Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius Read Free

riverbank, coming toward him.   Her afternoon dress was blue moiré silk with a high-waisted bodice, trimmed with row upon row of white fringe, bows, and roses to conceal the restrictive stays beneath.   Her leg-o-mutton sleeves looked long and hot in the bright river sunshine.   She wore the dress as if it were an unpleasant uniform.  
    Startled to see her, Verne dropped the sticky end of a reed into the dirt, then spluttered at the clumsy mess he had made.   When Caroline Aronnax approached, he wanted to look impressive and dashing, not like a clod.
    But he had already caught her eye, and he blushed crimson.   Caroline shaded her eyes and called, “Jules Verne, what are you doing down there?”  
    With a glance to ensure that no one of sufficient social station was watching her, she hopped off the cobblestone path, lifted her ankle-length skirt, and hurried across the mud to join him by the dock pilings.   Even fine clothes could not disguise her tomboy nature or her fascination with all manner of things that her exasperated mother considered “unseemly for a young lady.”
    “Up to something interesting, I hope?   It is not often I see you without André.   Where is he?”
    Verne swallowed hard.   As always, Caroline caused the words to catch in his throat.   In her presence, his sharp wit and intelligence faded into a confusion of stutters.   “He . . . I . . . André’s there .”   He pointed to the line of reeds.   “He’s exploring under the water.   I’m in charge of keeping his air-line clear.   It’s a very important job.”
    Caroline bent down, careful not to muddy her dress, and looked into the Loire in amazement.   Verne focused his attention on her pointed nose and her slender neck.   In an impassioned love letter he’d once written, Verne had described her hair as “honey caught on fire,” but, as with so many things, he’d never found the nerve to send her the letter -- though she could not be blind to his attraction.   Or Nemo’s.  
    Caroline’s eyes were cornflower blue, and her skin, though fair, was vibrant instead of the pale and translucent valued by French high-society.   Madame Aronnax constantly scolded her daughter and tried to reign in her outgoing ways.  
    Caroline’s father was a wealthy merchant, one of the last to make a fortune in the sugar cane trade of the West Indies .   Of late, he had become an importer of rum and North American rice, as well as exotic cargoes from Asia and the East Indies .   Monsieur Aronnax adored his daughter and had taught her how to read maps and charts, told her about places visited by his shipping fleet, and discussed how the tea crop in Ceylon might affect the prices of cow hides from California.   Her mother, though, could not understand what Caroline would ever do with such useless knowledge, and hired a music tutor for her instead.  
    She learned to play the harpsichord and the pianoforte, and became proficient in the works of Bach, Handel, and Mozart.   But when she was alone, Caroline composed her own fugues and concertos, delighting in the creative process.   When asked, she credited the original compositions to a mythical 18th century French composer named “Passepartout,” since Mme. Aronnax would have been horrified to learn of her daughter’s ambitions.
    Caroline also dabbled in art to keep her mother happy, sketching the shipyards or still-lifes of fruit and flowers (as well as secret drawings of distant ports and strange creatures described by men from her father’s merchant ships).  
    Both Verne and Nemo were infatuated with Caroline, and both did everything possible to impress her.   André Nemo was the free-spirited son of a widowed shipbuilder, and Jules Verne was the oldest child of an established but dull country lawyer.   Neither had a chance to win her hand, if Madame Aronnax had any say in the matter.
    “How long has André been down there?”   Caroline shaded her eyes against the sunlight