by Coleen Kwan
“May I ask your name?” Minerva whispered, her throat hoarse.
“I am Mrs. Nemo.”
“Is—is there a Mr. Nemo?”
“Oh no.” Her laugh tinkled. “Mrs. Nemo is merely my nom de guerre, but you may call me Isolde.” She rose from the settee and glided over to a side table where she opened a cedar box, lifted out a slim, black cigarillo and proceeded to light it with cool aplomb.
Minerva stared after her. Who was this woman who called herself Isolde Nemo and indulged in smoking like a bohemian? The smell of tobacco mingled with the heavy scent of tuberose already pervading the room.
“And what do I call you?” Mrs. Nemo asked lazily.
Call me daughter. Clenching her fist, Minerva replied, “Minerva Lambkin.”
Smoke wreathed Mrs. Nemo’s head as she assessed Minerva from head to toe. “Well, Minerva Lambkin, I suppose there is a striking resemblance between us, despite your dress. We could almost be mistaken for sisters, don’t you think?”
At first glance, perhaps. Mrs. Nemo’s face was unblemished, her hair like gold, her figure that of a twenty-year-old. But though she was still stunning, her beauty was cured and pickled, static even. There was something unnatural about the preservation of her looks, a disconnect between her youthful skin and her shrewd blue eyes. Only her hands, which continued to lift the cigarillo to her lips, betrayed her years. The skin on her delicate bones was loose, faintly spotted, the veins prominent. They were the hands of someone else, and there was something both fascinating and vaguely repellent about them.
Her mother had been inordinately proud of her slim, white hands. Every night she’d slather them in cold cream and wear cotton gloves to bed. Minerva remembered her mother’s hands well. Mrs. Nemo’s hands were very similar. Almost identical. Suspicion began to turn to conviction. Two cousins so similar in looks and age? That couldn’t be mere coincidence.
She lifted her chin. “Well, Mrs. Nemo. Surely you must remember if you had a cousin called Charlotte who eloped with a penniless engineer? The scandal would have been whispered about for years.”
Mrs. Nemo started, a curious expression flitting across her for once unguarded face. “Why, I don’t—”
Her words were cut off as a side door to the parlor opened. A tall, heavy-set man marched in, clutching a stack of cards. At his sudden appearance Mrs. Nemo hastily flipped her half-smoked cigarillo into the fireplace.
“Isolde, where have you been?” the man demanded in a thick Germanic accent. He stopped short as soon as he caught sight of Minerva. “Excuse me, I did not know you had a visitor.”
Readjusting his pebble-like spectacles, he subjected Minerva to a cold-eyed survey. His towering presence seemed to cast a pall over the room, not helped by his face which looked as if it had been hacked from a piece of Black Forest wood with a blunt axe, and the thick beard of wiry black hair which did little to soften his features. He was perhaps in his forties, dressed all in black, with an air of barely suppressed impatience.
Mrs. Nemo turned to him. “Ah, Klaus. May I introduce to you my cousin, Miss Minerva Lambkin.” She fixed Minerva with a penetrating gaze. “Minerva, Herr Klaus Schick.”
Minerva greeted Herr Schick, who bowed in return and clicked his heels.
“Your cousin, you say.” He peered at Minerva through his thick lenses. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Fräulein. Tell me, do you share Isolde’s enthusiasm for mathematics?”
Mathematics? Minerva glanced uncertainly at the other woman before replying, “I was tutored in mathematics, amongst other things, by my father, but I wouldn’t say it’s my forte.”
“Ah! A forward-thinking man, your father.” Herr Schick stretched his features into a resemblance of a smile. Out of the bushy mass of his beard, his startlingly red gums and sharp teeth appeared, more of a snarl than a smile. Minerva steeled herself not to flinch.
“Mathematics is the foundation of all sciences, indeed the foundation of all civilizations,” Herr Schick continued, obviously astride his hobby horse. “Without it, the progress of mankind is impossible. I myself have devoted my entire life to the study of mathematics. Why, I have—”
“Dear Klaus, your enthusiasm is commendable,” Mrs. Nemo smoothly interrupted, “but I fear my cousin will be quite overcome.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.
