Twain's End (33 page)

Some one hundred yards away, the door to the house opened. Ralph Ashcroft stepped out to the top of the terraces and waved.

She put the viewfinder of her camera to her eye to hide her smile. She didn't mean to like him so much.

He descended the steps to the next level of grassy terrace. “I saw you out here,” he called. “Get any pictures?”

“Not yet.”

“Then may I join you for a dip in the fountain?”

In the rush to get everything done at the house for the grand opening, the plumbing to the fountain had been put aside, as well as the selection of the statue for its center, and Isabel hadn't had a moment to attend to it. Knowing what a thorn in the side the unfinished waterworks were to her, Ralph teased her about it whenever given the chance. She didn't mind. He, of all people, appreciated how hard she worked.

“No, you may not take a dip,” she said as he got closer. “You haven't a proper swimming costume.”

“Don't mind these old clothes.” He tugged at his shirtfront as he continued down the steps. “I was planning to take them off. All of them. You don't mind, do you?”

“No.” She crossed her arms. “By all means. Off with them.”

He descended the remaining two terraces, then he drew up before her—too close, but it was part of the joke. He smelled of clean
flesh and of the starched cotton of his shirt. He grinned down at her. “I'll want some company, swanning around there in my birthday suit.”

“You aren't getting it from me. Maybe one of Mr. Clemens's actresses will oblige you.”

“You are much better company than any of them.” He covered half of his mouth to whisper, “They're not as smart.”

“Flatter me all you want, Mr. Ashcroft. I'm still not going to let you win at cards.” The three of them played whenever he came.

He shrugged, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. “I know. And I don't care.”

They smiled at each other, affectionate compatriots. Isabel knew exactly what he was thinking: they could be more than friends if she would allow it. She was careful to pretend that she didn't know, although she wondered if her feigned ignorance fooled him.

She smelled cigar smoke. Up near the house, Mr. Clemens was leaning against a stone pillar on the top terrace, watching them and smoking, the wind flapping the hem of his crimson Oxford scholar's robe around the cuffs of his white suit.

Isabel stepped away from Ralph and shaded her eyes although it wasn't sunny. “Come join us,” she shouted, then winced, remembering The King's gouty feet. “Wait. I'll come up there.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke. “Stay,” he called back. “I'll come. You two make such a pretty picture. I don't want to break you up.”

A lone hawk wheeled in the sky as The King made his slow descent. Isabel could sense Ralph tensing next to her.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said when The King finally arrived at their level.

Their King ambled past them wordlessly and stepped onto the edge of the fountain, then onto the round cement platform in the middle, upon which a statue with water jets was supposed to be mounted. Languorously puffing on his cigar, he struck a pose with one arm cocked back, the other forward.

“Here's your snapshot, Lioness.”

She aimed her camera.

Ralph glanced at Isabel. “Are we supposed to guess who you are?”

“You can't tell?” With the cool of a rajah, The King made as if to shoot an arrow.

“Robin Hood?” Ralph said.

The King snatched at his cigar. “I can hardly rob from the rich to give to the poor when I'm the rich one.”

“True,” said Ralph.

“No, damn it. You can't guess? I'm Cupid. What's wrong, am I too old for the role?” The King shot another imaginary arrow, the cigar between his fingers leaking smoke.

“Oh, now I can see it,” said Ralph.

Isabel kept her mouth closed as she lowered her camera. She could see the cold fury in The King's eyes when he looked at her. She braced herself: he was in one of his moods.

“I thought,” he drawled bitterly, “that you two needed a Cupid, the way you were making goo-goo eyes at each other.”

Ralph laughed uncomfortably. “We were hardly making ‘goo-goo eyes,' whatever those are.”

The King sniffed his disagreement. “What were you two talking about?”

“If you must know,” Isabel said, “about the actresses who come to see you.”

He looked at her. “I don't give a damn about them.”

She returned his stare. “You certainly invite them out here often for someone who doesn't care for their company.”

