The Ruby Talisman (8 page)

Amelie paused, reminded of Henri’s mourning by his sombre attire. His face was still handsome, but more serious than she remembered.

‘Henri, I am so sorry about your maman and papa,’ consoled Amelie, stepping towards him. ‘It was a terrible shock. Is there any news of the brigands who attacked them?’

Henri shook his head, taking Amelie’s gloved hand in his own.

‘I doubt they will ever be found, Aimée,’ replied Henri. ‘The soldiers have too much on their hands just now with the riots in Paris and protecting the royal family to worry about another brigand attack.’

Henri looked out the window again towards the village. Not wanting to intrude on the family’s grief, Tilly stood back by the door.

‘Amelie, did I ever tell you the story of when I was born?’ asked Henri, gazing into the distance, absent-mindedly fondling his dog’s head. ‘When I was born my mother wrapped me in a swaddling cloth and sent me down to the village to be raised by a wet nurse.

‘I lived with that farmer’s wife for the first three years of my life. Most of the time, my parents were at Versailles or Paris. However, whenever my mother was here she would look out from her bedroom window and, at ten o’clock every morning, the wet nurse would wave a handkerchief to let her know I was still alive.’

Henri demonstrated with a flick of his own handkerchief. The huge dog pushed her nose into Henri’s hand and licked it.

‘My mother tried for many years for a child – to provide an heir for the title. She had several miscarriages and a daughter who died soon after birth. I was the only child to survive.

‘I don’t think she saw me until my third birthday when I was packed up, wailing for the wet nurse I thought was my mother, and delivered here to my parents to be raised by servants. Even then my parents seemed to take little interest in my wellbeing or education. It is hard to believe they are gone now.’

Amelie reached over and squeezed Henri on the arm. ‘I am so sorry, Henri,’ Amelie repeated gently. ‘I know what it is like to lose one’s parents.’

Tilly shifted, her mind welling with indignation.
What kind of mother would send her only child away to be raised by a wet nurse in the village? What kind of parents would depend on a handkerchief wave for the only news of their child’s wellbeing?

‘Oui,
Amelie,’ agreed Henri softly. ‘But your parents adored you.’

Henri noticed Tilly for the first time and smiled in half-embarrassed acknowledgement. Amelie saw his glance and turned impetuously.

‘Oh, Henri,
excusez-moi,’
Amelie apologised. ‘This is Mademoiselle Mathilde, although I call her Tilly. Tilly, this is my cousin, Henri, the Comte de Montjoyeuse, and his dog, Juju. Henri, I met Tilly in Versailles and she helped me escape. I hope you do not mind if she stays with us for a few days?’

Amelie suddenly glanced at Tilly, and they looked at each other in confusion.
How long would Tilly be staying? How could she ever get home to her own time?

Henri was too self-absorbed to notice the look or wonder why Amelie had brought Tilly. He bowed over her hand in welcome.

Juju the dog bowed also, crossing one paw over the other and lowering her head.

Tilly smiled in delight. ‘Oh, isn’t she gorgeous,’ she cried.

‘Oui,
Aimée, of course Mademoiselle Tilly is most welcome,’ Henri answered, patting Juju on the head. ‘How did you escape? I was so worried when all the servants returned without you, telling me wild stories of murdering brigands.

‘I planned to ride back to Versailles tomorrow to fetch you. I could not believe the news that you had arrived here safely all by yourselves. I do not understand why the servants left without you. They said you were with a friend, but tell me all about it.’

Amelie sat down in one of the armchairs, gesturing for Tilly to take another chair beside her. She spread her skirts and crossed her ankles.

‘Henri, we were attacked by brigands in the forest,’ Amelie exclaimed with relish now that they were safe at the chateau. ‘They threatened us with pistols, but I slashed them with my riding crop and Tilly charged them with her sword, and we escaped. It was terrifying.’

‘Mon Dieu,’
he exclaimed with shock. ‘Are you all right, Aimée? Were you hurt? You could have been killed!’ Henri glanced quickly from one girl to the other, searching for signs of injury.

‘Non,’
replied Amelie. ‘It all happened so fast.’

‘Amelie was very brave,’ offered Tilly shyly. ‘She tricked the men by pretending to swoon, then hit one of them across the face with her riding crop. He was taken completely by surprise.’

