Asher's Dilemma (3 page)

He swallowed, the suggestive nature of her address clashing violently with his knowledge of who she really was. When he’d realized who she must be—her remarkable resemblance offered only one plausible explanation—his initial instinct had been to flee, but he needed her. Or, more precisely, he needed access to Klaus Schick’s analytical machine, the only one of its kind in all of England. And if Schick had deputed Mrs. Nemo, then Asher would have to deal with her. He suspected Mrs. Nemo was Schick’s mistress, though she was not like any mistress Asher had ever encountered. She lived openly with the German mathematician and appeared not the least bit embarrassed of the fact. With her bewitching looks and polished manners she could have attracted the protection of a wealthy aristocrat or prince, so it was a bit of a mystery to Asher why she’d chosen a brilliant but unprepossessing mathematician with a murky past.

“I only hope I’m up to the task of conveying my requirements,” Asher said as diplomatically as possible.

Mrs. Nemo eyed him boldly. “You look like a man up to any challenge.”

For a second he was too nonplussed to answer. This was the first time he’d met the enigmatic lady in private. On previous occasions he’d been aware of her interest in him, but he’d not expected her to be so forward. He was not unaccustomed to female attention, but this woman’s flattery grated and disconcerted him.

“I’m referring to the complexities of my algorithms,” he answered in a stiff enough manner to rebuff her.

“Have no fear.” Mrs. Nemo took out notebook and pencil, all business-like now. “I’m well versed in mathematics, and I operate the analytical machine myself.”

“You do?” He couldn’t stop his eyebrows from lifting.

She slid him another arch half-smile. “You think women are incapable of anything more complicated than needlework?”

“Not at all.” Immediately he thought of Minerva and her clever contraptions for replacing lost limbs. Minerva’s inventions were practical and useful, whereas his latest was the stuff of fantasy. “I merely assumed Herr Schick was particular about his analytical machine.”

“He is most particular about Hedwig. Apart from him, I’m the only one allowed near her.”

“Hedwig?”

“He christened the machine after his mother.” Mrs. Nemo lifted her delicate shoulders as if to express her incomprehension at such Teutonic whimsy. “Now. Shall we get down to business? What calculations do you wish Hedwig to perform for you?”

Asher sat his visitor down at a table and drew forward a wad of paper covered in mathematical algorithms. As he went through them with Mrs. Nemo, he found his enthusiasm quickening. The loss of his manual calculations in the workshop fire had been a serious blow to him, but Schick’s analytical machine promised a fast solution. After examining his equations for some time, Mrs. Nemo declared that Hedwig would take no more than a few days to compute the data.

Asher could scarcely hide his excitement. All his weeks of laborious computations to be replicated in just a few days? It seemed too good to be true. “And you can guarantee the accuracy of the results?” he asked. “Down to the third decimal place? It’s very important. Any error could result in serious injury, even death.”

Mrs. Nemo cast him a calculating look. “What are you building that requires such accuracy?”

Instantly he was on his guard. “Oh, it’s just a variation on a Faraday generator. Nothing special.”

“Such modesty, but I must warn you, Mr. Quigley, your reputation precedes you.” The lady graced him with a beguiling smile. “I’ve heard such tales about you and your marvelous inventions.” Leaning forward, she tapped his knee with her pencil. “I’ve even heard it mentioned that you’ve managed to unlock the power of the aethersphere. Now that would be incredible.”

He stilled in shock, her cloying perfume befuddling his brain. Nothing could be kept secret, especially not in the rarefied world of scientific discovery. Money, power and self-aggrandizement would always win out. Besides, Minerva’s father had already defrauded investors with the promise of his perpetual motion machine. The concept was public knowledge. But surely no one but himself knew the real discovery he’d unlocked within his machine?

He couldn’t be too careful. For all he knew Herr Schick and possibly even Mrs. Nemo were responsible for the fire in his workshop.

Asher cleared his throat. “I have gone some way in demonstrating the potential of the aethersphere,” he prevaricated, “but nothing more.”

“Ah, the fabled aethersphere.” Mrs. Nemo was still gazing at him, and now fervor shone in her wide eyes. “The stuff that binds the universe together. I’ve read so much about it. Tell me, Mr. Quigley, are you of the school of thought that believes absolute time exists in the aethersphere? That a person, once inside the aethersphere, is freed from relative time and can therefore travel
through
time? Can, in fact, travel back in time?”

He couldn’t drag his gaze away from her. Her musky scent coiled around him like sickly sweet incense, her hypnotic eyes seemed to paralyze him, and it felt as if his will was being sucked out of him like a giant mosquito drawing out his blood.

Light perspiration broke out beneath his collar as he pushed away from her. “Really, Mrs. Nemo. That speculation is better left to novelists, don’t you think?”

Slowly her eyes narrowed, shrewdness replacing her fervor. “Perhaps you would show me this ‘variation on a Faraday generator’ you’re so keen to complete.”

He couldn’t mistake the skepticism in her tone. “I’m afraid that’s impossible at the moment. My workshop is, er, disorganized at the moment.”

“But all these calculations you require.” She gestured towards the papers strewn across the table. “I’m not sure Herr Schick would approve of Hedwig being used for a mere generator.”

Asher hesitated. Her message was clear. If he thwarted Mrs. Nemo’s curiosity, he wouldn’t gain access to the analytical machine. But he couldn’t afford to spend several weeks re-doing his calculations. The suspicious fire and burglaries were warning enough that his discovery was in danger. The only safe thing to do was to finish it as quickly as possible.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall arrange for you and Herr Schick to tour my workshop in a week’s time.” He paused, then added, “Once you have my results.”

