chevalier. ‘She’s certainly a pretty kitten, your niece. Does she hunt? Of course she must ride at Versailles, everyone does. She’d look pretty up on a spirited little black mare. Her teeth look good – I can’t abide bad teeth. You said she plays the spinet well, but can she sing?’

‘Non,’
cried Amelie in horror.

‘Oui,
naturally she can sing,’ Tante Beatrice contradicted firmly, glaring at Amelie. ‘My niece has had the benefit of an excellent education. She has only recently returned from the convent so is naturally a trifle reserved, but she will soon blossom at court. She does not hunt, but she rode frequently before she went away.’

‘Très bien,’
pronounced the Chevalier. ‘I will look forward to dancing the minuet with her this evening and will call on you to take her riding tomorrow. Excuse me, ladies. I am expected at the card tables.’

The Chevalier bowed and moved away, mincing his way on ten-centimetre high heels.

‘What did you mean by squawking in that ridiculous fashion?’ scolded Tante Beatrice. ‘Still, I think the meeting went well. He seemed quite taken with you.’

Amelie clutched the ruby pendant around her neck. It made her think desperately of her parents.
Why, oh why, did you have to die, leaving me in the care of my horrid uncle?

Tante Beatrice rapped her painted fan on her gloved arm, thinking of what needed to be done.

‘Bon.
You must start riding each day in the morning,’ she decided. ‘We have a pretty black mare that would suit your colouring admirably. I must order a riding habit for you at once. Crimson velvet would be striking. No, too bold. Perhaps a deep forest-green instead. One of the grooms will escort you, of course.

‘And remember, when you dance the minuet with the Chevalier this evening, you must be
enchanté.’

Amelie’s heart rose with gladness at the thought of having a horse to ride once more, then plummeted when she was reminded of the Chevalier. She thought of her cousin, Henri. Perhaps she could ride sometimes with him. The parks and gardens around Versailles looked perfect for a good gallop.

‘Come, Amelie-Mathilde,’ ordered Tante Beatrice. ‘We will retire to the card room and play a few hands. Let’s see if we can gain the Chevalier’s attention once more. I would like to see this marriage settled as soon as we can.’

Tante Beatrice led the way through the crowd of perfumed and powdered courtiers, flittering and flirting, with Amelie close behind.

The glittering throngs of fluttering butterflies began to shrink, then blurred into a pool of golden light and finally faded away.

Tilly woke up, her heart thudding with excitement. The dream had seemed so real. She felt as though she could almost have touched Amelie’s silken skirts or stroked Mimi the monkey. She yawned and stretched.

Downstairs, she could hear Kara boiling the kettle in the kitchen. Tilly lay in bed for a few minutes, remembering her dream and thinking. At last she reluctantly padded down in her pyjamas, rainbow socks slipping on the polished wood.

‘Good morning, Tilly,’ greeted Kara with a smile. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Morning,’ yawned Tilly. ‘I had the most awesome dream. It was about Amelie-Mathilde and Versailles. They certainly wore some amazing clothes back then.’

Kara poured two cups of tea.

‘Didn’t they just?’ Kara agreed. ‘I would’ve loved the silk ball dresses, but I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed wearing those incredibly ornate hairdos Marie-Antoinette wore. I thought she wore wigs, but it was all her own hair, piled high and powdered grey.

‘Did you know that those amazing hairstyles took hours to create? They were impossible to wash and often housed nasty vermin, like lice and fleas? I even read somewhere that mice used to live in them, nibbling on the pomade and flour they used to powder the hair with. Can you imagine it?
Uggghh! ’

Kara laughed as she placed honey, raspberry jam and butter on the bench, and popped two slices of sourdough bread in the toaster.

‘Speaking of clothes,’ Kara said, leaning forward with anticipation. ‘Would you like to go shopping today? I can’t wait to get you a new birthday outfit, and the sales are on at some of my favourite warehouse outlets this weekend.’

Tilly blushed, feeling awkward. She wished Auntie Kara wouldn’t keep harping on about buying her some decent clothes. She liked wearing torn jeans and a sloppy sweater. Auntie Kara would probably want to buy her some boring cream trouser suit or a prissy frock.

What was the point in wearing fussy, uncomfortable clothes? It hadn’t helped Amelie-Mathilde had it?

‘No, thanks,’ replied Tilly abruptly.

Kara looked deeply disappointed but busied herself buttering the toast.

‘I mean,’ continued Tilly clumsily, ‘I thought I should get stuck into my French Revolution assignment today. It will probably take hours, and I haven’t even started. Could I borrow your computer to do some internet research, please?’

