Beauty and Attention: A Novel by Liz Rosenberg

Author:Liz Rosenberg [Rosenberg, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503940635
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2016-10-24T18:30:00+00:00

Over the next few days, Libby and Clara Merle were thrown much into each other’s company. Their affection and friendship increased. Mrs. Sachs was busy consulting with doctors who came in an endless stream to Gardencourt. None of them had anything hopeful to offer. The house was so quiet you could hear the ticking of its clocks, like so many heartbeats. Lazarus stayed away from the two women entirely.

“My poor cousin,” said Libby. “He must be beside himself.”

“He would avoid me in any case,” said Madame Merle. “He doesn’t care for my company.”

“Then he must not know you. Not well.”

Clara’s smile quirked up to the right side in the odd, lopsided way it had. In a strange way, her smile aged her, Libby thought. It almost made her look like the victim of a stroke.

“Or perhaps he knows me too well.” Madame Merle smoked a pack a day, and she lit another cigarette now and fit it into a long tortoise-shell cigarette holder. “In any event, it’s lucky Lazarus is as ill as he is. It gives him something to do, or an excuse to do nothing. . . . It’s always been his calling card.”

Libby, dismayed, said nothing. Now and then her new friend, who could be so tender and thoughtful, seemed callous. Clara Merle read her expression. “That sounded hard . . . I only meant,” said the older woman, “your American men seem to lose themselves when they come abroad—even if, like your cousin, they are brought here at an early age, through no fault of their own. But they end up stuck here, in Europe, with too little to sustain them. No work, no title, no cause, no identity to speak of . . .”

“You sound like my friend Henrietta,” said Libby, half smiling. “But I’m sure my cousin would never have chosen his illness as his profession—much less his identity.”

“I’m sure not,” agreed Madame Merle. “Surely he had ambitions once. God knows I did! I was very ambitious once upon a time. You can’t imagine my dreams of grandeur. It’s embarrassing to think of it now.”

Libby studied her new friend, her gold hair illuminated around her head like a halo in the soft Irish air, under lamplight, her neck firm and white. She suddenly pictured her with a crown on that fine head. What had she wished to be? Libby wondered.

“I know a brilliant man in Rome,” Clara went on. “A sad case. He has nothing that he should have liked—nothing, nothing. Yet he was capable of anything. He has the most discerning mind I’ve ever known. His name is Gilbert Osmond. He is a marvel. I wish you could meet him. But he lives in seclusion, and the world knows nothing of him—though he knows all there is to be known about the world.”

“Does he live by himself?” asked Libby, interested.

“Well,” said Madame Merle, looking down. “He has a young daughter, whom he adores.”

“Then he does have at least one thing that he likes,” said Libby.

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