The Property of a Lady (35 page)

“O’Bryan,” Missie finished forlornly. She waited for a moment, hoping for a reprieve, but Mrs. Masters had already turned her back and was examining fabric samples under the light from the window.

Joe, the old man guarding the back door, looked up from his
Racing Form
. “No luck?” he asked sympathetically. “Well, maybe next time. Hey, when you go by, tell Bill on the front door there’s no runner called Mawchop in the two-thirty at Palisades.”

Missie nodded. It was beginning to rain and she turned up her coat collar dispiritedly, wondering where she could try next. She turned the corner and walked to the front steps, remembering her message for the doorman.

“Hey, hey, you!” He came flying down the steps again. “You, drooping like a wishbone, come here!”

“I must have got your message wrong,” she said, lifting her head to look at him. “Joe says there is no Mawchop running in the two-thirty at Palisades.”

“Not Palisades, Saratoga, the idiot! But it’s not Joe I’m wantin’, it’s you. Madame sent me after ya. Seems like she asked Masters where ya were and said she wanted to see ya herself. Right away.”

Missie stared at him hopefully. “But why?”

He winked. “Who knows? Maybe she thinks you’re a lady in disguise and will buy her entire spring collection. Anyways, it’s up the front steps this time and into the salon. Hurry up now, ya don’t want to keep Madame Elise waiting if ya know what’s good for ya.”

Bill hurried her through the marble hall up a flight of
purple-carpeted steps into the salon and Missie stared around her, awed. It was an enormous room with graceful arched windows draped in stiff lilac taffeta, walls paneled in mauve silk and silver sconces with the palest pink shades. There were soft gray carpets and groups of pretty gilt sofas and chairs upholstered in moiré silk in every shade from purple to lilac, and cascades of specially dyed matching flowers were displayed on carved giltwood console tables along the walls. Three crystal chandeliers were reflected in the banks of mirrors, and two small lilac-gray poodles were sleeping on a purple velvet cushion at Madame Elise’s side.

Madame Elise, wearing a cloud of violet chiffon, sat on a thronelike gold sofa at the far end of the room.
“Viens
, come here,” she called. “Quickly, child, I don’t have all day.” Her shrewd gray eyes narrowed as she watched Missie hurry toward her, stumbling nervously.

“Mon Dieu, les chausseurs
—the shoes.” She groaned. “Take them off
immédiatement
. You will ruin my beautiful gray carpet!”

Missie slipped off her shoes and stood clutching them uncertainly in her hand.

“Off with the coat,” Madame said. “Quick, quick!”

She shrugged off her coat and threw it over her arm.

“Melodie?” Madame called, and a young maidservant, pretty in purple with a frilly white organdie apron, hurried forward. “Quick, take away her coat and her shoes.”

“Turn around,” Madame said, waving her arm to indicate just how she should spin. “Yes, yes, the posture is good, and the height … too thin, of course, but that’s good … and the long neck is quite beautiful. Show me your legs,” she commanded suddenly.

Missie stared at her, suddenly angry; she was being ordered around and asked to show her legs, and she didn’t even know what the job was. Putting her hands on her hips the way she had seen Rosa do, she stared at Madame Elise belligerently. “Why?” she demanded.

“Why? How else would I see what your legs look like? And never put your hands on your hips like that, you look like a fishwife, not a mannequin.”

“A mannequin?” Missie’s eyes almost popped out of her head.

Madame Elise’s foot tapped impatiently on the soft gray carpet. “Why else am I interviewing you?” she demanded. “I have girls standing in line to become an Elise mannequin and all you do is ask questions. Now, let me see your face. Kneel here in front of me.”

Missie knelt and Madame took her chin, tilting her face this way and that. “Ah,” she said, softening, “the eyes are a true violet, my favorite color.”

She smiled suddenly. “You are … unexpected,” she told Missie. “I did not expect you to turn up on my doorstep. You are unexpectedly beautiful, and unexpectedly, you will become my new mannequin. My favorite girl, Barbara, eloped suddenly with a millionaire from Texas.” She sighed dramatically.
“All
my girls marry millionaires—everyone knows that to be an Elise mannequin is a stepping-stone into society. But my spring collection is to be shown next week and I designed all the star evening dresses around Barbara. Only she had that quality necessary to bring out the sensuousness of the fabrics. Now, you have the height, the build, the bone structure, beautiful hair and eyes—and I can teach you the rest. We will adapt Barbara’s dresses to fit you and you will show them here next week to the very cream of New York society.”

