“You don’t like it much,” said Libby, glancing down. “Neither do I.”
“I like the Bazar’s escalator.” Madame Merle quirked her lips. “But surely you are now free . . . to dress as you please? To suit your own taste?”
“All the more reason to please my aunt,” said Libby. “Since it matters so little to me, and so much to her.”
“You are too kind,” murmured Clara, patting her friend’s hand. “Will you have an éclair? They’re very good here. And you’ve lost weight. You need to plump up.”
“I’m not fond of sweets,” said Libby.
“Good. Then come to Italy.”
Libby stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve had your fill of Paris now . . . and from the look of it, you’re ready for the next thing. You’ve blossomed beautifully but you’ve been through a great deal—a great change. I think Rome would suit you perfectly.”
“Why?” asked Libby, pretending to study the menu. Compliments always made her blush.
“There’s a reason they call Rome the Eternal City,” answered Clara. “Rome possesses mystery and depth. You can never fathom it entirely; you can never use it up. It is civilized. Genuinely civilized. There are a few people I would very much like you to meet. And I think your poor aunt will be much happier once she’s back among her own things and people.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Libby. “That alone would be reason to go to Italy.”
A waiter came to the table, and Clara ordered rapidly in French. The waiter bowed and retreated.
“I have taken the liberty,” said Clara, “of ordering you a real French breakfast.”
“But you must let me treat you.”
Clara waved her hand airily. She wore, as always, a number of sparkling rings on her fingers. “Only come to Rome as soon as you can. You must be tired of hotels. And call me the moment you get there.” She pressed a card into Libby’s hand. “The number on the back is private. Even your aunt doesn’t have that phone number.” She slid back her chair and put on a white leather jacket.
“Surely you’ll stay and have breakfast?” Libby protested.
“No, bien sûr, I must watch my figure,” said Clara Merle. “I am getting to the age where one can’t be too careful. And I don’t wish to interfere in your affairs at such a busy, delicate time. Your aunt wouldn’t like it. Nor your watchful American friend, the journalist.”
“Henry? She’s heading back to the British Isles,” said Libby.
“That will suit her best,” said Clara, with her funny sideways smile. “But for you, something deeper.”
“Rome,” breathed Libby.
“Rome,” Madame Merle agreed. “There are so few things in life that do not disappoint. Rome never disappoints.”
“I hate to leave you here alone,” said Henrietta. She was immaculately dressed in her traveling clothes, and the eternal Mr. Pye was waiting patiently outside. He was a shy man and like many shy men, seemed to take great comfort in Henrietta’s boldness. “But you know I have to go where I can write my articles. Americans don’t want to read about Italy. They still haven’t forgiven Mussolini. And France . . .” She pursed her lips ruefully. “Well, France isn’t viewed in a much rosier light, to tell the truth. Besides, I’ve already done Versailles. They can’t seem to get enough of the British, however, and Mr. Pye has gotten me an interview with Lady Pensil at her English country house. I’ll have enough material for four or five articles, at least. But the idea of you alone in Italy, and in Rome no less. . . . And I suppose you’ll have a great deal to do with that Madame Merle.”
“I will be staying at my aunt’s,” said Libby, smiling.
“That’s another thing I don’t understand. You’re free as a bird now—you can go where you please.”
“My aunt has made that clear. But I know she appreciates my company, especially after all she’s been through. It would be ungrateful of me to desert her. Henry, come and sit down a moment. Try not to fix me, just for a little bit. I want to ask you something.”
Henry sat immediately beside her friend on a small blue French sofa, with its curved wooden legs. “What do you want to ask?” Her eyes were clear and large. Libby knew how much she would miss that clear gaze.
“I . . .” But instead of asking the intended question, Libby said, “I’m afraid.”
Henry put one hand protectively over her friend’s. “Tell me. What are you afraid of?”
Libby tried to laugh. “I think I’m afraid of life itself.”
“I’ve never known you to be fearful,” said Henry, drawing back a little, as if to see her friend more clearly. “Though you’ve often had good reason to be afraid.”
“True,” admitted Libby. “It’s a new sensation. But I’ve never had my own money before. I’ve never had any stewardship over anything. I wish cousin Lazarus were here. He’s still on the Riviera; it’s almost as if he’s staying away on purpose. I can’t tell if he’s upset about his father’s will . . .”
“I cannot imagine that,” said Henry.
“Neither can I. Which raises the question: Why is he avoiding me? It seems deliberate.”
“Surely he’s still in mourning for his father,” said Henry gently. “You can’t blame him for that. He’s lost his best friend, his anchor.”
“Yes. I know. It’s egotistical to think I have anything to do with it. But Henrietta . . . do you think it’s good for me to have so much?”
“I don’t believe money is good or bad,” said Henry, choosing her words carefully. She was always at her most tender on the point of departure. If Mr. Pye had known this, he might have taken his leave of her more often. “It’s what you choose to do with your fortune that will make the difference.”
“What if I choose badly?”
“My dear friend!” Henry said cheerfully. “It’s not in you to be bad!”
“What if I waste my opportunity?” asked Libby. “What if I am never of any use to anyone?”
