Osmond looked over, then quickly away, moving so as to stand now with his back entirely to the door. A new expression crossed his smooth features. The Countess Gemini watched it all from her place at the corner table, but Libby was oblivious, for once, to the impression she made.
“Darling Lazarus!” she cried. She rocked him in her thin arms. “Dearest! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I could have had the joy of waiting for you!”
“I didn’t know myself till I set out,” he said. “Of course I had to come.”
“You look well,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a suntan before.”
“Ah yes,” said Lazarus. “The Riviera works wonders.” But he added nothing more. It came to her then that in fact he didn’t look well at all. His mouth looked tired, and his skin appeared more yellow than tanned, the skin taut across his cheeks.
“It was beastly of me to elope,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “And then we took the world’s most extended honeymoon.”
Lazarus kept looking around, drinking her in, smiling and dismayed, trying to force her to meet his gaze. Finally, he steadied her by holding her by the shoulders. “How are you?” he asked. “Really.”
“I have seen the world,” she said simply.
“I see,” he said. “And is it to your liking?”
“Parts of it are,” she said, looking away. “But I must introduce you properly to my husband.” She took Lazarus by the hand and drew him to the circle of black-clad men surrounding Osmond. He seemed not to notice her draw near, so that she had to touch Osmond lightly on the arm more than once before he turned, feigning surprise.
“Look who’s here!” she said, smiling her brightest.
There was no answering smile on her husband’s face. “Ah yes—it’s Elizabeth’s Irish cousin,” he drawled.
“You’ve met?” asked his wife.
“Long ago,” said Lazarus. “At Madame Merle’s apartments.”
“That I don’t remember,” said Osmond. “But I never forget a face.”
“That’s unfortunate, for a face like mine,” joked Lazarus. None of the men responded. Their conversation seemed merely to have paused for this interruption.
“You sent a handsome wedding gift,” said Osmond. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Lazarus.
The conversation was clearly at an end. Osmond again angled his back deliberately, to face his friends, away from his wife and her cousin. Libby looked surprised, but only for the briefest instant. Her eyes widened. Then the veil dropped down again over her face; the light went back out. She looked across the room and met the piercing, friendly gaze of her sister-in-law, the Countess Gemini, who shrugged and made a comic face.
Libby pulled Lazarus away. “You must meet my sister-in-law,” she said. “And Viola! My stepdaughter. You’ll adore her.”
“Anyone you adore I will love,” said Lazarus, pressing his cousin’s arm.
As they moved away Osmond said something in Italian, “Gli piace il suo,” that made the other men snicker and look again.
“Bulicio?” asked the critico.
Libby felt rather than saw Lazarus flinch as she guided him away.
“And anyone you hate I will hate,” he said.
“Oh, but I don’t hate anyone,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s too exhausting.”
Her cousin was quickly settled with the Countess and Viola, and together they watched the new guests trickle in. Libby jumped up each time to greet the newcomers and guide them toward her husband or carefully away, as the individual case seemed to merit.
“Can’t he greet anyone himself?” Lazarus asked her at last, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“He prefers not to,” said Libby.
“He prefers to be greeted,” put in the Countess in her high, sharp voice, just a hint softer around Libby. “If one wishes to kiss his ring, that’s all right too.”
“I’m sure it is.” Lazarus stretched his mouth as if to laugh, but his expression remained grim.
Lazarus carried on a lively conversation with the Countess Gemini, but he was busy taking in the whole salon with his clever, hazel eyes. Libby could feel him taking account of the studied arrangement of the room; its carefully chosen, exquisite furnishings; the hushed murmur of voices; his host firmly enclosed by his eternal circle of black-clad Italian men. Now and then one man would leave and another enter, but the substance, shape, and tone of the conversation never appeared to vary. The salon felt airless. It was all very muted, elegant, like the Bohemian ruby vases and framed etchings. Never once did Osmond address his wife, but not till Lazarus was there to witness all this had she felt her own exile so keenly.
