What’s the date today?’ asked Tilly suddenly. ‘July the fourteenth,’ answered Amelie after a moment’s hesitation.
‘And the year?’
‘Seventeen hundred and eighty-nine, of course.’
‘Bastille Day – the day the French peasants stormed the Bastille and tore it down.’
‘Impossible,’
exclaimed Amelie. ‘That could never happen. The National Guard would not allow it. The fortress is impenetrable. I know the peasants have been rioting and lobbying for more power, but they could never overthrow La Bastille. It is too well guarded.’
‘Amelie. They did. Today is the start of the French Revolution.’
Amelie shook her head adamantly, eyes wide, clutching the bedsheets in her hands.
‘Non.
You are making it up. How could you possibly know?’
The girls squabbled back and forth for several minutes. Tilly jumped off the bed and strode around the dim chamber, anger flaring up once more at Amelie’s refusal to listen, to believe that her world was about to crumble into chaos. She twisted the ruby in her fingers in her agitation.
‘You know,’ said Tilly bitterly, ‘I fell asleep last night in my world, in another country, in another century; and I fell asleep wishing that I could have some adventure and excitement in my life, just like my long-ago ancestress, Amelie-Mathilde, who was so brave and strong that she escaped the terror of the Revolution.
‘But instead I find my ancestress is just a silly, stupid girl. Not brave at all. Too silly to accept that her world is changing and will never, ever be the same.’
Amelie stared, shocked, as though she had been slapped.
‘Ancestress?’ she asked. ‘I am your ancestress?’
‘Yes,’ insisted Tilly. ‘Look at my ruby pendant. It’s my family’s priceless heirloom, which has been handed down from generation to generation for more than two hundred years. Even my name is yours – Mathilde, though everyone calls me Tilly.’
Both girls stared at the matching pendants: one shining, one scarred.
‘Mon Dieu,’
murmured Amelie, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘’Tis
impossible.’
‘I know it’s impossible,’ replied Tilly. ‘But somehow, by some magic, I’ve come back in time two centuries. It must be something to do with the ruby pendant.
‘The night before, I was wearing the pendant but took it off before I went to sleep, and I dreamt about you. I saw you practising your curtseys with your aunt, and I saw you at a ball, where you met your cousin, Henri, and the Chevalier.’
Amelie blushed a deep red at the thought that Tilly had seen and heard her conversations with her cousin and intended fiancé.
‘That all happened a few weeks ago, not recently,’ Amelie declared.
Tilly nodded. ‘Then last night, or tonight – whatever it is – I fell asleep
wearing
the rubies, and when I woke up I was here.’
‘Oui,
I too fell asleep wearing the rubies, which I never usually do,’ agreed Amelie. ‘But I wanted to feel closer to my maman and papa.’
Amelie felt she had said too much and climbed out of bed. She scampered to the window, drawing back the heavy silk drapes. Tilly followed her, curious to see what lay outside.
The view was awe-inspiring. Immediately below was a huge terrace and a grand staircase leading down to the formal, geometric gardens and lake. The grounds were vast, stretching from the meticulous design of topiaries, statues, fountains, clipped hedges, gravel paths and lawns, away to artificial lakes and woodland.
Mist hovered over the waterways and trees, and the grounds were shadowy in the dawn light.
‘It is early. Do you want to go for a walk? I can show you Versailles. My aunt and uncle were at a ball last night and will not wake for hours. We could go and visit my horse. My uncle gave her to me so I could go riding with the Chevalier. She is beautiful. I call her Angelique.’
Tilly frowned. ‘I don’t think we should – the Revolution – it might be dangerous.’
Amelie huffed with disbelief. ‘Do not be ludicrous. I told you there are hundreds of highly trained Swiss Guards protecting the palace. The King is so sure of his safety that commoners are allowed to traipse right into his very bedroom.’
Tilly glanced out the window at the serenity of the grounds. Curiosity won over fear. She nodded enthusiastically. It would be wonderful to walk around eighteenth-century Versailles and see what it was really like.
‘But first we must dress you,’ suggested Amelie. ‘My clothes should fit, although you are taller than me. I hope the skirts do not reveal too much of your ankle.’
In the corner of the room was a large armoire, which held most of Amelie’s clothes. Amelie rummaged through the linens and silks to find what she needed. She gave Tilly a pile of clothes and instructed her to change behind the bed curtains. Tilly was confused by the array of items.
