The Property of a Lady (41 page)

Missie lingered on the sidewalk in front of the theater, staring at the glittering marquee with its red, white, and blue lights spelling out “The New International Ziegfeld Follies. Starring from America, Fanny Brice. From Paris, Gaby Delys, from England, the Arcos Brothers” and in smaller letters, “Featuring the gorgeous Ziegfeld girls with the beautiful Verity Byron.”

She wasn’t a star yet, but her name was sparkling in lights on Broadway, people were gazing at her photograph displayed out front, and in a few short hours she would be onstage. Her stomach sank at the thought. It had all seemed so easy until now.

Then she thought of the money and cheered up. For two hundred a week she would smile the brightest of any girl, she would pose in her filmy chiffon robes and not mind that the men were staring at her legs and her bosom, artfully half revealed in Elise’s draperies.

And anyway, the past two months had been the most carefree she had known since they had fled from Russia almost three years before. Everyone treated her like a precious object, and for publicity purposes she was also expected to be seen in smart restaurants with Mr. Ziegfeld and his friends; she had already had one proposal of marriage from a middle-aged titled Englishman fascinated by her newly created other-worldly good looks.

“You are a creature from a Scheherazade tale,” he had
whispered to her when she permitted him to escort her home after supper at Imogen Wensleyshire’s Manhattan penthouse, but she had laughed and told him that her father was a professor and Oxford was a long way from Arabia, and that had soon dampened his ardor.

The move into the new apartment had been easy; there was nothing much to move, just herself and Azaylee, the dog and the two old suitcases, one with their few possessions and the other with the jewels. Azaylee’s tears had turned to cries of delight when she had seen her new room with the big bed under its pretty pink-and-white quilt and her closet full of the pretty new clothes Missie had bought for her, and the parcels of new toys she had ransacked the stores for, squandering money lavishly and feeling like a princess herself as she told them happily, “Deliver them all, please.”

Even Viktor had a new collar with a silver bell and a proper red leather leash as well as a silver bowl with his name inscribed on it, and she had filled it with prime steak and tasty dog biscuits that he had devoured in two gulps.

She had felt very proud that first night when she had walked around her new home; she had peered into her larder stocked with good things and laughed out loud to think she would never have to worry about going hungry again; she had looked at Azaylee, sleeping contentedly, and thanked God she had finally given her a proper home; and she had taken a long, luxurious bath in the beautiful white porcelain tub. Then she had put on a silk nightdress, courtesy of Madame and paid for under Ziegfeld’s contract, and inspected her new clothes. Dresses, coats, suits, hats: everything suitable for a lady to wear on any occasion. And she had fallen asleep that night with a smile on her face instead of the usual worried frown. She felt like a carefree young girl again, freed from her burdens, and this time she meant to enjoy herself as she never had in her life before.

The next morning, Beulah Bradford had arrived and taken charge of them all. Beulah was a blessing in the guise of a middle-aged widowed lady who had already brought up six children of her own and had ten grandchildren living in Georgia. She wore a clean starched white overall and enormous white lace-up shoes and she moved about the small apartment like a battleship at full speed.

“Ah’m used to doin’ for my own children,” she told Missie. “Ah’ve been working for show-business ladies for more’n twenty years now. Ah knows all their ways, and the funny hours they keep, and no stories never get into the papers from mah mouth. Ah’m the soul of discretion, Miss Verity, and ah’m real thrilled to be lookin’ after little Azaylee here. Takes me back to when my own were that age,” she had added with a reminiscent sigh, “before they grew big and obstreperous.”

Within a week Beulah was part of the family and had taken Rosa’s place as “aunt in residence.” She cooked Azaylee’s meals and made sure she ate them, she bathed her, she washed and ironed her little dresses; she braided her hair and took her and Viktor for long walks in the park every afternoon where they met other children. Azaylee loved her and had a great time.

There were just two problems in Missie’s life right now. One was that there simply had not been a free few hours to see Rosa, and the other was that money seemed to slip through her fingers like water.