At last her cousin’s patience gave out—as it usually did, abruptly and all at once. He closed his eyes, then opened them and looked directly at Libby, though the Countess Gemini was in the middle of another one of her long stories. Nearly all of them featured herself in some catastrophe or another, though she inevitably ended her tales with shrieks of high-pitched laughter, tugging at the ends of her bleached hair.
“It’s stifling here,” Lazarus said to Libby. “I must have some air. Can we go out for a walk?”
Libby rose at once, her brow furrowed. She was no longer the bright, quick, young thing she had been in Rochester. An admirer might have thought her wiser, tireder—and perhaps more beautiful. “Of course. I’ll get my coat.” She fetched a pale cashmere car coat from a room behind the salon and shrugged it on. The pale-blue color did not really suit her. It tied around the waist like a loose-fitting robe. She looped a wool scarf around her cousin’s neck and helped him into his jacket, against his protestations. “Nights in Rome can be bitter,” she insisted.
When they reached the door, their host spoke, without turning around. “Don’t be gone long.” Osmond spoke quietly, but Libby flinched as if she’d been struck. She did not answer her husband, she only nodded, and opened and closed the front door quietly. The night air was indeed bitter, but its bitterness felt like a blessed relief after the stuffiness of the crowded villa.
The cousins walked in silence down the steep hill. Lazarus shuffled slightly ahead, sunk in thought, his hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. Finally, when the road leveled off at the bottom he turned and waited for her to catch up. “I never thought I’d see you like this,” he said gravely.
“In Italy, on a winter’s night?” she asked.
“I never thought you would marry beneath you.”
“Because my husband has no title?” she demanded with a show of coldness. “And no fortune of his own?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Lazarus said harshly. “You could have married a pauper—I half expected it. You could have married a waiter and I wouldn’t have blinked. I wouldn’t have felt what I do now.”
“Which is what, exactly?” She stood her ground, mirroring him, her own hands now shoved in her pockets.
“Disgust,” he said.
“That’s a nice thing to say!”
“I’m not trying to be nice. I’m trying to understand you . . . to understand this.”
“Marriage is always something of a mystery,” she said.
“This is not a marriage. I know what I saw back there. Good God. You could have made anything of yourself, and look what you’ve become! Worse than a servant . . . the lackey of a sterile dilettante.”
“Be careful what you say,” she warned him.
“It’s not that I expected you to change the world, God knows. You may have expected that of yourself, but I’m not even sure it’s a worthy aim—the world being what it is. But for yourself, Libby! My God . . . look at yourself.”
“Lazarus,” she said.
“To scrape and bow for such a man,” he went on relentlessly. “I don’t see how you stand it.”
“If you feel that way about my husband, you’d better not stay.”
“I don’t intend to!” he said emphatically. “I’ve seen enough tonig
ht to last a lifetime.”
“Can’t you be pleasant?” she begged. “It’s been so long since I’ve laid eyes on you. Can’t we try to just get along?”
“Can you?” he demanded. “And if you can—how do you do it? It was never like you to lie to yourself.”
“I always try to get along,” she said evenly.
“That sounds like a fine life!” he exclaimed. He had stopped walking but now he bolted ahead again, his long legs flashing in the darkness.
She strode after him, out of breath. “I’m sorry I’m not Madame Curie!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry I’m not something famous and extraordinary and noble!”
“If you had only been yourself, that would have been noble enough for me,” he said. “But to cater to the whims of that man . . . nothing about him is real. His house, his collezioni, his airs, his little goatee. I see it . . . I can’t help but see it.”
“Not everything,” she said. “His teeth are his own.”
“I’m surprised you can laugh at such an existence,” he said.
“I’m surprised you can stop laughing,” she replied.
“Some thoughts lie too deep for tears.”
“I imagine you’re quoting something,” she said. “But I don’t recognize it. I’m not as clever as you are. I’m not as clever as you think I am.”
“You’re a greater fool than I would have believed possible!”
“Lazarus, in the name of God,” she said. “I must ask you to control yourself. You are speaking about the man I married.”
“I notice you don’t say ‘the man I love.’”
“When have I ever said such things to you?”
