The Ruby Talisman Read online

  Tilly shrugged noncommittally, hoping her eyes weren’t red. Kara gave her a huge bear hug and scanned her niece’s face, noting the pale, pinched skin, the unkempt brown hair and the puffy eyes.

  ‘Darling...’ soothed Kara, squeezing Tilly’s hand. ‘We are going to have a lovely weekend – and a little bit of girly spoiling. I haven’t bought your birthday present yet, and I thought we might go shopping tomorrow. It will be such fun. I don’t have a daughter to spoil, so I just have to lavish all my attention on you. I haven’t seen you for such a long time.’

  Tilly squirmed, picking at the hem of her school skirt.

  ‘I don’t worry much about clothes,’ Tilly admitted. ‘There doesn’t seem much point somehow.’

  ‘Why not, Tilly?’ replied Kara. ‘It’ll be fun. Come on. Let’s go home.’

  2

  The Heirloom

  Kara lived in a small sandstone terrace house in Annandale, where she ran her own interior design business.

  The house was gorgeous, painted in soft shades of white and cream, with polished timber floorboards, ornate plaster ceilings and old fireplaces. The first room was Kara’s office, the large antique desk littered with swatches of linen and silk. Other rooms opened off the narrow hallway, each one elegant yet inviting with their cosy arrangement of furniture, colourful Persian rugs and artwork.

  Kara showed Tilly up to the spare room, a tiny attic bedroom with a sloping ceiling. A dormer window looked out over the terracotta chimneypots and rooftops of Annandale. In the centre of the room was a large antique sleigh bed covered in crisp, white damask. A vase of purple lavender on the bedside table filled the room with its delicate scent.

  ‘We’re all on our own this weekend,’ Kara explained, tweaking the bedcover into place. ‘Andrew has taken Zac away for a boys’ weekend, so I thought we’d pick up some Thai takeaway and watch a movie. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ murmured Tilly, sharply reminded once more of Maddie’s sleepover. She would be stuck here with Aunt Kara all weekend, while her friends – her ex-friends– would be having a party. Tilly turned away sharply, fighting back the tears, and started to unpack her bag. Kara’s lovely but I’d much rather be hanging out with kids my own age, Tilly thought. How did it happen that I lost all my friends?

  Out came the baggy sweater, the faded jeans, the scuffed runners, a pair of worn pink flannelette pyjamas covered in brown teddy bears, and a pair of rainbow-striped bedsocks. The scruffy clothes looked completely out of place in the exquisite bedroom.

  Kara stifled a sigh.

  ‘There’s a shower in the little bathroom next door but, if you feel like it, you can have a long, hot soak in the bath downstairs,’ Kara offered. ‘I have all sorts of beautiful potions and lotions. There’s nothing like a hot bath to wash away all sorts of miseries.’

  Tilly smiled wanly. It would take more than a hot bath to wash away this misery, she thought.

  Kara gave Tilly a hug. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Come down when you’re ready.’

  The green, checked school uniform was exchanged for the sweater and jeans. The pink teddy bear pyjamas and rainbow socks were tucked under the pillows, and the schoolbag and backpack stowed in the wardrobe. There was nothing else for Tilly to do so she wandered downstairs to the spacious, light-filled kitchen at the back of the house.

  Kara was reading some work documents, which she hastily put aside when Tilly entered. A huge, white teapot sat on the bench next to two blue-and-white cups.

  ‘Any homework to do this weekend?’ asked Kara as she poured fragrant tea into the two cups.

  ‘A history assignment on the French Revolution,’ scoffed Tilly, lounging back and crossing her arms. ‘Discuss the causes, et cetera, et cetera. Blah, blah. Boring, boring.’

  Kara raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Chilling. Terrifying. Bloody. But hardly boring,’ she replied.

  ‘Did you know that one of your ancestors was a French aristocrat? Her family was killed during the Revolution and somehow, as a young girl, she escaped to England, travelling across France disguised as a laundress, so the story goes.’

  Tilly sat up, warming her hands on her teacup. ‘Really? I’d never heard that.’

  ‘Didn’t your mum tell you? Yes – most of our family was English, but we’re also part French. I like to think that’s where my love of style comes from,’ replied Kara, gesturing around at the gorgeous kitchen, interior design magazines and her own smartly tailored outfit.

  ‘The French flair must have missed me completely,’ retorted Tilly, pointing at her faded, baggy clothes.

