Twain's End (19 page)

Once they were comfortably seated, the manservant who had answered the door carried in a tray and, after placing it on a marble-topped table, cranked up the phonograph and set the needle on the wax cylinder. Isabel swelled with well-being as the phonograph began scratching its way through an orchestral piece. She was in an exquisite palace in Florence because the man she adored had wanted to make her happy. God does not put many such days into a woman's life.

The cheery splash of wine against crystal echoed from the coffered timber ceiling as the servant filled their glasses. The count waited until his manservant finished before asking Mr. Clemens, “And how is your wife?”

A white halo had sprung up around Mr. Clemens's ears, the impression made by his derby. He leaned forward to get his glass. “Improving.”

Isabel nodded politely at the servant's offer of an olive crostino; a cloud blotted her sunshine. Yes, it could be said that Mrs. Clemens was improving. After her heart attack brought on by Clara's rampage three weeks earlier, anything was an improvement. Isabel could still see the physician testing his steel syringe as Mrs. Clemens, held up by Katy, clawed for air. The subcutaneous injection of brandy had done its work immediately, causing Mrs. Clemens to melt back into
her pillows with a groan. Mr. Clemens had sunk into a chair, head in hands, as Isabel turned on her heel to go find Clara and report to the despairing young woman that she had not killed her mother, as she feared. Clara had not left her mother's bedside since that day, sleeping on a cot next to her at night.

“Please do tell me that you have had a similar shouting attack,” Clara had said to Isabel later. “Surely you or someone you know has had such a fit before?”

“Of course,” Isabel had lied. In truth, she had never seen such madness. The violence of Clara's outburst still astonished her. What kind of pressure must the woman be under to crack so completely?

Now the count said, “I look forward to the honor of meeting Mrs. Clemens soon.”

“Livy's a fine woman,” said Mr. Clemens. “A rich one, too, until I impoverished her.”

The count, reaching to retrieve his wine, paused.

“This one was rich, too,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding at Isabel, “but she lost her fortune before I could get to it.”

The count laughed. “You are as humorous as they say.” He raised his glass. “
Cin cin.
”

Mr. Clemens saluted in return.

“And your daughters?” asked the count. “How are they?”

Mr. Clemens sampled the wine, then smacked his lips. “That's good.” He put down his glass. “Jean is busy saving horses. If any of yours go missing, come out to our stables, she might be ministering to them there. Or just keep them fat and healthy—then she won't look twice at them.”

“A lover of animals,” said the count. “Very admirable. And the other?”

Mr. Clemens drew in a breath as if still absorbing the fact that he had only two daughters now, since Susy's death. “Clara? She's with her mother. The two are as thick as thieves. As huddled together as they are night and day, I suspect that they're forming an in-house chapter of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union against me.
Miss Lyon and I are forming our own club in response: the Goats Among Sheep.”

Isabel sipped, feeling the count's curious gaze upon her. Mr. Clemens had used that expression privately when explaining to her why he was no longer letting Jean type his dictations. His off-color thoughts were fit only for goats among sheep, he said, of which he and Isabel were two. While Isabel knew he was joking, she also knew the count may not understand that. Mr. Clemens was increasingly reckless in his speech these days, as if he took a perverse satisfaction in pushing the limits of others' tolerance. Or perhaps he had always been this way, and as a member of his inner sanctum for more than a year and a half now, she was becoming more exposed to it, or perhaps Mrs. Clemens, when well, had simply curbed it.

But while Mr. Clemens's reputation might withstand whatever outrageous statements Mark Twain threw at it, could hers? The count would get the wrong impression of her. Yes, Mr. Clemens and she were spending more time together each day, working on his autobiography, or ranging over the wooded grounds of the estate as he talked and she listened, or playing cards in the evening at his house. Yes, they went to concerts in Florence and investigated the excavations of the Roman ruins in Fiesole: every day was an adventure. But they did nothing improper, nothing that two good friends wouldn't do together. They would not let themselves cross the line that they'd nearly slid across before being interrupted by Katy.

