Twain's End (36 page)

It was becoming painfully apparent that Horace was not going to respond to her summons to bring more tea. She would have to go into the lion's den with Clara to fetch the refreshments herself.
Mr. Macy didn't look up from signing into Helen's hand when Isabel picked up the tea tray and left for the kitchen.

The King and his daughter were beside the icebox, facing each other down, when Isabel entered.

Tammany's kitten pressed under her chin, Clara flicked a glance at Isabel. “Perfect timing.”

Isabel put down the tray, ignoring Clara, although that never got one far. “Where is Horace? Our guests would like more tea.”

“Horace is with all the other incompetents whom you hired: I just fired him.”

Isabel glanced at The King for verification. Another poor move.

“Don't go crying to Papa, Isabel. It's over. Your whole outrageous pipe dream with Papa—done. I'm not giving up Will unless Papa gives up you.”

Isabel absorbed the blow, then, holding herself as if made of glass, went to the stove and lit the burner under the teakettle. “If he wishes to get another secretary,” she said carefully, “I would not stand in his way. He knows this.”

“Stop it. I saw you two the night of the burglary. Everyone did. I'm not going to pretend anymore that I didn't. Why should I?”

“I saw you, too,” said Isabel. “And Mr. Wark.”

The King was breathing angrily. In her mind, she saw the jumble of the servants running away, heard the crack of splitting wood as The King kicked over a chair. He'd raised his hand to her and then, trembling, stormed from the room. Resurrecting that moment was an expensive defense.

Clara clenched her fists. “I don't care if you did see us. I love him. Did you think I would just go slinking off with my tail tucked between my legs because Papa demands it? I'm not giving up Will.”

Isabel turned around as calmly as possible. “What does
Mrs.
Wark say about that?” She had seen an octopus once, while visiting the aquarium in Bermuda with The King. When The King had knocked on the glass, its eyes had looked murderous as its flesh pulsed from green to brown to black before it shot to the other side of the tank.
Now Clara's surprise, her fury, then her determination contorted her face in similar flashes of succession.

“Don't you lecture me! You of all people, the bitch who sniffed around Papa while Mamma lay dying.”

“I have never done anything but my job.”

“You are disgusting. The sad thing is that you can't even see how disgusting you are. And I thought you were my friend.”

Isabel knew better than to glance at The King. He wouldn't defend her. That had always been part of their deal. She looked instead at the icebox next to Clara. The guests needed milk for their tea.

When The King spoke, it was in a leisurely drawl in spite of his heaving chest. “I am just trying to protect you, Clara. You haven't seemed to cotton on to this, but a person's good name is all they have.”

“Says the person who made up his name.” She snorted. “Don't make me laugh. You, protect me! That is rich. You made me Mamma's keeper until I fell apart, and when I tried to pick myself up and make something of myself, you turned me into a punch line for your jokes.”

“That's not true.”

“I asked you not to speak after my debut—I begged you—I didn't want you to come because I
knew
what you'd do! But no, you insisted on coming and did just what you promised you wouldn't: took the stage while they were applauding for me and turned it into a twenty-minute Mark Twain show. How they roared with laughter when you said I got my singing talent from you.”

“I'm sorry, Clara. But you do see the humor in that.”

“They forgot all about me, Papa. It wasn't even my concert anymore.”

“All right, I shouldn't have done that. I told you I was sorry. How long are you going to hold this against me?”

“You can't even see how you break everyone's heart. You thought it was funny for me to believe as a child that a calf could be turned into a horse if I just groomed it and fed it carefully enough.”

“Now, that was Patrick's joke, not mine. The coachman,” he explained to Isabel, though she had known Patrick and heard this grievance a thousand times.

“He started it, but you went along with it,” said Clara. “Oh, you went along with it, all right. You said nothing when he gave me new curry brushes that were ‘sure to do the trick.' I babied that calf—Jumbo. Dear Jumbo! She was everything to me. Even when she grew up and had horns, you stood by when Patrick told me that if I only believed, she would turn into the horse of my dreams. And I believed it. I believed it because you agreed with him.”