“Never,” Lazarus said bitterly. “I wish you had. I might understand you better now! If I thought you had married him out of love—or lust. But that’s impossible. It’s surely only, only . . .” He stopped himself.
“Only what?” she persisted.
“Only out of perversity,” he said. “As if you’re bound and determined to prove that the most unlovable things in the world are lovable.”
“You do say the sweetest things,” she said.
“I’m not trying to be sweet,” he said.
“Then you are succeeding brilliantly.” But she took his thin hand in hers, and that silenced him. She saw, with horror, that his eyes were filled with tears. “Please don’t be sad,” she said. “Lazarus, please.”
He did not answer but silently pressed her hand in return.
“I am sad enough for both of us,” she finally said. “There—now are you satisfied?”
“Satisfied?” he said, pulling away. “Why in God’s name would I be satisfied? I’ve only wanted goodness for you and look what I’ve done.”
“I have done this myself,” she answered quietly.
He tried a different tack. “Come away,” he said. “Come back to Northern Ireland with me. You’ll always have a home there. Never mind about the money—leave it behind.”
“I can’t.” She shook her head. “I have to try to make this work, don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t!” he said. “This is the twentieth century, it’s 1956. People get divorces. They start over. They strike out on their own. Why can’t you?”
“Because I can’t,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t fail at this too!”
“When have you ever failed before?” he demanded.
“When have I succeeded?” she returned. “What have I made of my life—of my splendid chances?”
“All the more reason not to throw your life away now,” he said.
“It’s still early,” she said. “I haven’t given this marriage a fair try. And it may sound ridiculously old-fashioned to you, but I made a promise. I made a solemn promise, before God, and I must try to keep it.”
Lazarus shook his head. “I see I’m not going to change your mind,” he said.
“And there is Viola,” she added. “She is my daughter now. She needs a true family. I am her best chance at that.”
“Perhaps,” he said reluctantly, “one day you’ll also have a family of your own.”
Libby bit her lip. In the darkness, he did not see it. “Perhaps,” she said.
They walked on in silence a few minutes. Libby held out her hand, almost fearfully. It hung for a moment between them and then he took it, and they walked on, his bare hand holding her gloved one.
“I will come to you in Ireland,” she said. “It’s better. I promise you I’ll come,” she added quickly. “But now—walk with me back to the villa. It’s so cold. You’re shivering.”
“No,” he said. “I won’t go back. Tell your husband—well, anything you like. You can say I am unwell. That’s true enough.” He did look very ill at that moment. “Do they have no taxis in your infernal neighborhood?”
“Just around the corner,” she said. “Would you like to sit here a moment and wait while I fetch one? I forget that you shouldn’t be out like this. Look at you shivering. You’re far too ill.”
“It’s bad when people forget how sick I am,” said Lazarus, “but worse when they remember!”
They drew around the corner and Libby put up her gloved hand. A taxi put on its blinker and approached.
“Don’t forget to come,” said Lazarus. “And don’t wait too long. Remember the story of Beauty and the Beast. . . . Beauty promised to return but stayed away too long. He was near death when she at last arrived. But there will be no final transformation for me. I won’t turn into a prince—not even for you, Libby. I’ll only be a dying animal.”
The cab pulled up beside them. It flashed its lights twice and honked, with Roman impatience.
“You’ll never be anything but angelic to me,” she said, planting a kiss on Lazarus’s hollow cheek, a kiss so tender it seemed in that instant as if all of his sick and weary journeying might have almost been worthwhile.
“I’m afraid it’s very dull for you here,” said the Countess Gemini in her shrill voice. She had been pacing up and down by the narrow, iron-caged windows of the villa for the last several minutes, peering out. “Roman winters are filthy. People hole up in their houses. It will be better, come spring.”
“Are you waiting for your friend again?” asked Libby. Osmond was out. This was not unusual. He was often away. Viola was upstairs in her room, practicing her flute behind closed doors, since the noise disturbed her father. She was very careful not to disturb him. He was one of those rare men who actively disliked music.
