The Property of a Lady (45 page)

After hailing a cab, he asked to be taken to a deli on Sixth Avenue. He would get himself a bite of lunch and
maybe pay a visit to Missie. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of months, been too busy traveling to Chicago and back on Oriconne business, but he guessed she had been busy too. She had said that Madame Elise worked her girls real hard. He sure had missed her, but he was playing it her way, waiting for a year like she’d asked, and at the end of it he just knew it would pay off. By then he would be a rich man, famous too, probably, as the owner of King O’Hara’s, and she would become his wife; queen to his king.

Sliding into a booth, he ordered pastrami on rye and a celery tonic. He took out a notepad and wrote down some figures, smiling as he added them up. He sipped his drink, waiting for his pastrami, casually picking up the newspaper lying on the table. He wasn’t much of a readin’ man, he was too busy for that, but he glanced through it idly and almost choked on the celery tonic when he saw the picture of Missie on the front page. He scanned the report quickly, scarcely able to believe what he was reading.

“B’jaysus,” he roared angrily, clearing the table with a single blow of his arm. After throwing a couple of dollars onto the counter, he strode from the deli and took a cab over to Missie’s apartment.

“She’s gone, sir,” the porter told him smugly, “she and the little girl. The maid went too. All of them. To Germany. Married a millionaire,” he added with a grin, “like all good showgirls.”

His virtuous Missie a showgirl? And he must have been the only man in New York who didn’t know it! O’Hara strode down Broadway to the New Amsterdam Theater, burning with anger. Workmen on ladders were taking down Verity’s name from the marquee but her picture was still out front along with the others.

O’Hara stared at it for a long time. Tears stung his eyes and he doubled up in physical pain. Missie had promised to give him an answer in a year’s time.
She had promised
And now look how she had cheated him, working as a
showgirl and running off with some millionaire. His colleen, his love. If she was here now he would have strangled her with his bare hands. He would have hanged for Missie O’Bryan.

Eddie had reserved two suites on the
Majestic
, one for himself and Missie, and the other for Azaylee and her nurse, Beulah. He was pleased with his bride as they boarded the ship; she looked beautiful and she also looked like a lady in her elegant Elise violet coat with the sable collar. The steward showed them into their staterooms and she spun round laughing with delight.

“But it’s wonderful, Eddie, just marvelous,” she cried, racing from room to room, counting. “A sitting room, two bedrooms, two dressing rooms, two bathrooms.” She was as excited as a child and his eyes were speculative as he studied her; perhaps tonight would be more interesting than he had thought after all. He glanced at his watch. They were to sail on the tide at six, and dinner the first night out would be early and informal. Suddenly he could not wait for it all to be over with, to have her in bed with him.

Azaylee rapped on the door, then rushed in with Beulah at her heels, as excited as Missie. “Did you know there’s a promenade for walking dogs on the very top deck?” she demanded. “And a special lamppost for them, and kennels? Missie, we could have brought Viktor, after all.”

“Darling, Viktor is too old to travel anymore,” she replied soothingly. “He’s much better off with Rosa. You know she will take care of him. Besides, we shall see him lots. Eddie says he has so much business here we shall be back and forth across the Atlantic like yo-yos.”

“Truly?” Azaylee’s face brightened, but she said sadly, “I shall miss him so much, though,
matiushka.”

Missie shooed her out onto the deck. They watched for a long time as the tugs pulled the big ship from her berth and Manhattan’s burgeoning skyline faded into the distance,
feeling the deck rolling under their feet as the
Majestic
took to the open sea.

Missie could not help but remember that last time she had stood by the deck rail, four years before, waiting for her first sight of the great city and wondering what her new life held in store for her. Now she was leaving Sofia behind, buried in an alien land; and her friend Rosa who had become as dear to her as Azaylee, and the two men who had helped and encouraged her. But she was married to a man she was crazy about and at last Azaylee would lead the kind of life that was hers by birth. She hoped Misha would have been proud of her. Even though she was married to Eddie, she knew he would always be her first, true love.

