The Ruby Talisman Read online

  ‘Mimi,’ admonished Tante Beatrice. ‘Come back at once!’

  Mimi screeched with monkey laughter and scampered for the credenza.

  Amelie flicked her fan open and across her face to hide a giggle. Monsieur le Comte yawned and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his wide cuffs. Jacques kept his face resolutely straight ahead, but young Tomas couldn’t resist watching the monkey’s antics with wide eyes and a quickly repressed grin.

  ‘Jacques. Tomas,’ ordered Tante Beatrice. ‘Catch Mimi and retrieve my jewels.’

  The valet and young page gave chase. Mimi scampered away over the furniture, Tomas and Jacques close behind. Mimi removed the jewels and threw them inside a tall Chinese jar atop the credenza and leapt, shrieking, onto Tomas’s shoulder.

  She whisked off his tricorne and perched on his head, the hat now covering her own head and much of her tiny body. Mimi sat perfectly still, hiding, as though no-one could possibly see her in this perfect secret spot.

  Fluttering her fan furiously, Amelie doubled her efforts to mask her laughter as Jacques helped Tomas retrieve his hat and scooped the monkey from his powdered wig.

  ‘I should wring that wretched monkey’s neck,’ snarled the Comte, waving his handkerchief in annoyance. ‘This ludicrous fashion for exotic pets passes all bounds. Next you’ll be wanting a zebra.’

  Tante Beatrice held out her plump, braceleted arms, and Jacques safely returned Mimi with a bow.

  ‘I know just the thing,’ continued Tante Beatrice, searching in the very bottom of the chest.

  She pulled out a long gold chain, at the end of which flamed a crimson pendant. Amelie’s heart leapt.

  ‘Come, Amelie-Mathilde,’ ordered Tante Beatrice. ‘These rubies belonged to your mother. Your father bought them as a wedding present. They should suit admirably. Your mother left them to you, but I have kept them until you were old enough. There was a note with them, but I seem to have misplaced it. Wherever could it be?’

  Amelie leant down so Tante Beatrice could fasten the pendant around her neck, her eyes welling with tears at the thought of her long-dead parents. In the gilt mirror over the fireplace, Amelie could see her reflection, the dazzling ruby pendant nestled against her white chest. She stroked the precious stones gently with her gloved finger.

  ‘Of course, it would look better if Amelie-Mathilde had a décolletage to speak of, but that cannot be helped,’ complained Tante Beatrice. ‘What think you, chérie?’

  ‘Bracelets,’ announced the Comte, once more studying Amelie through his quizzing glass. ‘The pearls will finish the effect nicely.’

  ‘Not my pearls,’ argued Tante Beatrice. ‘They are too valuable for a mere chit of a girl.’

  ‘Indeed the pearls,’ snapped Monsieur le Comte, a flush of anger staining his chalk-white cheeks. ‘Have you forgotten what is at stake? The chit must be married off, and while the Chevalier may overlook the fact that she has no fortune, he must be reminded that she is from one of the oldest and finest families in France, even if her father was a sentimental fool. She needs diamonds, too – a hairclip, some earrings – perhaps buckles for her shoes.’

  Tante Beatrice nodded quickly, her eyes wide.

  The Comte puffed up his chest and twitched his coattails. ‘Make no mistake – I want that wretched girl married off, and if the Chevalier won’t have her, I’ll hold you responsible.

  ‘Now I must away. I am late for my card party and have wasted quite enough time on my tiresome niece. You know, I do think the amethyst snuffbox would be better. Jacques, why didn’t you think of it? Fetch the amethyst box at once.’

  Jacques stared straight ahead and bowed stiffly. ‘My apologies, monsieur. I will fetch it immediately.’

  The Comte bowed to his wife and tiresome niece, and left, followed by Jacques.

  Tante Beatrice sighed and extricated the pearl bracelets.

  ‘These are merely on loan to you until your engagement is fixed,’ scolded Tante Beatrice, slipping them onto Amelie’s thin wrist. ‘Do not lose them or it is more than your life is worth. Show me that curtsey again.’

  4

  Ball at Versailles

  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 gild
ed 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 livresa 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.

  5

  The Wish

  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?’