The Ruby Talisman (7 page)

Amelie and Tilly reined in their horses sharply. There seemed nothing else they could do without being shot.

Amelie glanced at Tilly and gave her a warning stare. She turned to face their attackers, her eyes wide and her face pale.
‘Ooooh,’
she shrieked, her voice trembling in fear. She collapsed in the saddle as though she was swooning. ‘Do not hurt us,
s’il vous plaît.
We have nothing to steal.’

Tilly’s heart thumped, adrenalin surging through her blood. She could feel the sword in its scabbard against her thigh; her hand itched to draw it. She hoped Amelie would not faint and fall off her horse.

One of the men rode forward, his eyes mesmerised by the flashing fire of the huge ruby around Amelie’s neck.

‘I think I can see something I like already, mademoiselle,’ mocked the bandit, riding up to Amelie and putting the pistol in his rein hand so he could take the dazzling necklace.

Amelie shrank back in the saddle, her lips trembling and eyes blinking away tears. When the bandit was close enough to reach out and touch the necklace, Amelie raised her riding crop and slashed it across his face.

‘Go,’ she screamed to Tilly as she thumped her heels into Angelique’s side.

The brigand screamed in pain, a bright red welt exploding across his cheek. His horse plunged in fright at the slashing crop and the sudden noise.

Tilly drew her rapier and charged straight towards the other horseman, the sword aimed at his heart. She saw the man’s eyes widen in shock. Amelie slashed him across the back with her crop as she galloped past. The man skittered out of the way, fumbling with his pistol. His horse reared and bucked, neighing with fright.

The two girls lay low upon their horses’ necks, instinctively making themselves as small as possible. Tilly’s nostrils filled with the salty, tangy smell of horse sweat and fear. Her own heart thundered.

A pistol-shot exploded behind them, closely followed by another. Tilly did not turn or pause, but clung fiercely to Mystique as she galloped for their lives. Tilly thought she could hear the thunder of horses’ hooves behind them, but the peasant farm horses were no match for the finely bred and well-fed Arabian horses.

Tilly saw the hard, rutted track below her and prayed she wouldn’t fall off.

The horses galloped flat out for many minutes, then gradually slowed to a canter, then a walk, their sides heaving.

Amelie risked glancing behind them. The track was empty.
‘Très bon.
I think we have lost them.’

Tilly smiled shakily at Amelie, sheathing her rapier and adjusting the reins. ‘Wow, that was scary,’ she exclaimed. ‘For a moment there I thought you really were having hysterics. Good thinking. Thank you.’

‘I knew we could outrun them if we got a chance,’ replied Amelie. ‘I hoped I could get them off guard if I pretended to be a swooning, helpless female. I am glad you had the sense to stay on when we fled.’

Tilly didn’t confess that she had nearly come unbalanced during that wild gallop.

Amelie shivered with fear and shock. ‘More brigands...’

Both girls thought of the Comte and Comtesse who had not been so lucky to escape. Tilly had visions of the blood-spattered coachmen and the ominous words –
Liberté. Égalité. Fraternité.
– scrawled on the coach door in dried blood.

‘Come on,’ urged Amelie. ‘’Tis not very far now.’

After another twenty minutes the forest cleared into an open valley, green and fertile. The heat of the valley hit them in the face as they left the shelter of the trees.

‘We are nearly home,’ encouraged Amelie. ‘We are nearly safe.’

The girls had hardly spoken for the last part of the ride, concentrating on the track ahead and searching the shadows for potential danger.

At last, the track rounded a corner and crested a small rise, and there, a kilometre away on the opposite rise, was revealed a gorgeous building of golden, sun-warmed stone.

The Chateau de Montjoyeuse,’ proclaimed Amelie with a strong note of pride. ‘The Montjoyeuses have lived here for generations, although this house is only about one hundred years old.’

The chateau was built in a U shape. The front of the house was three storeys high with pepperpot towers built on the two corners. A wide terrace overlooked the formal gardens and the lake. In the foreground was a small village of stone cottages, thatched with straw. A carriageway wound around the lake towards the chateau.

Amelie beamed with excitement and urged Angelique into a canter down the track, taking a short cut through the fields to avoid the village. They galloped past the lake, skirting the formal gardens and around the back of the chateau to the stables and outbuildings.

