The Property of a Lady (38 page)

Missie was suddenly swept back in time to Anouska’s wonderful parties—to a beautiful house just like this, young people scattered across the lawns laughing, playing games and always music in the air….

“Come, Verity,” Madame called, “the Countess is waiting.”

Imogen, Countess of Wensleyshire was tall, thirtyish, beautiful, and spoiled to death by every man who had ever met her. The earl had been her third husband, an older man who doted on her, even dying conveniently when she grew bored with him three years ago. Now she
maintained a stately home in Yorkshire, town houses in London and Paris, a penthouse in Manhattan, and an enormous sea-going yacht moored, now the war was over, at Monte Carlo. And she enjoyed doing what she did best, giving parties and looking for her next husband.

She stared curiously at Missie as she shook hands without smiling. “Ah, now I see what all the fuss was about,” she said enigmatically. “Every man I know has been talking about Verity this week. I did not see Elise’s fashion parade, but your reputation preceded you.”

“I’m just the mannequin,” Missie said quickly. “I’m sure it’s the clothes they were talking about.”

The countess’s eyes narrowed into a smile; “The women, maybe, but the men …” She laughed, leaving the end of her statement hanging in the air.

“Elise, darling,” she cried, turning to Madame, “come and have some tea and then I’ll show you the ballroom where the parade will be held.”

The ballroom was paneled in blue and cream like a Wedgwood vase with a little stage at one end. This time Madame herself organized her mannequins, parading them onto the stage and down the ramp to the lilting strains of a fifteen-piece orchestra.

As she strode onto the stage in Madame’s latest extravaganza, a low-cut shimmering silver sheath overlaid with panels of dove-gray chiffon, Missie realized she was enjoying herself. It was as if she became someone else when she was wearing Elise’s clothes. She felt she had power over these people, the power to make them look at her. She glanced around her audience, commanding them with her eyes, and then with an arrogant toss of her head she swung down the ramp, drifting languidly among them, pausing here and there to bestow a smile or extend a graceful arm so that the chiffon panels floated like gossamer wings. And of course she made sure that everyone noticed the silver shoes with the gray satin ribbons tied in pretty bows at her ankles. For the first time she was
aware of the men watching her with as much interest as the women, and somehow their stares made her feel uncomfortable.

The applause afterward was tremendous. Everyone wanted to meet the famous Elise and her beautiful mannequins, and Verity found herself the center of an admiring crowd of young men. The afternoon had turned into a party; corks popped amid shouts of delight and glasses were laughingly filled with illegal champagne. A jazz band in striped blazers replaced the orchestra, swinging into a ragtime beat that sent dancers scattering eagerly onto the floor. Suddenly she felt let down, as if she had descended from some lofty, unreal pinnacle back to reality. She remembered she was really Missie O’Bryan from Rivington Street with all her problems. She did not belong here with all these smart rich people. After slipping away from the crowd, she stepped onto the terrace, breathing the early-spring scents of lily of the valley and winter jasmine, and she wandered through the lovely gardens, glad to be alone with her memories of Varishnya.

She sat on a stone bench overlooking the gray Long Island Sound, dreaming of how wonderful it would be to be able to afford a house like this for Azaylee, to give her everything she could ever want, the way her own father and mother would have.

“Good evening.” A tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man was smiling genially at her. “Enjoying the fresh air? Or just dreaming?”

“Both.” Missie smiled back at him. He had shrewd eyes and aristocratic features, and he was fanning himself with his hat.

He took off his jacket, mopping his face with a pale-blue handkerchief, and said, “Don’t mind, do you? I can’t stand hot weather. Bad for business.”

He sat on the bench beside her and closed his eyes, listening to the fountain. “You’re a mighty pretty girl, Miss …?”

Missie blushed. Surely he wasn’t going to make a pass at her? She glanced around anxiously, looking for an escape route.

“I like the dress,” he added, opening his eyes and looking her up and down. “That one of Elise’s?”

She nodded, edging away along the bench, and he laughed. “Sorry to startle you but I always speak my mind when I see a pretty girl. That’s my business, y’see.” He held out his hand. “The name’s Ziegfeld, Flo Ziegfeld, and I’ll tell you frankly, Miss …”

“Verity,” she said quickly. “Verity Byron.”

