The Cinderella Moment (35 page)

“Go on, Angel, remember—
fortuna favet fortibus
.”

It was Nick.

She looked around and there he was, standing between his parents smiling at her, his brown eyes warm and affectionate, urging her on.

 “Fortune favors the bold,” whispered Angel.

Every voice fell silent as she passed through the crowd and halted in front of the girl who had so ruthlessly tried to steal her dream.

They faced each other: Clarissa, tall and elegant, a magnificent ice-queen in midnight-blue velvet and silver gauze, and Angel: soft and ethereal, an otherworldly creature in an identical gown.

Angel critically examined Clarissa’s dress. Right down to the delicately embroidered silver angel on the bodice; it was a mirror image of her own.

She stared into the cat-like green eyes of her enemy.

“Hello, Clarissa.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” said Clarissa haughtily and turned away.

“Oh, don’t go,” said Angel. “Not when it’s about to get interesting.”

“I don’t speak to thieves,” said Clarissa curtly. “I don’t know how you have the nerve to be here in the gown that I designed.” She looked tragically around the ballroom.

Angel saw several people nod sympathetically.

As if sensing her advantage, Clarissa said, “I’m sorry for you, because I know what it is to dream. But I forgive you for stealing my design.”

All around them people murmured their approval of her magnanimity.

But Angel said, “
Your
design?”

“That’s right,” replied Clarissa firmly.

“Then tell me, Clarissa, why the silver angel?”

To her surprise, Clarissa laughed. “Isn’t it obvious?” She touched the embroidery on her bodice. “It’s my logo: ‘Angel Designs.’ Didn’t you know?”

Angel gasped. “You’re lying! You—”

Clarissa interrupted, “You’re the only liar here.” She glanced round the ballroom. “We all know that.”

Angel took a deep breath. “Okay, if the angel is your logo then you can tell us how you made it.”

“Well, duh, I embroidered it, obviously.”

“Yes, but how?” persisted Angel.

“I have my methods,” said Clarissa loftily.

“I’d like to hear them.”

“As if I’d share confidential design information with a thief,” retorted Clarissa.

“Then share it with me,” said Lily, stepping out of the crowd. “I’d love to hear all about
your
design.”

“Me too,” called Kitty, letting go of Giles’s hand and running forward to stand beside Angel. “If you’re the designer, then you can tell Lily—I mean Angel—what she wants to know.”

“I don’t have to tell her anything,” snapped Clarissa, glaring at the trio.

“Then perhaps you can tell me,” said a voice. They all turned to see Antoine Vidal coming towards them. “The embroidery on this gown is of a particularly high standard and I should like to hear how you achieved it.”

Clarissa paled slightly, but held her ground. “It
…
it’s tambour beading.”

Vidal nodded. “Yes, I see that. And what sort of implement did you use?”

Clarissa hesitated, and then said firmly, “A tambour needle.”

Vidal nodded and turned to Angel. “And you, mademoiselle, how did you achieve this effect?” he asked, pointing at her silver angel.

“With a Lunéville hook,” replied Angel. “My mother taught me when I was little.”

“I see,” said Vidal. He looked thoughtfully at Angel and then turned to Clarissa. “You have created a magnificent ball gown, mademoiselle,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me about the thinking behind your design?”

“My
…
my thinking?” echoed Clarissa.

“Yes. Every designer has their inspiration and I’m sure we’d all like to hear about yours. For instance, why the silver gauze?”

For a split second Clarissa’s knuckles showed white as she gripped her trophy. She glanced desperately at Margot, who did not move.

“I
…
I just liked it,” said Clarissa at last.

There was a sudden buzz of conversation and around her Angel could see a glimmer of doubt in people’s faces.

Clarissa must have felt it because she coughed and tried again. “The silver gauze accentuated the blue velvet—the fabrics were an unusual combination and that’s why I chose them.”

“Yes, yes,” said Vidal, a touch impatiently. “But what
inspired
you?”

Clarissa stared at him in confusion. “Winning the Teen Couture, of course.”