A servant arrived to inform them that dinner was served in the dining room in the west wing. Henri gallantly escorted both girls, one on each arm, while they continued to describe the attack and escape. Juju padded along behind them. The sinking sun blazed through the western windows, throwing a rose-coloured flush over the gardens and lake.

One of the servants moved to close the heavy velvet drapes, but Henri ordered him to leave them open. ‘It is such a gorgeous evening – it would be a shame to close out the light.’

The long table was set for three places at one end, with silver candelabrum aglow with candles, damask serviettes, flowers, silver cutlery and gold-rimmed porcelain. Three servants, one for each of the diners, carried in soup tureens and bread, placing them at the corners of the table. The servants in their livery then stepped back and stood silently against the wall, staring into space.

Henri and Amelie continued to chatter, oblivious to the servants standing watch behind them.

Juju flopped down under the table at Henri’s feet, quietly hoping for titbits.

The first course included a delicious, creamy chicken and leek soup, a mushroom and tarragon soup and a deep-brown onion soup. Tilly chose the mushroom soup served in flat, wide bowls with a dollop of cream and a sprinkle of chives.

Tilly stared in consternation at the bank of heavy silver cutlery in front of her – spoons, forks and knives of differing sizes, shapes and uses. She remembered her mother’s advice to always start from the outside implement and work your way in. Just to make sure, she observed Amelie, who picked up the rounded, flat spoon and took the soup from the back of the bowl. Tilly followed, silenced by the opulent surroundings.

Amelie chattered away, describing all that had happened to them over the last two days, except the extraordinary circumstance of waking up in bed next to a strange girl from another century dressed in hot-pink pyjamas and rainbow socks.

The servants cleared the soup and brought the next course: a butt of roast beef; crispy roast duck with sweet orange and redcurrant sauce; creamy potato gratin dauphinois; cauliflower with parmesan; mixed green leaf salad with vinaigrette; and crisp, green beans in nutty butter. The dishes were arranged artistically on the table, within reach of the diners.

The smells wafted through the room, making Tilly’s mouth water. Following Amelie’s example, Tilly helped herself to a small portion of each. The food was exquisite, and Tilly ate as though she hadn’t eaten for days.

This is one of the best meals I have ever had in my life,
thought Tilly as the orange sauce melted on her tongue.

Juju appeared from under the table, begging for a crispy slice of beef.

The next course was a game pie, with a pot d’oie – a whole goose stuffed with herbs and smaller game birds. Tilly could not even taste this course, she was so full. She pushed the stuffing around the plate with her fork aimlessly as Amelie explained how they had tricked the Chevalier and left him to book the wedding.

Henri’s sombre mood had lifted with the good food and Amelie’s merry tales. He laughed heartily at the thought of the Chevalier’s despondence on finding Amelie had flown. The servants cleared the plates, Tilly’s last course completely uneaten.

The next course was a platter of different cheeses from the local region: a creamy-white goat’s cheese; a strong, full-flavoured cheese with a thick rind of blue mould; and a gooey brie, melting on the plate. Mimi decided to reappear from the kitchen and grace them with her company, scampering in between the legs of one of the servants and nearly tripping him up as he carried in the cheese platter.

Henri and Amelie helped themselves to a wedge of each, while Tilly had the tiniest taste. Amelie was now describing the scene in the stable where the courtier had been trying to steal their horses.

‘Then Tilly drew her sword – well, your sword – and threatened him with death if he did not let go of Angelique.’ Amelie held her cheese knife in the
en garde
position.

‘You can use a sword?’ asked Henri. ‘I did not know that they taught young ladies to fence in these convent schools?’

‘No,’ replied Tilly with a blush. ‘I learnt at home from my fencing teacher.’

Henri was intrigued and leapt up from the table. ‘This I must see,’ he called, reaching above the fireplace to where a pair of duelling
épées
was hung. ‘Would you grace me with a demonstration, Mademoiselle Tilly,
s’il vous plaît?’

Tilly blushed still more, but reluctantly rose to the challenge, Amelie cheering her on. She took the
épée
and gauged the weight in her hand. It felt all wrong. She was wearing heavy, full skirts and high heels instead of her fencing uniform.

She had no helmet, no padded gloves, no body protection, and the
épée
felt too heavy and too lethal compared to the lightweight, safety-tipped weapon she fought with at home. Even worse, she did not have the fear and adrenalin that had driven her to challenge the horse thief in the stall.

