The Property of a Lady (37 page)

Madame’s little silver bell tinkled for silence and her voice came from beyond the curtain, telling her guests
how privileged they were to be seeing a preview of her latest spring collection displayed by her sensational mannequins—and that afterward they could view any of the new styles privately in their own homes if they so wished.
“Eh bien,”
she announced, “now we begin.”

The orchestra swung into a Gershwin tune from Ziegfeld’s latest show. Minerve was ready in an ice-blue afternoon dress with matching shoes and stockings, a floral chiffon scarf trailing from her neck to the ground. With a toss of her head she slunk out onto the catwalk, and Missie heard a spatter of applause and murmurs of appreciation from the salon. Miranda followed in a pale lilac, and then Minette in sugar pink, an outrageous combination with her red hair that drew gasps of admiration.

It was Missie’s turn next. She was wearing a travel suit in a creamy tweed with the new slouch hat pulled down over one eye, high-heeled cream buckled shoes, and half a dozen long ropes of fat, creamy pearls. As the curtains closed softly behind her she froze, staring at the sea of expectant faces turned her way. It’s no good, she thought, panicked, I can’t do it, I just can’t. Her knees shook. She had forgotten everything Madame had taught her, she just wanted to run back inside. Minerve strode past on her way back down the catwalk, throwing her a contemptuous smile as she shrugged back through the curtains, but Missie just stood there, staring at the curious women staring back at her. She thought of Anouska: Hadn’t she been just like these women? She realized suddenly that of course they were not interested in
her
. All they wanted to see were the clothes.

The thought gave her courage. Taking a deep breath, she strode down the purple platform in her usual long-legged loping walk, pausing here and there to smile at the ladies, extending her arm so they could see the cut of the sleeve, patting the new-style hat and turning her face sideways so they could see how it looked in profile. She stood for a few moments at the end of the platform, then spun
around and, with a quick glance over her shoulder, loped back toward the curtains.

Safe in the dressing room listening to the polite spatter of applause, she wondered what Madame would think of her now. But she just could not walk the way the other girls did; she guessed she was just not cut out to be a mannequin after all.

She glanced up as Minerve sauntered past in a gold lace dress embroidered with sparkling copper beads. “Told you, didn’t I?” she said with a snigger. “You can’t make a swan from an ugly duckling.”

The applause was very loud for Minerve, and Missie stepped despondently into the violet chiffon dress, searching the shelf for her silver kidskin slippers. They were not there and she glanced around, puzzled, spotting them at last on the floor under the dressing table. She picked them up, staring at them in horror; the narrow straps that kept them on were broken. Not broken—cut! She remembered Minerve’s jealous smile. Would she stoop to such a thing? She glanced around in panic: The dresser had disappeared and all the maids were out in the salon, busy serving China tea and little cakes. Miranda and Minette were standing by the curtain waiting their turn, but anyway she knew they would not help.

She threw down the shoes in despair: It was the last straw; she knew now she was doomed to failure. She stared at her reflection in the big mirror and knew she looked beautiful. She remembered her confident promise to Azaylee that morning and was suddenly filled with a ruthless kind of courage, a do-or-die feeling. “Oh, what the hell,” she decided. “Father always said when all else fails, improvise.” After ripping the violet satin ribbons from Madame Elise’s packages on the dresser, she slipped on the shoes and bound the ribbon under the instep, crisscrossing it and tying it in neat bows at her ankles. Then she took the pins from her hair, shook it free, and placed the jeweled aigrette low over her forehead.

“Hurry, hurry,” the dresser called, taking her arm and giving her a push that sent her out through the curtains. Missie hesitated again, glancing around at the ladies. Then, tossing her head high and walking as tall as Madame could ever have wished, she swung slowly down the purple platform.

Madame Elise gasped, shocked by her appearance. What had come over the girl? And whatever had she got on her feet? She glanced around hurriedly at her ladies, surprised to see them leaning forward attentively watching Verity’s every smooth, slinky move in complete silence. Even the men had stopped talking and were staring at her new mannequin. She turned to look at Verity again, standing at the end of the platform, the fluid folds of the violet chiffon clinging to her lovely limbs like a young Isadora Duncan, the sparkling silver beads catching the light as she moved. Her waist-length hair hung like a shining bronze curtain, the soft tendrils framing her face, and her huge wonderful eyes looked an even deeper violet than the dress.

Throwing back her head, Missie walked languidly back along the platform, stopping here and there, her hand resting on her tasseled beaded belt, the low neckline, the lovely skirt, but all eyes were riveted on her feet and the violet satin bows at her delicate ankles.

The curtain closed behind her and the orchestra changed rapidly to another show tune. The maids came to life again, hurrying around with more tea and cakes, and the gentlemen’s heads lowered together as they discussed Elise’s audacious new mannequin behind their hands. Madame closed her eyes. What had Verity done? Oh, what had she done? She had disobeyed her instructions, all her training, it was
une catastrophe!
She was aware of a murmur of conversation and then someone began to applaud, another took it up, and suddenly the applause became a roar; there were even a few bravas, though those were mainly from the men.

“Encore! Encore!” someone called, and Madame turned to look at the enthusiastic young society matron, a beauty in her own right and a true fashion innovator. She was one of her biggest customers.

She smiled graciously at her and quickly sent a maid to tell Verity to come out again please.

It couldn’t be true, Verity thought, stepping out on the platform. Were they really applauding her? She loped along the platform once again, bestowing a smile here and there, pausing to let them admire her ribboned shoes, her egret feathers, her swirling folds of silk chiffon. She felt like laughing. Maybe being a mannequin was easy after all. “Do it the way that feels natural,” Rosa had said, and maybe she had been right.