They dined quietly, alone at a table in the corner in the huge dining room with its dramatic staircase where society and celebrities descended in style, pausing first at the top so that everyone might see them. Eddie poured wine with a liberal hand and afterward they took a stroll around the promenade deck, lurching and laughing as the sea roughened. He put his arm around her protectively, glancing at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said, turning toward the staterooms. “Shall we?”

The stewardess had unpacked for her and Beulah had arranged all her things the way she knew she liked them; her face creams and powders in shiny crystal pots were laid out on the dressing table next to her silver hairbrushes and the tall spray flacon of Elise perfume. Her beautiful new dresses hung neatly in the closets, her hats in their lilac boxes stored on shelves above, and her lovely new shoes lined up in rows below. A wonderful mink coat, Elise’s wedding present, was shrouded in its own special bag, and the case containing her jewels was locked in the safe in her dressing room. I am a rich woman, she thought, amazed. I can have whatever I like, do whatever I want. Just like Anouska. But the only thing
she wanted was her new husband, waiting impatiently for her in their bedroom.

After casting off her clothes, she bathed and put on one of her trousseau nightdresses. Elise had really gone to town on this one, pure white finest silk
crêpe-de-Chine
, slit to the waist front and back and lavished with ecru lace. She brushed her hair until it shone, letting it fall forward over her half-naked breasts. Then, putting on the matching peignoir and the satin slippers, she sprayed herself with the lily perfume. Taking a deep breath, she walked slowly into the bedroom.

Eddie was sitting on the couch, wearing a navy silk robe and matching pajamas, reading a newspaper.

He glanced up as she came in, then his eyes narrowed and a faint flush stained his cheeks. “My dear Verity, you look … charming,” he said quietly.

He turned off the lamps, leaving on just the one near the bed. “Come here, to me,” he said, striding across the room and taking her in his arms.

His rough kisses took her breath away. They were different from before, urgent, demanding. “Please, please, Eddie,” she murmured, gasping as he took his mouth from hers at last. “Let me breathe!”

Laughing, he took her to the bed, pulling off her peignoir and the lacy straps from her shoulders, burying his face in her breasts. She trembled in his arms, not knowing how to make love to him.

“Eddie, you’ll have to show me, tell me what to do,” she whispered, stroking his smooth blond hair.

“Take off the nightdress,” he commanded, standing up and shedding his robe.

Blushing, she did as he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands modestly clasped in her lap.

“That’s better,” he said in a sort of groan, pushing her backward onto the bed. And then he was on top of her and his fingers were plunging cruelly into her and she moaned in pain.

“That’s it,” he cried excitedly, “I like to hear you moan.” Suddenly he was thrusting himself into her, again and again, harder and harder, and she was screaming with the pain. She pleaded with him to stop, gazing at him beseechingly through her tears. But his eyes were closed, his head thrown way back, his face a grimace of pain and ecstasy as he reached his climax and toppled down onto her, breathing heavily.

After a few moments he got up. Without even looking at her, he walked to the bathroom and closed the door. She heard the sound of water as he turned on the shower and she closed her eyes again, stunned. She wondered if this was what making “love” was all about, and if so how anybody could ever call it love. And how could anybody enjoy it, the way all the showgirls had told her you were supposed to? There had been no tenderness, no loving caresses, just a brutal transaction between two bodies.

He returned from the bathroom wrapped in a robe, looking clean and refreshed and perfectly normal, as if nothing were wrong. “I suggest you take a bath,” he said coldly. “You will feel better in the morning.”

“Eddie?” she whispered, sitting up and clutching at his hand. “Is it always like this? The first time?”

He shrugged. “Some women like it more than others. It’s up to you, Verity, whether it gets better—or worse.” His pale eyes were cold and expressionless as he said, “I’m going to bed now. Please do not wake me in the morning. I asked the valet to bring me my breakfast at ten. You may do whatever you please.” And without a second glance he strode into the other bedroom. She stared disbelievingly as the door closed and she heard the sound of the key in the lock, and then she turned her face into her pillow and wept because all her wonderful romantic dreams had come to nothing.

