His eyes opened all the way, and he managed to sit up straight. “You may have him altogether.”
The young woman approached, still holding the dog. She was wearing white gloves and a small black-and-white hat. Her boldness vanished. “I think I am your cousin, Libby,” she said shyly.
Lazarus stumbled to his feet. “I would have said it was settled long ago,” he answered. “I’m Lazarus.” He swayed a little, unfolding his arms, as if preparing to embrace her, and then at the last minute stuck out a bony arm and shook her hand instead.
“Oh, I know you,” she cried, juggling the dog in order to accept the handshake. She set the animal gently on the grass, and it pranced around her feet. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I must have been an extremely homely child,” said Lazarus drily.
“You were perfectly beautiful,” exclaimed his cousin.
“Was I?” he said cynically. But he seemed pleased. His ugly face crinkled into a welcoming smile. “You are American,” he said. “And I’m not, really. Not anymore. I don’t know quite what to do. Am I supposed to kiss you?”
She laughed. “What would an Irishman do?”
“Oh, he might pat you on the back—after thirty or forty years of close acquaintance.”
“I am very glad to see you,” she said then, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek. “Now where is your dear old father?”
“Don’t call him a dear old anything,” Lazarus advised. “It makes him feel decrepit. He’s working in the house. We’ve been expecting you anytime . . . let me ring him.”
His cousin laid one hand on his arm. He was surprised both by the formal white cotton gloves and by the dress, which hung longer than any modern Irish girl’s would have done. It made her look old-fashioned, a figure from an earlier era. But the effect was not displeasing—and Lazarus, a good student of humanity, thought perhaps the attractive young lady knew it.
“Oh, you mustn’t disturb him,” she said quickly. “Perhaps we could sit here alone together a moment till I catch my breath.”
“As long as you like,” he said. “I was so very sorry to hear about your father,” he added. “It must be hard, a loss like that.”
“Yes,” she said, frowning off into the middle distance, a shimmer of nearly solid green. “It’s as if you’ve been standing in a room leaning on a chair, and someone suddenly took the chair away. I feel off balance.”
Lazarus nodded slowly. “I should think it’s like having the floor itself taken away,” he said.
“Or the room,” she agreed. “Or the earth.”
His expression was keen, hungry, as if he’d spent too much time alone and it had sharpened his senses. Libby felt her cousin taking her in—her words, her thoughts, almost the air around her. She had washed her hands with lavender soap inside the house; she imagined he could smell the lavender as well.
“There’s always the risk of losing everything,” he said. They looked at each other a moment. They were friends, in that instant. “Perhaps you’d like a tour of the house?” he asked. “Most people enjoy it.”
“Yes please,” she said. Her dark eyes were sparkling. “I’d love a tour. Your house is beautiful.”
“Is my mother hiding somewhere? Or did she deposit you like a parcel, and then fly off again?”
“She went to her room. She said to please come to her at a quarter to seven precisely.”
Lazarus fished out a pocket watch—a handsome, sterling one—and flipped it open. “Mother hates to be kept waiting.” He studied his cousin, squinting and tilting his head the way another man might have appraised a painting. “I thought I hadn’t remembered you—but as soon as I saw you, it seemed I did. You’re very welcome here. We’re delighted that you’ve come.”
Libby stood facing the stone front of Gardencourt. All its lines were graceful. The fuchsia were in full bloom, sprays and arches of pinkish-red everywhere. “I think this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t seem real.”
“I’m sorry you’ve gone so long without knowing it.” Lazarus shuffled with the stiffness of an old man. “Come—let me show you. Have you had anything to eat? My mother starves people sometimes in her rush to be efficient.”
“Not at all. They gave me tea in my room as soon as we arrived. I’m sorry you’re in ill health,” she added.
“I am dying in bits and pieces,” Lazarus said shortly. “But we’ll do better, now that you’re here. We’ll drum up some company to entertain you.”
