by Coleen Kwan
Asher found himself under the avid scrutiny of Mr. Monk. “No, my association is more…personal than business.”
“Oh.” Mr. Monk slurped his tea, his bulbous eyes moist with speculation. “I thought I knew most of Mr. Lambkin’s personal acquaintances.”
“I say,” Dorian broke in. “Are you not the Asher Quigley of whom I’ve read?”
Asher had no option but to incline his head in agreement. “I suppose I am.”
“Who are you talking about?” Mr. Monk asked his son.
“Don’t you remember, Father? He was in the news about a year ago. He saved the Irish potato crop from blight.”
Mr. Monk’s dour countenance screwed up. “You’re that Mr. Quigley?”
The disparagement in his tone rankled Asher. “I take it you don’t approve of my actions.”
“Nay, I certainly do not,” Mr. Monk brayed. “You’re meddling with nature. No good can come of that. None at all.” He thumped his walking stick on the floor several times to emphasize his point.
“Well, I think several thousand Irish would disagree with that sentiment,” Asher drawled, not bothering to hide his contempt.
The old man’s expression soured. Using his stick, he heaved to his feet. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Lambkin, but I won’t stay any longer.”
Dorian blinked and rocked back in his seat. “I say, Father. We’ve only just arrived. I was hoping…” He trailed off, darting a glance at Minerva.
“Never mind that,” Mr. Monk snapped. “Take me home. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.” Not waiting, he stalked out the room.
Red-faced, Dorian followed, sending an imploring look in Minerva’s direction as he left.
“Charming friends you have,” Asher said as soon as they were alone. “Especially the elder Mr. Monk.”
“I don’t know if you can call Mr. Monk that.” Minerva busied herself tidying up the tea tray. “He’s more our landlord than our friend.”
“Landlord? How on earth did that happen? I always thought this house belonged to Silas.”
“Father had more debts than he could handle. He was forced to mortgage this house. To Mr. Monk.”
Asher groaned inwardly. Was there no end to Silas’s folly? Not content with ruining himself, he had now put his own daughter’s future in jeopardy.
“Silas should have chosen more wisely. Mr. Monk looks every bit the miserly rogue.”
Minerva moved to the fireplace and jabbed the fire with the poker. “Don’t let his vagabond appearance fool you. Mr. Monk is one of the richest men in Manchester. He owns several big cotton mills and employs hundreds of people.”
He snorted. “That does nothing to ease my disquiet.”
She released a soft sigh. “I believe Mr. Monk is basically an honorable man. I must believe it. Father is behind on his interest payments. So far, Mr. Monk has been extremely patient, but who knows how long that will last?” She gazed pensively at the flames, the flickering firelight gilding the curve of her cheek.
A hard knot formed in Asher’s stomach as several repulsive thoughts assailed him. Was Mr. Monk’s patience linked to the way his son looked at Minerva? She was no ingenue. Surely she must be aware of Dorian’s admiration. Perhaps she even…encouraged it? The idea made his stomach twist even tighter.
“Perhaps you hold the key to that patience,” he blurted out.
She stiffened, her face fluctuating as several strong emotions played through her. Surprise, disgust and finally anger.
“You mean Dorian Monk. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by your suspicion.” The planes of her face harshened. “After all, you did once call me a whore.”
The words struck him like a blow across the head. He flinched, gasping for air. All at once he was on the back foot. “You—I—” He sucked in a full breath. “When I used that term, I was…intemperate. I didn’t consider my words. I regret saying it. Immensely.”
She drew herself to her full height, her expression aloof. With the leaping flames behind her and the iron poker in her hand, she looked like an avenging angel, the firelight melting gold and red across her skin and hair.
“What’s done is done. I’ve no interest in revisiting the past.” Her composure suddenly crumbling, she threw aside the poker and hurried toward the door. “Please excuse me. I—I have to see to…the laundry.”
Damnation! Asher thumped his fist into the palm of his hand. Minerva was upset, and he was the cause. He didn’t know why that should disturb him so much, but it did. When he’d discovered Silas’s duplicity just two days after his euphoric night with Minerva, her reaction had dumbfounded him. First she had refused to believe her father would do such a thing. Then she had started making excuses for Silas, defending him. That was when Asher’s fury had spilled over. He’d been deceived by both father and daughter. She’d lied to him. She couldn’t love him. She must have slept with him merely to distract him from her father’s machinations. She was no better than a whore. So he had ranted at her, sick and shriveled to the core, and in response she had winced and bowed her head, as if acknowledging the truth of his barbs.
Five years ago he’d been convinced, but now? Did he still believe she was nothing but a cold-hearted tramp? She couldn’t be, or she would have become Mrs. Dorian Monk by now, jaunting about in her new curricle. No, with the clarity of hindsight, he knew there was nothing mercenary about her. Nor could she have been aware of Silas’s plans. He believed that now. But still, when push came to shove, she had chosen her father over him. She’d given him up so easily, without a fight… He had meant so little to her.
