The Property of a Lady (43 page)

His Mercedes-Benz limousine was waiting at the curb to drive him down Broadway to a florist, where he placed his order and then he told the driver to take him back to his hotel. A word in the bellboy’s ear and a hundred-dollar bill in his hand guaranteed him a top-class beauty in the style he liked, and room service guaranteed him a supper of caviar and roast beef cooked “blue,” as the French called it. Eddie preferred his steak almost raw and his women wild, and tonight he would have both.

Missie had been promoted to a dressing room of her own. Every night it was filled with flowers and notes from young men she had never met begging her to have supper with them, to lunch with them, to go to a party with them. Often a gift was enclosed—a pretty diamond ring, a slender jeweled bracelet, a sapphire and diamond pin in the shape of a lucky horseshoe. She always kept the flowers and always sent back the gifts, and she never dined with any man she had not been introduced to.

She had made her rules firmly; she was a Ziegfeld showgirl to earn her living, not as a piece of property to be bought for a trifling diamond bauble. The other girls laughed at her and told her she was crazy, that it was all part of the game, but she still could not do it. Besides, she was afraid. And she was too busy. She was taking singing lessons now as well as dancing and voice projection. Ziegfeld planned to expand her role in the next Follies: She was to sing a little song specially written for her by Jerome Kern and do a little dance with the chorus boys to help her, and if she was good enough she could play a speaking role in a little skit.

She smiled happily, pushing aside the night’s trophies as she creamed off her makeup. Everything was going so well. Azaylee was happy at school, though sometimes the teachers complained of inattentiveness.

“It’s just that she’s dreamy,” Missie had explained quickly. “Sometimes she gets lost in herself and quite forgets where she is.” But the one time Azaylee never dreamed was in the dance classes. “Mime and Movement,” it was called at Beadles, and the children would flutter about barefoot in skimpy chiffon tunics, plump little legs and skinny ones thundering across the floor, pointing their toes and swirling as Miss Beadle herself thumped out a tune on the Bosendorfer upright. But it was Azaylee who amazed them all; when the music began she seemed to quiver with excitement until it was her turn to flit across the wooden floor, arms arched over her head and her thin legs extended in a graceful leap. Azaylee in motion was a poem of grace, and even Miss Beadle said she should take ballet lessons.

So now twice a week after school six-year-old Azaylee took classes from an out-of-work Broadway dancer in a cold rented studio on Forty-second Street. Dora Devine put her through her paces at the barre in her little pink ballet slippers for one hour, and in little silver tap shoes she counted and tapped her way through a second hour. Then she returned home, flushed with success, to practice on the marble dining-room floor, driving them crazy with her endless tapping.

Missie looked up as her dresser came in. “Another note, Miss Verity,” she said. “And a flower. This guy must be poor all right. Just one flower ain’t gonna get him nowhere.”

Verity took it from her. A single perfect creamy rose and a card that said “The Baron Edmund Arnhaldt.” Nothing else, just the card with his name and the rose. Smiling, she put the rose in the big crystal vase along with the dozens of others and thought nothing more about it.

The following night he sent his card again, and another rose—this time fashioned in silver. It was charming and unusual and for once she kept it, putting it into a slender silver bud vase on her dressing table. The next night there
was a gold rose, obviously antique and valuable, and she gasped with amazement. And the next, there was a rose of pale pinkish diamonds that sparkled as brightly as her smiling eyes. And this time the card said “Would you please have supper with me tonight? I am your devoted slave.”

Missie hesitated. For once she was tempted. Then she decided she couldn’t possibly do it. It was against all her rules. Besides, she had no idea who he was, or even what he looked like. He might be ninety years old and speak only German for all she knew. She went next door and asked Genny, one of the showgirls.

“Arnhaldt!” Genny exclaimed.
“Eddie
Arnhaldt. My dear, you’ve hit the jackpot. Arnhaldt is rich, rich, rich … he could buy every theater on Broadway if he wanted and never miss the money, he could buy every diamond in Cartier and not even flinch. He has yachts and castles and he’s very handsome. All the money comes from muck and grime—steel and iron works, it’s
solid
money. Verity, you’re
crazy
if you don’t see him—at least once. Just to test the water. I mean, after all, you can feel the man’s got style. Just look at his approach!”