“I’m not worried about being entertained.” Libby looked around her, drinking in the peculiar, vivid green of the grass, the rolling downhill pitch toward the Ards Peninsula, and the blue-gray waters beyond. The young woman held her head very erect, Lazarus noticed, and her eyes were alight with interest. She absentmindedly stroked the little dog that frolicked in front of her, courting her attention. He envied the dog. “It’s so gorgeous here,” she mused. “How funny that I never even knew it existed.”
“Yes,” said Lazarus, glancing at the landscape appraisingly. “But then, you’re very beautiful yourself.”
Libby laughed uncomfortably. It was not because she disliked compliments that she took them so badly; on the contrary, they touched her too much and made her uneasy. Often she would remember even the smallest kind remarks years later. Her father had never been lavish in his praise of her, although she remembered him once telling her that she had a sweet voice. She turned away from Lazarus. “Oh yes, I’m lovely! How old is your house? Is it Victorian?”
“It’s early Tudor,” answered Lazarus.
“How funny!” she said. “And are there even older houses nearby?”
“Older, and much grander ones. But don’t let my father hear me—he thinks ours is the best place on earth.”
“I believe it,” she said simply.
Lazarus smiled at her, his rarest, homely smile. “Would you like to see our art gallery? I’ve chosen most of the paintings myself. But perhaps you need to rest after your travels.”
“Oh no!” she said. “I’d love to see the pictures. I don’t tire easily. I like to travel. I’d never even been in an airplane before.”
“Never been in an airplane?” Lazarus echoed in amazement. “I thought America was a big country. It’s enormous compared to Ireland.”
“Yes,” she said. “But Father didn’t enjoy travel. He was . . . we were quite happy where we were.”
“In Rochester?”
She stopped walking. He stumbled, then stopped too. His hand on her arm hovered very lightly, as if he were afraid she might break. “Yes,” she said decisively. “There are beautiful and interesting things in Rochester too.” If she felt hypocritical for defending the place she had just fled, she refused to show it. She might speak ill of her hometown, but she would not allow outsiders to criticize it.
“I’m sorry if I seemed to suggest there weren’t. Do you like music at all? We have quite a large record collection.”
“I do,” she said, relaxing. “But I’m not an expert.”
“Well, I am,” said Lazarus. “I mean—I live for music. It keeps me sane. But here is our little art gallery.” He opened the door to a room filled from floor to ceiling with paintings. The word little may have been intended ironically. The pictures had been cleverly arranged, so that it took a second glance to realize how many works of art had been maneuvered into one small space. The gallery occupied an east-facing room, and most of the light had already departed from it, sinking it in gloom. Lazarus fiddled with the overhead lights, adjusting them to arrive at the best possible display.
“Do you care much for modern art?” Lazarus asked, seeing her glance sweep a large, chaotic-looking canvas.
“Isn’t all art modern?” asked Libby.
“Actually most art isn’t,” said Lazarus. “I mean,” he added quickly, flushing at the thought he might seem pompous, “most art is either ahead of its time, or what the poets like to call ‘timeless.’”
“I see
what you mean,” she said. “I do like this one, whatever it is.”
“He paints with a stick—dripping, instead of a brush.”
“Does he?” asked Libby, but her attention had already been captured by a smaller landscape across the room. She strode over to it, Lazarus thought, much as she had done with his dog, with a firm and immediate air of ownership.
“But this one I love,” she said.
He stood smiling at the painting, then at his cousin. “You are a good judge. The artist, Garufi, claims he’s spent his whole life trying to paint the blue sky.”
“A pleasant occupation,” answered Libby, standing before it.
“More like an obsession.”
“It might be nice to have an obsession,” said Libby, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Do you really think so?” Her cousin’s eyes were fastened on her.
She smiled. “Well—let us say, a focus. I’ve lacked that, always.”
Lazarus pointed to a nearby quartet of colorful Japanese prints. “Those prints are by Kawase Hasui. I wish I could take one from the frame. You need to see the light shining through it to appreciate what’s really there.”