The count cradled the base of his goblet like a breast. “Are you writing anything new?”

“My autobiography,” said Mr. Clemens. “I've finally found a way to trick myself into telling the truth. I dictate my thoughts to Miss Lyon here, then she writes them down before I can change my mind. I've no chance to pretty up the truth, there's no time to shave off any warts—she's too quick for me.”

Isabel laughed with affection. “It's a very natural approach.”

The count trained his stag's eyes upon her. “I see.”

“This way,” said Mr. Clemens, glancing between them, “the author cat doesn't have much chance to rake the dust over the nuggets in his work. The truth is right there on the surface, its smell undisguised from the clever reader.” His hand went unconsciously to his coat pocket. “Mind if I smoke?'

The count looked both intrigued and repulsed. “Be my guest.” As Mr. Clemens pulled out a cigar, the count asked, “Why would you wish to reveal so much? In your autobiography, I mean.” He slightly lifted his index finger. His man rushed forward and lit Mr. Clemens's cigar. “It sounds . . . dangerous.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Clemens said to the manservant. He blew out smoke. “You're right. Being ruthlessly truthful may not make me friends. That's why I won't let the bulk of my autobiography be published until a hundred years after I die.”

The count raised well-groomed brows. “That is a long time. Your readers will be disappointed.”

Not as disappointed, Isabel thought, taking a sip of wine, as she would be. She would be long gone before the world knew of her part in his telling his story.

“Perhaps you will write a story based on Firenze sometime,” the count suggested.

Mr. Clemens glanced at Isabel. He had written such, decades ago. Neither the Florentines nor Americans had come out well. He had made his name on
Innocents Abroad,
but if he wasn't reminding the count about the book, she would not, either. She felt the thrill of being his co-conspirator.

“If I don't write a book set in Florence,” drawled Mr. Clemens, “it won't be for lack of scenery.”

The count inclined his elegant head. “We do have our share. And the world's greatest art—Michelangelo, Botticelli, Raffaello—”

“I adore Raffaello,” Isabel said.

“You have excellent taste, Signorina Lyon. He is well represented here.”

“He had done a portrait in the Palazzo Pitti that greatly moves me,” she said. “
La Velata.
The woman comes to life—you can feel her playful spirit just by looking at her.”

“Ah, yes. The painting meant a great deal to Raffaello. It was of his mistress, you see.”

Isabel nodded.

“Perhaps you did not know that Raffaello died as a result of a night of passion with her. This woman, the daughter of a baker, must have been a formidable lover.” The count took a sip, watching Isabel over his glass. “Or so the story goes.”

“For my artistic money,” Mr. Clemens interjected roughly, “give me Leonardo.”

The count paused to switch gears. “Leonardo was Tuscan by birth, as you know, but he spent too much time in Milan, in employ of the duke, and died in France. Still, you can find much of his life here, and his works.” He put down his glass. “Have you been to the Uffizi?”

“On occasion.” Mr. Clemens exchanged looks with Isabel. They had been there together many times, as well as the Accademia, the Bargello, and the Pitti Palace, which held a special sentimental value that Isabel felt keenly. “Educate me,” Mr. Clemens would say as they strolled the galleries, his deep-set eyes intense upon her. “Refine me.” A thrill would warm her to the tips of her toes.

The count watched them with a growing smile. “You may be interested to know that Leonardo conducted an experiment with his flying machine outside of Firenze, on the rocky cliffs near Fiesole.”

“Where?” Isabel said. “We've been in that area.”

The count grinned as if he'd caught them out. “Monte Ceceri—do you know it? It can be reached along the road from Firenze. The cliffs are quite high there. Leonardo's assistant jumped from the rocks to demonstrate the machine.”

“Did it work?” asked Mr. Clemens.

“No.”

“What happened to the assistant?” Isabel asked.

“He died. Or broke his legs. I do not know which.”

“I suppose the assistant had an interest in which,” growled Mr. Clemens.