Heartsore, he stared out the window at the freezing rain tumbling from the filthy skies. It was a miserable day outside, but he could no longer bear to be inside this house.
As he strode across to the door, Hetty scurried into the parlor. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Quigley. I only came to take the tea things.”
“Tell your mistress I will be away this afternoon and not to expect me back until dinnertime,” he flung over his shoulder as he exited.
He had to do something, anything, to distract himself from these damned vexatious feelings inside him.
Chapter Five
Although it was almost ten and she was exhausted, Minerva knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Taking her lamp, she mounted the stairs to her little attic workshop. There, she tied a leather apron over her dress and sat down at her workbench, hoping to find some peace in her work. The house was hushed, except for the odd patter of rain on the roof. The maid had long since retired, and she knew not where Asher was.
He’d been out all afternoon and come back many hours later, damp to the skin and disinclined to talk. Over a stilted dinner, he’d told her he’d tracked down Mr. Grimlock. He had observed Grimlock supervising the unloading of her father’s belongings into a warehouse, and when everyone had left for the day, he had broken into the warehouse. He’d combed it from top to bottom, searching for a hidden cell where an abducted man might be held, but had found nothing. She’d been surprised by his diligence, but he’d gruffly waved away her thanks. After dinner, he had declined the port and gone directly upstairs to the guest room.
Minerva drew her tools toward her and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. She’d always found solace in her work. From a young age, she’d found it more natural to handle a soldering iron than a darning needle, and her indulgent father had abetted her curiosity, allowing her free access to his tools. She’d begun her learning by pulling apart and reassembling musical automata. The innards of these machines had intrigued her more than piano or tapestry or all the other arts a good woman ought to master. She’d long realized she wasn’t the kind of “good” woman most men would want for their wives. It didn’t bother her anymore. It was futile worrying about her lack of convention or her questionable social status. Just as it was futile thinking abou
t Asher and wondering about what might have been…
A light tap at the door disturbed her reverie. “Who is it?” she called.
“It is I,” Asher’s voice came through the door. “May I come in?”
Her heartbeat stumbled. “Of course.”
He entered, still fully dressed and bringing in the fresh night scent of the outdoors. “I was taking a turn in the garden when I noticed your light was on. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I was curious about your workshop last night, so it’s only fair I allow you in here.”
He scouted the room, and somehow she intuited what he was thinking. Here, in this small neat room, while her father was away on business and they were alone in the house, he had told her he loved her, which had stunned her, and wished to marry her, which had astonished her even more. That same night, on her blue velvet chaise longue, she’d allowed herself to be swept up by her emotions, and she’d given him her maidenhood unreservedly. Along with her illusions, the chaise longue had long since disappeared. She’d gotten rid of that piece of furniture many years ago, unable to sit on it or even look at it.
“What are you working on?” he asked as he approached her bench.
His presence in this room disturbed her. Tiny tremors rippled down her back. She didn’t want to remember that night with him, but her body held the memory of his every caress indelibly imprinted on her skin like a tattoo.
She shook herself as she held out the piece she’d been working on, for his inspection. “It’s a new mechanical hand.”
“For Dorian Monk?”
She nodded. “His current prosthetic is mostly ornamental and not very useful. I hope to give him more movement with this one. I’m consulting with a surgeon to hopefully attach my device to Dorian’s own nerve endings and so give him complete control.”
He picked up the intricate contraption and examined it. “This is fine craftsmanship. And expensive materials. Isn’t this a zircon crystal?”
“He can afford to commission the best.”
“How did he lose his hand? He doesn’t seem like a soldier to me.”
“It happened in one of the Monks’ mills. A scavenger got her hair caught in the spinning mule. Dorian jumped in to free her, and his hand was crushed in the process.”
“He lost his hand saving a child?” Asher appeared reluctantly impressed.
“Dorian is a good man.”
Yes, Dorian had many admirable qualities, but he excited nothing in her beyond mild amity. Why was that? Why did he fade so quickly from her thoughts, especially when Asher was around?
Asher set down the mechanical hand and wandered round the room, distractedly picking up this object and that. She couldn’t help noticing his long legs and muscular shoulders as he moved about with animal grace. Like a restless tiger he paced, a single line grooved between his keen green eyes. Finally, he stopped.
“Minerva, why do you do this? Why do you remain with your father, after everything that’s happened?”
She drew in a swift breath. “You make it sound as if I have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice. You don’t have to live like this—” he gesticulated about him, “—fending off disgruntled investors, tolerating grasping landlords, worrying about your safety. You’re young and intelligent and talented. You could set up your own business making these sorts of artificial limbs for paying clients. You could be independent, Minerva. You could be your own mistress.”
His grave sincerity made the blood flutter in her veins. Did he really care about her future? After everything that had happened?
“I’m twenty-five. Not that young for a woman. And have you ever heard of a female setting up such a business? I wager I wouldn’t get more than a handful of genuine customers in a year. Dorian comes to me more to humor me, I suspect, but the only people who seek my help are those who can’t afford to pay.”