“That’s not in your nature, either, and money shouldn’t change your basic composition. It won’t if you don’t let it. Maybe you don’t need to think everything out so much in advance. The right path will be put in front of you. Stretch your wings and fly, this once. You don’t have to search hard to find some good to do. Just do . . . whatever comes next.”
“You’re right,” said Libby, brightening. “Money is not an illness. I act as if I’m lying sick in a hospital, and I’m expecting someone to tell me how to get well.”
“We have to cure ourselves. Even when we really do get ill.” Henry looked at her friend with wide eyes.
“You shouldn’t keep Mr. Pye waiting,” said Libby. “I’ve held you here long enough.”
“He likes to wait,” said Henry. “At least, he says he does, and I don’t think Mr. Pye says much that he doesn’t mean. It’s one of my favorite things about the British. You may say what you like about the Irish, but I don’t think they’re quite as straightforward.” She rose to her feet and smoothed out her dress, tugging at the hem. Her face was troubled. “Libby, I know you are smart . . . but I want you to be wise as well.”
“I’ll try to be,” said Libby. She rose as well, and Henry enveloped her in a hug.
“I hate to let you so far out of my sight!” Henry exclaimed.
“You sound like Mr. Lockwood,” Libby said, smiling.
Henry held her friend by the shoulders, almost as if she would shake her. Her tangled hair fell all around her face. “And what about Mr. Lockwood?” she asked. “Does he have no chance at all now?”
“I have to admit,” said Libby, “I sometimes think—when I have seen all that I can see, when I have tired myself out . . . there may come a time when the very qualities I am running from in him will seem the best thing in the world: like a clear, quiet harbor enclosed by a granite breakwater. But please don’t tell him I said that! Don’t tell him anything just yet.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” said Henry, and she kissed her
friend as tenderly as she had ever done in her life.
When Henry had reached the door Libby said, “You’ll write to me, won’t you?”
“Of course I will,” said Henry.
“And Mr. Pye . . .” There was a long moment’s hesitation between the two friends. Henry’s face, her long sharp nose, was already pointing toward the door. But she turned to look at Libby.
“Is he a good friend to you?” Libby finished lamely.
“A very good friend!” declared Henry, and sailed out the door. Libby watched the swing of Henry’s coat billow and settle around her long legs. She listened even for the click of her boot heels down the hall, and hated to admit even to herself how sorry she was to see the brave figure go.
Chapter Eleven
On one of the Seven Hills of Rome, atop the ancient, tree-shaded hill once known as the Palatine, sat a peculiar house. It was peculiar partly for its beauty, made of a golden-colored stone, unusual in that part of Italy, which seemed to glow at sunrise and sunset. Its windows were well proportioned but narrow, massively barred, and placed higher than usual, as if defying passersby to get a glimpse within. What’s more, the house was situated so as to seem to sit with its back turned to the street. A casual visitor would not have easily known which was the front door and which the back. However, casual visitors seldom came by to wonder about it.
Within the house, a series of French doors led out to a lush but tangled garden, overgrown with olive trees, thick dark vines, and sweet-smelling roses. It was just that moment in a Roman spring when all the roses seemed to burst into bloom at once. The effect, both inside and out, was charming—one might even say dazzling.
Without appearing to care for organization or luxury, the house made an unforgettable impression, for every item in it had been chosen with care and the most exquisite, if eccentric, taste. Antiquities stood side by side with pieces carved a mere two hundred years earlier, and Murano, Favrile, and Émile Gallé glass sparkled side by side with mint-green Roman artifacts. Each corner seemed as graceful, as naturally beautiful, as the profusion of flowers outside. Nothing here spoke of the modern world. It is doubtful that any piece dated after the 1920s, and the vulgar 1950s had been banished altogether, with its steely lines, molded plastic, and cheap conveniences. There was no sound or odor of passing motorcars, which were well screened by the house’s oblique position and its olive trees. Only an occasional burst of birdsong interrupted the deep quiet within.
The quiet was so complete, in fact, that it had become uncomfortable for the two plump nuns who sat perched at the edge of their chairs as if they had been tacked on there but might at any moment be pried loose and tossed away. Their young charge sat more comfortably on a small sofa, devised as if just for her size, with her feet tucked underneath her. She was smiling, but she too was absolutely silent and motionless.
“This is the most beautiful room I have ever seen!” whispered the younger of the nuns, but her whisper rang out like a shout.
“Shh!” said the older nun, not unkindly but firmly, with a look toward the door.
The master of the house entered just then, his hands behind his back. Gilbert Osmond was a striking man of medium height and medium years, with hazel eyes tilted at the corners. He wore a sharply trimmed Van Dyke beard, and his close-cropped hair was grizzled, giving him a look of distinction and emphasizing the shape of his large, well-formed skull. His profile was as fine as any stamped on a gold coin. He was dressed carelessly, but every item that he wore was immaculate and had once been a thing of beauty—from the fine cotton shirt, now worn to a silken sheen, down to his dark-blue socks encased in worn leather loafers.
“I wonder if I can offer you some refreshment,” he said, and his speaking voice was deeper than one might have expected. “I never know what to serve . . . ,” he added helplessly.