“Yeah, Verity, that’s it … well, I’ll tell you frankly, Miss Verity, that my talent scout called me this week and told me I’d better get the hell over to see you because you were the best-looking dame in town. He said you could gather the eyes of any man just by walking across a stage.” He looked her over frankly. “What he didn’t tell me was that you have the face of a young madonna and a voice like a soft breeze.” Their eyes met and he added gruffly, “And that you are a lady.”

She blushed, whispering “Thank you,” smoothing her red-and-white-flowered voile skirt, wondering what he was talking about. “I’ve never seen one of your shows, Mr. Ziegfeld, but I hear they are wonderful. Everyone says so.”

“They say so because it’s the truth,” he said sharply. “My Follies are the best in the world—and that includes Paris. And they have the best-looking girls. And that’s what I’m here to talk to you about. This week you are the talk of New York, Miss Verity, and Flo Ziegfeld is known for having the latest and the best. Now what do you say about becoming one of my showgirls?” His face split in an expansive smile and he puffed happily on his cigar, waiting for her acceptance.

“A showgirl?” Missie’s eyes were on stalks. She didn’t know whether to laugh at the joke or cry at the insult. “But I’m just a mannequin, I don’t dance, or sing …
and, well, I mean … aren’t showgirls …” She hesitated and added in a whisper, “Scantily clothed?” Her face was scarlet and she twisted her hands together nervously.

“Half naked, you mean?” Ziegfeld shook his head. “My girls are always within the bounds of the law, Miss Verity. Good taste is our watchword. Sure, they show their legs but there is no naked flesh on my stage, or not much anyway. Tights, fans, scraps of flesh-colored chiffon, a sequin here and there, guarantees a girl’s modesty. It’s all quite respectable, though I admit I can’t guarantee what goes on in a man’s mind!” He laughed heartily and then said, “What my shows are all about, Miss Verity, is beauty, extravagance, glamour. Songs and showmanship with a capital
‘S.’
And that costs money with a capital ‘M.’ Money for fabulous sets, gorgeous curtains, the most beautiful clothes, a lot of them designed by Elise here, in feathers, furs, cloth-of-gold. I’m not asking you to be a dancer, Miss Verity, I’m asking you to grace the Follies with your presence. All you’ll have to do is walk across the stage along with some other pretty girls and look beautiful.”

He mopped his face again and beamed at her. “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars a week.”

“A hundred!” she exclaimed, shocked.

“Oh, well, then, a hundred and fifty,” he said quickly, “with a raise after three months.”

Missie stared at him, awed into silence.

“I’ll speak to Elise about it,” he said confidently. “She won’t like losing her new star mannequin so soon, but I’ll make it up to her. I’ll let her design all your clothes for the show. She’ll sell a million just from that alone. I’ll tell her I want you to look like gossamer and moonbeams and we’ll drape you with ropes of diamonds from Cartier—nothing but the best for Verity Byron, Ziegfeld’s latest and most glittering star.”

He beamed, patting her shoulder paternally. “One thing
I can guarantee you, Miss Verity, is success. And of course”—he grinned knowingly at her—“a hundred and fifty bucks every Saturday, regular as clockwork.”

Missie shivered. The sun had gone and it was getting dark. “I … I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, bewildered. “It’s all so fast. I mean, a few weeks ago I didn’t even have a job.”

“That’s New York for ya.” He grinned, taking her elbow as they walked back to the house. “Just don’t worry about a thing, I’ll work it out with Elise.”

“But, Mr. Ziegfeld,” she said, clutching his arm, “the truth is, I’m scared.”

Her eyes were round and she looked close to tears. He said gently, “What is there to be scared of? It’s only the same as you’ve been doing for Elise, just the audience is bigger, that’s all. I’m telling you, you’ll love it. All my girls do. Just one big happy family, that’s Ziegfeld’s. I’ll keep an eye on you, I’ll vet all those stage-door Johnnies personally and make sure you only go out with the best. Okay? I’ll go right now and talk to Elise. I’ll be in touch, Miss Verity.”

Missie stared after him as he bustled up the steps. Had she really agreed to become a Ziegfeld girl, or had he just assumed she had? She closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself on an enormous stage, dressed in gossamer and diamonds and dating stage-door romeos, and she wondered how she could even think of it. And then she thought of the hundred and fifty dollars “every Saturday, regular as clockwork” and she knew she would.