  Kara laughed ruefully. ‘I think your own unique style is somewhat latent at the moment, but who knows when it will unfurl and blossom?’ she assured Tilly. ‘I think you’ll be a real beauty like your mum.’

  ‘Mum – a beauty?’ Tilly wrinkled her nose, thinking of Juliette’s worry furrows and new streaks of grey. ‘She’s just Mum.’

  Kara stroked Tilly’s shaggy, long fringe back from her face.

  ‘Actually, you’re named for our aristocratic ancestress,’ continued Kara.

  ‘Tilly?’

  ‘Mathilde. Her name was Amelie-Mathilde-Louise de Montjoyeuse,’ Kara explained. ‘There have been quite a few Amelies and Mathildes in our family over the last two hundred years.’

  ‘What a mouthful of a name!’ exclaimed Tilly. ‘I’ve never really liked Mathilde. The kids used to tease me by singing “Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda – who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?”’

  Kara laughed, putting down her teacup and patting Tilly on the hand.

  ‘Tilly is pretty, but Mathilde is a good strong name, too,’ Kara assured her. ‘It’s an old German name that means “battle mighty”, like a courageous warrior. Don’t you think that’s a fitting name for a brave ancestress? I’d love to know how Amelie-Mathilde came to escape the horrors of the Revolution. Imagine if she had been guillotined like Queen Marie-Antoinette?’

  A frown flickered across Tilly’s face. She had not known anything about the French Revolution or Marie-Antoinette. While her teacher had talked about it in class, Tilly had been doodling flowers in her diary.

  ‘Would you like to see the family heirloom?’ Kara asked suddenly. ‘My great-grandmother left it to me. According to family legend, it was the only belonging that Amelie-Mathilde managed to save from her family’s fortune when she fled to England. It’s stunning – and probably priceless – so I keep it locked in our safe. I hardly ever get it out.’

  Tilly’s face lit up – of course she was interested in a priceless family heirloom.

  Kara returned a few moments later with a small velvet pouch. Tenderly and reverently, she drew open the cord and lifted out a heavy gold chain. It glinted and shone in the light.

  Dangling from the chain was a flash of flame, a glow of jewels. Kara lay the pendant in Tilly’s palm. It filled her cupped hand like a puddle of blood.

  Tilly gasped in amazement. She had never seen anything so precious, so beautiful.

  A huge oval ruby, the size of Tilly’s thumb pad, glistened. Surrounding the central stone were ‘petals’ or ‘rays’ of smaller rubies and tiny, snowy seed pearls.

  ‘It’s a ruby flower,’ Kara explained. ‘Would you like to try it on?’

  Tilly nodded as Kara lifted the golden chain over Tilly’s head. The ruby nestled low on the chest of her blue sweater. Tilly stroked the gems with her fingers, the surface surprisingly cold and smooth. The heat and life of the ruby flame was merely an illusion.

  ‘Of course, originally this pendant would have been worn nestled in the décolletage of a very low-cut silk ball dress,’ Kara explained jokingly, ‘not worn with torn jeans and runners!’

  Tilly glanced self-consciously at her shabby clothes. She held the ruby pendant in her fingers and pressed the cool jewels to her face.

  ‘Come on – let’s order some takeaway,’ suggested Kara. ‘I’d love some Tom Ka Gai soup.’

  The evening passed ple
asantly, eating curry puffs and fishcakes, Tom Ka Gai and red chicken curry.

  After the movie Tilly wandered up to bed, yawning. She pulled on her pink flannelette pyjamas covered in brown teddy bears, and pulled her stripy rainbow bedsocks over her feet. As she cleaned her teeth, Tilly realised she was still wearing the priceless heirloom, the ruby talisman.

  She rubbed it gently with her fingertips then reluctantly took it off and placed it on her bedside table. As she fell asleep Tilly visualised the French ruby pendant, recreating its crimson fire. She felt herself diving into that vivid pool of colour and swimming down, down into a deep, vivid dream.

  3

  The Dream

  Candles blazed in a pair of gilt candelabra, bathing the small chamber in golden light.

  A girl sat on a stool in front of a dressing table covered in crystal bottles and jars. Behind her a maid fussed with her hair, coaxing a ringlet to fall just so over one shoulder. The girl looked pleased with her reflection. She had moon-pale skin, lustrous black hair and dark brown, almost black, eyes. Her hair was dressed high above her forehead, combed over horsehair pads to give it height, then fell at the back in long, glossy ringlets.