She sat back, smiling triumphantly at Missie. “Oh, but I can’t …” Missie began, “I mean, I’ve never …”

“Of course you can,” Madame Elise said calmly. “You will begin today. But first some tea.” Melodie appeared like magic with a tray and Madame motioned Missie to sit beside her. “Beware
les éminences grises.”
She laughed, indicating the two poodles. “They bite when they are disturbed, especially men. Ah, they hate men….”

Missie sat down gingerly at the edge of the sofa, accepting the tea.

“Eh bien,”
Madame said. “Now, what is your name?”

“Missie, Missie O’Bryan.” She flinched as Madame tuttutted, waving her hand in the air in distress.

“Oh, no, no, no, no … nevaire … I refuse to have a mannequin called Missie—like a maidservant.”

“Well,
your
maidservant is called Melodie,” she retorted.

Madame Elise laughed, running a hand through her luxuriant red hair. “Nonsense, her real name is Freda.
Mon Dieu
, I ask you?” She laughed again, waking the poodles, who began to yap shrilly, sending the lusters on the chandeliers tinkling.

“Actually, Madame,” Missie said, “my real name is Verity.” It had been so long since she had used it she had almost forgotten.

“Verity?” Madame cocked her head first this way and then that, studying her again.
“La vénté
, ‘the truth.’ Ah, but I like that, it is cool, calm, elegant. Virginal, almost. Yes, yes, it suits you. Verity you shall be. Now, off you go to the fitting rooms. We must try on those dresses.”

Missie thought about her patched cotton underwear and stared at her, horrified. “Oh, but I can’t … I mean….” She was so humiliated she just wanted to die, and blushing, she said quickly, “You see, Madame, I’m a poor girl. I have no pretty things, my undergarments …”

“Ah! I understand.” Madame Elise’s face softened, and she leaned forward and patted her gently on the knee. “It is no disgrace, child,” she said quietly. “We will start ‘at the bottom’ as they say. Melodie?” The maid came running and she said loudly, “Take Verity through to the lingerie department and tell them to equip her with whatever she needs. And only the best.”

Turning to Missie, she winked. “There’s nothing like the
kiss of
crêpe-de-Chine
on the skin,” she whispered, laughing naughtily.

It was six o’clock before Missie left Madame Elise’s, and she ran all the way back to the Second Avenue el, clutching her hat with one hand and holding a smart lilac package printed with Elise’s name in the other.

The journey seemed to take ages. When she finally reached the Lower East Side she ran all the way back to Rivington Street and up the stairs, tapping urgently on Rosa’s door, bursting with her story.

Rosa stared at her, astonished, and then her face broke into a smile. “Is good news,” she said. “No need to say it, I can see.”

“Good news? Oh,
Rosa
!” Missie flung her arms around her, twirling her around excitedly. “This isn’t merely
good
news, it’s monumental, it’s startling, it’s astounding, amazing, phenomenal. It’s wonderful, fabulous,
exciting…
.” The four little girls sitting at the table eating supper stared at her, their spoons halfway to their mouths.

“So it’s astounding,” Rosa said practically. “So tell me how much you get paid.”

Missie’s face fell and she stopped dancing around and stared at her. “Oh, Rosa,” she said, “I forgot to ask!” And then she burst out laughing. “What difference does it make?” she said airily. “I’m going to marry a millionaire anyway, all Madame Elise’s girls do. She told me herself.”

“You are going to work for Madame Elise?” Rosa said, awed. Then she added, “And since when did the seamstresses marry the millionaires, even at smart Paris shops?”

“But, Rosa, I’m not a seamstress, I’m a fashion mannequin.” Missie whooped with excitement and threw her hat in the air. “I, my dear,” she said in an exaggerated drawl, slinking across the room one arm outstretched and her head twisted over one shoulder in a vamp pose, “I am Madame Elise’s new star mannequin.” She laughed, turning
back to Rosa, adding, “And it’s all thanks to you. It’s your advice that got me there and your five dollars that bought my new coat so I didn’t look like the ghost of poverty in my old gray shroud! You, Rosa Perelman,” she said, kissing her, “are my savior. And my very dearest friend.”

Rosa grinned and ladled out a bowl of soup. “Sit, eat,” she commanded, “and tell me all about it.”

