The Marvelous Mechanical Man is the first book in a Steampunk series featuring the adventures of Josephine Mann, an independent woman in need of a way to pay her rent. She meets Professor Alistair Conn, in need of a lab assistant, and a partnership is created that proves exciting adventure for both of them.
Alistair’s prize invention is an automaton standing nine feet tall. There’s a bit of a problem though…he can’t quite figure out how to make it move. Jo just might be of help there. Then again, they might not get a chance to find out, as the marvelous mechanical man goes missing.
Jo and Alistair find themselves in the middle of a whirlwind of kidnapping, catnapping, and cross-country chases that involve airships, trains, and a prototype steam car. With a little help from their friends, Herbert Lattimer and Winifred Bond, plots are foiled, inventions are perfected, and a good time is had by all.
Kate Winslow pulled her hat brim low
to shade her eyes. It was always difficult making a shot into the sun, but this
time she had no choice. The varmint who was trying to take her ranch was holed
up on the other side of the ridge, and she had one chance to rescue Pa and save
their range land. If she could shoot a hole in the water tank rising above the stock
pen, perhaps she could start a stampede and draw the varmints away from the
house long enough to get inside and free Pa.
She had never expected to find
herself in this position as a child. Ma and Pa had made sure she learned to
read and write and cipher—Ma wanted her to be a schoolmarm when she was old
enough; and until she was twelve, she’d expected that was how it would be.
That year Ma caught scarlet fever,
and Kate and Pa were left alone to run the homestead. Instead of planning
lessons, she’d learned to shoot and ride like a Comanche, and swear like a
wrangler. Smart as a whip and strong as a horse, Kate earned a reputation for
hard living and equally hard loving. She wore men’s trousers and had been known
to tip a few in the local saloon.
But what she really longed for was a
man that could stand at her side, run the ranch, and make her feel like a
woman….
— Garrett
Goldthwaite — Calico
Kate and the River of Gold
Chapter 1
“I did not lie to you, sir! I am Jo Mann. I am here…”
I heard my voice creeping up toward a
shout, and forced myself to take a deep breath. What would the heroine of one
of Garrett Goldthwaite’s dime novels do in a case like this? I had found that
question served me well in similar cases where I was at a loss for what to do.
It didn’t take but a moment to
decide. She would stand her ground. Of that, I had no doubt.
Straightening my back, I looked down
my nose at the odious little toad in the wrinkled shirt who was staring back at
me with bulbous eyes.
“I
am here to apply for the copy reader position that was advertised in last
evening’s paper.”
The toad blinked myopically.
“But
you aren’t qualified.”
“The
advertisement said the only qualification is an ability to read and write. I
assure you, sir, I am most qualified in that area. I have been doing both since
I was five.”
“But
you are a girl.”
“That
has nothing to do with…!” I was beginning to screech again. Deep breaths…deep
breaths…
I tried once more.
“I
am fully aware of my sex, Mr. Greenstreet. However, it has no bearing on whether
or not I am able to read and write. These are the only listed qualifications
for the position.”
“But
you’re a girl. And a little slip of a thing at that. A newspaper is no place
for a lady.”
I realized he was trying to be kind
as he tapped together my papers and handed them back to me, but it did nothing
except irritate me further. I knew what he saw when he looked at me—a short
female with too many unruly curls and too few pounds on her slight frame. And
not much chance to get any fatter if I didn’t find a job soon.
The five one-dollar bills tucked into
the sole of my boot were all I had left in the world. To make matters worse,
two of those were due the landlady on Monday.
I swallowed any pride I had left and
tried a final time.
“Mr.
Greenstreet. Sir. I understand I would be an unconventional choice for the
position…”
Whatever kindness the gentleman had
felt was rapidly deteriorating—I could see it in his eyes. I’ve always been
good at reading people.
“Look,
Miss, I wish you the best of luck, but there is no work for you here. Why don’t
you see if Father Murphy over to the church across the street can suggest
something? Maybe one of his parishioners is looking for a governess or some
such. Good day.” He handed back my forged letters of recommendation—a girl has
to eat—with an air of great finality.
Stifling a sigh that I feared might
lead to tears, I stuffed the carefully fabricated papers into my reticule with
no further concern for their well-being. Fat lot of good they’d done.
I spun on my heel, nose in air, and
swept out of the room. Unfortunately, my exit was marred when on the way out of
the door I slammed into a hard surface and bounced backward; it was sheer luck
that I didn’t fall flat on an unmentionable body part. I opened my mouth to
protest—and, for once, found myself at a total loss for words.