Henri took his own
épée
and tested the weight, then stripped off his black coat and waistcoat to give him easier movement. Amelie moved excitedly from the table with the candelabra to give them better light.

‘Salut,’
said Tilly, lifting the
épée
in front of her face in the time-honoured
reverence.
Henri repeated her action with a warm smile.

‘En garde,’
she warned, moving her sword into the defensive position, right leg forward, skirts rippling in silken waves. Henri copied her movement.

‘Allez!’
she announced, her mouth dry with nerves, and leapt forward onto the attack. Henri responded but did not force the counterattack. Tilly felt the familiar routine return. Her eyes narrowed, her blood surged and her breath quickened. But this time there was no anger.

Tilly and Henri danced back and forth, swords flashing before them. Neither was trying to hurt the other, they were merely testing strength, agility and determination. Tilly watched her opponent like a cat, searching for openings.

Tilly’s fencing coach, Jack, described fencing as being like a strategic game of chess. The sport was as much about mental planning and thinking as the physical prowess.

Henri was a good fencer, but he was sad and distracted and fighting a much younger girl. So it was with a yell of surprise that Henri held up his
épée
in surrender when Tilly saw her chance and lunged, her sharp point resting just above Henri’s heart.

‘Fantastique,’
shouted Henri. ‘I can hardly believe my eyes. You are a good fencer. Let’s have another round – I vow you will not win so easily, my pretty warrior.’

Tilly flushed. She had never been called pretty by a boy before. She faltered.

Henri was more alert for the second round and bested Tilly, his sword coming to rest on her silk-swathed sword arm.

‘Bon.
Let us call it a draw,’ called Henri with a laugh. ‘I could not bear to be completely humiliated.’

Tilly smiled and nodded in acquiescence, her heart pounding from the exertion.

‘Do you know this move?’ asked Henri, demonstrating a particularly neat piece of footwork that ended in a lunge to the heart.

‘No,’ replied Tilly, watching him closely. Henri repeated the move slowly so Tilly could copy him. She practised several times, gradually gaining in speed.

‘Bon,’
Henri said with approval.
‘Très bon.’

Amelie clapped as Tilly ‘attacked’ her cousin with alacrity.

The servants came in to clear the cheese course and bring in the dessert without raising even an eyebrow at the sight of the young master fencing with a young girl beside the dinner table. Mimi was the first to the dining table, scooting onto the tabletop to check the desserts on offer.

Henri dropped his
épée
to the floor with a clatter.

Again there was an astonishing selection: hot-pink iced cupcakes, chocolate mousses and lemon and pear tarts. Mimi had helped herself to a cupcake and licked the icing off with her flickering tongue.

‘Bon,’
Henri cried. ‘It is my favourite – pear tarte tatin. You must try it, Mademoiselle Tilly.’

The tart glowed in the candlelight, golden glazed pears baked on crumbly pale pastry with thick clotted cream and a sauce of rich caramel.

Even Tilly was hungry again after her fencing bouts and enjoyed the tart with gusto. She laid aside her
épée
and sat at the table to ladle a dollop of cream and a spoonful of caramel over her tart. At last she was finished and pushed aside her plate with a sigh.

Amelie described the stone-throwing incident leaving Versailles and narrated the story of their long ride south through the French countryside.

‘Mon Dieu,
these are very troubled times,’ pronounced Henri with a frown, patting Juju’s head. ‘To think brigands are roaming the country unchecked and peasant boys are throwing stones at unprotected ladies. Where will it end?’

‘It will only get worse,’ insisted Tilly with uncharacteristic forcefulness. ‘This is only the beginning. Thousands will die before it is done.’

Amelie shivered with apprehension. Henri stared at Tilly in surprise but did not challenge her statement.

In the sudden silence, they heard a distant noise. Servants quickly and quietly left the room. Juju barked furiously, jumping to her paws and galloping to the window. Henri listened.

There were snatches of music, of singing, of chanting. The banging of a drum. Amelie glanced out the windows. In the distance she saw a flare of flames, vivid against the darkness.

Tilly felt a knot of dread in the pit of her stomach. The chanting and noise and flames drew inexorably closer.

‘What is it?’ asked Amelie. ‘It sounds as though the villagers are celebrating some festival or other.’

‘I do not think it is a feast day today?’ asked Henri. ‘They sound as though they are coming to the chateau.’

