Free Twain's End by Lynn Cullen Page A

as good at secretarying as you are at sharping cards, my wife is in good hands.”
    Clara looked between them.
    â€œWe met at your father’s Friday-night card game when I was working for the Whitmore family,” Isabel explained. “I didn’t think you’d remember,” she said to Mr. Clemens.
    â€œIt’s funny what Papa remembers,” Clara said, “and what he doesn’t.”
    Her father tipped back his head to inspect Isabel at his leisure.“I must be time-traveling,” he announced when he was done. “You look exactly the same. Clara, did you thunk me on the head with a crowbar?”
    â€œHe’s talking about the main character in the Connecticut Yankee, ” Clara said impatiently. “He got hit in the head and went back in time. Not everyone has read your books, Papa.”
    â€œYou mean Hank Morgan?” said Isabel.
    Mr. Clemens performed his old trick of smiling with his eyes. “I think you are going to work out just fine.”
    â€œShe has yet to talk with Mamma.”
    He patted his breast pocket for a cigar, ignoring his daughter. “You must be a whiz at shorthand.”
    â€œI’m afraid I’m not,” said Isabel.
    â€œThen,” said Mr. Clemens, drawing out a cigar, “you must know your way around a typewriting machine.”
    Panic electrified the skin of her forearms. “I’m sorry. I should have been clearer with Mrs. Clemens as to my experience, but Mrs. Whitmore did urge me to apply. Perhaps I’m not right for the situation.”
    Mr. Clemens clenched an unlit cigar in his teeth and held out his hand for the letter that Isabel had been clutching. She gave it up.
    He looked it over. “So my wife doesn’t want you staying with us.”
    â€œYou don’t have to be rude, Papa. Please excuse him, Miss—”
    â€œLyon,” said Isabel.
    â€œâ€”Miss Lyon. My father thinks Mark Twain is above the rules of civility. Perhaps you’ve already noticed that.”
    Her father ignored her. “You ought to stay with us. This old pile is a regular rabbit’s warren of rooms. I’m sure we could scare one up for you. Don’t let the fact that Teddy Roosevelt once lived here spoil it for you. I try not to.”
    Mrs. Clemens had been clear in her letter that Isabel was not to stay with them. Had there been an incident with a previous live-in servant?
    She took back the paper. “I’ve made inquiries. I know of a comfortableroom nearby if Mrs. Clemens finds me right for the position.”
    â€œIf you insist,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I’m throwing you out if you insist on banging away on one of those goddamn typewriters. I won’t have one in the house.”
    Did this mean that she had the job?
    â€œWhat are you talking about, Papa?” Clara cried. “You do have one in the house. He wrote A Connecticut Yankee on it. He was the first author ever to have used the machine for a book.”
    â€œI didn’t want to show off.”
    â€œLiar. You always want to show off.” Clara seized Isabel’s arm, then lowered her head in challenge. “Miss Lyon is Mamma’s, so don’t try to claim her.”
    Isabel let Clara lead her to the house. When she turned around, Mr. Clemens was lighting his cigar. He glanced up, and then grinned at her with his eyes.

6.

    March 1903
    Riverdale-on-Hudson, New York
    I SABEL WAS DRAFTING A check when Clara came to the office door of the Riverdale estate, a dress draped over each arm. She held them up with a swish. “Help me decide.”
    Isabel put down her pen, glad for company. Five months on the job, and she still had not met Mrs. Clemens. Oh, she had heard the chiming of Mrs. Clemens’s music box wafting through the silent halls, had heard the quiet click of Mrs. Clemens’s bedroom door being closed by the doctor after his frequent visits, had felt Mrs. Clemens’s spirit