Ziegfeld had given her a month’s salary in advance so she could pay the deposit and the rent on her new apartment; she had paid back Zev and paid Glanz’s for her coat; she had given Rosa back her five dollars and tucked another twenty into her pocket when she wasn’t looking. And remembering working for poverty wages herself, she had insisted on paying Beulah a hundred dollars a month plus her uniforms and room and board, and even at that price she considered her a bargain. “When my salary goes
up, so does yours, Beulah,” she had told her frankly, “and that’s a promise.”

Of course there was enough money to live on, but it puzzled her that somehow the two hundred dollars didn’t look like the fortune it had a few weeks ago. Especially when she had found out the fees demanded by New York’s smart schools, not that they were exactly keen on having her custom. The genteelly snobbish spinster ladies who ran them had dropped Astors and Vanderbilts, Biddies and Bradleys, into the conversation like social confetti, looking askance at her when she explained that she was appearing in Ziegfeld’s new Follies and looking skeptical when she introduced Azaylee as her little sister. If only you knew who this child really is, she had thought furiously, you would be swooning to have her!

Only one school, Beadles, had agreed to accept her, and Missie knew it was the best of all. The two Misses Beadle who ran it were down-to-earth smiling women from Boston, and their own background was socially impeccable enough not to have to boast of their pupils. On the contrary, all their girls wore the same smart little gray coats and skirts with wide-brimmed felt hats in winter and straw hats in summer and everyone was treated equally. The only trouble was the exorbitant fees, five hundred a term, payable in advance. She just did not have the money. She could not ask Mr. Ziegfeld for another advance, and anyway the thought of getting into debt again terrified her. She had vowed never again in all her life to owe anyone money and she intended to keep that vow.

She had hurried home and pulled the old valise from under her bed, taking out the contents and looking at them one by one, remembering Sofia prising the diamonds from the tiara with a hatpin and then selling them on the streets of Constantinople. The three huge remaining diamonds glittered under the light and the fourth that Zev had given back to her when she had repaid her debt was still wrapped in a scrap of velvet. She knew he was
right. No one would believe they were honestly hers if she tried to sell them.

She looked at Misha’s dear face, remembering every line, every glance from his gray eyes, every light touch of his hand, wondering why, when she was awake, he seemed like a dream. Only in her dreams did he seem real. The five-plumed diamond brooch lay on the bottom of the valise. She traced it again with her finger, remembering the night he had given it to her. It was her most precious possession. She stared at it for a long time, thinking of what to do. In the end she knew she had no choice. The brooch was an insignificant piece of jewelry compared with the valuable diamonds; she could easily make up a story that it was a gift sent to her by an unknown admirer. It was common knowledge that showgirls were often given expensive jewelry, and she had seen them showing off their diamond trophies collected from admirers, known and unknown. And anyhow, so much time had passed since the revolution and the Ivanoff murders. Surely no one would be interested now?

She debated the risk all that night, recalling that Cartier was lending Ziegfeld the diamonds she was to wear onstage. Then early the next morning before she could change her mind, she dressed carefully in Elise’s cream suit, making up her face and choosing a flamboyantly feathered hat that looked sufficiently “showgirl.” And then she called a taxi and told the cab driver to take her to Fifth Avenue.

She browsed nonchalantly along the velvet-lined glass cases in Carrier’s hallowed gray halls, stopping to admire a diamond bauble here, a rope of pearls there as if she had not a care in the world other than choosing something delicious with which to adorn herself.

“Madame?” A pin-striped tail-coated gentleman smiled at her inquiringly. “Can I be of help?”

She smiled at him disarmingly. “I am Verity Byron. Mr.
Ziegfeld informed me that you would be sending over some diamonds for me to wear in his next show. I wondered if I might see them first.” She added doubtfully, “Perhaps I should have brought Madame Elise along to help? But no, I think with your good taste they are probably perfect. I would just like to add my approval before the final decisions are taken.”

“But of course, Miss Byron, and it’s a great pleasure to meet you.” She adjusted her hat lower over her eyes, bestowing yet another sparkling smile on him, and he gazed at her admiringly. “May I say that you are every bit as lovely as your photographs,” he said reverently, “and that Cartier are honored to be of service.”

