The Ugly Sister by Winston Graham

Queen’s reception, even though I could not guess what it had been about.
    After Fetch had left, I began to go out more, on the lawns, and I would loiter a few minutes each day on the little stone quay. The storm of last Thursday week had broken the spell of fine weather, and I had stared out from one window or another of the house at scuttling clouds and curtains of hard-driven rain. As the weather at last cleared, we had a couple of days of sea fog which cloaked Falmouth entirely but only just reached our headland and creek. Being right on the edge of the fog, you could watch it coming and going, moving like engine smoke. One minute the sun would be blazing, burning hot, then it would pale and glow like a new penny trying to break through the shifting mists.
    It was on the second of these days when I had come from a walk exercising Parish that the second parlourmaid, an elderly woman called Vennor, told me that there was a letter for me.
    â€˜Letter? Where? Who brought it? …’
    â€˜Young Gunnel. Him what brings the papers and the magazines. He’s just gone. You just missed ’im.’
    I ran into the entrance hall and looked round. On a silver tray, such as one uses for visiting cards, was a small package addressed to Miss Emma Spry. My mother and sister were out, so no one had seen it who would want to know its contents. I tore it open. A small cardboard box. Inside the box was a brooch in the form of a starfish. Pinkish in colour, the stones looked like coral, or imitation coral. Something you might find in an antique shop. With a little gold pin at the back. But the message? I peered into the box and could find nothing. I pulled at the wrapping and the tissue paper in which the brooch had been wrapped. Nothing.
    He had sent this without comment, without greeting, without suggesting that we might meet. Of course, it was infinitely certain whom it was from. Certain only to me. Was he being as cautious as that? He did not have the reputation for such caution. So had he sent it as a joke, a promise, a reminder? I could hear his laugh, see the narrowed eyes, full of predatory fun. Laugh, my little starfish, he was saying. Wear the badge because now you belong to me. My flesh crept. I did belong to him. I felt like a chattel, ready to do what I was told. Did he have many women like me, accepting his favours, waiting for his favours? In what way was I unusual? Just another scalp?
    Part of me seethed with anger, part of me prickled with something like pride. I thought, I shall destroy myself – otherwise he will destroy me. Why was I born, mutilated, weak as a kitten yet militantly angry?
    There was a step in the hall. I crushed the brooch back into the box and dropped it in a drawer. Tamsin.
    â€˜Where’s Desmond?’ she said.
    â€˜I haven’t seen him.’
    â€˜Where have you been?’
    â€˜Walking Parish. Is Mama here?’
    â€˜She’s been out but has a headache, so has gone to lie down.’
    â€˜I see.’
    Tamsin looked me up and down curiously.
    â€˜What were you up to that night?’
    â€˜What night?’
    â€˜You know very well. Did you really stay at Blundstone’s Hotel?’
    â€˜Of course!’
    â€˜On your own? You know you’ve broken all the rules of decent behaviour? Why did you not call on Mrs Elizabeth Fox or the Millets? They would have given you a bed for the night.’
    â€˜You’ve no idea what the storm was like,’ I said. ‘I went down to the boat: you know I was determined to get home; but that took me right to the wrong end of the town; I was soaked and nearly blown away. What else could I have done? I was sorry to offend the Mrs Grundys of the town, but I didn’t expect my sister to be one!’
    It was strange how that wonderfully pretty face could close up and become mean. I was quite used to the change, but very few other people were shown it.
    â€˜Call me what you like, but I’m right: