by Coleen Kwan
“Very well, then.” Folding her arms, she turned away from him. “I shan’t speak of it further.”
All conversation ceased, and the cabin filled with the whistling of the polar winds and the whirring of the propeller and the clank of the steam engine. Minerva leaned back on the couch and rested her eyes for a minute. Her stomach was still rebelling, unconvinced of the safety of airship travel.
“We’re making good time,” Asher said some time later, his voice once again composed. “We should be in Manchester by two.”
Chapter Four
The rain had closed in by the time they reached Manchester. Minerva had not yet mastered her stomach, and the grim landscape that greeted them did nothing to lighten her mood. Plumes of dirty black smoke from the hundreds of factories and mills spewed into the air, combining with the rain to form an acrid vapor that stung her throat. As Asher steered the dirigible lower, she spied the slum courts huddled near the sluggish river, not far from the prosperous town center. No one living in Manchester could be unaware of the slums, but due to a geographical peculiarity, they were so situated that the more well-to-do classes could completely ignore their existence if they so wished.
Minerva had never seen the slums at such close quarters. It was like glimpsing into the bowels of hell. Hovel upon hovel was jammed together in no orderly pattern. Mountains of rotting rubbish choked the narrow lanes, while raw sewerage pooled in doorways. Half-naked children and bent crones and mangy curs rooted through the putrid mess in search of food scraps. Despite the elevation and the glass enclosing the cabin, the rancid stench rising up from below permeated the entire airship.
“There was a cholera outbreak in one of the courts two years ago,” she said to Asher. “The sanitary police ordered it evacuated and disinfected with lime. You wouldn’t believe it, but some of the worst courts have been torn down.”
“Poor devils,” Asher muttered. He studied the decaying quagmire a while longer before turning his attention back to his instrument console.
He steered the dirigible across more cantankerous, puffing factories, and then toward the docking station at Peel Park, where the odors of industry were replaced by the aromas of the costermongers. They disembarked amidst a cacophony of vendors hawking their plum duffs, jellied eels and baked potatoes. After the weightlessness of their flight, the earth seemed almost too solid to Minerva, and it took her several minutes to get her land feet back. They took a hired carriage to the Lambkin home in Salford. Asher’s mood seemed to grow more somber as they rolled through streets that had to be familiar to him. When he had worked for Silas, he rented lodgings nearby, but practically every meal had been taken at the Lambkin house. He’d been treated as one of the family, and these streets had been his local neighborhood.
As the driver drew up outside the house, Minerva glanced out the window and let out a sharp cry. “What on earth…?”
She leaped from the carriage. Picking up her skirts, she raced across the forecourt, where a horse and wagon stood groaning under its heavy load. Behind the wagon were the house and the adjoining building that served as her father’s engineering workshop. The double doors to the workshop stood wide open, and two shabbily dressed men were shuffling out with a heavy piece of equipment between them.
“Thieves!” she burst out. “This is an outrage. How dare you?” She planted herself in front of the two men, trembling with fury. “That is my father’s lathe you’re holding. What are you doing with it? I demand you return it at once.”
The two men merely stood and smirked at her until a burly man emerged from the shadows of the workshop. His pea-green greatcoat flapped over meaty shoulders, while black, oily muttonchop whiskers adorned his fleshy face.
“You’re in no position to demand anything, Miss Lambkin,” he barked. He advanced on her, his small black eyes glistening like currants sunk into suet pudding.
“Mr. Grimlock.” Her dander was up as she rounded on him. “What is the meaning of this brazen thievery?”
Grimlock twirled his ivory cane. “You dare to call me a thief? I’m merely retrieving what is rightfully mine. My money paid for the contents of your father’s workshop, and now I’m reclaiming my property.”
“But you can’t do that! I insist you return every single item. At once, I tell you.”
Asher reached her side and hooked her elbow. “Minerva, calm yourself.”
She sucked in a breath, unable to believe he’d said that. How dare Asher side with this brute of a warthog? Flinging him off, she darted forward and seized the arm of one of the henchmen, causing him to stumble and drop the lathe. The heavy device clanged to the ground, and both men tripped over it and sprawled in the gravel.
“Oi, you dimmick!”
“Fools! Be careful with that!” Grimlock whacked his cane over his men’s heads. “Get that lathe into the wagon and take everything to the warehouse, you stupid maggots.”
Helpless humiliation seethed through Minerva as she watched the two men heave the lathe into the wagon and take off. If only she were a man. With a loaded shotgun in her hands.
“This barely covers a half of what’s owed me.” Tucking his cane under his arm, Grimlock began to swagger away. “Next time I come, I’ll inspect the contents of the house.”
The sight of his overfed neck bulging above his collar made something snap in her. She sprang forward and yanked him by the shoulder.
“What have you done with my father? I demand you let him go.”
Grimlock shook her off, looking surprised and affronted. “What nonsense are you babbling, chit?”
“You have my father. I know you do.” She balled her fists as the fear and anger of the past few days boiled up in her, pushing away all her inhibitions. Now, finally, she could confront her enemy, this coward who hid behind anonymous ransom notes. “You’ve abducted him, haven’t you?”
Asher put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Minerva, listen to me. You’ll achieve nothing this way.”
“Abducted your father! I’ve done nothing of the sort.” Grimlock’s face swelled up. “If he’s disappeared, it’s because he’s run away, too afraid to face his creditors, and he’s left you to face the music, you poor miserable critter.”
Her fingers itched to slap the sneer off his face. She lunged forward, only to find Asher holding her back, his hands like iron shackles. Grimlock guffawed before marching off.
“Let me go,” she fumed at Asher.
“Only if you promise you’ll not behave like a hoyden.”
The censure in his eyes cut through her roiling emotions as nothing else could. A hoyden! Yes, that must be exactly what she looked like to him, the way she had just acted. No well-brought-up lady would have ever yelled as she had, or almost come to blows with a man, or tussled with two laborers. Her cheeks heated, but she couldn’t regret her behavior. She’d never pretended to be a well-brought-up lady, and after all the suspense and anxiety, speaking her mind was cathartic.
She tipped her chin at Asher, pulling away from him. “I don’t owe my father’s kidnapper any politeness.”
He frowned down at her. “Are you so sure he is the kidnapper? It seems strange that he should bother to raid your father’s workshop when he has hopes of obtaining the millennium machine.”
“Perhaps he simply wants as much as he can lay his hands on.” Yet Asher had a point, she conceded to herself. Grimlock was a barbarian, but he wasn’t stupid. Why risk attention, if he thought he could have everything he wanted? Perhaps he wasn’t the abductor after all. Wearily she brushed away the tendrils of hair escaping from her hat.
“Why don’t you go inside?” Asher said. “I’ll get our baggage from the carriage.”
* * *
The Lambkin house was shabbier than Asher remembered. The suburb it was situated in had been fashionable, until the wealthy started moving fart
her afield to escape the spreading industrial pollution of the city proper. The three-story villa had once been handsome, but now its paint was peeling, the stucco was cracked and tiles were slipping off the roof. Hetty, the housemaid, though, was exactly as he remembered, and she made a big fuss when she saw him, despite the fright she had suffered when Grimlock and his henchmen arrived.
“I bolted all the doors, miss, and hid meself in the cellar,” she gabbled to Minerva as they entered the hallway. “Eeeh, shaking like a leaf, I was.”
“I’m so sorry you had to endure that.” Minerva patted the maid’s arm.
“The master will be furious when he comes home, but we can all rest easy in our beds, now that Mr. Quigley’s back.” Hetty bobbed her head toward Asher. She hadn’t stopped beaming at him ever since he set foot in the house.
“Thank you, Hetty,” Minerva said briskly. “That will be all for now.”
When Hetty hastened away with the baggage, Minerva turned to Asher. “Hetty knows nothing of Father’s kidnapping. I’ve told her he was called away unexpectedly for a few days.” She picked up the mail from the hall table. “I shall put you in the guest room and hope none of our neighbors realizes my father is absent. Hetty won’t gossip, I’m sure of it.”
“What about Mrs. Trotter, your cook? I seem to remember she was a bit of a flibbertigibbet.”
Minerva averted her eyes, discomfited. “Cook is no longer with us. I had to let her go.”
“I see.” He wondered how much household drudgery had fallen on Minerva because of Silas’s profligacy.
She frowned at the pile of post in her hands. “Excuse me, but I must go through these right now. You never know…”
She led the way into the parlor at the end of the hall. The carpet here was threadbare, and the few remaining pieces of furniture, though once of good quality, were now too worn to be of any monetary value. Asher waited, watching Minerva’s face as she rifled through the letters.
“It appears there’s nothing here but more bills and letters of demand. No word from the kidnapper.” She rubbed her upper arms, appearing lost. “The house feels so empty without Father. I’m so accustomed to him bustling about at all hours, so full of cheerful energy even in the direst of circumstances…” Shaking her head, she made a visible effort to collect herself. “Perhaps you’d care for some tea?”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble, and I would take myself off to a hotel, but it’s obvious you need my protection.”
“Protection?” She flicked her skirts in a prickly manner. “I hardly think so.”
“I beg to differ. Did you not almost come to blows with a man twice your size?”
“If we had come to blows, he would have needed your protection, not I.”
He shook his head in annoyance. “Why must you be so foolhardy?”
“Foolhardy! You used to call it gumption.” Her eyes glimmered, and for a moment she looked sad. “But I suppose every strength can also become a weakness.”
“A wise man chooses his battles. You may be Grimlock’s superior in many ways, but never in physical power.”
“Because I’m a woman, and therefore weak.” She turned away with a heavy sigh. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve wished I was born a man. My life would have been so much…simpler.”
He studied her taut, feminine form, noting the slimness of her waist, the gentle swell of her bosom, the burnished tendrils of hair curling against her neck. Did she not know how alluring she was? Despite the resentment he’d harbored all this time? “I, for one, am very glad you’re a woman,” he couldn’t help saying.
A delicate blush rose in her cheeks. He wondered if she entertained the same thoughts as he, remembering that one night of passion they’d shared? Since then, he’d had countless women, but strangely, he couldn’t recall any of their faces, let alone the encounters. He’d worked hard to forget Minerva, but his years as a libertine had little effect on his memories of her. And what about her? Had she taken lovers in the intervening years? No reason why she shouldn’t. She was young, desirable and sensual. He had been her first lover, but he hadn’t had to teach her much, merely awakened and stoked her natural urges. She was unfettered by prudish inhibitions, and astute enough to know how to avoid pregnancy. For all he knew, she’d had as many lovers as he’d had.
The notion made his brow crease in a heavy scowl. He paced about until he stopped in front of a window draped with faded velvet, and he gazed unseeing at the garden outside.
“Do you regret the night we spent together?” He didn’t know why he asked that question, but he had to know the answer.
She paused an interminable while before speaking, “No, I don’t. I wanted to savor what little time I had with you.”
He wheeled round. “You mean, before I found out what had been going on behind my back.”
“No. I mean, before you realized what a mistake marriage to me would have been.”
His shoulders stiffened. “What the devil do you mean?”
She gave him a weary, sad look. “Do you honestly think your family would have allowed you to marry someone like me?”
Disbelief shot through him. “I don’t have to ask my family’s permission to marry. I’m my own man,” he barked, more incensed than he could credit.
“But you’re still a Quigley. Your family records go back to the Domesday Book. Your father is Dean of Crampton, and your grandfather is Lord Choughleigh. Even in this enlightened age, you’ve no business marrying the daughter of an engineer with no connections and no fortune. A dalliance, yes, but marriage? Never.”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense.” He paced the floor, his blood boiling. “You paint me as some weak and shallow nincompoop. Haven’t I demonstrated my resolve by going against my father’s wishes and pursuing science instead of the church?”
“Yes, and perhaps it was that urge to rebel that made you propose to me in the first place.”
He spun round. “Damn it all, I proposed to you because I was in love with you!”
His frustrated bellow echoed off the high ceiling. From across the room, Minerva stared at him, her eyes wide and blue in her pale face, her hands knotted in her lap.
He held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. Mind churning, he started across the carpet. “Minerva—”
A knock on the door cut him short before Hetty bustled in. “Miss Minerva, Mr. Monk and his son have arrived. I knew you’d want to see them right away, so here they are.”
Asher barely had time to pull his rushing emotions together as two men entered the parlor. One was middle-aged, the other about the same age as Asher. The similarities in their height and build marked them out as father and son, though they couldn’t have been more different in appearance. The elder Mr. Monk, slightly hunched over his walking stick, had a hook-nosed, parsimonious countenance. He wore an old-fashioned black suit so rubbed and faded from use, he resembled a rusty vulture. By contrast, the younger Mr. Monk had an open, pleasant face and was smartly attired in a fashionable brown suit with canary-yellow waistcoat and frilly cravat.
Minerva greeted her visitors. The younger Mr. Monk bowed low over her hand and held on to her fingers for several more seconds than was necessary or polite. “May I say how charming you look this afternoon, Miss Minerva.”
She gave him a mild smile before turning to Asher. “Mr. Quigley, may I introduce Mr. Monk and his son, Mr. Dorian Monk.”
Asher shook the claw of the elder Mr. Monk and then turned to his son. Dorian Monk proffered his left hand.
“Probably more comfortable with this one,” he said easily enough.
A brief scan told Asher all he needed to know. Instead of flesh and blood, Dorian’s right hand was constructed of metal plate, wire and cogs. It seemed to be a finely detailed piece of equipment, and his first instinct was to examine it more close
ly, but good manners forced him to shake the man’s left hand as if he hadn’t noticed.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Quigley,” Dorian said to Asher. “Have you known the Lambkins long?”
“Only a passing acquaintance a few years ago.”
Asher hadn’t missed the look Dorian had given Minerva upon first entering the room, nor the way he took the seat closest to her. There was something distinctly possessive in his manner toward her. Minerva, palely composed, gave no hint as to whether she welcomed his attentions or not.
“Will you take tea with us?” she asked, and rang for Hetty. She turned her attention to Mr. Monk, who perched on the couch with his spotted hands folded over the top of his malacca walking stick. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Mr. Monk.”
“Your father is not at home?”
His voice was as creaky and rusty as his appearance, but his eyes, Asher noticed, were ferret sharp.
Minerva smoothed down her skirts. “He has an appointment out of town today.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “I don’t expect him back for several more hours.”
“I see.” Mr. Monk rested his chin on his knuckles, his eyes never leaving Minerva.
Dorian bent forward. “I have been meaning to call on you for some time, Miss Lambkin. Will you not come for a ride with me in my new curricle? I’ve just taken delivery of it.”
Dorian, too, couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Minerva. She was surrounded by a pair of snakes, Asher thought disagreeably.
“Thank you, Mr. Monk, but no. The weather is too inclement today for riding out.”
Dorian buffed his glossy side-whiskers, undeterred. “What of tomorrow, then?”
Minerva murmured a noncommittal reply. Asher couldn’t stop himself from scowling. How well were these two acquainted? He couldn’t tell from Minerva’s expressions what she felt toward the young man, but there was no mistaking what he felt toward her.
“Mr. Quigley, are you a business acquaintance of Mr. Lambkin’s?”