The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [125]
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