“Ah,” said Vidal, nodding. “I see.” He turned to Angel. “Very well, Mademoiselle, why don’t you tell us about the silver gauze?”

Angel touched the silver fabric. “Silk gauze is difficult to work with because it’s slippery and it frays easily, but if you can get it to do what you want, it can be incredibly effective.”

“And did you?” asked Vidal. “Did you get it to do what you wanted?”

Angel nodded. “Eventually. You see, I had a vision in my head—something I wanted to achieve.”

“Ah,” said Vidal, “the inspiration about which I wish so much to hear.”

In a clear, carrying voice, Angel said, “My real name is Angelique, but my Papa always called me Angel—his angel. He used to tell me to figure out who I really was on the inside and to always be that person, no matter what. After he died, I’d imagine him watching over me.” She touched the embroidery. “You see, it wasn’t just about having an angel here, the whole dress was meant to remind me of who I am and how it feels to be loved.”

And Angel smiled—at Vidal and Lily, the Comtesse, Kitty, the summer season group and Nick’s parents. Last of all, she smiled at Nick, her eyes questioning.

He held her gaze for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

Angel saw him through a mist of happy tears. No matter what happened now she knew it would be all right: Nick was there for her.

She faced Vidal. “I didn’t know if I could achieve my vision until just before my entry was due to leave for Paris, so I didn’t draw my final sketch until three days before the competition closed. That’s why Clarissa’s dress only
looks
like mine. In fact, the dress she had made by Harrington’s doesn’t match my final drawing.”

“It’s not true!” shrieked Clarissa. “She stole
my
design. This is
my
ball gown.” She ran over to Margot. “Tell them, mother. Tell them how I work for Miki Merua in a real fashion studio, while
she
,” Clarissa spat the word, “is only a cook’s daughter and—”

“Worth a dozen of you.” An angry male voice cut her off.

“Dad!” cried Lily.

Angel turned to see Philip cutting through the crowd and heard Margot gasp. “Philip! You’re here!” The next moment Margot had wrenched free of Clarissa’s grasp and run forward to seize Philip’s hand.

“I thought you were in South America,” she cried. “But thank goodness you’re here. I don’t know what to do. Clarissa has been behaving so strangely. I had no idea about any of this.” She gestured to her daughter, standing pale and furious in the middle of the ballroom.

“That’s a lie!” hissed Clarissa. “You knew
all
about it—it was
your
idea!”

“It’s not true,” Margot argued. “Don’t listen to her, Philip. You know I would never—”

“Lie?” thundered Philip. “Or send my daughter to Paris without my permission? Or threaten Angel and Simone?” He stared at Margot as though seeing her for the first time. “Get out,” he said, his voice like steel. “Get out and take your daughter with you.”

Margot blanched. “No, Philip, please. I did it for you, for the Comtesse
… ”

But she got no further, for the microphone suddenly squealed, drowning out every sound. As the noise faded, Vidal said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the designer of this magnificent ball gown is
not
Clarissa Kane—who has never heard of the Lunéville hook essential for tambour beading and has neither the heart nor soul essential for a great couturier. The real designer is Mademoiselle Angel Moncoeur, whose love of fashion and talent for design is evident in every detail of her dress.”

He stepped down from the dais and wrested the silver trophy from Clarissa’s hands. “Mademoiselle, you are a disgrace to the name of haute couture! Please leave.”

Clarissa cringed, but before she could speak, Margot grabbed her hand and, looking neither right nor left, dragged her from the ballroom.

For a moment no one spoke and then Philip turned to Angel. “Go on. Show them.”

She nodded and looked at Nick. He stepped forward, opened his arms and with a cry of happiness, she tumbled into them.

“Dance with me,” she whispered.

He held out his hands and, as Angel raised her hands to his, the silver gauze lifted away from the midnight-blue velvet and the tiny pieces of delicate, hand-sewn fabric floated gently upwards like soft silver feathers.

And in that moment the whole room could see that her gown had wings.

Angel’s wings.
 