A satisfied smile sparkled across Mrs. Nemo’s face. She readjusted her veil over her features and swept up the papers into her arms. “Then I must away. Hedwig will be clanking away this evening.”

Asher bid his visitor farewell, trying to squash the feeling that he’d just struck a deal with the devil herself.

Chapter Three

If landing unannounced on Asher’s doorstep had been foolhardy, then shadowing his visitor was, quite possibly, outright lunacy. But Minerva was not in her usual frame of mind. Mild spells of dizziness continued to haunt her as her hire carriage rattled in the wake of the handsome brougham. While Asher had entertained his female caller, Minerva had hailed down a cab and waited at the end of the street until the woman re-emerged some thirty minutes later. Now, the two carriages joined the bustling traffic on the high street for some miles, eventually turning off onto a quieter street. Here, the houses were well-kept and prosperous, though not as grand as Asher’s Kensington address.

The brougham halted outside a white stucco-and-brick terrace. Minerva signaled to her driver to stop some distance away and watched as the passenger entered the house. She surveyed the environs, noting the shining windows and scrubbed steps of the terrace row. This was a respectable neighborhood. Most likely Asher’s visitor was a relative, and she was piling blunder upon blunder to imagine anything more disreputable. But the feeling that something was very amiss continued to nag at her like a toothache.

Finally, after ten minutes of indecision, she exited the carriage and paid the driver. Her heart rate sped up as she approached the steps leading up to Number Four. She had no idea what she would say, but, determined to forge ahead, she pressed the bell with a firm hand. As she frantically hunted for a valid reason to explain her presence, nature took matters out of her hands. A wave of faintness washed over her, and she felt herself swaying just as the door opened. Through the grayness fogging her vision she heard a servant enquiring her business.

“I beg your pardon,” she managed to whisper. “I’m not feeling well at all.”

The maid exclaimed before drawing her inside and ushering her into a dim, quiet room where Minerva allowed herself to be seated in a comfortable armchair.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, but the maid had already dashed from the room, no doubt to alert her mistress. Minerva’s faintness slowly dissolved away. She lifted her head and glanced around her, curious as to the type of home the mysterious woman kept. The furnishings were decidedly Continental, from the French-style writing desk, to the German porcelain clock gracing the mantelpiece. Heavy damask curtains cut out most of the failing afternoon light, and the gas lamps flickered low.

A soft step on the threshold and a rustle of silk was all the warning she had. Turning, she saw the woman who had visited Asher enter the room. It could only be her. There was no mistaking the dramatic black-and-ivory dress or the woman’s poise. This time, there was no obscuring hat or veil. Instead, the woman wore her abundant fair hair piled high upon her face, a face which became strikingly familiar as she glided forward.

The room was dim, the light fickle. The woman’s face seemed to waver in the dusk. Minerva blinked several times, trying to clear her vision, and wondered if her near faint was playing tricks with her mind.

“Madam, forgive me,” Minerva blurted out, “but you remind me so much of my mother that—” She gulped, sick with disbelief. “Could it be you
are
my mother?”

The woman stilled. Minerva’s eyes ached as she stared into a face almost as familiar as her own. The similarities were striking and unmistakable. It was like staring into the depths of time and seeing a reflection of herself a few decades from now. Same hair, eyes, bone structure—uncannily the same—yet different in a way that sent needles crawling down Minerva’s back.

“My goodness.” The woman rolled out a cool little laugh. “Do I look old enough to be your mother? How unflattering.”

“I didn’t mean—” Minerva broke off in confusion as the stranger’s voice riffled through her memories. Was that not her mother’s voice? “I beg your pardon, I meant no insult, but you bear an uncanny resemblance to my late mother.” She hesitated, then added, “And to myself too.”

The woman drew closer, her silk skirts rustling like money. “Do tell me about your late mother,” she said in a honeyed tone.

“She died while on a trip to the Continent when I was still a child. Influenza.” Minerva quivered at the memory. She’d been eight when without warning her mother had decided to winter on the Riviera. Seeing her mother tossing her clothes into a trunk, Minerva had begged to be taken along, vowing she would be on her best behavior. But as always her mother had been too busy to listen, had merely shaken her head and continued with her hurried packing. After she’d left, Minerva had waited in vain for a letter from her. Three months later came the news that she was dead.

“How tragic,” the woman said. “And what became of you?”

“My father took care of me. Silas Lambkin.” Minerva eyed the other woman closely, hoping the mention of her father would trigger some response, but the woman remained impassive. “There must be some explanation to this,” Minerva hurriedly added. “When my parents eloped, my mother was disowned by her family. Her name was Charlotte. I—I don’t know her family name, she never revealed that to me, but you must be a cousin of hers, surely?”

“Must I?” The woman lifted her shoulders a fraction. “It’s been so long since I had contact with my family, I hardly remember all my many cousins, but perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I am a cousin of this Charlotte. Who knows?”

At her detached tone, suspicion wormed in Minerva’s stomach. Any normal person would be curious about the possible link between them, but this woman was so indifferent Minerva couldn’t help wondering—was this woman in fact her supposedly dead mother? In the months leading up to her mother’s trip she remembered a coldness growing between her parents, accompanied by sharp, bitter exchanges, her mother disappearing for hours, sometimes all day. Could it be that her mother had left for the Continent with no intention of returning? That her father had lied to her about her mother’s death? That this elegant, sphinx-like woman was indeed her mother, a mother who had willingly and deliberately abandoned her?

“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.