Missie dithered. Eddie Arnhaldt was becoming more and more intriguing, “Well,” she said, “maybe just this once.”

“Bravo,” Genny cried, laughing. As Missie closed the door behind her she called, “Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you. He also has a terrible reputation with women.”

Her laughter followed Missie all the way back to her dressing room, but it did not change her mind. She was too fascinated by the mysterious Eddie Arnhaldt.

The long black Mercedes-Benz limousine with the tinted windows was parked in front of the theater, a uniformed chauffeur standing to attention in front of it. “Miss Byron?” he asked, whipping off his cap and opening the door for her. “The baron is waiting for you at Rector’s, ma’am. He said to apologize but he has injured his
leg and it is painful for him to step in and out of the limousine. He hopes you will forgive him for not being here personally, ma’am.”

The chauffeur sounded like a parrot repeating his lines, and she thought, annoyed, that it seemed she was going to be kept in suspense just a little bit longer about Baron Eddie Arnhaldt.

Rector’s was located between Forty-third and Forty-fourth streets, and its plush green and gold lobby was jammed with people desperate for tables. The ground-floor dining room with its ceiling-high mirrors and glittering chandeliers was crowded and from his table in the corner, Ziegfeld watched as Verity followed the maître d’ up the sweeping staircase to the second floor, where there was a second dining room and also several private rooms. He was surprised to see her there alone. After summoning a waiter, he asked him to find out whom Verity Byron was dining with. When he heard who it was he wrote a quick note, asking him to deliver it to her right away.

Eddie Arnhaldt was at the window, staring down at the busy scene on Forty-third Street. As the door opened, he turned to look at her. There were compensations after all: She was beautiful, not merely pretty, though too slender for his taste. But her violet eyes were like jewels and her hair like silk and she walked like a dream. “I must ask your forgiveness again for not coming to meet you,” he said, limping toward her with the aid of an ebony stick. He held out his hand to her, drawing her into the room as the waiter closed the door discreetly.

Missie glanced at him from under her lashes. Eddie Arnhaldt was handsome in a tall, arrogant-looking way, with pale-blue eyes and blond hair brushed straight back from his broad brow.

She realized suddenly that they were in a private dining room and took a surprised step back toward the door.

“But I can’t have supper here, alone with you,” she exclaimed, shocked.

He shook his head, smiling. “Our table is ready in the dining room next door, Miss Byron. I just thought you might prefer our initial meeting to be in private, in case you wished to change your mind.” He smiled. “And in case I don’t match up to your expectations. After all, you have never seen me before.”

She stared at him, relieved. He really was very handsome, thin-faced and firm-lipped, lean and fit, with that confident air of a man in control of his emotions. And his life. “Oh,” she said, smiling consideringly, “I think I could bear to have supper with you.”

He took her arm in a courtly fashion as they walked to the door, “In that case,” he said, giving her that smile again, “shall we join the other diners?”

She watched anxiously as the waiters helped him into his chair, aware of the curious glances from the other tables. “It’s nothing really.” He dismissed his injury. “I pulled a ligament playing polo yesterday. The damned foolish pony wanted to go one way and I wanted him to go another.” He grinned. “I won, of course, but at a cost.”

She stared across the table at him, fascinated. Half a dozen waiters hovered around their table anxious to fulfill his smallest command. He said, “I have taken the liberty of ordering our meal. I like to know in advance what I am eating so that the wine can be decanted. I am by way of being a wine connoisseur, and my cellar at home, at Haus Arnhaldt, has more than twelve thousand bottles, each a superlative vintage. I hope you appreciate good wine, Miss Byron, because tonight we are having some of the best.”

She shook her head and he went on. “Even with Prohibition, it seems everyone is continuing drinking as normal.” He shrugged contemptuously. “A ridiculous idea, of course. If a man wants to drink himself to death then he should be allowed to do so. And if he wants to savor the nectar made by man from the humble grape, then he should be allowed that pleasure.”

A waiter approached and, excusing himself, said, “A note for you, Miss Verity.”

She opened it, read it quickly, then looked up at Arnhaldt, surprised.