Kara smiled as she passed a plate and knife to Tilly. ‘Is this the girl who declared this assignment to be deadly boring?’ she joked. ‘Of course you can use my computer. I have quite a bit of work to catch up on myself. Let me know if you need any help or if you want to browse my collection of French books. Perhaps we could buy your birthday present tomorrow.’

Tilly smiled gratefully.
At least Auntie Kara doesn’t make a fuss about everything the way Mum does,
she thought, munching on her golden honey toast.

Tilly spent the morning in Kara’s office, trawling history websites and flicking through books. She started writing notes for her assignment but found herself distracted by trivia and sketches of costumes.

Kara popped her head around the door at lunchtime.

‘Enough time on the computer,’ ordered Kara with a smile. ‘Your eyes are turning into rectangles! I’ve made some chicken-and-salad rolls and thought we could sit in the sun out the back and take a break.’

Tilly rubbed her eyes. ‘Thanks, that would be lovely.’

Kara had made herself a coffee and a hot chocolate for Tilly. They each picked up a plate and a steaming cup and carried them out into the garden.

The garden was tiny but lovely, with limestone paving, neatly clipped box hedges, two flowering rosebushes and an antique iron urn on a plinth. A huge gum tree soared over the fence, streaked with rusty sap.

Aunt and niece sat on two ornate garden chairs at a wrought-iron table in the warm sunshine. Overhead, the sky blazed a deep, startling blue.

‘I love your house,’ commented Tilly wistfully. ‘It’s so beautiful and neat and
quiet
– with no pesky little brother. No fighting. No mess.’

‘It’s only quiet because Andrew and Zac are away,’ replied Kara with a laugh. ‘Normally, Zac would be dropping his muddy rugby boots on the floor and racing up and down the stairs with one of his friends. Andrew would be talking on his mobile and spreading the newspaper all over the bench.

‘So I’m having a lovely little holiday, too, though personally I miss the noise and the mess when they’re away too long. That’s what families are – but they’re also fun! How are you going with that assignment?’

Tilly shrugged, remembering her meagre scribbles.

‘Okay, I guess,’ acknowledged Tilly, but then she remembered some of the fascinating details she had read, and her voice brightened. ‘You’re right. It’s actually really interesting.

‘Did you know Marie-Antoinette was only fourteen when she was married to the Dauphin Louis XVI?’ Tilly asked. ‘That’s only a year older than me! She had never even
met
Louis when she was married to him by proxy in Austria. She met him for the first time three weeks later in France.

‘Marie-Antoinette left her home and family and never saw most of them again. At first, she wasn’t even allowed to take her dog with her. She became Queen of France at eighteen! She was very beautiful and set the most extravagant fashions for the whole world. It was so sad that she was executed in the end.’

Kara nodded, keen to encourage her niece’s sudden enthusiasm. It was nice to see a spark of the old Tilly. ‘She was an amazing woman. Even with all her incredible wealth and clothes and beauty, I wonder if she was ever truly happy? Perhaps just when she escaped the court to her private retreat and pretended to be a normal mother, wife and shepherdess instead of a queen!’

That night when Tilly went to bed she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, images from her dream haunting her with their vivid colour. At last she sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, planning to read awhile. She blinked in the sudden light.

There, shining in the lamplight, was the ruby talisman, forgotten on her bedside table. Tilly picked up the pendant and pressed it between her fingers.

I really must return this to Auntie Kara,
thought Tilly.
It’s too valuable to leave lying around.

She cautiously slipped the chain over her head and tucked the ruby inside her pink pyjama top. It felt cold and hard against her skin. Turning off the light, Tilly nestled back into her pillows, her mind churning with questions.

Did I really see Amelie-Mathilde in my dream last night? What happened to Amelie? Did she marry the horrid, old Chevalier – or did she escape? Did Amelie really face danger and adventure on her way to England? Who helped her? I wish I could have a life of adventure and excitement instead of my own boring, miserable life...

In another room, two hundred and thirty years and half a world away, Amelie fell asleep in her velvet hung, four-poster bed, wearing the ruby pendant that had belonged to her mother. Her mind tumbled with frustration and anger.

I hate the Chevalier. I hate Tante Beatrice. I don’t want to marry an old man. Oh how I wish someone would come and take me away from all this.

Amelie cried herself to sleep. She could see no way out of her dreadful situation.

Tilly slowly emerged from sleep. Her eyes fluttered open. She closed them again. She must still be dreaming that she was sleeping in a big four-poster bed with plum velvet drapes, next to a girl with long black hair tousled on the feather pillows, who was wearing a white, long-sleeved nightdress...

Tilly’s eyes flew open again and she gasped, sitting bolt upright. She was no longer in Auntie Kara’s tiny attic bedroom in Annandale. She was in a strange dark chamber, in a strange bed, next to ... Amelie-Mathilde-Louise de Montjoyeuse!