He frowned at her, obviously displeased at being cut off. “I was in the operations room a minute ago, and I saw these on the floor.” He waved the stack of cards, each containing a different, curious pattern of punched holes. “You must be more careful.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” In one fluid motion Mrs. Nemo slipped the cards from Herr Schick’s grasp and tucked them into her sleeve.
The man sniffed at the air, and a dark frown welled up on his brow. “Ach, Isolde, smoking again? How many times have I told you how injurious it is to your health?”
“I know, but I’m a weak woman.” Mrs. Nemo almost simpered.
He thumped his fist into his palm, his expression growing thunderous. “I will not have you smoking around my machines. Especially Hedwig. I forbid it. Do you hear?”
“Oh, Klaus, what a bear you are.” Mrs. Nemo’s voice took on a coquettish edge. “Minerva will think you very cruel towards me.”
Herr Schick directed his glower towards Minerva. Behind the spectacles his black eyes burned like hot coals. “Fräulein, I hope you do not smoke.”
“My cousin would never cultivate such a vile habit.” Mrs. Nemo linked her arm through Minerva’s. “But Minerva is in a terrible rush right now, aren’t you, dear?”
There was no mistaking the pressure of Mrs. Nemo’s grip, and Minerva wasn’t sorry to take her leave of the formidable Herr Schick. She gave the German a faint smile. “I’m afraid so. Good day, Herr Schick.”
In the hallway Mrs. Nemo looked ready to push her out the front door, but Minerva stood firm. Pulling herself free, she declared, “I’m not leaving this house until I have some answers.”
There must have been something implacable in her expression, because Mrs. Nemo didn’t try to force her out the house, but instead shrugged and led her down the hallway into a small room.
As soon as the door was shut, Minerva continued hotly, “You may call yourself Isolde Nemo these days, but once upon a time you were Charlotte Lambkin. I know it. You are my mother.”
Grimacing, the other woman stared at her for some moments, her face like marble. “I shall tell you about Charlotte Lambkin. She’s gone forever. She wished to separate from her husband. In return for his agreement, he insisted she go into exile on the Continent and everyone be told she’d died of influenza there.”
“Father insisted?” Minerva choked. “I don’t believe you. He’d never do something like that.”
Mrs. Nemo’s eyes burned like ice. “He was cruel, controlling. He flew into a rage every time Charlotte so much as smiled at another man.”
Minerva caught her breath. Yes, she remembered the bewitching little smiles her mother used to bestow on her admirers. There’d been many swains besotted with her, she now realized. But not once could she recall her father reacting with jealousy. He’d usually been too absorbed in his work to notice. Perhaps that had irked her mother the most—that her own husband hadn’t appreciated how much she was adored by others.
“And me? Why was I left behind?” Minerva heard the quaver in her voice, the needy child still in her after all these years.
“Silas insisted. He was brutal to the very end.”
“I—I don’t believe you. Father has many faults, but brutality isn’t one of them.”
“You don’t believe me?” Mrs. Nemo stiffened, temper flashing through her eyes. “When I asked Silas for a formal separation, he flew into a rage. Told me I would never see you again, that you were better off without me.”
“So you do admit to being my mother!”
Mrs. Nemo pouted with annoyance. “Why must you insist—very well, yes, I am.”
Emotion clogged Minerva’s throat. Her eyes stung. “I was only eight. I missed you terribly. Mother.”
The other woman let out a sigh as she squeezed Minerva’s frozen hand. “You must call me Isolde, Mimi.”
Mimi. Her mother’s pet name for her. She hadn’t heard it in so many years.
“Oh, if only you knew what I’ve had to endure.” Crossing to the fireplace, Mrs. Nemo examined her face closely in the large mirror above the mantelpiece. Swift, practiced fingers darted about, tucking hair, smoothing lips, patting cheeks, straightening lace. “Mercies, I don’t look like anyone’s mother,” she said to herself. Then she turned round and addressed Minerva. “You’re upset, but your father was right. It was better for you to believe I was dead.”