A groom came running as the horses clattered into the cobbled stableyard. He looked shocked to see Amelie and Tilly, his mouth hanging open.

‘Bonsoir,
Jean,’ greeted Amelie. ‘Is
mon cousin,
Monsieur le Comte, at home?’

‘Oui,
mademoiselle,’ replied Jean, nodding his head towards the chateau.

With the help of the groom, the two girls dismounted, Tilly’s legs nearly giving out underneath her.

‘Bring my portmanteau to my room when you have finished with the horses, Jean,’ ordered Amelie. ‘And give them a good bran mash. They have had a long, hard ride today.’

Jean nodded and began to lead the two horses into the stables. The girls would have run but their legs were stiff with weariness, so they hobbled towards the house. Ahead on either side were the two arms of the U. The formal courtyard in the centre was paved with stone, intricate little gardens of clipped box hedges forming leafy love knots, perfect green balls and pointed cones.

Flowering roses and lavender scented the air, while cooling water splashed from a central fountain. A number of rooms faced onto the courtyard with wide, glass double doors.

One of these doors opened and out stepped Jacques, the Comte’s valet. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, which quickly disappeared. He greeted them formally with a bow and ushered them into the drawing room hung with pale-green silk damask.

‘Bonsoir,
Jacques,’ greeted Amelie. ‘This is Mademoiselle Mathilde Le ... Lebrun, a ... a schoolfriend from the convent. She will be staying with me for a few days.’

Jacques bowed to Tilly and then held out his hand to take her cloak. He glanced at the sheathed sword hanging at Tilly’s waist, but his face remained impassive as usual.

‘You must be tired, mesdemoiselles?’ asked Jacques solicitously, folding both cloaks over his arm while careful to hold the mud away from his own clean and pressed livery. ‘Have you ridden all the way from Versailles today?’

‘Oui,’
agreed Amelie, drawing off her gloves and hat before sitting down gingerly in a deep velvet armchair.

‘You left so suddenly yesterday, Jacques. Why did you not take me with you?’ Amelie asked.

Jacques looked disconcerted.
‘Pardon,
mesdemoiselles. I decided it was best to bring the servants back here to seek the new Comte’s orders. I thought you would prefer to stay in Versailles with your friends and fiancé. I apologise if I inconvenienced you.’

Amelie smiled. ‘Well, I decided it was best to come home to Chateau de Montjoyeuse, too.’

‘I will order your chambers to be made ready at once,’ Jacques said. ‘Would you like me to order a hot bath to be prepared, mesdemoiselles? And while you wait – would you prefer tea or coffee?’

‘Oui, merci,’
agreed Amelie with a sigh. ‘Tea would be lovely.’

‘Tea for me as well, please,’ added Tilly, sinking into another armchair with relief.

In a few minutes a maidservant returned carrying a tray with a silver pot of steaming tea, teacups, milk and a platter of delicious, crumbly lemon tarts. The girls were starving and fell upon the lemon tarts with delight. The tea was hot and fragrant, and its warmth instantly revived the exhausted girls.

Mimi sat upon a footstool, delicately eating a tart. When she had finished she gently patted her lips with a crisp linen serviette. Mimi’s beautiful manners were soon spoiled when she decided to bound around the room, over the tabletops and the back of the sofa, checking to see if anything had changed since her last visit.

Mimi came to rest up on the marble mantelpiece. Staring at her reflection in the huge gilt mirror, she twitched her crushed, gold silk gown, and brushed her brown furry head, patting her little cheeks as though applying rouge. She turned her head from side to side like the vainest of court ladies.

Amelie and Tilly burst into laughter. The little monkey in her gold dress looked so absurd, copying the Comtesse’s
toilette
she had witnessed so often.

‘Mais non,
Mimi,’ admonished Amelie, laughing. ‘Come here, you naughty monkey.’

Claudette, Amelie’s maid, arrived to inform them that their chambers and hot baths were ready, and the girls followed her gratefully through the wide double doors into the main hall, Mimi riding on Amelie’s shoulder. A wide staircase rose from the centre of the room and split into two separate branches that led to the upper storeys. A massive crystal chandelier, holding dozens of candles, hung from a chain above.