Chapter Thirty-Eight

For several seconds the vision of Angel dancing with Nick, her silver wings floating behind her, held the crowd in thrall.

Then the applause began.

It swelled to a mighty crescendo as Nick lifted Angel off her feet and spun her slowly round, her silver wings rippling and dancing behind her.

“You really are an angel,” he said, putting her down and watching as the silver gauze drifted down onto the velvet.

She smiled up at him and then at those around them. In almost every face Angel saw acceptance and approval; only the Comtesse stood apart, her face tense and unyielding.

Angel’s heart sank.

It wasn’t enough that she’d proved herself; if she couldn’t win the Comtesse’s forgiveness then it would be a victory forever tinged with regret.

Letting go of Nick’s hand, Angel walked straight across the ballroom to where the Comtesse stood rigid beside her son.

“I am
so
sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you, Madame. I was wrong to deceive you. These past two weeks with you have been like a wonderful dream—
please
believe that I never meant to hurt you.”

The Comtesse stood still as a stone and Angel could see the pain in her eyes. She pressed on. “I know what I did was wrong, but I only pretended to be Lily because Clarissa had stolen my designs. I know that doesn’t excuse the lies I told, but I hope
…
I wish
… ”
A tear ran down Angel’s cheek. “Oh, Madame, won’t you forgive me?”

The Comtesse gazed slowly around the ballroom at the five hundred assembled guests. Then she turned back to face the girl she had loved as her own kin.

“I accept your apology,” she said at last.

Angel’s heart leapt and she stepped forward eagerly, words of gratitude hovering on her lips, when the Comtesse said, “But I do not wish to see you again.” She drew herself up proudly. “You are Simone Moncoeur’s daughter. The child of the woman I once wronged,” she declared. “Whatever your intentions and no matter how well-meant your actions, that fact cannot be altered.” She stared at Angel. “I imagine your mother will be glad to know how well you deceived me. Perhaps she guessed that I would grow to care for you as my own granddaughter and know how greatly I would feel the loss when you were no longer in my life
… ”
Her voice trailed away and she put a hand to her eyes.

Angel stared at her blankly, trying to make sense of her words, when a voice rang out across the ballroom.

“You are wrong, Madame!”

Angel gasped and swung round, hardly daring to believe her ears.

Coming down the staircase, looking as Angel had never seen her look, was her maman.

Simone was dazzling in a butter-yellow chiffon dress with rhinestone straps. The beautifully draped skirt rippled as she descended the stairs like a queen.

But it wasn’t the dress that filled Angel with such joy; it was the sight of her mother looking so well. They reached the bottom step at the same moment and Angel flung herself into Simone’s arms.

“Angel,
ma petite
, my darling girl, are you all right?” Simone hugged her. “Philip phoned me last night. I’ve been so worried.”

“Philip phoned you?” asked Angel, myriad questions dancing in her head. Her mother and Philip had talked—
but had they talked about the past?
she wondered.

“He knew I would want to be with you, so he flew me to Paris.” Simone took Angel’s hand. “And now that I am here, there are things that must be said.” She drew Angel across the ballroom and halted in front of the Comtesse, her soft brown eyes flashing fire as she said again, “You are wrong, Madame.”

“How dare you come here,” said the Comtesse, her own eyes blazing. “Because of you I was estranged from my son, and now your daughter has
…
has
… ”
The Comtesse looked accusingly at Simone. “Was it your plan to make me care for her?”

“Oh,” cried Angel. “No, that’s not—”

“Hush, Angel, there is no need for concern, Madame la Comtesse will soon learn her mistake,” Simone said.

She turned her clear gaze to the Comtesse. “Again, Madame, I tell you that you are wrong. I knew nothing of Angel’s presence here in Paris until Philip phoned me last night.” She smiled at Philip and added, “So you see, it was not vengeance that brought me here tonight, but your son.” Simone said huskily, “I owe Philip a debt, Madame.” She bowed her head for a moment, then looked up and said firmly, “Indeed, I owe him more than that—I owe him the truth.”