As he spoke, Libby Archer stepped into a square of sunlight. The back of her hair lit up gold, while the front of her hair, and her expression, remained in shadow. Her head was bent like a flower on a stem, and for a moment Lazarus felt a sharp pain in his chest. He put one hand over his middle, as if to quell the agony, and Libby looked up, her eyes meeting his.
“Tell me about this one,” she said in her low, clear voice, stopping before the portrait of a young woman playing with a small dog.
“That is my favorite,” Lazarus said simply. He stepped closer to his cousin. Both bent eagerly toward the painting, and any outside observer would have seen how alike they were that instant.
“The artist painted this when very young,” he said. “Seventeen or eighteen, at most. She had no formal training. No prospects, no connections. A famous critic compared her to a dancing poodle. He said the wonder was not that she performed so well, but that she could perform at all.”
“People say such stupid things.” Libby rested her gloved hand on his arm. There was comfort in her touch. But he did not trust comfort, either. They walked slowly up one side of the hall, looking at more pictures, and down the other, chatting as they strolled. Lazarus did his utmost to keep her entertained—he was at his best telling stories. And Libby was an appreciative audience. He had seldom in his life met one so good. He wondered if she’d had especially sharp schooling, or if she was naturally clever—or a fine actress. He’d met other young women like that. Perhaps his pretty cousin did not care for art or music at all. Everything seemed equally to captivate her attention, her delight. Lazarus did not trust it; he would not trust anything yet.
“I know more about art now than when we began,” she said at last. “Will you show the pictures to me again sometime?”
“You have a great passion for knowledge,” he observed.
“I’m ashamed of how little most young women know. And I count myself among the ignorant.”
“You don’t strike me as being like most young women.”
“Don’t you think so? How many young women do you know?” She turned her sharp gaze on him. “Oh, we could all be better if they gave us the chance! But they won’t. They want to lock us up and throw away the key.” She gestured at a dark corner of the gallery, gazing into its recesses. “Doesn’t this house have a ghost? It should. It’s the one thing missing.”
“A ghost?” Lazarus echoed.
“A scary, amorphous, haunting thing. We call them ghosts in America.”
“So do we here, when we see them.”
“So you do see them?” Libby asked eagerly. “You really ought to, in a romantic old place like this.”
“This isn’t a romantic old place,” Lazarus said. “It’s dull and prosaic and lonely. There’s no romance here except what you’ve brought in your tartan suitcase.”
“How did you know it’s plaid?” she asked.
Lazarus shrugged. “We are creatures of our time and place. Had I been less sick, I might have made an excellent spy.” Lazarus sank down onto a bench. As if casually, he lay down on his back, his hands behind his head, but there was no disguising the fact that he was done in. He seldom exerted himself this much anymore. The doctors had expressly forbidden it. His lips twisted in an effort to catch his breath.
Libby sat beside him. “Well, I hope to defy my time. But you are right,” she added. “I’ve brought a good deal of romance with me, and it seems to me I’ve brought it to just the right place.”
“To keep it out of harm’s way, certainly.” He tapped one long foot against the other, as if to an invisible beat inside his head. “To protect it.”
They were silent awhile. Libby rested her hand on his arm, professionally, as a nurse might. Each time his cousin touched him, his heartbeat seemed to calm.
“Does no one ever come here but you and your father?” Libby asked at length.
“My mother, occasionally.”
“She’s not terribly romantic.”
“Are you bored already? You promised not to be.”
“Not at all,” said Libby. She smoothed the black dress over her knees. She was blushing.
Lazarus stared up, arms still crossed behind his head. “We see few people, as a rule. My health and my father’s don’t always allow it. But we will invite all of County Down to meet you, if you like.”
“As if I’d let you make yourselves ill over me!”
“It might make us well,” said Lazarus. “Shall we drag out the local royalty?”
Libby laughed. “Do you really know kings and queens and lords?”
