“Among other places.” A shuttered expression came over his face.
“Oh?” He didn’t respond to her prompting, so she added, “Peru sounds so exotic. What was it like?”
“Different.” He returned to cleaning his already-pristine instruments, indicating all too clearly he had no intention of regaling her with tales of his travels.
She moistened her lips and tried a different tack. “Your father must be happy to have you back in England. And he must be so pleased about your efforts in Ireland, too.”
He gave a grunt of sardonic laughter. “The pater would only be truly happy if I were to join the clergy. As for killing potato blight, he’s not sure if I’m doing the Lord’s work or the devil’s.”
“But surely he must be proud of you?”
“He’s mistrusted all scientists ever since Charles Darwin started publishing his theories. In his opinion, saving a few Irish Catholics is no reason to change his views.”
The acerbic note in his voice warned her she’d touched a nerve, and she wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. Asher’s father was Dean of Crampton, and his two older brothers were both clergymen. One was a vicar, the other a missionary in Africa, and Asher had been expected to follow in their footsteps. But he’d refused to be ordained, turning his back on family tradition, and it appeared that family hadn’t yet totally forgiven him.
“Then why didn’t you accept the knighthood offered to you?”
His head jolted up. “A knighthood! I couldn’t think of anything worse. Can you see me strutting through the London clubs like some damned peacock, calling myself Sir Asher Quigley?” He rubbed a gauge so furiously, she feared the glass might crack. “Doffing my cap, and bowing and scraping in front of the queen. No, thank you. Mister has served me well enough so far, and I see no need to trade that title for another. Knights belong in fairy tales. They’re a thing of the past.”
“Well really, there’s no need to sound like an anarchist. After all, your own grandfather is a peer of the realm.”
“The dear fellow had no choice in the matter, whereas I do.”
“I’d no idea you had such strong views on the matter.”
“Science and technology are advancing at a rapid pace,” Asher continued, his expression still heated. “Change is everywhere. Yet social attitudes remain stuck in the last century. It can’t continue without some great upheaval in the near future. I’m merely doing my part to hasten the process.”
Is that why you proposed to me? The heinous question sprung into her head from nowhere and refused to go away. Had that been his way of striking a blow for social progress? By becoming engaged to a girl far below him in station? He’d told her he loved her, but perhaps he’d been more enamored with her lack of pedigree. She studied the zealous set of his jaw and felt her chagrin rise.
Asher spoke. “You disagree with me?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You have a very disagreeable expression on your face.”
Disagreeable! Oh, pistols. “You’re no picture of agreeableness yourself,” she retorted.
His brow grew thunderous. “Well duck and gammon, Minerva! I can assure you there’s nothing agreeable about a knighthood.”
“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?”