“They make me feel young,” he growled. “You don't do that.”

She felt slapped, then ashamed that Ralph had seen the attack on her. For years, she'd seen The King act lovingly toward his family one minute, then turn on them the next, with all the unpredictability of a barn cat. Now, more and more, he was lashing out at her as well, only to be contrite a while later. She was embarrassed for others
to see that she tolerated it, hoping that each episode would be his last. Something was eating at her King; this wasn't the man she loved.

“Well, she makes me feel young,” said Ralph.

The King cut his eyes to him. “Easy to
feel
young when you
are
young. It's more of a challenge for those of us who are long in the tooth. Don't get me wrong, we're jealous of you young ones, the whole wrinkly ranks of us. As someone once said, ‘It is better to be a young June-bug than an old bird of paradise.' ”

“Pudd'nhead Wilson,” Ralph said under his breath.

The King sniffed again. “That's right—the most truthful book I ever wrote. I blasted the sheer idiocy of defining someone by their skin color, the goddamn heartbreaking folly of it, and people took it as a farce. Why is it that when a person tells the truth, everyone thinks he is joking?” He gave a short laugh. “The humorist's lament.”

The keening of the hawk cut through the uncomfortable silence.

Abruptly, Ralph said, “I have work to do.” He strode up the terraces, taking the steps between the grassy levels two at a time.

The King turned to Isabel, then threw down his cigar. “Better go after your beau.”

The words burst from her mouth. “Why do you feel you have to say that? You know that I'm committed to you. Though you won't take me in your bed anymore, though you throw young women in my face, though you reject me at every given chance, I'm committed to you, and I always have been. I have never given you a reason to think otherwise.”

He ground his cigar under the toe of his boot. “You told the reporter that you wouldn't marry me.”

“You're bringing that up again? That was last year! And I only said that because I didn't want to be too forward. I thought you'd think it was your place to announce our plans. I've told you that many, many times.”

He looked up. “I think the truth slipped out. I think you're repulsed by an old man.”

“You know that's not the truth. You're looking for an excuse to
push me away. Why? Why do you push me away when we could be so happy?”

“I'm doing you a favor.”

“A favor? Samuel, I love you. I want to be with you. How many times—how many ways—must I tell you this?”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he smiled sadly. “I'm just an old bird-of-paradise.”

She touched his face. “You're a beautiful bird-of-paradise, extraordinary inside and out.”

He kissed her hand, then put it down. “Thank you, my love, but if you only knew.”

“I do know. I know you better than anyone.”

“That's true. But you don't know everything.”

“Sam, don't you see? I know the good in you. Test me all you want—I won't leave you.”

The sound of voices up near the house pulled her gaze away from him. Clara, recently returned from a tour of England, was strolling on the uppermost terrace with Will Wark. Isabel paused, loath to end this moment, as if she and The King might finally get to the bottom of their troubles and start anew. Sighing, she waved when Clara saw her looking.

Clara said something to Will, who went into the house. The King heaved a showy sigh as Clara made her way down. “Damn lovebirds everywhere,” he muttered. “Why doesn't he just marry her?”

Isabel skipped a breath. The papers had been full these last few weeks of the news of Clara's engagement to Wark. Isabel wondered where they got their information—Wark was still very much married. Isabel could not believe that this fact had not gotten out. Where was his wife? What must she think when she read about her husband's engagement? Surely she'd be coming after Clara.

Once upon the lowest terrace, Clara approached with her head lowered as if to ram her father. “Papa,” she demanded, “please tell me that no one is coming here today.”

“No one's coming. Today Miss Lyon and I have the place to
ourselves.” He frowned. “Ashcroft is up there somewhere rooting around, too.”

“Mr. Ashcroft has left,” said Clara. “He was walking out as we came in. He is so rude! He hardly would say hello. I don't know why you keep him on.”

“He makes me money,” said The King, “the best character reference a fellow could have.”