On one wall were hung huge, twin portraits of Amelie’s aunt and uncle, the recent Comte and Comtesse de Montjoyeuse, in full court regalia. The portrait of Tante Beatrice included Mimi the monkey nestled into her voluminous skirts. The Comte glowered at the girls haughtily as they climbed the stairs. Amelie averted her eyes.

Claudette led them to the left and round the corner into the east wing. They followed along a corridor that overlooked the inner formal courtyard and its fountain and hedges. The maidservant stopped at one of the heavy doors.

‘Mademoiselle le Brun’s room is right next door,’ Claudette said. ‘Mademoiselle has no luggage?’

‘Non,
Claudette,’ replied Amelie. ‘We left Versailles in such a hurry, as you did yesterday, that we had no time to collect mademoiselle’s luggage. Perhaps it will come in a few days. In the meantime, I will lend mademoiselle what she requires.’

Tilly went into her room and gasped in surprise. The chamber was even more sumptuous than the apartment at Versailles.

Overhead, the magnificent ceiling was painted with a blue sky, fluffy white clouds and smiling, chubby cherubim. In the centre of the room stood a huge four-poster bed, hung with deep-blue velvet drapes.

Other furniture included a rosewood writing desk and chair, a bedside table and an ornate armoire. White-painted timber panelling adorned the bottom section of the wall, with pale-blue watered silk above. A richly woven Persian carpet covered the floor.

A deep, steaming tin tub sat in front of the fireplace. On the nearby chest were a slab of lavender soap, a jug and a pile of clean linen.

Tilly sighed with happiness. ‘Awesome,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Absolutely awesome.’

Tilly stripped off the stained white muslin dress, muddy petticoats, stockings, stays and chemise, dropping them on the floor by the fire. She eased into the water, which was almost too hot to bear. Lavender-scented water lapped her skin, soothing away the aching muscles and saddle bruises.

The soap lathered up richly, and Tilly poured jugful after jugful of water over her head and shoulders. A knock sounded at the door and Claudette entered, carrying a pile of clothes in a wicker basket.

Tilly blushed. She wasn’t used to strangers walking in while she was taking a bath. She tried to cover herself with her arms, then pulled one of the linen sheets towards her and draped it over her body.

Claudette placed the basket on the floor and knelt to gather up the fallen garments by the fire.

‘Shall I wash mademoiselle’s hair?’ asked Claudette politely. ‘I have finished bathing Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse.’

Tilly didn’t know what to do or say, so she nodded uncertainly. ‘Yes, please.’

Claudette knelt behind Tilly and lathered up her hair with the lavender soap. She gently massaged and washed Tilly’s hair, rinsing it with the jug. Tilly sank further into the bath – it felt blissful to have her head massaged. She felt the tension of the last days, weeks, months gradually loosen and dissolve. Her shoulders and neck relaxed, and she closed her eyes.

A sheet was used to blot up the excess moisture, then the maid combed a sweet-smelling cream through Tilly’s hair, tugging gently through the knots. This, too, was rinsed away and Tilly’s hair dried with another sheet.

‘I’ll be back in a few minutes to help you dress,’ said Claudette, taking up the basket of soiled clothes. ‘I must help my mistress first.’

As soon as Claudette had left the room, Tilly climbed out of the bath and dried herself, pulling on a clean chemise. She wasn’t sure what was expected, but she certainly didn’t want to be dried and dressed like a child by the maidservant.

When Claudette returned, Tilly had pulled on stockings, an underskirt, three petticoats, Henri’s shoes and the dress – without the stays – although she couldn’t possibly do it up from behind by herself.

Claudette smiled and gently but firmly set about correcting Tilly’s clothes – pulling down the sleeves of the dress, twitching petticoats and pulling on the stays, which she laced up so tightly that Tilly’s eyes watered and she felt she could hardly move.

‘Please,’ begged Tilly. ‘Not so tight – I can’t breathe.’

Claudette giggled and loosened the stays a little. The dress was then pinned and buttoned into place. It was an evening dress, for dinner. It was not as formal as the ball dresses with vast panniers that Tilly had seen at Versailles but, with its simpler lines, Tilly thought it was much more beautiful.