  The girl sat patiently as the maid fussed and primped. When at last she was satisfied with the ringlets, the maid stepped back to admire her work.

  ‘Merci, Claudette,’ murmured the girl, stroking the loose ringlet with her finger. ‘It looks very pretty.’

  ‘Now for the pomade and powder, mademoiselle,’ replied Claudette, picking up a jar of spicy-smelling cream.

  First she smeared Amelie’s hair liberally with the sticky pomade, then she deftly sprinkled white powder over the whole creation. The glossy black curls gradually disappeared under the white coating, changing the girl’s entire appearance. Lastly, the maid applied two strokes of rouge to give the illusion of flushed cheeks.

  ‘’Tis finished, mademoiselle,’ announced Claudette, gently removing the huge white wrapper that protected the girl’s clothes. ‘Madame la Comtesse would like to see you in her chamber.’

  The girl rose and gazed at her reflection in the gilt mirror. It had taken Claudette two hours to dress her.

  The gown was blue silk with a ladder of rose-pink bows down the centre of the tightly laced bodice. A white ruffle softened the neckline, with white lace ruffles at the elbow and hem. The wide skirts billowed over a support of panniers and flounced petticoats, while rose high-heeled satin shoes peeked from underneath.

  ‘Magnifique, mademoiselle,’ breathed Claudette. ‘I cannot believe you are the same convent schoolgirl who arrived home a few weeks ago.’

  The girl flicked open her fan and curtsied to her reflection, pretending to simper behind its painted shield.

  ‘Do you think the old Chevalier will like me?’ asked the girl, wrinkling her nose at her reflection.

  ‘Oui, of course, how could he not, mademoiselle?’ replied Claudette politely, her face expressionless.

  ‘Oh, I rather hope he will not!’ the girl explained. ‘I am sure he is old enough to be my grand-père, and he is probably stout. But if he will not marry me, what will I do?’

  ‘Madame is waiting, mademoiselle,’ Claudette reminded her.

  The girl nodded, stiffened her back and closed her fan, heading to the door.

  In the main chamber of the apartment a middle-aged woman sat on a sofa, wide gold skirts spread out on either side, hair towering half a metre above her head. Her face was permanently moulded into a haughty expression of disdain.

  Behind her stood a young negro pageboy, aged no more than ten, dressed in a white wig, tricorne hat, navy blue jacket and knee breeches, and white silk stockings, staring at the wall opposite him.

  A small brown monkey dressed in a matching gold gown nestled in the woman’s skirts, picking fleas from its feet. The girl sank into a graceful curtsey.

  ‘Ah, Amelie-Mathilde,’ sighed the woman. ‘Bon, you are ready at last – your curtsey has improved somewhat. Let me take a look at you. Of course, you are too thin, with no bosom to speak of. I hope the Chevalier will overlook that. You are still young, so it may yet develop.’

  Amelie flushed in embarrassment, her pleasure in the new dress completely shattered.

  ‘Oui, Tante Beatrice,’ replied Amelie, eyes downcast.

  ‘Your complexion is paler since you have been using the cream I procured.’ Tante Beatrice continued her critical examination.

  The young pageboy flicked a curious glance at Amelie, then his eyes returned to their impassive stare.

  ‘Now, let me see how Monsieur Le Dancing Master has fared with your deportment. Show me the walk,’ commanded Tante Beatrice.

  Amelie had been having regular lessons with a fashionable dancing master in Paris, who taught her the Versailles Glide – a graceful, floating walk that was deceptively difficult when wearing high heels; wide, panniered skirts; a long train and a tall, heavy hairdo of padded horsehair and feathers. He had shown her how to wield a fan and the many formal dance steps.

  Finally, he had taught her the different reverences required and when to use them, from the deep, obsequious curtsey reserved for royalty to the polite nod for those of lesser consequence.

  Amelie floated down the room, taking quick, little steps, her silk skirts shimmering and swaying in the candlelight.

  ‘Now – the presentation to the Queen,’ demanded Tante Beatrice.

  Amelie returned to the far end of the room. She pulled herself up regally, trying to look both modest and gracious. As she walked down the room, she made three deep curtseys, sinking at last at Tante Beatrice’s feet, as though to kiss her hem.

  ‘And a curtsey for the Chevalier.’

  This curtsey was not so deep and designed to be alluring.