No, it was the other way round, Minerva realized in a sudden burst of perspicacity. Her mother had been better off without her. Without her and Silas. Her beautiful, restless mother had grown tired of marriage and motherhood. So she’d embarked on a Continental sojourn, and then informed her husband she was leaving him. That, Minerva felt sure, was what had really happened, but she would never be able to verify that, because her father was no longer compos mentis. Following his ordeal at the hands of his kidnappers, her father had become as docile as a baby, and had little memory of the past. His health was fragile, his grip on reality even more tenuous, and she couldn’t contemplate questioning him about his marriage.
“Father’s not well these days,” Minerva said.
Mrs. Nemo’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you come to be knocking on my door?”
Minerva’s brain froze. The shock of meeting her long-dead parent had fuddled her wits. She couldn’t tell her mother about Asher. She wasn’t sure why, only that her nerves shrilled at the notion. Asher must know who Mrs. Nemo was—he couldn’t have failed to notice the resemblance—and clearly he hadn’t wanted Minerva to meet her. What business Asher had with Mrs. Nemo, Minerva was loath to speculate.
“I, ah, I must have given the wrong directions to the cab driver,” Minerva improvised. “I’m visiting a client here in London, you see.” Briefly she gave her mother the bare bones of her business.
Mrs. Nemo’s plucked eyebrows rose up. “Mercy me. So you’ve set up shop as an appendage-maker. I suppose I shouldn’t be all that surprised. You were always more interested in your father’s gadgets than your dolls.” She tilted her head to one side. “And so it’s pure coincidence that you ended up here?”
“Of course.” Minerva attempted a convincing tone. “Stranger things have happened.” She paused. It hadn’t escaped her notice that her mother had shown little interest in her father. “Father always said life was stranger than fiction.”
“Ah yes, your father. You mentioned he’s not well these days?”
“That’s right, I’m afraid. He’s suffered a mental breakdown and doesn’t remember much anymore.” Minerva expanded upon her father’s condition, but after only a few minutes she paused as she caught the boredom flickering across her mother’s face. She remembered that expression all too well from her childhood when she’d chattered on, desperate to cling to her mother’s attention, yet seeing her indifference grow with every passing second. She’d failed to hold her mother’s interest then, and her mother had left. Now, seventeen years later, she was living openly with a man who couldn’t be her husband.
“Is Herr Schick your lover?” she abruptly asked.
Derision tinged her mother’s smile. “Why, that horror on your face—you remind me of my own mama.”
“I have a right to know.”
Mrs. Nemo raised an imperious finger, her smile vanishing. “Before you say anything, let me warn you that I will not tolerate any sanctimonious preaching. Not from you, not from anyone.”
Minerva stared at her. “I’m not here to judge you.”
“No? The appalled look you wear says otherwise.”
Minerva swallowed. Who was she to judge? She herself had been prepared to be Asher’s mistress, and she’d never have regretted that. “Are you—are you in love with Herr Schick?”
Her mother’s mouth fell open. “Child, surely you’re not that naive?”
Humiliation knotted in Minerva’s chest. She hadn’t meant to sound so callow. She lowered her eyes to the carpet, unable to witness her mother’s amusement. Mrs. Nemo reached out and tipped up Minerva’s chin. She was smiling, but her smile was tinged with regret, not mockery.
“Oh, Mimi dearest. By your standards I’ve done some shocking, outrageous things. I admit it. I’ve taken several lovers, but never have I been a mere concubine. I enter these relationships on my own terms, with my own agenda, and I choose only those which are advantageous to me. My current arrangement with Herr Schick is no different.” She shifted her grip to Minerva’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “I’ll be candid with you now. I wish you’d never discovered I was still alive. It would have been better for you to remain in ignorance. But now you know the truth.” She continued to knead Minerva’s shoulder, her tuberose perfume heady as incense, her eyes fathomless blue pools. “We can be friends, you and I, but not if you sermonize and demonize. What say you, child?”
The constriction in Minerva’s chest intensified. A hot wave of tumbling emotion surged over her. The motherless eight-year-old in her yearned to rest her head on her mother’s bosom and find release in weeping. But the immaculate furbelows of Mrs. Nemo’s bodice offered no maternal comfort. They could be friends, acquaintances, yes, but never mother and daughter.