“No, nothing,” said the older nun firmly, in the same instant that the younger said, “Only a glass of water.” The younger blushed.
“Of course you may have some water,” said the elder.
“We have excellent water here,” said the man. “But we also have cakes.”
“Just the water,” said the older nun. “Thank you.”
The father caught his young daughter’s gaze. She was looking at a watercolor painting on its easel. “What do you think of it, cara?” he asked.
“I like it very much,” she declared. “Did you make it, Papa?”
He glanced at it carelessly. “I did. Do you think I’m clever?”
“The cleverest man in the world. I too have learned how to make pictures.”
“I wish you had brought a few samples to show me.”
“I brought lots of them. They’re all in my suitcase, well wrapped up.” She moved her hands to demonstrate how carefully they had been wrapped. All three adults looked at her fondly. She seemed much younger than her age, and her voice was a clear, high child’s voice. Her hair fell in bright-golden curls over her shoulders. The effect, however, was not like Shirley Temple’s popular banana curls, but something much more subtle and artfully old-fashioned.
The man poured the water into cut crystal glasses and handed them to the sisters, first the elder, then the younger. He lifted a third glass to offer one to his daughter but she shook her head. “No thank you, Papa. I had a limonade on the train.” Another silence fell.
“She draws very—carefully,” said the elder nun. “Minutieusement,” she added in French.
“Are you her drawing teacher?” asked the man.
“Happily, non,” said the sister, blushing a little. “That is not my gift.”
“We have a German drawing master,” said the younger nun. “He has been with us for many years. He is excellent with the children.”
“But you yourselves are French,” said the man.
“Oh yes, we are like a United Nations at the school,” said the younger nun eagerly.
“But no Russians, I hope,” he said. “One must draw the line somewhere.”
“No Russians.” The older nun looked blinkingly at her host. “Though we do have sisters from all over the world: English, German, Belgian, Irish.”
“And has the Irishwoman been teaching my daughter how to clean?” he asked with a smile. When neither woman seemed to understand the joke, he added, “You’re very complete, it seems.”
“Yes, we choose everything of the best for the young ones,” said the older nun.
“Even gymnastics,” added the younger, plumper one. “But not dangerous.”
“I should hope not. Is gymnastics your specialty?” he asked, and now both women did laugh.
The girl, as if released by the sound, got up and wandered over to the locked door leading to the garden.
“She’s grown this year,” said the man.
“Yes,” said the older nun. “But she will remain petite.” She gestured with her hands.
“She has been such a pleasure to teach,” said the younger. “So sweet.”
“I am not truly sorry she is small,” said the man. “I like women to be like books—good, but not too long. Though there is no reason that she should be slight. Her mother was not.”
Both sisters bowed their heads. Then the older nun said, “Well, she has good health, that’s the important thing, thank God.”
“Yes, she seems sound enough.” He walked up to his daughter, who was still gazing out into the garden. “What’s caught your attention out there?”
“I see a lot of flowers,” she said in her small, sweet voice. She seemed a little frightened, as if about to be tested.
“The best of them have come and gone,” he said. “Our season is short. But go ahead and gather as many as you can for ces dames.” And he unlocked the door.
The girl looked up at him, as if to a great height, and beamed with pleasure. “May I, really?”
“If I say so,” answered the father.
She glanced at the elder nun. “May I indeed, ma mère?”
“Always obey monsieur,
your father, my child,” said the nun, reddening. Released, the girl descended into the garden and vanished out of sight.
“Well, you don’t spoil them!” the man said.
“They must ask permission for everything,” she explained. “That is our system.”
“It’s an excellent system. It is why I chose you over all others for my daughter. I have every faith you will continue to do well by her.”
“One must always have faith,” said the younger. She had finished her water and looked around helplessly now for a place to put the crystal glass. She seemed reluctant to hold the precious object any longer than required. Yet when he took it from her, she seemed equally reluctant to let it go.
“That is what we wish to talk to you about,” said the elder nun.
“I hope there are no problems? Viola has not been causing any trouble?”
Both sisters seemed shocked into speechlessness. Then the elder spoke. “Viola is perfect. She has no faults.”
“Well, she had none when I gave her to you. I’m glad you are bringing her back untouched. I think I can keep her for the summer without danger. She seems gentille. And she’s a pretty little thing.”
“Not so little anymore,” said the elder nun. “A convent is not comme le monde, monsieur. We have had her since she was so small. We’ve done the best we could.”
“Of all the ones we will lose this year, we will miss Viola the most,” said the younger one tearfully. “We love her like our own.”
“Why must you lose her?” said the father.
“She is nearly fifteen years old, monsieur. It is time for her to enter the world now. She is one of the oldest in the convent.”
“And the sweetest,” added the younger one.
“The younger girls look up to her. We will never forget her. We will speak of her often.” The older nun polished her spectacles, while the other one frankly blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
“I see,” said the man. He crossed over to a small desk and busied himself with some papers there. “I suppose we could try her at home this summer, on a trial basis . . .”
Beauty and Attention: A Novel Page 13