“Everything all right?” he asked a touch impatiently.

“Oh, yes, yes … quite all right, thank you. Just that Mr. Ziegfeld saw me come in and he wanted to say hello.” She blushed. Of course it wasn’t true. What his note had said was “Verity, take care.” She wondered what he meant.

The baron leaned across the table and said quietly, “I must tell you, Miss Byron, that I have not stopped thinking about you since I first saw you, four nights ago on the stage of the New Amsterdam Theater. It is unlike me; I am a busy man. I am here in New York on business but I have not been able to get you out of my head.” His eyes burned into hers as he added, “I cannot pretend with you. I have known many women in my life, but there has not been one that I have felt about so immediately the way I did you. You were not merely a star to that diamond moon on stage that night, Miss Byron, you were far more beautiful than the real thing.”

Missie bit her lip, blushing modestly. No one had ever said things like that to her before and she did not know how to respond, but deep inside she was thrilled. She wondered if all the stage-door romeos talked this way, or if he was sincere. “Thank you, Baron,” she said, fixing her eyes demurely on the damask tablecloth. “It’s very kind of you to say so.”

He laughed as the waiters swarmed around them bearing silver platters and said, “Not ‘kind,’ Miss Byron, just truthful.” The waiter poured a pale wine and he sipped it, nodding approvingly. “I want you to taste this,” he told her as the waiter filled her glass, “and tell me if it’s not nectar from the gods.”

She took a sip and her eyes rounded with pleasure; it was delicious.

As they ate he told her about himself, about how his grandfather had started the business from humble beginnings, how his father had been lost when the
Titanic
went down, and how he had been married at the age of twenty-three, only to lose his wife in a sailing accident off the coast of Dalmatia three years later. “My family seemed to be dogged by bad luck,” he said finally, “but at least I have my son, Augustus—Augie. He’s fourteen now, away at boarding school, and a true Arnhaldt.” His ice-blue glance took her in as she stared at him, fascinated. “But tell me about yourself,” he suggested, “where you are from, your family background.”

“It’s nothing like yours,” she said, telling him quickly about Oxford and her father. He was looking at her, puzzled, and she said, “You are probably wondering how I came to be here in New York and a Ziegfeld girl. I … we … we were on holiday when my father died suddenly. I had to find a job to support myself and my little sister.”

“Your sister?”

“Azaylee. She’s six now, and at school at the Misses Beadle’.”

He nodded, “And is she as beautiful as you?”

Missie laughed. “Everyone asks that question, and the reply is always the same. No, she is not. She’s far, far more beautiful. She has spun-gold hair and eyes like pansies, and she’s just … just a dream child.”

His eyes considered her as he drank his wine. “You obviously love her very much.”

“Azaylee is all the family I have,” she replied quietly.

“I would like to meet her,” he said. “My yacht, the
Ferdinand A
, is moored here on the Hudson. Would you and Azaylee do me the honor of spending the day with me on Sunday? We can sail up the coast, have lunch….” He leaned forward, gazing into her eyes, “Please say yes,” he whispered.

His eyes lured her, yet she was uncertain. Despite his
charm, there was something about him that intimidated her. Maybe it was his air of contempt for those beneath him—she had noticed that he never even looked at the waiters, just expected them to jump whenever he snapped his fingers. But she was probably being too hard on him. He was a man born to great wealth and not used to dealing with ordinary people. Life on his level must be like it had been for Misha—though she had never seen Misha treat a servant with anything other than courtesy. And yet he was so attractive and his eyes were begging her, caressing her almost. “I accept,” she agreed breathlessly, telling herself that, after all, Azaylee would love it. Ziegfeld’s note fell to the floor unnoticed as she left the table, blushing and smiling, and every head turned to watch them go.

On the way home he kept carefully to his side of the limousine, watching her as she chatted about Azaylee and about her life as a showgirl. She was exhilarated, alive, filled with a new excitement.

When the car stopped at her apartment he leaned forward and took her hand. “Till Sunday then?” he said, brushing her fingers lightly with his lips.

“Till Sunday,” she promised, shivering at his touch.

The next morning when she awoke the apartment was filled with long-stemmed cream roses, and their scent was giving Beulah hay fever.