“Oh, are we listing all my mistakes now? Miss Lyon, get me a drink, because this is going to take a while.”

“I still loved Jumbo,” said Clara, “even after she had grown up and was obviously not going to be a horse. I didn't care. And then one day when I went out to the pasture to see her, she was gone. You let Patrick sell her.”

“He did that without asking me.”

“You could have bought her back.”

“I did!”

“Not at first. I had to beg for her.”

The King blew out a sigh. “She was just a cow, Clara.”

“No, Papa. She was not just a cow. She was mine.”

A knock sounded on the front door. They waited, silent, until Katy marched into the kitchen, her hair weeping from her flattened pompadour. She scanned Isabel with her usual look of contempt. “Mr. Gabrilowitsch is here, Miss Clara.”

“Ossip?” Clara squinted at her father. “Why is Ossip here?”

The King crossed his arms, then, cocking his head, his mustache set in defiance, threw her a look. “He wants to see you.”

Clara's mouth fell open. “You called him! You asked him to come.”

“No, I didn't.”

Isabel drew in a breath. That was true. The King hadn't called him. He'd made Isabel do it.

He felt in his coat for matches. “You ought to be flattered, Clara.
Didn't he have a concert last night in New York? And here he came all this way today to see you.”

Clara drew in her breath as if filling her lungs with rage. With a little shriek, she snatched the ice bucket from the counter and threw it at her father before storming out of the room.

The hammered aluminum bucket rattled on the wooden floor as The King rubbed his head. He took away his hand to show his wound to Isabel. “She cut me?”

She went over and, frowning, rose on her toes to inspect his forehead.

“Isabel?”

She lowered her gaze to his eyes, then eased her heels to the floor.
Say it. Just say that you love me and I'll stay.

He looked at her with those smart, wounded, defiant eyes, the eyes of a speared lion—losing blood but with plenty of fight before it went down—then touched his forehead. “Am I bleeding?”

“Not enough to kill you.”

“You know that she's hell-bent on ruining my name, don't you?”

“Do you really think Mark Twain can be ruined?” She absentmindedly put down the silver creamer. “You once talked about wanting a submerged reputation, one so deep it can't be reached by sneers and slander.”

He grimaced. “Your memory is too damn good.”

“You said you wanted a reputation that was unassailable. Once beloved, always beloved. Once respected, always respected.” She grasped his hand. “You
have
that kind of reputation, Sam. You're untouchable. Every person's best friend. No one can change that. Clara can live her life—you can live yours—and still your reputation will remain intact. You'll always be loved, no matter what.”

He pulled away his hand. “Some things are unforgivable.”

“Not in your case.”

He laughed bitterly. “Do you really think that's true? I've been shaping Mark Twain since he was born in Nevada, making him ornery but respectable, irascible but kind. Livy understood this. She
molded him as much as anybody, made him even more palatable, kept me in line when I was sick to death of him. She knew that Mark Twain was our bread and butter. After I'd run through her money, we needed him. I still need him. Why can't you get this simple fact?” His fingers went to his wound. He winced.

The pain in Isabel's chest ballooned into her throat, choking her. She stepped around him to get to the icebox. “I need milk for your guests' tea.”

• • •

Now, loaded down with the tea tray, Isabel made her way back to the library and the Helen Keller party. She was crossing the hall when Ralph Ashcroft stepped out of her office. She was inordinately relieved by the concerned expression crumpling the skin above the bridge of his wire-rimmed glasses. Though she didn't know why Ralph should care for her so much, she was almost tearful with gratitude.

“Are you all right?” he asked in his British clip. “I heard your little Clara having a fit in the kitchen.”

“I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine.”

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean. He shouldn't have made you do it, Isabel.”

“Do what?”

“Darling, I wish you wouldn't be so defensive with me. You know what I mean—telephone poor Ossip.”

She tried to look at him blankly.

“Isabel, don't let him bully you like that.”

“He's not a bully.”

He raised a brow.

How Isabel wished she could let the tray fall with a crash. She wanted to rest her head against Ralph's shoulder, to let someone else be the strong one for once.