She sat on a little Louis Quinze chair, nervously drumming her cream-gloved fingers on the glass counter as he retreated to the safe in the back, emerging a few minutes later bearing half a dozen suede boxes.

He lined them up on the counter in front of her, opening them with a flourish and showing her the diamond necklaces and bracelets and enormous drop earrings that she knew Anouska would have adored.

“Please try them on,” he urged. “If the necklace does not sit properly, just above the collarbone, then we can adjust it. And Madame has such slender wrists, I think the bracelets too must be altered. And how does Madame like this new design? The very latest snake bracelets from our Paris workshops?”

“Magnificent,” she said, admiring herself in the mirror. “It makes my own little commission seem … well, trifling.”

“And what is that, Madame?” he asked, eager to please.

She hesitated a second and then said, “I have a little souvenir, a present from an unknown admirer….” She shrugged. “You know the way things are in the theater. It’s a little garish for my taste, and besides, it means nothing to me. I would prefer to dispose of it, and as I under
stand it was bought from Cartier, I have brought it back to you.”

“I understand, Madame, of course. May I see?”

She slid the brooch, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, across the counter to him, and he drew in his breath as he looked at it. “I see, Madame,” he murmured. “Yes, a very
unusual
piece. I could quite understand that you would not want to wear it.”

She watched nervously as he examined it minutely under his jeweler’s loupe for what seemed a long time. Then he said, “This pin dates from the turn of the century and was made in our Paris workshops for a famous family.” His eyes assessed her for a moment and he said smoothly, “It’s a pity you don’t know the name of the gentleman who gave it to you. It is always better with jewels like this to know the provenance. It facilitates the resale, you see.”

“I’m sorry.” She shrugged. “I simply have no idea. It was not important to me.”

“Of course not, Madame, of course not. Well, I am pleased to tell you that with the quality of the gemstones and the Cartier workmanship this is now a collector’s piece. We can offer you one thousand dollars for it.”

Missie closed her eyes. A thousand dollars. She had hoped at the most for five hundred, enough for one semester’s school fees.

“I’ll take it,” she said, opening her eyes and smiling.

The transaction was completed in a few minutes. After tucking the ten hundred-dollar bills into her purse, she smiled gratefully at him and floated out of the shop as if she were walking on air.

He watched speculatively as the door closed behind her, then he took the Ivanoff brooch and looked at it again. After going into his office, he placed an overseas telephone call. When it finally came through later that day, his conversation was brief.

“You asked us to let you know immediately, sir, should any of the Ivanoff jewels be offered to us for sale,” he
said. “As a collector, I think you will be very excited with this piece. Yes, sir, it is quite rare. It’s a brooch in the form of the Ivanoff family crest: diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, set in platinum with a gold wolf’s head. You would like it? Very good, sir.” He listened for a while and then replied, “Yes, I remember you wanted to know, sir. It was a young lady who brought it in. A showgirl in Ziegfeld’s new Follies, by the name of Verity Byron.” He smiled, listening, and then he said, “In that case, I will hold it here for you, sir, until you arrive. Thank you, Baron Arnhaldt.”

It was opening night and she was wearing Cartier’s diamond necklace and snake bracelets with a dress of filmy silver gauze, flesh-colored silk tights, and her signature silver shoes, only this time with impossibly high heels. She had rehearsed in them a hundred times and practiced by herself a thousand times, and they still made her ankles wobble and still made her nervous.

Ziegfeld had said, “With all this publicity they’ll be flocking to see you out of sheer curiosity. Almost as much as for Fanny and Gaby, although to tell the truth, Gaby’s not so popular as she was. Pity, she’s a lovely girl. The trick is to make them wait for you. That way their curiosity will be even greater. So we’ve featured you in the opening scene of the second half and again in the finale. That’s all. I’m going to ration your appearances until they demand more!”

Unlike Elise’s mannequins, the showgirls were friendly as well as beautiful; they knew she was frightened and they crowded around her encouragingly as she sat, drooping nervously at her dressing table. “Just stand where you’re supposed to, walk when you’re supposed to, and smile whenever you feel like it,” they advised her. “There’s nothing to it. You’ve already done it a hundred times.”