Henri rang the bell to call the servants back to ask if they knew what was happening. The torches now reflected in the waters of the lake.

‘The villagers are coming here,’ observed Tilly. ‘I don’t think they’re coming to the chateau on a social visit.’

‘Where are the servants?’ asked Henri impatiently after no-one answered his summons. He rang the bell again more urgently. Still no-one came.

Amelie stood up and hurried to the window. The villagers were closer now. In the light of the torches, it was now possible to see details of the crowd.

Most of the villagers – men, women and children– carried tools over their shoulders: pitchforks, scythes, rakes, shovels. Some waved knives in the air. The calls and chants became clearer. Mimi followed Amelie and chattered angrily through the window, waving her tiny fists.

‘Down with the
aristos.
Long live the Third Estate. Seize the manor papers. Burn the rental contracts,’ echoed the chant.

‘This is not good,’ warned Tilly, standing up and fumbling for the
épée
she had discarded under the table.

After escaping the terrible events of Versailles, she had felt so safe at Chateau de Montjoyeuse. The relief at arriving, the hot bath, the sumptuous dinner – now her sense of security was crumbling fast.

The first of the villagers was almost at the chateau, running up the steps to the terrace, their wooden sabots clattering on the stone paving. Henri picked up the sword he had been fencing with and stowed it in his belt. Juju left the window to stand guard at his feet.

‘Amelie, take Mademoiselle Tilly upstairs,’ Henri ordered. ‘I will deal with the villagers. They are lambs, really, and will not hurt me.’

‘They don’t look like lambs,’ contradicted Tilly. ‘They look bloodthirsty.’

‘Non,’
remonstrated Henri. ‘These people have lived on our lands for generations. They love our family like their own. They will not harm me. I lived in the village among them for the first three years of my life. Look, see – there is Jean-Pierre, my milk brother, the son of my wet nurse.’

The crowd of villagers looked ugly and fearsome. Dressed in torn and ragged clothing, with sabots or bare feet, their faces were filthy and twisted with rage. Drawn like moths to the bright lights of the dining room, they pressed their faces to the glass doors, banging their fists against the windows. Amelie drew instinctively towards Tilly, Henri and Juju.

‘Look at them, stuffing their faces while we starve,’ jeered one man, shaking his scythe. ‘What have they eaten – four courses or five? I bet that dog eats better than us.’

‘Look at the pretty mesdemoiselles in their silks and their lace,’ sneered the one Henri had called Jean-Pierre. ‘Will they look quite so pretty when we’ve finished with them? And how about the new Comte? We’ve come to pay our respects, monseigneur.’

With this he lifted his pitchfork and mimed stabbing it into Henri’s heart. The crowd laughed and cheered, waving their smoking torches and flaming brands. Juju growled deep in her throat.

Tilly swallowed a mouthful of bitter bile – or was it fear?

‘Bonsoir,
Jean-Pierre,’ Henri said with a stiff smile, although he didn’t sound quite so confident now that he was dealing with ‘lambs’. ‘How is your maman?’

‘Oh, Monseigneur le Comte remembers me now, does he?’ sneered Jean-Pierre. ‘We were raised in the same house, and he was fed from my mother’s breast, yet he doesn’t know my mother died last winter while he was feasting at Versailles?’

Jean-Pierre turned to the villagers, gesticulating wildly with his pitchfork. The villagers shouted and booed, shaking their own weapons.

‘It was always the way, though,’ continued Jean-Pierre. ‘When the monseigneur lived in our house, there was always plenty of food for him, while we were lucky to eat his leftovers and go to bed with an empty belly.’

‘Jean-Pierre, I am truly sorry about your maman,’ replied Henri. ‘She was a kind woman.’

‘My mother died of a broken heart and broken promises. I have sworn to revenge your father’s neglect.’

The crowd of villagers roared with approval, surging forward, rattling the windowpanes.

‘Amelie, go upstairs – now,’ Henri ordered.

Amelie clutched at Tilly’s arm.

‘We can’t leave you, Henri,’ argued Tilly. ‘I think they really mean to hurt you.’

Jean-Pierre lifted his pitchfork and slammed it through the window.

Shards of glass hit Tilly, scratching her arms and hands where she had raised them to protect her face. The crowd cheered again. Juju leapt for the window, barking furiously. Mimi scuttled under the dining table, her paws over her ears.