  Tante Beatrice sighed, snapping her ivory fan shut in annoyance.

  ‘I just pray that the Chevalier will have you, or I do not know what we will do with you,’ moaned Tante Beatrice. ‘I hope that I have not wasted my money on gowns and dancing lessons for nothing. That convent obviously did very little for your education.’

  Amelie bit her lip, choking back a response. Thoughts of the convent school flooded back – the endless hours spent praying in the chapel on a cold, stone floor. Days spent locked in a pitch-black crypt as punishment for laughing. The boredom, the loneliness. Amelie shuddered. Nothing could be worse than returning to the convent school, unless of course it was being forced to marry a rich old man.

  A scratching sounded on the door, which opened to reveal an exquisitely dressed gentleman, Amelie’s uncle, the Comte. On his head was a carefully coiffed and curled white wig. His flared, purple silk jacket was open to reveal a lavishly embroidered waistcoat with flowers of gold and silver thread.

  A snowy cravat encased his throat, a large emerald and diamond pin nestled in its fold. In one bejewelled hand he held a green-and-gilt enamelled snuffbox and a lace handkerchief. Upon his legs were lilac satin knee breeches, a bunch of ribbons and rosettes at each knee and pale pink stockings. His shoes were very high-heeled and adorned with diamond buckles. He bowed slowly, flourishing his scented handkerchief.

  The monkey jumped up and down, chittering with annoyance, golden skirts flapping.

  ‘Mimi, chérie, that will do,’ soothed Tante Beatrice, stroking the monkey. ‘What do you think, monsieur?’

  Completely ignoring Amelie, the Comte flicked open his snuffbox and gracefully took a tiny pinch of powdered tobacco between his thumb and forefinger. He held this to his nostril and delicately sniffed. He snapped the box shut and dusted his fingers with the handkerchief.

  ‘The cinnamon blend is not my favourite, but it is quite tolerable, and the green snuffbox looks rather fine with this coat. Or do you prefer the amethyst and silver?’

  ‘Not the snuffbox, but your niece,’ corrected Tante Beatrice. ‘Amelie-Mathilde could hardly be called a beauty, but it might serve.’

  Hanging around his neck on a violet ribbon was an ornate quizzing glass, or lorgnette,
which the Comte held to one eye and pointed at Amelie.

  His gaze travelled from her white powdered hair, down her gown, to her rose satin shoes and back again to her powdered and rouged face. Amelie flushed but held her head high. She wondered if she might have a dab of dirt on her nose or a spot on her skirt.

  ‘She needs jewels,’ pronounced the Comte, dropping his quizzing glass with a sneer of disdain. ‘Can’t have her looking like a pauper’s brat.’

  Tante Beatrice frowned, stroking Mimi with her gloved hands. She picked up a small gold bell on the table and tinkled it. Tomas, the pageboy, stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘Tell Jacques to fetch my jewellery box,’ instructed Tante Beatrice with a flick of her hand. The pageboy hurried to obey.

  ‘Have you seen this snuffbox, madame?’ asked the Comte, eagerly stepping forward. ‘It is most cunningly wrought. Look, if you press this button it plays a birdsong.’

  The snuffbox began to play a tinny rendition of a nightingale tune. The Comte held out his hand to show Tante Beatrice and Amelie the green-and-gold box, with its intricate engravings of birds and flowers, encrusted with jewels.

  ‘You know I have a collection of over three hundred snuffboxes?’ the Comte informed Amelie, closing the box. ‘But this is my latest – it is uncommonly clever.’

  A scratch at the door announced the arrival of the two servants, Tomas and Jacques, carrying a leather-bound chest about sixty centimetres wide by thirty centimetres high, which was placed on the side table. Jacques bowed to the group and opened the chest for inspection, then stepped back against the wall with Tomas beside him. Both servants were dressed identically, although Jacques had a gold watch and fob chain as a sign of his greater superiority in the household.

  The chest was filled with tiers of trays, each lined in mulberry velvet, which folded out to reveal their contents. Tante Beatrice rummaged through the trays, the jewels glittering and sparkling in the candlelight – diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, pearls, rubies and amethysts made into every kind of jewellery imaginable.

  Mimi slyly slipped a wrinkled brown paw into the chest and snatched a diamond tiara and pearl bracelet. The monkey jammed the tiara on her head and the bracelet on her skinny wrist and then leapt up onto the back of the sofa, capering like a crazed hornpiper.