They met again at lunch the next day. He was urbane and charming in public and aloof and silent in private. Dinner that night was a grand affair, and Missie decked
herself up in her most beautiful gown, a soft, rustling sea-green silk with a beaded shawl like a peacock’s tail. She wore diamond stars in her hair and the diamond snake bracelets Cartier had given as a wedding present to the wife of their favored customer. Eddie looked handsome in his hard, military-looking style, and she thought wistfully that they made a beautiful couple as he escorted her down the wide staircase to the captain’s table.

She was seated between the captain and a famous English cabinet minister, who had seen her onstage at the New Amsterdam Theater and told her he would forever be a devoted admirer. She did her best to sparkle and be amusing but most of the time she was watching Eddie covertly through her lashes, flirting and chatting intimately with the tall, blond German countess Gretel ?on Dussman, whom he obviously knew well.

Afterward she undressed and prepared for bed in another of Elise’s alluring confections, wishing she had brought some of her old cotton nighties with her. She waited nervously for Eddie to arrive but though she heard him moving around in the next room, he did not appear. Later she heard his door slam and the sound of his footsteps disappearing along the corridor, and she climbed sadly into bed. He must be so disappointed in her that he had decided to try his luck at the casino instead.

The pattern of their days on board fell into a regular routine. She would rise early and have breakfast with Azaylee and then they would take a walk around the decks, maybe try their luck at a game of quoits or shuffle-board. At eleven they would sip a cup of hearty bouillon on deck, brought by an attentive steward, and at one they would join Eddie for lunch.

Though he did not seem to have much to say to her, Eddie certainly went out of his way to charm Azaylee. He bought her trinkets and little gifts from the shop and spoiled her with chocolates and cream cakes. Missie
thought she bloomed in his presence, like a little girl who had finally found a father.

Missie always sat with Azaylee while she had her supper, and then she went back to her sumptuous stateroom and the nightly ritual of preparing for dinner. She wore a different Elise gown in a different color scheme each night, drawing admiring glances as she descended the stairs on the arm of her handsome millionaire husband. And each night she watched him flirting with Gretel von Dussman, and each night she waited in vain for him to come to her.

On the last night before the ship docked at Cherbourg, she dressed in the red taffeta she had worn when he asked her to marry him, and for the first time she wore the Arnhaldt heirloom rubies and diamonds. She lifted her head proudly as she strode down the steps, searching the sea of faces turned toward her until she found Gretel von Dussman’s malicious smile. She smiled back sweetly as she took her seat at the table: She knew the big, overblown blonde could not hold a candle to her tonight. Elise had given her a good grounding in how to hold an audience, and Ziegfeld had taught her well. Even Eddie could not keep his eyes off her tonight. Every time she glanced up he was staring at her.

He walked quietly back with her to their suite, opening the door to let her pass, following her in, pulling off his tie and jacket and ripping off his shirt like a madman. Then naked, he came toward her. She stood silently, terrified of the brutal look on his face. After turning her around in his arms, he unbuttoned the taffeta dress, letting it slide to the ground with a silken rustle. Slowly he removed her chemise, running his hands across her breasts while she gazed at him with fear in her eyes. He removed the rest of her undergarments, leaving her naked and shy, except for her stockings and the brilliant fire of the rubies.

She kept her eyes on his face, afraid to look at what was happening to him, terrified of what he was going to do.

Cursing angrily in German, he suddenly pushed her from him, sending her reeling across the room. “You stupid little milk-fed child,” he said with a snarl, his passion subsiding as he threw on his clothes. “Have you no idea at all what excites a man? Don’t they teach you these things at the New Amsterdam Theater? Why, even the meanest girl on the streets understands a man’s passions better than you.”

He stood looking at her, fully dressed, smoothing back his blond hair. “Put your clothes on, for God’s sake,” he said contemptuously. “One day I’m going to show you how not to be a lady in bed. But tonight I’ve got better things to do.” And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Much later, she heard him return. She could hear the clinking of glasses and the sound of a woman’s laughter and then later, their animal groans of passion, the cries and commands as the woman goaded him on. Missie buried her head in her pillow, shutting out what she knew only too well was happening next door. Gretel von Dussman was satisfying her husband in a way she never could.