The Silk Merchant's Daughter Read Free

on to a chair.
    ‘Bad dog.’ Yvette shook her fist, but too late, for the pup had stolen a croissant and retreated beneath the table to wolf it down.
    Nicole laughed. ‘But he is adorable.’
    ‘I wish I’d been old enough to come to your party. Did you have dancing?’
    ‘Later on, though the evening was so beautiful, nobody really wanted to come inside.’
    Lisa glanced at her watch. Yvette wasn’t really supposed to have breakfast in the house but it was a little routine the three of them enjoyed. ‘You’d better be off,’ Lisa said and glanced upwards.
    Nicole was set to disagree, but Yvette jumped off her chair, Trophy barking at her heels.
    ‘Quiet or you’ll wake up the house,’ Yvette said, and picked upthe puppy, who smothered her face with licks. She dashed out through the back door by means of the conservatory, where the spicy smell of ginger from Lisa’s reed-like plants infused the air.
    As soon as Yvette had gone Nicole kissed Lisa on the cheek.
    ‘I can’t believe you’re eighteen, my darling girl,’ the cook said and sniffed. ‘It seems like only yesterday …’
    Nicole grinned. ‘Now don’t you get all soppy. I have important things to do.’
    ‘Like?’
    ‘Like planning the rest of my life.’
    ‘Something to do with that American chap you’ve got your eye on?’
    ‘I don’t know when I’ll see him again.’ Nicole paused at the sudden realization that she had no idea how long Mark would be in Hanoi. But she hoped that the Paris of the Orient, as the French liked to call the watery city, would cast its seductive spell on him.
    It was only the three of them at table for supper. The smaller of the two dining rooms in the Duval villa fronted a small thatched pavilion where oversized wicker chairs and a glass coffee table sat beside a lily pond. A pretty carved lacquer screen sat in one corner, partitioning off a small desk and sofa where Sylvie liked to write. As Nicole had wasted what little time she’d had to tidy up before supper, reading a book, she combed her hair with her fingers and glanced at the ceiling. Painted blue with fluffy white clouds and cherubs flying round the central ceiling fan, she’d never liked it.
    From the garden next door, Nicole heard the sound of peacocks.
    ‘Damn things,’ her father said. ‘Dreadful squawking racket.’
    ‘But they are beautiful,’ Nicole said. ‘Don’t you think?’
    ‘Why does she have to keep them in her garden? They drive me crazy.’
    ‘Father’s right,’ Sylvie said. ‘They are terribly annoying.’
    After that they ate in silence. Despite the slow movement of the fan it was too hot. The heavy silk curtains, restrained with gold tasselled cords, had not been closed, and light muslin drapes fluttered through a mere suggestion of air. More peacock shrieks only served to darken their father’s mood.
    They were finishing the dessert when he glanced at Sylvie and Nicole before speaking. ‘I’m glad you’re both here.’
    The sisters exchanged looks. There had been an uneasy atmosphere in the house lately: messages delivered by thin, tense men in army whites, the phone ringing off the hook and Papa looking increasingly strained. Nicole had noted the rapid rise in the number of Americans visiting the house and had come to the conclusion they must be from the Central Intelligence Agency. When she’d asked Sylvie, however, her sister had been non-committal. It seemed neither girl knew the reason behind it.
    Their father shifted a little in his seat. ‘Now that you’re eighteen, Nicole, I want to explain my plans. I had expected to be talking about this when you were both over twenty-one, but as I’m taking on a role with the government now, that has changed.’
    ‘In what way?’ Sylvie said.
    ‘In a way that means I won’t be available to take care of the business.’
    ‘What role is this, Papa?’ Nicole asked.
    ‘The exact nature of the task is classified, but with all my Vietnamese contacts they seem to think