“First, I’ve got something to show you.” Missie untied the violet ribbon from the pretty parcel. “There!” she said triumphantly, holding up a delicate camisole in the palest oyster-pink
crêpe-de-Chine
. Rosa sucked in her breath. After wiping her hands on her apron, she touched it gently with an outstretched finger. “Well?” Missie demanded.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Rosa whispered, “so beautiful, so delicate…. Who wears such garments, Missie? It’s sinful.”

“Of course it’s not sinful, it’s
heaven
, Rosa. I’m wearing one now, and knickers with so much lace you could make five collars!
And
silk stockings and a corset so light it’s like wearing gossamer. There’s nothing sinful about it.”

“It’s sinful only when you wear it for a man,” Rosa said quietly.

Missie stared at her, astonished, and said, “I never thought of that.”

“No reason you should.” Rosa turned to the children crowding around, exclaiming over the beautiful chemise. “Look but don’t touch,” she warned, sitting back at the table.

“Eat your soup, and then tell me all,” she said, briskly cutting a loaf of rye bread and keeping an eye on the children’s table manners while she listened to Missie’s excited description of Madame Elise, her encounter with Mrs. Masters, the lilac salon, and the lilac poodles. Missie said that Madame Elise had been apprenticed to Poiret and Worth and now she was the most famous of them all;
she had houses in Paris and London as well as New York and she traveled constantly between them.

“She has given me all these beautiful things,” Missie said, awed, “so I won’t disgrace myself with my patched cotton underwear anymore. Only it’s called ‘lingerie,’ and oh, Rosa, I can’t tell you how different I felt when the fitter slipped this wonderful chiffon dress over my head and I saw myself in the mirror. Madame took down my hair and smiled when she saw how long it was—it comes down to my waist. ‘You must never cut it,’ she said. And then they put powder on and rouge and stuff on my lashes, and a lipstick Madame calls Violette Elise,’ her special color. It felt sticky and very scented, but I guess I’ll get used to it. And the shoes, Rosa, little silver kidskin slippers with high heels and straps with diamanté buckles, and yards and yards of enormous pearls…”

She sighed, staring dreamily into her soup. “I just couldn’t believe it when I saw myself. I looked like another person.” Her face grew thoughtful. “A new person,” she added. “Verity Byron.”

“Is that your mannequin name, then?” Rosa asked, propping her chin on her hand and looking admiringly at Missie.

She nodded. “Only for work though. Here I’m still just Missie.”

Viktor cocked his head as the hall door slammed and footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rosa glanced at the old bracket clock and sighed. “I expect that’s Meyer,” she said, hurrying to the stove and stirring the stew, picking out the lumps of meat and filling his plate. “He likes his meal ready on the table as soon as he walks in.”

“We’ll be off, then,” Missie said, gathering her things together hastily and grabbing Azaylee’s hand. She hesitated. “Rosa, would you still be able to look after Azaylee for me? I don’t know what the hours are yet, but Madame said they would be ‘unorthodox,’ whatever that means.”

“It means ‘long, ’” Rosa said with a laugh. “Naturally I’ll
take her, don’t worry. And, Missie”—she kissed her warmly on the cheek—“I’m pleased for you. It sounds real wonderful, like a dream come true.”

Missie drew in a deep, satisfied breath. “Not quite,” she said, “but it’s a beginning.”

She couldn’t wait to get to Elise’s each morning for the fitters to begin reshaping the glamorous dresses, but she was very aware of the jealous glances of the other models. There were three of them. Miranda, a blonde, Minette, a redhead, and Minerve, a raven-haired beauty, and Missie thought they were all far more glamorous than she and very confident. But Elise kept them away from her, guarding her as if she were a secret weapon.

She made her walk endlessly up and down the lilac salon, wearing a silk wrapper and high-heeled shoes, draped with pearls and soft fur boas, practicing her walk and poses, sighing when Missie did not get it right.

And on Saturday Elise herself pressed a little lilac envelope into her hand. “Your first week’s wages, Verity,” she said, patting her on the shoulder. “You are not as good as Barbara yet but you learn quickly and you are more beautiful than her.”

Missie glanced at her reflection in the banks of mirrors along the wall, wondering if she really looked beautiful, barely recognizing herself. Surely this tall, languorous young woman with her rouged cheeks, her enormous shadowed eyes and pouting red mouth must be someone else? The long dark-green silk-velvet coat clung to her narrow hips and the amber-colored fox collar framed her face becomingly. “I look like a debutante,” she told herself, surprised. And then she added slowly, “I look just the way Anouska used to look.”