Minerve glared at her as she strode back into the dressing room to a thunder of applause but Missie merely smiled. “Another platitude to add to your collection, Minerve,” she said sweetly. “Necessity is the mother of invention.” As she walked to her dressing table she could feel Minerve’s eyes on her shoes, and knew that it was she who had sabotaged her.

The rest of the fashion parade passed quickly, and to her surprise Missie enjoyed herself; it was fun being the center of attention, fun to feel young and beautiful. Afterward Madame Elise came to the dressing room to congratulate her.

“Everyone is talking about my new shoes.” She laughed. “I don’t know where you got the idea of the ribbons, Missie, but now everybody wants them. Mrs. Wool-man Chase from
Vogue
said you personify the new feminine spirit, freed from the restrictions of war, able to be young again and soft and simple.
‘La Vie Naturelle’
is what I’m calling it, and believe me, Verity, it is a
succès énorme.”
She turned to the other girls suddenly. “And why can’t you walk like Verity, eh? You, Minerve, looked like a marionette beside her. We have been invited to repeat our show at the Countess of Wensleyshire’s on Sunday,
and I want you all to walk exactly the way Verity does.”

Minerve flung down her ropes of pearls and stood up angrily. “Never!” she shrieked. “I’ll never take lessons from this little upstart.”

“In that case,” Madame Elise said icily, “you may find a job elsewhere.
Au revoir!”

Minerve shrugged her shoulders. “The duke has asked me to marry him, anyway,” she said haughtily. “I was only doing you a favor staying on for these shows.”

“Congratulations,” Madame said icily, but Missie stared after her anxiously as she flounced through the door.

“Don’t worry,” Madame Elise said, laughing. “There are a thousand Minerves, but there is only one Verity. Today you were
ravissante
for my ladies, Sunday you will be gorgeous and all New York will be at your feet—with their pretty little satin bows.”

Azaylee sat on the edge of the bed watching Missie as she prepared to leave for the salon. Her blond hair was scraped back firmly into an uneven braid and her pansy eyes were sad. Viktor leapt onto the bed next to her and she curled her arms lovingly around his neck. The dog obviously adored her, and Missie hadn’t the heart to protest anymore.

“What a picture,” she said, laughing.

“We were going to take Viktor for a walk today,” Azaylee reminded her aggrievedly, “but now you are going away again.”

Missie bit her lip. It was true. She had been so busy the last few days there had scarcely been time for Azaylee, let alone poor old Viktor. “I’ll make it up to you,” she promised remorsefully. “I know it’s Sunday, but this is special.” She wished Madame Elise had chosen any other time for her show, but there it was, she had no choice. “Look,” she said brightly, “how would you like it if we get a new apartment soon, maybe near the park so we can walk Viktor, with a lovely room just for you that you can fill with new toys? And how would you like to go to school with other little girls your age where they would wear a special kind of hat and coat called ‘a uniform’ so that it shows you belong….”

“I already belong here,” Azaylee retorted. “I don’t want to leave Rosa and my friends.”

Missie’s heart sank as she sat beside her on the bed, “I
don’t want to leave Rosa either,
milochka,”
she said quietly, “but we would still see her. They could come and visit, maybe even stay over. Just think what fun that would be.”

“It’s fun here,” Azaylee said stubbornly, clutching Viktor’s neck even tighter and burying her face in his shaggy fur. “I don’t want to change.”

Missie stroked her hair silently. She could feel Azaylee’s small body shaking with sobs and realized it was not just the idea of leaving she was crying about, but the insecurity of change. She was remembering leaving Varishnya and her father, her mother and brother; she was remembering leaving Russia and remembering leaving her beloved Sofia at the cemetery. Every time she had left a place, she had never seen the people she loved again.

When she dropped Azaylee at Rosa’s later, Rosa said, “Good luck with the show. It’s a fairy tale, Missie, a true real-life fairy tale. Maybe the millionaire will be there waiting for you today.”

Missie doubted it and besides, she didn’t care about millionaires; all she wanted was to earn enough to keep Azaylee and herself decently.

The week since the fashion parade had flown by. They had been kept busy visiting several of the grandest houses in New York so that the favored customers might choose privately. But it was Verity and
her
new style that was in demand, and even though Miranda and Minette had dropped their posed ways and were striving to become more natural, they didn’t have the special look Missie had. Orders had flowed in for her violet dress, and variations of it were already being seen around New York, and
everyone
wanted the new shoes. She had spent most of the week being fitted for a series of new dresses Madame had hurriedly designed and the seamstresses had practically sewed them on her. And today they were to go out to the Countess of Wensleyshire’s grand house as the high point of her annual spring weekend party.

There were six Delahaye limousines outside the Park Avenue salon waiting to transport them to Long Island. Madame rode in the first, alone with her chauffeur like a queen, and Missie had to ride with Miranda and Minette, neither of whom was speaking to her. It wasn’t all a fairy story, she thought with a sigh, despite what Rosa said. But it
was
forty dollars a week and beautiful clothes to wear, because Madame wanted her mannequins to be her walking advertisements. “But I never go anywhere,” Missie had protested.

“Nevaire? A young girl like you?
Tiens,”
Madame had exclaimed, “then it is high time you started.”

The other four limousines carried the baskets of clothes, the dressers, and the hairstylist. The little procession wound its way through the sleepy Long Island Sunday countryside until they came to a pair of immense wrought-iron gates surmounted by huge carved griffins. A gatekeeper darted from the lodge to open them, and they drove on down a long gravel avenue and drew up in front of a huge white house. Beautifully dressed people were wandering across the lawns, where tables were set with silver and damask for tea and a group of young men in white flannels were playing tennis. A band played on the long terrace amid tubs of bright early-summer flowers, grown in the countess’s famous conservatories specially for the occasion.