The Silk Merchant's Daughter by Dinah Jefferies

said, pretending innocence.
    ‘Your dress. I thought …’
    Sylvie laughed.
    Nicole felt the pressure building behind her eyes. She must not cry. But compared with her sister’s understated elegance, she felt stupid and overdressed. ‘Why are you trying to ruin my life?’
    Sylvie flicked a stray hair from her eyes. ‘Don’t be melodramatic. It was only a joke. You look all right.’
    Nicole sprawled in her armchair, digging her broken nail into her palm. Her sister had chosen her words for maximum damage. Who wanted to look ‘all right’?
    ‘So? Are you coming?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do come. They’re going to take photos and I want you to be in them too.’
    ‘You want me to look hideous beside you?’
    Sylvie threw back her head and laughed again. ‘You’re being ridiculous. I told you: it was a joke.’
    Nicole glanced up. Sylvie was still smiling. She can stand for hours, Nicole thought, waiting for me to make a fool of myself.
    ‘You always blamed me. Didn’t you?’
    ‘For what?’ said Sylvie.
    ‘You know.’
    ‘I was a child, Nicole. A five-year-old little girl who’d lost her mum.’
    ‘Just go,’ Nicole said without raising her voice.
    ‘You don’t look all that bad. I could do your hair?’
    Nicole didn’t reply.
    Sylvie turned on her heels and closed the door quietly as she left.
    Nicole’s mood plummeted. It wasn’t only jealousy; more that Sylvie’s triumph brought to the surface the old buried feelings of insecurity. She glanced out of her bedroom window as the velvet sky became shot through with silver. It was supposed to have been such a glorious night.
    She thought of the day she and Mark had gone out in the boat. The memory made her smile and gave her the push she needed to do something to save the night. It was her own fault for trying to copy Sylvie, but she could not let that defeat her now. She picked up a pair of nail scissors and began to alter her dress. Although she did her best, it was difficult working with silk, and in a moment of inattention she sliced through the fabric of the dress, making a hole. She tore the rose off and flung it at the wall. She felt angry with Sylvie and furious with herself for letting it matter. It hurt far more than a damaged dress ought to hurt; it struck at the truth of who they both were.
    She heard a knock at the door.
    ‘Go away,’ she shouted, and threw herself back in her chair, thinking it was Sylvie again.
    ‘Aren’t you going,
chérie
?’
    Nicole turned to see Lisa standing in the doorway. When the cook came across and hugged her, Nicole attempted to choke back the tears.
    ‘Dry your eyes. You’re coming with me.’
    ‘I can’t wear this,’ Nicole said, her voice shaking.
    ‘No, you can’t. We are going to find you something farbetter. It’s time you understood you don’t have to look French to be beautiful.’
    Though Nicole smiled, she wasn’t convinced.
    An hour later Nicole paused at the entrance to the ballroom, gazing at the glittering chandeliers and panels of mirrors. Dozens of expensive scents mingled with that of white roses interwoven with trailing ivy round all the columns. Smart waiters balancing trays of champagne nipped here and there among the crowd, and the orchestra at the opposite end had struck up a tango. At first, feeling destined to imitate one of the marble statues in the gardens, Nicole couldn’t move. But, as the music soared, she felt a rush of excitement. She pulled her shoulders back and, moving slowly, glided in.
    She had arrived late and the ball was in full swing. Now, transfixed by the women dazzling in shimmering fabrics decorated with sequins, pearls and rhinestones, it seemed as if the spell of luxury had wiped away the troubles of the past. It was all colour and light, and in this delicious moment, with the fragrance of roses permeating the air, the best of their French colonial world shone for all to see. Nicole felt it would be the night of her life, after all.
    Earlier, after