“You think too little of your talents. I’m sure wherever Dorian Monk goes, people notice his hand and comment on it, and I’m sure he mentions your name wherever possible. People may be skeptical that a woman can deliver such excellence, but once they saw the remarkable innovation of your gadgets, they would soon be won over.”
No one had ever suggested such a possibility to her before. It seemed so propitious, and yet… Minerva shook her head. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not easy. It would be a lot of hard work. But wouldn’t that be preferable to the situation you find yourself in now?”
She viewed her surroundings, and the truth of his words hit her hard. Even if she managed to rescue her father from his kidnapper, what then? Was she doomed forever to live in this kind of anxious limbo? Always worrying about her father’s imbroglios, always wondering what the next knock on the door would bring. Didn’t she deserve a life of her own?
“You’re suggesting I cut myself loose from my father.”
Asher sighed and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Let’s face facts. Silas will never reform. He will always be a gambler, a chancer, a cheat. He’s too old to change.”
She rubbed her fingers over her face, kneading the ache in her temples. The dream he’d spun for her melted away.
“I could never abandon my father, regardless of what he’s done.”
A line of frustration scored Asher’s forehead. “He doesn’t deserve your loyalty!”
“Oh, but he does. He’s the only family I have.” Agitated, she fidgeted with her tools. “I was only eight when my mother died. Father’s cousin Gertrude wanted him to send me to her, to work as a seamstress. He could so easily have said yes and washed his hands of me, but he didn’t. He kept me with him and saved me from a life of drudgery and ill health.” She sucked in a long breath and slowly exhaled. “Do you think I could ever forget that?”
His face altered. He moved closer, so she could see the tiny lines etched at the corners of his eyes. “You never told me this.”
He was near enough she could feel the warmth radiating off his body. His gentle tone scaled her defenses and made her throat tighten. An angry Asher she could handle, but a compassionate Asher was altogether more difficult.
She swallowed. “It’s not a pleasant memory.” The death of her mother had left her bereft and incapacitated. She’d been unable to eat, sleep or even speak. In response, her desperate father had treated her like a baby bird, swaddling her in blankets and spooning hot milk possets into her mouth, never leaving her until she recovered. Whenever she became exasperated by her father’s predicaments, whenever she felt like shouting at him in frustration—which happened with increasing frequency these past years—she had only to recall how he had nursed her back to life for her ire to lower.
“What of your mother’s family? Have you no relatives on that side either?”
Hesitating, she tinkered with the screwdriver on her bench. She’d never told him about her mother, but now she saw no reason to keep it secret. “My mother’s family cut her off when she eloped with my father. I scarcely know anything about them, except that they want nothing to do with me.” She raised her chin. “And I want nothing to do with them either. My father and I are alone in the world, but I prefer it.”
He was so close now she could see his pupils dilate, swamping her with an intense luster. “You are not alone, Minerva. I am here.”
She could scarcely breathe for the sudden pitching in her stomach. It was if she were in a dirigible plunging toward the earth.
“Does that mean you finally believe in my innocence?” she asked shakily.
His face contorted as he struggled with some inner turmoil. “I believe you. I believe you knew nothing of what your father planned. I believe you were as shocked as I was, when the truth came out.”
Emotion surged over her. Her body wouldn’t stop quivering. She hadn’t reali
zed how long she’d been waiting to hear these words. How much she’d needed to hear them from him.
“Wh-why do you believe me now?”
He shrugged, discomfited. “I am five years older. Not so quick to presume, I should hope. I misjudged you, and for that I apologize.”
“That means a lot to me.” Her chin quivered, and a stinging sensation prickled behind her eyes. Mercy, she couldn’t allow herself to break down and weep in front of Asher. She dug her fingers into the workbench and made herself stand straight. “After the things you said, I thought you would never forgive me.”
The lines around his mouth deepened. “I’m in no position to grant forgiveness. I’ve always deplored my father’s excessive piety, and yet when it came to you, I displayed the exact same righteous anger I abhorred. You deserved better than that.”
The choler he’d once held for her was now aimed at himself. Asher had exacting standards of behavior, and it didn’t sit well with him to fall short.
“Your fury was quite justified. My father swindled you out of so much. It was reasonable of you to suspect I was involved.”
He grimaced. “But not reasonable the way I refused to hear you out.”
But she hadn’t protested enough, she realized, because she’d never truly believed they would marry. His family would eventually persuade him otherwise, she’d told herself, and so their liaison could only ever be fleeting. Accordingly, she hadn’t fought with all her might to overcome his prideful anger. Instead she’d meekly let him walk out of her life. In a way, she was just as much to blame as he.
“I never understood why you didn’t fight for your rights. Why you let my father get away without any protest. You could have publicly denounced him, but you didn’t. I always wondered why.”
He sighed, and as he rubbed his finger along the edge of the bench, the grooves in his face lessened. “I left in high dudgeon. I refused to lower myself to Silas’s level. And also, I have to confess, I didn’t want to become embroiled in a public scandal and have my family’s prejudices reinforced. More fool me.”