Amelie saw her face and laughed.
‘This is the informal morning dress,’ Amelie assured her. ‘The court dresses are much harder to put on, especially with the big, wide panniers. It took me a while to get used to it. At the convent we wore very simple gowns. This is the chemise – put that on first, then I will help you.’
The chemise was a linen shift that came to mid-calf. This was followed by silk stockings that were tied over the knee with coloured tape, and an underskirt.
‘What about undies?’ asked Tilly. ‘I mean drawers ... or pantaloons – whatever you call them.’
Amelie looked at Tilly blankly. ‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘Doesn’t matter, I’ll wear my own,’ replied Tilly hurriedly.
Next was a pair of stays, which the girls had to help each other lace up at the back.
‘It’s too tight,’ complained Tilly, huffing and squirming. ‘I can hardly breathe.’
‘You will become accustomed to it,’ Amelie remarked callously. ‘Apparently the Queen refused to wear stays when she came to Versailles as a young girl from Austria. It caused a huge scandal. Of course she had to give in.’
Tilly gave a strong tug on Amelie’s laces in revenge.
‘They are nowhere near as tight as when Claudette does them,’ scoffed Amelie. ‘She makes my eyes water.’
Two more petticoats went over the top. Lastly, a white gown of sheer, floating muslin was pulled over the head and tied around the waist with a lilac sash.
‘Look at your enormous feet,’ exclaimed Amelie. ‘You cannot possibly wear any of my shoes. We will have to borrow some of Henri’s. He is home at the chateau for a few weeks, so he will not notice.’
Amelie slipped her own feet into a pair of embroidered green satin shoes with curved-up toes, curved high heels and silver buckles.
‘Now for our hair.’
Amelie parted Tilly’s brown hair from ear to ear, and made a high bun on top of her head. The front section and the untidy fringe were teased up and pinned over the top of the bun, to give it extra height. The rest of her hair hung long at the back, and Amelie coaxed this into long curled ringlets.
Finally, Amelie dusted some powder and a hint of rouge onto Tilly’s cheeks, adding a slick of balm on her lips.
‘There,’ announced Amelie. ‘Not as good as Claudette’s
toilette,
but it will do.’
Tilly examined herself in the mirror – she looked completely different. Tilly smiled at herself. What had Aunt Kara said? One day she might be a real beauty? Tilly had scoffed but, seeing herself transformed in the mirror, she thought she looked prettier than she ever had before.
‘And this is an informal look?’ asked Tilly in amazement.
‘We call this
deshabille,
or “undress”, whereas to dress for court takes hours!’ Amelie replied with her gurgling laugh. ‘When Queen Marie-Antoinette had her portrait painted wearing a gown like this, it once again caused a scandal.’
‘Could that poor lady do anything right?’ Tilly asked.
‘She lives her whole life in the public eye,’ Amelie said. ‘She cannot even take a bath without a bevy of ladies-in-waiting hovering in attendance. Aristocratic ladies, like Tante Beatrice, squabble for the right to pass the Queen her nightgown.’
By this time, Amelie had finished her own hair in a similar style. The girls donned gloves and straw hats trimmed with flowers. Amelie fetched a pair of Henri’s black shoes, and they were ready to go out.
By now, the sun was up. The girls slipped out of Amelie’s boudoir and into the drawing room, with its green silk wallpaper, white wainscoting and gilded furniture.
Mimi was sleeping curled up on the brocade sofa. She awoke and scampered over to Amelie and Tilly, chattering noisily. Mimi sniffed at Tilly suspiciously, turned her back on her and clambered up Amelie’s skirts to sit on her shoulder, hairy brown arm entwined around Amelie’s neck.
‘Bonjour,
Mimi
chérie,’
Amelie whispered.
‘Isn’t she gorgeous? I’ve never seen a tame monkey before.’ Tilly tried to stroke Mimi’s back, but the monkey bared her fangs and hissed.
‘Do not mind Mimi. She takes a while to warm to people. Would you care for some breakfast?’ asked Amelie.
Tilly’s stomach grumbled, and she nodded fervently. ‘Yes, please.’
‘I will call for Claudette.’ Amelie reached over and rang the bell on the sideboard.