She shivered again. It was dark now. The false warmth of a too-early spring day had disappeared and the wind had a March edge to it. But she had lost all her mannequin’s aloof poise. She was just Missie again and she didn’t want to go back inside and face the party.

Tires crunched on the gravel and a long yellow car drew up in front of the house. She turned away as a man got out and ran past her up the steps. His footsteps
stopped suddenly and then she heard them returning. As he drew level with her she could smell the smoke from his cigar.

“B’jaysus, Missie?” O’Hara’s astonished voice said. “Can that really be you?”

She swung around, staring at him in amazement. It was O’Hara, all right, but O’Hara with a difference. His bright red curls were pomaded flat, he was wearing a sharp gray suit, patent leather shoes, and a gray silk ascot with a large pearl stickpin, and he was smoking a very large cigar.

He grabbed her hands eagerly, crushing them in his. “I turn out of a Sunday evenin’ to make a delivery, and what’s me reward? Why, Missie O’Bryan, the girl of me dreams!” He laughed uproariously. “That’s what you get for being a man of your word. Delivery anytime, day or night, that’s O’Hara’s motto, and I’m proud to tell you it’s a successful one. I was waiting until I could prove it to you, but now you see for yourself—O’Hara delivering liquor to the nobs at prices they’ve never heard of in Delancey Street.”

He stopped his monologue and stared at her again. “But just look at yourself now! You’re a treat to behold, Missie O’Bryan, dressed in such finery!” He stiffened and said suspiciously, “Though I don’t know where a girl like yourself would find the money for it. Nor what you’re doing at the countess’s party.”

“I’ve got a job,” she said eagerly, telling him her story about Madame Elise. She stopped, puzzled. O’Hara was staring down at his shiny black patent shoes, a troubled look on his face, and she asked him what was the matter.

“It’s all wrong for you, Missie.” He groaned. “You don’t know what these people are like. I could tell you some stories about what I’ve seen at houses even grander than this one, stories that would make your hair turn white! They take up with a person one week and drop her the
next. And when I think of you, my ideal, my colleen, flaunting yourself for them to see …”

“Flaunting myself?” she retorted angrily. “Just what do you mean by that, O’Hara? I show off perfectly respectable clothes so that perfectly respectable ladies will buy them.” Pushing aside the memory of the men’s speculative eyes, she added hurriedly, “And anyway, who are you to talk? Selling illegal liquor to people? At least my job is honest!”

O’Hara’s face grew red with anger and he bit so hard on the end of his cigar he broke it in two. He stamped it viciously into the ground and then suddenly he began to laugh. “B’jaysus and if you’re not right. Except in Ireland we don’t consider selling moonshine illegal. And all I’m doing is giving people a little pleasure by giving them what they want.”

“And so am I!” she retorted, stamping her foot.

“Is it a temper then you’ve been acquiring, along with your new job?” he asked innocently, laughing as she lunged at him, catching her hands in his. “I’m sorry, Missie, honest I am. I never meant to imply you were not a respectable girl. Of course I knows in me heart you are, but I guess it’s just that I’d like you home safe with me, in New Jersey instead of showing clothes for a living.”

She gripped his hands tightly. Despite her anger she was surprised how pleased she was to see his familiar handsome face, like a beacon of security among all the shiny New York society people. “I’m really glad to see you, O’Hara,” she whispered.

He beamed happily. “Then grab your hat, Missie O’Bryan. I’m taking you out to supper to the best restaurant on Long Island.”

Thrilled, she ran to find Madame Elise and tell her she was having supper with an old friend.

“An old friend?” Madame repeated with a skeptical smile. “Or perhaps a new conquest? Very well then, you
may go. And tomorrow we will discuss the new ‘arrangement’ with Ziegfeld.”

Missie had forgotten all about Ziegfeld, but as she ran to join O’Hara, she decided against telling him the rest of her story. Somehow, she just knew he would not understand. At least, not yet.

The restaurant was set back from the road behind some trees, like the one O’Hara had taken her to before. There were dozens of automobiles in the parking lot, but no lights shone from the windows and only a swinging carriage lamp lighted the sign “Oriconne’s” over the front door.

“Are you sure it’s open?” she asked nervously as O’Hara lifted a little brass lid and pressed the buzzer.

“Sure I’m sure, it’s just private. You have to be a member, and they won’t let you in if they don’t know your face.”

“But whyever not?” she demanded, astonished.