The count rubbed his brow with this thumb, contemplating Mr. Clemens. He turned to Isabel. “So you like Florence, Miss Lyon?”

“I admire it very much.”

The phonograph stopped. The count lifted his finger. The manservant stepped forward to rewind the machine.

“Should you ever leave, if you wish to guarantee your return, you must rub the snout of the bronze boar in the fountain by the Mercato Nuovo before you go. It will assure that you come back.”

“And you believe that?” asked Mr. Clemens.

The count dipped his head. “It is a charming local legend.”

“Heaven forbid one should stint on charm,” Mr. Clemens muttered. Isabel could feel her employer's mood turning, although the count had been nothing but gracious. However, when the scratchy music started again, Mr. Clemens nodded admiringly at the servant. “He's a jack-of-all-trades.”

The servant's hooded blue eyes did not blink.

“Paolo knows no English and cannot understand you,” explained the count. He took a sip. “This house has twenty-eight rooms—”

“The house I just sold in Hartford had twenty-five,” Mr. Clemens interjected.

A blink registered the count's annoyance. “—and yet I have only six servants. Paolo is one of the reasons I am able to have so few. That, and I do not encourage marriage between my servants when they fall in love. And, my friend, they always fall in love. That is human nature, yes? We are always falling in love.”

Mr. Clemens stared at him.

The count smiled. “I am just immoral enough to let them carry on under my roof. It makes for a very happy house—I get their work, they get their pleasure. It is a fair bargain, yes?”

Mr. Clemens stood. “Thanks for the wine.”

The count's smooth veneer ruffled as he rose to his feet. “But you only just arrived.”

“Miss Lyon, are you coming?”

Soon Mr. Clemens had collected his hat and they were out on the street along the Arno, among groups of women in rain capes and men carrying umbrellas, although the sun had begun to shine. Isabel did not try to catch up as he walked ahead of her, letting him put distance between them until, in the middle of the Ponte Santa Trinita, she stopped.

Mr. Clemens made it to the statue of the naked Roman god at the end of the bridge. He turned around slowly. “What?” he called.

Isabel gazed into the Arno, its brown water churning around the stone pilings of the bridge. The March wind, full of the reptilian smell of the river, tugged at her hat.

He came back to her. “What?” he demanded again.

“You may not care about your reputation, Mr. Clemens, but did you think of mine?”

“I was thinking about yours. That's why I left.”

“To leave so rudely will ruin his opinion of us.”

“Do you think I was going to sit there another second? That man has no more morals than a cat.”

“Why? Because he acknowledged that his servants fell in love? Or must employees simply be beasts of burden, incapable of emotion?”

“You're not talking sense. I was protecting you.”

She held her hat against the wind as she looked up at him. “Would
you
make your servants marry?”

“Yes. I would. As a matter of fact, I have done so before. I made one of my footmen marry a maid whom he had spoiled.”

“Spoiled?”

“She was a virgin when she started out,” he said angrily. “She wasn't by the time he was done with her. I call that spoiled.”

“Even if they loved each other? Who gave you the right to control them?”

“I was doing her a favor! What has got into you? You should be admiring me and thanking me, not giving me grief.”

“Must you always play God? You don't own them. Last I heard, slavery was illegal.”

His face darkened. The drawl had left his speech. “Don't even say that word. You don't know anything about it.”

She had gone too far to stop; she found that she wanted to hurt him. “Slavery? It's true, I don't know anything about it. And I'm proud I don't.”

“How easy for you to gloat over a decision that was made for you by birth. You never had to decide. I bet you never even saw a colored person before you were ten. How do you know what you would do if you were brought up like I was, being told that our peculiar institution was wholesome and good? How do you know you wouldn't strike a slave or worse?”

A boy dressed in velvet short pants skipped by with his upright father. Isabel waited until a flock of women passed, chatting in Italian. The bridge was deserted save for the two of them.

“I don't really want to fight with you, Mr. Clemens.”

“Then why are you provoking me?”

“I don't know!” She blew out a breath. “What
am
I to you, Mr. Clemens?”