The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [119]
Monday could not come soon enough for Missie. She was up at six, heating the kettles of water for the zinc hip bath and being as quiet as she could so as not to wake Azaylee, still sleeping the all-out slumber of the very young.
She paused by the sagging brass bed to look at her, promising silently that soon everything would change. They would have a proper apartment, she would go to a good school, there would be good food again, good clothes. Madame Elise would be their savior and she would do her very best to be a good mannequin.
“I don’t want a good mannequin,” Madame Elise told her angrily later that morning. “What I need for my clothes is a great mannequin, a wonder-girl, so ravissante, so alluring, and yet so ladylike that all those rich women will think they can be like that too if they buy Elise’s dresses. Hold yourself taller, no, taller even than that … stretch your neck from your shoulders, stretch your spine from your waist, there, that’s better. You walk so beautifully, Verity. Just relax, let your pretty head droop forward a little on that so, soooo fragile neck, remember you are clothed in gossamer, you cannot possibly look earthly. Please, Verity!”
She sighed loudly. Missie heard smothered laughter in the background and knew the other girls were enjoying her humiliation as Madame put her through her paces for the hundredth time that morning.
“Try again,” Madame said loudly. “No, wait. Miranda, come here and show Verity what I mean.”
Beautiful blond Miranda loped elegantly across the salon, one hand on her hip, the other arm swinging, her hand outstretched. She stopped in front of Madame and Verity, one foot prettily in front of the other, the fingers of her beringed hand spread at her throat, eyes disdainfully half closed as if she scorned to look at them.
“You see,” Madame exclaimed triumphantly, “that is what I want. Exaggerate! Viens, Verity, try again.”
It was a relief when Madame left for a consultation with one of her out-of-town clients at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The fitter told Missie she charged them a thousand dollars just to advise them on what colors to wear and what fabrics and styles would suit them best. “And then they come here and buy everything she has suggested,” she told Missie with a laugh. “But you’ve got to hand it to Madame, those women leave the salon looking better than they’ve ever looked in their lives. Madame always says that’s one of her secrets. The husbands are so pleased they don’t mind paying up.”
Missie touched the soft folds of her violet chiffon dress encrusted with tiny silver beads; it was beautiful and felt light as a breeze against her leaden limbs. She stared despairingly in the mirror, drooping with tiredness. The dress was sleeveless, cut in a deep V front and back, sashed around its low waist with a tasseled silver rope. The skirt was daringly short, cut to midcalf and draped over the hips with a floating panel at one side. She knew she should look like Ariel in it, but right now all she felt like was Puck.
“Can’t turn an ugly duckling into a swan, can you?” Minerve’s voice said mockingly behind her.
“And you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear,” Minette said with a giggle.
Tall, raven-haired Minerve strode toward her menacingly. “That’s my job you’ve taken,” she whispered threateningly, “but don’t think I’m going to let you get away with it. I’ll have you out of here before you know it.”
Then she said loudly, “I’m having lunch with Alphonse today. That’s the Duke di Monteciccio to you,” she added for Missie’s benefit, sweeping through the door.
The fitter sighed. “And she thinks she’s already the duchess,” she muttered. “It would be good riddance if she did get married and leave, she’s a real trouble causer. Better watch out for her, darlin’, or she’ll steal