It was pale-blue silk with a low neckline ruffled with delicate, sheer lace. The sleeves were tight to the elbow, also ending with a white lace ruffle. The skirts were full and detailed with a white ribbon at the bust, lace froth at the hem and a blue sash at the waist.

Claudette combed her hair until it was nearly dry, then dressed it up above her forehead, long curls trailing over her shoulders and down her back. The finishing touches were powder, a hint of rouge on her face and a slick of colour on her lips.

Tilly looked at herself in the mirror and was thrilled with the vision before her. The ruby necklace nestled just above the neckline and flashed like fire against the snowy lace and white ribbon. At that moment, Amelie scratched on the doorjamb and came in, Mimi scampering after her.

‘Magnifique,’
she cried.
‘Très, très belle!
Claudette, you are an
artiste.’

Amelie gestured in the mirror at the reflections of both girls. Amelie also looked gorgeous, in a white silk taffeta embroidered with tiny crimson rosebuds and delicate green leaves, with her rose satin shoes and silver-and-diamond buckles.

‘Merci,
mademoiselle,’ replied Claudette, looking puzzled as she stared at the two girls wearing identical ruby pendants. ‘But mademoiselle, you are both wearing the same necklace?’

‘Oui,’
answered Amelie. ‘Is it not odd? They are both precious heirlooms. When we realised they were the same, we felt a special bond, did we not, Mademoiselle Tilly?’

Tilly and Amelie beamed conspiratorially at each other.

‘Come on, Tilly,’ suggested Amelie. ‘Let us go down for dinner. I think Henri will be back by now.’

Amelie led the way. Along the corridor they passed several doors. Amelie opened a few, showing Tilly the magnificent luxury of the rooms beyond.

‘Look at this room, Tilly,’ whispered Amelie, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. ‘In here is my uncle’s collection of more than three hundred snuffboxes.’

The small room was lined with velvet-covered shelves. Each shelf held a neatly arrayed line of snuffboxes, meticulously organised by size, shape and colour.

Round ones, square ones, rectangular and hexagonal. Silver-wrought boxes, gilt, tortoiseshell, mother-of-pearl, enamel and jewel-encrusted. Every shade of the rainbow from amethyst, lilac and purple to blues, greens, crimsons and ruby. There was a snuffbox for nearly every day of the year.

On the opposite wall were the sealed jars of snuff or ground tobacco, flavoured with various fruit, floral and spice oils, including cinnamon, spearmint and rose – each neatly labelled with blend, source and date.

Mimi scampered into the snuff room and clambered onto a shelf. In one paw she picked up a red-and-gilt snuffbox and, in the other paw, a mother-of-pearl snuffbox studded with diamonds. Mimi glanced from paw to paw with a frown, examining them closely, looking for all the world like the old Comte trying to make up his mind which one to carry.

At last she decided on the blue. With her right paw, she flicked open the lid, took a pinch of snuff and inhaled it with a mighty sniff. Mimi coughed and choked, dropping the snuffbox and scattering tobacco over the floor. A spicy cloud of cinnamon scent wafted through the air.

Tilly and Amelie giggled at Mimi’s performance. Tilly picked up the snuffbox and returned it to its rightful position. Amelie closed the door carefully and continued on her way, sweeping down the wide staircase and into the drawing room on the eastern side of the foyer. Mimi headed directly to the kitchens, searching for treats and cuddles.

Now I know why the staircases and doorways are so wide,
thought Tilly.
None of the ladies would fit through an ordinary door in these skirts.

In the drawing room, Henri was leaning against the doorway, looking out across the gardens and the lake to the park beyond. At his side was a huge, shaggy, white-and-grey dog – an Irish wolfhound – wearing a silver collar. The dog stood nearly a metre tall, its head at Henri’s waist. Henri turned and bowed to the two girls.

Henri, as in Tilly’s dream, was wearing breeches, stockings, a white shirt with cravat, waistcoat and tightly fitting jacket, although this time he was dressed mostly in black with a black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck, holding back his hair. His long dark locks were unpowdered, giving him a much more youthful appearance. His brown eyes looked melancholy.