The loud gasp and sudden movement woke her companion, whose eyes widened in alarm. Amelie opened her mouth to scream.

‘No, no,’ Tilly begged, reaching out to Amelie. ‘Don’t scream.’

Amelie scrambled next to her bed to find a candle and a tinderbox on the chest. With shaking hands she lit the candle and examined Tilly from the far side of the bed.

‘Pardon,’
Amelie replied, frowning in consternation.
‘Je ne comprends pas? Qui êtes vous?’

Amelie rattled off a dozen questions in French. Tilly couldn’t understand more than a few words. She suddenly wished she had paid more attention in French lessons.

‘I’m sorry I don’t understand you,’ apologised Tilly, staring at Amelie in awe. ‘I
must
be dreaming again.’

She gave herself a sharp pinch on the arm. It hurt. Tilly squealed in pain and shock. The ruby pendant thudded against her chest inside her pyjama top. At the same moment, she realised that Amelie was wearing the identical ruby pendant, blazing against her snow-white nightgown.

‘Look,’ Tilly exclaimed, crawling across the vast bed towards Amelie. She pulled her own pendant out from its hiding place inside her pyjama top and cradled it in her palm. ‘I’m wearing your ruby!’

‘Mon Dieu,’
exclaimed Amelie.
‘C’est incroyable!’

Amelie picked up her pendant and reached for Tilly’s, holding them side by side in the palm of her hand, chattering all the while in incomprehensible French.

The pendants were obviously identical, yet subtly different. Tilly’s had a patina of age that was missing from Amelie’s pendant, and a deep-grooved scratch on the gold loop that held the pendant to the chain.

The two ruby pendants slid together in Amelie’s palm and touched. The fire in them both leapt and flared. At that moment, something incredible happened. Suddenly Amelie’s stream of excited and voluble French shifted and changed.

‘Who are you? Why do you have an identical talisman? Did you come to steal mine? Tell me why I should not call the guards at once.’

‘I can understand you!’ cried Tilly. ‘Are you speaking French or English? I think you’re speaking French and I can understand you.’

Amelie dropped Tilly’s pendant, which thudded heavily against Tilly’s chest. She tucked her own pendant back into its usual place.

‘Of course I am speaking French,’ replied Amelie, cross. ‘What else would I be speaking? What’s more, you are speaking French, too, and I can understand
you
quite perfectly. At least now I can...’

The girls gazed at each other in shock. Tilly stared at Amelie wearing a fine linen nightdress, embroidered with flowers and hemmed with lace, a small cap upon her head. Amelie stared at Tilly, wearing faded pink flannelette pyjamas covered in teddy bears, rainbow-striped socks on her feet.

Amelie started to laugh. ‘What are you wearing?’ she begged. ‘I have never seen such outlandish clothes in my life. You are insane,
non?’

‘Of course I’m not insane,’ exclaimed Tilly, all her familiar anger rushing to the surface. ‘And my clothes are not outlandish. They’re just pyjamas. Everyone wears pyjamas like this in my day. It’s yours that are prissy and old-fashioned.’

‘Old-fashioned? Prissy?’ replied Amelie in an injured tone. ‘You
are
mad. My nightgown is new, and it is much prettier than the sack I had to wear at the convent. All my new clothes are the very latest fashion, from one of the top dressmakers in Paris. I had to have new clothes so the Chevalier would want to marry me, you see.’

Tilly snorted in disgust, scowling at the memory of the elderly Chevalier mincing on his high heels. ‘I can’t imagine why you would marry that horrible man. He must be old enough to be your grandfather.’

Amelie sighed, nodding sadly.
‘Oui.
But you see, I must. He is very rich. If I do not marry him, I will be destitute. And my uncle is in terrible debt, so it is up to me to save the family name and fortune.’

‘What rubbish,’ announced Tilly crisply. ‘That’s no reason to marry anyone, especially a horrible old man. What about love and respect and having things in common? You can’t possibly marry someone just because he’s rich and your uncle tells you to. It’s criminal.’

Amelie looked thoughtful, twisting the ruby pendant in her fingers.

‘You know, ’tis strange,’ mused Amelie. ‘Last night, I fell asleep wishing with all my heart that someone would come along and rescue me from this despicable marriage. I was imagining a prince in silver armour on a milk-white steed, not a scruffy urchin in pink breeches.’

Amelie laughed again. Tilly bristled with anger, then she imagined seeing her pyjamas and rainbow socks through Amelie’s eighteenth-century eyes. She smiled ruefully.

‘I guess I’m not much of a prince in shining armour,’ Tilly admitted. ‘But who says you need a prince to rescue you? I think you look perfectly capable of saving yourself.’