“Well—a few lords, anyway.”
“I am perfectly content just to sit here with you,” she told him. “My father’s dying was not easy,” she added after a moment. “He drank himself to death, slowly.” She looked into her relative’s homely, upside-down face. “I love that it is quiet and remote here. I find it peaceful.”
“Yes, it’s like a graveyard,” Lazarus said. “But I’m glad you like it. Libby, I hope you never see the ghost.”
“So there is one!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew there must be.”
Lazarus pushed himself up from the bench with something of an effort. He searched his cousin’s face. “There are always ghosts,” he admitted. “But they’re not for everyone. Not for lovely young girls like you. Oh, I know you’ve suffered a great loss,” he added quickly. “I don’t mean to make light of your pain. But to see the ghost, you must have suffered long and deeply. To have touched bottom. You need to have come to the end of something—in yourself. I hope you never see the ghost!” he concluded.
“I hope so too,” Libby said. “I think people make themselves miserable. We were not made for misery; we were made for life.”
“You were, I’m sure.”
Libby stood abruptly and moved in front of the portrait of the girl and dog. “I’m not just talking about myself!”
“It isn’t a flaw, Libby. You’re a girl who survived. It’s a merit to be strong.”
“But if you don’t show your suffering, they accuse you of being hard.” She could not keep the edge out of her voice.
“And if you do, they call you an idiot. Never mind. The point is to be as happy as possible.”
She turned to face him across the hall. “Do you think so? It seems to me there are more important things even than happiness.”
“Name one,” said Lazarus.
“Well, knowledge. Self-sacrifice. Experience.” She hesitated. “Love, I think, may be more important than happiness.”
“They aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive,” her cousin pointed out.
“I suppose not.” She smoothed her dress. “I feel as if I’ve been living inside a box, and I’ve finally popped open the lid. Should you go see your mother now? Isn’t it time?”
“Yes,
” he said. “I’m glad you are here. As for happiness, I promise I shall contribute to yours in some way.” Then, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets as always, he shambled out into the green and empty courtyard.
Chapter Five
Lazarus lay back in the small green boat, watching with half-open eyes as his cousin rowed him to the fringes of the Lough, where green alders and willows made further passage impossible. His hat was pulled down low over his eyes, both to protect him from the sun, to which he was nearly allergic, and to hide his expression, which just now revealed more than he would have liked—gratitude, eagerness, worry, affection, and desperation—none of which ever amounted, never could amount to anything. Dying men should have poker faces, he thought.
“Shall I row?” he asked at last.
Libby shook her head and pulled strongly on the oars. She wore her dark hair back in a single, long braid; it made her look like a somber Indian maiden. “You know I can’t let you,” she said.
“I like to pretend that you could.” He let his long fingers trail in the cold current. Though the weather around Strangford stayed mild, thanks to the Gulf Stream, the lake was always bitter cold and smelled of iron. “I’m sorry Father’s been so ill lately. It’s kept us too much to ourselves.”
Libby set off at a slant. The two cousins watched the water sparkle in tiny diamonds as it dripped from the edges of the oar. “I’m glad to be with you. But I’m sorry he’s been unwell.”
“The gout seems to be moving up from his legs. I don’t like the way the doctor talks about it.” He frowned, tugging his hat brim down lower. “I’ve always taken it for granted that Daddy would outlive me.”
That was enough to make Libby set down her oars. “What a hope!” she exclaimed. “No parent wishes to outlive their child.”
Lazarus dripped lake water from one hand into the other. “I am not an ordinary child,” he said. “That has been our tacit agreement, between Daddy and me. We are best friends,” he added simply. “I count on him to help me make the best of a bad business. Without him, I don’t see—” He shook off the thought, and sent an arc of silver water beads flying. “In any event, let’s not talk about health and doctors. We do too much of that around Gardencourt. I was only thinking how few visitors we’ve been able to arrange.”
Beauty and Attention: A Novel Page 4