Isabel glanced away. She wished Ralph would hide his dislike for Clara. His scorn didn't help Isabel maintain her fragile balancing act within the house. Isabel never should have told him that Clara had made her promise not to inform The King that Will was married. Once he'd heard, Ralph's natural distrust of Clara had immediately tipped into contempt. He could not believe that she would ask such a thing of Isabel. Didn't Isabel realize that the longer Clara's secret went untold, the more furious The King would be?

Oh, yes, Isabel realized.

Clara frowned at Isabel. “What are you two doing out here?”

Isabel held up her camera. “Kodaking.”

“Don't you have enough pictures of him already?”

The King shook his mane. “I'm a fascinating subject.”

“Right. Will and I came here to practice. I hoped you didn't have any hangers-on around here—especially those awful little girls and their mothers. Papa, your infatuation with them looks so odd.”

“There's nothing odd about it. It has been too long since my own little girls pattered around the house. I want granddaughters now, and since you haven't given me any, I went out and got my own.”

Clara coughed in outrage. “It's a little difficult for me to marry and have children when you won't let me even talk to men.”

“I know what's on their minds. I'm only trying to protect you. Give me some credit—I haven't chased off Will.”

“Yes,” she said testily. “Why the turnabout?”

“I trust him. I like his honest blue eyes.”

Isabel could feel Clara daring Isabel to look at her. Honest, married Will kept an apartment next door to Clara's Stuyvesant Square
flat, and although Mr. Clemens didn't know it, he was paying for both accommodations, not just Clara's. Clara swore Isabel to secrecy even as she asked Isabel to write the checks, swearing she'd return the favor someday. Not even Ralph knew about this further duplicity committed in the name of keeping Clara's affection, and Isabel was too miserable with guilt and fear to tell him.

“He's a very good friend,” Clara said. “I'm glad you approve of him.”

“When is he going to ask me if you can marry him?”

“Ask you?” Clara bit her thumbnail, then put down her hand. “I have decided never to marry. You know that, Papa.”

True,
thought Isabel. Clara had recently vowed never to marry. It was an easy pledge to keep when the man she loved would never be free.

“You'd think he'd want to make a respectable woman out of you,” said The King.

She looked between him and Isabel. “Papa, do you ever hear yourself?”

“Too much for my liking.”

“You can hardly talk about respectability when—”

He cocked his head coolly. “When what?”

Clara looked pointedly at Isabel, then glanced away, frowning, as if weighing whether it might be a poor idea to alienate the person who wrote the checks to finance her secret tryst. “I'm dressing for dinner. And please don't tell Will that ridiculous ‘Golden Arm' story. It makes you look so crude.”

“Ah, Susy's favorite.”

Clara stared at him with disgust. “You completely broke her heart when you told that at her college after she'd specifically begged you not to. She never got over it. I don't know how you can joke about it.”

He sighed, then fumbled in his pockets for another cigar. “That's the only thing I can do about it, Clärchen.”

• • •

Isabel watched the young pair at dinner that night, side by side at the lace-covered table set with bone china. They were handsome together—Clara, with her thick auburn hair and her father's coiled energy, and Will Wark, with his workingman's affable charm and stocky build, his impressive nose, and those alert aquamarine eyes.

“I just loved England.” Clara picked at an oyster with her fork. “The crowd was adorable at the Wigmore. It took them a moment to clap when I'd finished, as if the poor dears were still absorbing what they'd seen. I think my program took them by surprise.”

Wark swallowed his oyster with a loud gulp.

“Thank you for securing the hall, Papa. I promise, next year I'll turn a profit on my tour.”

“She will,” said Wark, his clean-shaven square face earnest. “Her crowds get bigger every show.”

“They do. There are barely any empty seats now.”

As the person who controlled Mr. Clemens's personal expenses, Isabel had seen the receipts from the performances. The statements sent by Clara's new manager, Mr. Johnston, hardly indicated full venues. Isabel quietly speared her mollusk. She wasn't the one whom Clara and Wark were trying to convince.