“Lady Jacinta, yes,” said the Countess with a certain something in her voice that made Libby look up from her needlework. She never would have believed she would end up practicing an art like needlework, but Osmond approved of the hobby, and it helped steady Libby’s nerves to keep her hands busy. She hated inactivity.
“You’re very close friends, aren’t you?” said Libby.
“Very,” said the Countess. “She is married as I am.”
That odd phrasing kept Libby’s mind absorbed for the next few minutes, and then the Countess spoke again. “Speaking of which, I’m afraid you’ll be losing even my poor company soon. I am traveling south with my husband for a few months. The winters are hard on him—he has arthritis in his hands.”
“You are traveling with . . .” Libby put down the needlework in amazement.
“My husband, yes,” said the Countess Gemini. She stopped her pacing and perched on the arm of a very good seventeenth-century chair. Had Osmond seen it, he might have shot her on the spot.
“I’ve never met him,” Libby said simply.
“Gilbert won’t allow him to the house,” said the Countess. “My husband is not a monster. You can’t believe what you’re told. He likes men, and I like women. That’s all. I hope I haven’t shocked you.”
“I’m not so easily shocked,” said Libby.
“Not any longer,” said the Countess, a bit drily. “In any event, my husband won’t hide what he is, and that offends my brother.”
“Isn’t he hiding—somewhat—in being m
arried to you?” asked Libby.
“It allows us to survive in this world,” said the Countess. “But I suppose you’re right. . . . Some people wouldn’t call it a marriage at all. But we are very good friends, at least. I’ve seen worse marriages than mine.”
Libby colored.
“I didn’t mean yours!” the Countess cried. “Oh, my dear girl, I hope you didn’t think—”
“I don’t think,” said Libby. “I don’t ever think.” She resumed her needlework with redoubled concentration and force—so much so that she pricked her finger and cried out in pain.
“Are you bleeding?” asked the Countess.
Libby held up her forefinger. One drop of blood hung there suspended. The Countess rushed away to the sink, poured cold water onto a dish towel, and hurried back to minister to the wound.
“It’s nothing,” said Libby, laughing. “Thank you. You should have been a nurse.”
“I should have been a mother. That would have made all the difference. We both should have been.”
“I am a mother,” said Libby. “I have Viola, remember.”
“Thank God for that!” said the Countess. A taxi blared its horn outside the villa, twice, then a third time. “There she is, in a taxi. Oh, the Romans! Why didn’t I choose another city? All right, all right, va bene. But I must say goodbye to Viola.”
“I’ll say your farewells,” said Libby, as the taxi honked again. “Go—go and be happy!”
The Countess kissed her. There were tears in her eyes as she embraced her sister-in-law. “It’s selfish of me,” she said, “terribly selfish, but I’m very glad that you’re here.”
Then she banged out the door. Libby settled herself again on the sofa. Upstairs, Viola attempted the same difficult flute trill over and over. She was a naturally gifted musician; there was no question about that. And she loved music; there was no doubt about that, either. Libby picked up the needlepoint, looked at it, and then set it back down again. “Someone must be glad,” she said to herself.
Chapter Fourteen
Winter in the Roman villa remained very dull. Osmond held his salons rarely—once a month, always at the same day and time, on a Thursday evening, and the guests seldom varied. Osmond had not a great tolerance for company and preferred a quiet house. Even when he was absent, Libby and Viola obeyed his wishes as much as possible, with the exception of Viola’s music playing, in which she restricted herself more severely than her father could have done. One hour of practice a day, and not a moment more. That was how they had dealt with music in the convent, so Viola believed a single hour was still permissible. Yet sometimes Libby would find the girl in her room, silently holding the flute to her lips, her nimble fingers running over and over the keys. She was a quiet girl, and Libby had learned to tame her own impulse toward conversation. It so seldom led to anything good at home, with Osmond. As Libby sat in the chair by the fire, thinking of Ireland, finishing her third needlepoint pillow, she could hear the ticking of the clock. It was the only clock in the house, but a very good black marble timepiece from Dinant, a find that Osmond had made several years earlier.