“I’d like that,” she murmured, forcing back her tears. She hesitated as she mulled over how a friendship with Mrs. Nemo would be conducted. “Will you tell Herr Schick about me?”
“Certainly not!” Her mother drew back in horror. “In fact, you must not call here again without prior warning.”
“But I…” Minerva trailed off. Herr Schick was neither the most agreeable of men nor the wealthiest, so why was her mother with him when she had just denied having any feelings for him? “I hope he doesn’t treat you poorly.”
Mrs. Nemo’s head tilted up regally. “I never allow any man to treat me poorly.”
And Asher Quigley? What was he to Mrs. Nemo? The sick feeling returned to Minerva. She didn’t want to speculate on what the connection was between the two, but sooner or later she would have to find out. Perhaps they had met through Herr Schick. Perhaps Asher had conferred with the German on some mathematical problem. It was possible, and certainly more palatable than any other explanation.
“And you share Herr Schick’s passion for mathematics?” Minerva asked. “I never knew you were so inclined.”
“Child, there’s much you do not know about me.”
For the first time Minerva took in her surroundings. The room, which she’d assumed was her mother’s private sitting room, wasn’t furnished in the usual way for a lady. Certainly there was a fine escritoire by the window and a velvet chaise longue with many cushions for reclining on, but the shelves were crammed with heavy tomes on botany, astrology, chemistry and alchemy, a side table held a collection of jars, glass tubes, slides and a microscope, while on the desk were numerous papers covered in detailed writing.
“Are you pursuing studies of your own?” Minerva looked at her mother with some awe. Not only did Herr Schick trust her with his analytical machine, it appeared she was also a serious scholar. “I would love to hear about it.”
“No, I’m sure you’d find it tedious.” Mrs. Nemo drew Minerva towards the door. “But come, you must be on your way now, and I have work to do. Give me the address of your lodging, and I will send round a note when I’m available.”
Minerva left the terrace, her mind still swirling. She might have uncovered the truth about her mother’s “death” but that was only the start of the puzzle. So much was unknown about Mrs. Nemo, but one thing was clear—she was concealing a great many secrets.
* * *
In a ferment of agitation, Asher of the future followed Minerva back to her lodgings. His entire body had vi
brated in shock when he’d spied her emerging from Herr Schick’s terrace. And the sight of Mrs. Nemo waving her off had sent dread lancing through him. He’d barely had sufficient brainpower to instruct the driver of his cab to follow the carriage Minerva had stepped into.
What the devil was she doing here in London? Throughout the awfulness of the past fortnight, his one consolation had been the belief that Minerva was, for the moment, safely tucked away in Manchester. Every night, as he learned more and more of what he was up against, he found release in penning her letters, expressing all he’d felt for her in the past but never conveyed. She was both his anchor and his salvation.
But now she was here in the very thick of things, with no inkling of the danger she was in. From a safe distance he watched as she alighted from her carriage and entered her lodging house, looking tired and worried.
Asher held himself back from rushing after her, wishing to marshal his faculties before approaching her. He had no option now but to tell her the truth about himself. Indeed, he would even have to ask for her help. Time was running desperately short.
He got out of the carriage, telling the driver to wait for him. The man merely nodded and drew his muffler closer against the rising north wind. Over the past few weeks Asher had hired him frequently, and he’d grown accustomed to Asher’s strange behavior.
Dead leaves and litter eddied around Asher’s legs as he rapped on the front door of the lodging house. A tall, stout woman answered his knock and eyed him up and down suspiciously.
“Good evening, ma’am. Is Miss Lambkin available?” he asked politely.
“I don’t allow gentleman callers, especially at this hour.” The landlady folded hefty arms across her massive bosom. She had the build and countenance of a Saxon warrior.
“May I send up a note for her then?”
The landlady lowered her bull-like head into the generous folds of her neck. “I run a respectable establishment here, and I don’t approve of my female lodgers going out at night to meet strange gentlemen. If you wish to see Miss Lambkin, I suggest you call back in the morning.”