“I have to take care of our guests.” She started forward.

He grasped her forearm. “Do I need to come in there?”

“Why?”

“To take the pressure off of you.”

“You, entertaining our guests? You know he wouldn't like that.”

“Of course not. He always has to be the bloody cock of the walk. Has he shut down Miss Sullivan's husband yet? You know he will. Only one male lion is allowed in Mark Twain's pride.”

She laughed in spite of herself.

He let go of her arm, then rubbed where he had gripped. “I wish you'd let me help you.”

“You can't.”

He lifted the sugar pot aimlessly from her tray, then put it back down. “I should be cruel to you, shouldn't I? Like he is. Then you'd want me.”

The King wasn't always cruel. He could be sweet and boyish and kind. She'd seen it in Italy, before his wife had died. She'd seen it their first summer together, after Livy's death had set him free. But there was a side to him that was untamable, that made him capable of turning on his loved ones like a wounded animal, of turning on himself, chewing off his own leg like a fox caught in a trap.

“People want what they can't have,” Ralph said. “I'll go away, then maybe you'll want me.”

“Ralph.” Her stomach lurched at the thought of losing him. So often since the night of the burglary, he was the only bright spot of her day. But she had no right to make him stay. Not when she was in love with another man. “The company is waiting.”

“Yes. You had better go.”

She couldn't bear the disappointment in his eyes. She continued down the hall, suspecting she'd done wrong.

• • •

Mr. Macy was spelling into Miss Keller's hand when Isabel entered the room. Miss Keller laughed loudly at her teacher's husband's
words as Mrs. Macy glowered from the other side of the sofa. Isabel set down the tray. Poor Miss Keller could not modulate her laughter. What a disadvantage to not be able to keep oneself in check.

“Here we are,” said Isabel. “Some nice tea.”

“Perhaps you could moderate, Miss Lyon.” Mr. Macy turned to her. “Helen says that women prefer men who challenge them. I say they prefer men who coddle them.”

“I would agree with Miss Keller. May I refill your cup?”

He held up his cup and saucer, keeping his other hand in Miss Keller's to spell. “But it is in a man's nature to want to pamper the woman he loves.”

“It is?” said Mrs. Macy.

Mr. Macy aimed his Harvard chin at his wife.

Miss Keller held herself still as if to hear. “What is it? Did somebody say something?”

“Annie,” said Mr. Macy, “did you want more tea?”

His wife shot him a look of contempt that he did not see, busy as he was, spelling something into Miss Keller's hand.

The King shambled in and dropped into an armchair. He gazed around at his guests as if daring them to notice the small cut within the knot swelling above his eye, where the rim of the ice bucket had caught him.

Isabel raised the teapot. “Tea?”

The King waved her off.

“We were talking about whether women prefer to be coddled or challenged,” said Mr. Macy. He gave one of his snorting laughs. “You would think I was asking whether they prefer to be burned at the stake or hanged, with the contempt for the question that I've been receiving.”

The King patted his coat pockets for a cigar. “You want to know what I think?”

“Yes!” said Mr. Macy.

Isabel poured Mrs. Macy a fresh cup. Everyone clamored to hear The King's thoughts. She remembered disembarking from a journey
abroad with The King and Clara, newspaper reporters swarming around them on the gangplank, shouting out their questions. He had happily obliged them, supplying quotes on everything from Theodore Roosevelt (“a showy charlatan”) to the popular resort Newport, Rhode Island (“that breeding place—that stud farm, so to speak—of aristocracy of the American type”). Clara, who'd been trailing behind him with Isabel, had sunk into her fur collar and muttered, “What makes him the authority? He's just a humorist.”

Now Isabel waited for The King's pronouncement as Mr. Macy struck a match and lit his host's cigar.

The end of The King's cigar sizzled quietly as he sucked. “What I think”—he blew out smoke, then sat back—“is that you're playing a fool's game, Macy. There is no understanding women. Ask me about cats, dogs, chinchillas, but not about women. Men and women, even man and wife, are foreigners. Each has territories that the other can never enter into, never understand.”