In a few moments, Claudette appeared with a demure curtsey. She glanced curiously at the early-morning visitor but merely nodded as Amelie gave her orders. She soon returned with a platter of warm, flaky croissants, pastries and rolls of soft, white bread, covered with white linen. An oval rosewood table was already set with cutlery and fine porcelain. Crystal dishes held curls of golden butter, berry jam and creamy honey.
A small spirit stove was set up on the sideboard with the makings for hot chocolate beside it. In a small saucepan, Claudette added bitter, grated chocolate, an egg yolk, sugar and cream, which she gradually heated over the flame, constantly whisking the mixture while it thickened. Soon the smell of sweet hot chocolate mingled with the croissants. When Claudette had served the chocolate, she curtseyed once more and withdrew.
‘Claudette usually wakes me with my morning
chocolat,’
commented Amelie. ‘When my aunt has her morning tea she requires three maidservants to serve it. One pours the teapot, one holds the cup and adds the sugar, and another must pass Tante Beatrice the teacup on a silver salver.’
‘How ridiculous,’ said Tilly. ‘I think I would hate having all those people fussing around me all the time.’
The girls sat at the table and sipped on the frothy hot chocolate. The croissants were light, fluffy and buttery, a perfect match for the sweetness of the raspberry jam.
‘This is absolutely delicious – and so
French,’
enthused Tilly, helping herself to another croissant. ‘I can’t think of a better breakfast.’
‘Croissants are actually Austrian,’ noted Amelie, feeding Mimi some flaky crumbs. ‘The Queen introduced them from Vienna when she was a girl. The King prefers to eat chops and pigeons and boar’s head and ox tongue for breakfast. You should see what that man can eat in a single sitting. It is quite an entertainment at court to watch the King dine.’
When the girls had finished eating, they left their plates and cups on the table, slipped through the Comte’s apartment, past the footman at the front door and out into the corridor.
‘Versailles is more like a city than a palace,’ explained Amelie as they pattered along the tiled corridor, passing numerous locked doors, which presumably led to other apartments similar to the one they had come from. ‘Thousands of courtiers, aristocrats and servants live here, dancing attendance on the King and Queen.’
‘What’s that terrible smell?’ asked Tilly, nearly gagging. There was an overpowering stench – a mixture of stale urine, dog poo and perhaps something dead. A creature scuttled beside the skirting board in the shadows. It was a large brown rat, its tail writhing in the air.
Tilly shrieked. Mimi jumped up and down on Amelie’s shoulder, chittering in disgust.
‘You become accustomed to it,’ Amelie assured her, stroking Mimi to calm her down. ‘Or at least a little. The odour is worse on a hot day. Many of the courtiers keep pets, which run freely throughout the palace, and there are not enough privies for all the people who live here. We all pretend not to notice it.’
‘It would be a bit hard to miss!’ retorted Tilly, holding her lace handkerchief over her nose.
‘Do you know,’ Amelie added with a giggle, ‘that one day a lazy maid actually tipped a brimming chamber-pot out a window onto Marie-Antoinette’s head when she was Dauphine? Can you imagine that?’
Tilly shivered with revulsion. ‘How disgusting!’
They passed servants scurrying along with trays and baskets, a couple of dandies staggering back from a late-night card game, two pages gossiping outside a doorway and a large grey Persian cat with a diamond collar, licking its paw. The corridors were like busy laneways.
The girls swept down three flights of stairs, through another long passage and out into the open air. A huge court lay before the palace, separating it from the town of Versailles, the uneven cobbles strewn with straw, manure and debris. Cobble sweepers worked their way across the courtyard, chatting and laughing.
As well as the strong smell, Tilly noticed the noise. There were people everywhere, now bustling about their business: red-coated soldiers, grooms, black-clad priests, servants, tattered beggars, vendors, chambermaids, tradesmen and haughty nobles.
Bells rang, stallholders shouted their wares, carriages rattled over the pavement, dogs barked, women gossiped. Armies of servants hurried on errands, dressed in the various colours of their livery – blues, greens, crimsons and pink. As well as those in the extravagant clothes of the nobles and their servants, many wore the shabby, ragged work clothes of the very poor.
Looking back, Tilly gazed in awe at the grand, golden palace behind her. Its sheer size dwarfed everything around it.
Tilly stared all about her, intrigued by everything she saw. A shiver ran up her spine. Where were the revolutionaries? When would the violence begin? Amelie led the way across the forecourt to the vast network of palace stables. At last, the girls found their way to the stalls that had been allocated to the Comte.