The “surface” in question turned out
to be a young gentleman dressed in most peculiar clothing—natty tweed trousers
and neat brown boots, but a collarless shirt with undone vest in a vile green
plaid that clashed horribly with the trousers. Over the entire ensemble, he
wore a long white coat with many pockets bulging in interesting ways and
bearing several noxious stains in lurid colors. Not bad looking in an academic
way, he wore his dark hair a bit longer than was fashionable and had the most
brilliant blue eyes I’d ever seen behind round wire spectacles.
I am enough of a typical female that
I felt a frisson of pleasure run through me at the sight.
“Oh,
excuse me!” the gentleman murmured, reaching out a steadying hand stained with
splotches of some chemical. “I didn’t see you.”
“Obviously
not,” I said with a sniff of distain. It would never do to show the man I
thought he was rather handsome. It would just encourage him. Men didn’t need
any encouragement to be obnoxious.
“Are
you all right, Miss…?”
“Yes.
I’m fine. No thanks to you, I must say.”
“I’m
terribly sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”
Mr. Greenstreet stepped from behind
his desk.
“The
young lady was just leaving, Professor Conn. Have you brought your
advertisement?”
The young man glanced down at a grimy
piece of paper clutched in one hand as if he had never seen it before.
“Oh.
Yes. Yes, here it is. I would like to run the piece for one week in both the
early and late editions—unless we have a favorable response, of course.” He
handed the scrap of paper to Mr. Greenstreet. “I believe you said that would be
fifty cents?”
He fumbled in his vest pocket and
pulled out a coin. The newspaperman took the coin and read aloud what was
scribbled on the paper.
“‘Wanted, lab assistant. Hours expected: ten a.m. to four
p.m. Occasional night work may be required. Pay twenty dollars a week’—oh my,
Professor Conn. That is a mistake, surely. You mean twenty dollars a month, don’t you?”
“No…no,
I mean twenty a week, Mr. Greenstreet. You feel that’s excessive?”
Mr. Greenstreet shrugged. “It’s your
money. I’ll just send this down to the typesetters.”
That was an outrageous salary…it was
as much as a governess would earn in a month! How hard could the position be?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Heart pounding in my chest, I
snatched the paper from his hand.
“No
need to trouble yourself, Mr. Greenstreet.” I turned to Professor Conn. “Do you
have a problem with a female assistant, sir?”
The gentleman in question blinked at
me.
“Well,
no, I don’t suppose so. As long as she’s willing to work.”
“Then
there is no need to place the advertisement.” I plucked the coin from Mr.
Greenstreet’s hand as well and handed it back to the professor. “I’ll take the
job.”
“Oh.
Well, I…”
Poor dear, he seemed totally out of
his depth. Lacing my arm through his, I turned him back toward the doorway.
“Now,
why don’t we go next door to that lovely little café, and you can tell me all
about the position over a nice glass of lemonade and a cucumber sandwich?” This
was pushing things a bit, but I was ravenous.
The professor looked a bit dazed, but
he didn’t protest or hang back, which was a good sign. Mr. Greenstreet glowered
at me as he moved back around his desk, but I didn’t care. I gave him a little
wave as we stepped out the doorway.
I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry
for Professor Conn as I guided him down the stairs and shepherded him to the
café. Marching him to the counter, I ordered two lemonades and a plate of
sandwiches. The young man behind the counter looked up at us expectantly, and I
nudged the professor in the ribs. He jumped a little, but reached into his
wallet and paid for the food without protest.
Steering him to one of the little
tables, I finally let go of his arm and plopped down on a bentwood chair. As he
sank down across from me, a bemused expression on his face, I stuck out my
hand.
“My
name is Josephine Mann. I go by Jo. I believe I’m your new assistant.”
He took my hand in his, calluses
scraping the bottoms of my fingers, and shook it.
“Alistair
Conn. I teach three days a week at the University. The rest of the time I spend
in my workshop. I’m a bit of an inventor.”
I waved away the explanation,
cramming half a cucumber sandwich in my mouth. I was too hungry to be ladylike.
I hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, and it was well after two in the
afternoon. Washing down the sandwich with a gulp of lemonade, I made an effort
to be nice.
“Just
tell me where to be in the morning, and I’ll be there.”
Professor Conn scratched his ear.
“You
aren’t precisely what I was expecting in an assistant, Miss Mann—”
“Jo.
Please.”
“Jo,
then. I require someone to take dictation of my lab notes, to do some minor
lifting, perhaps monitor some of my experiments while I am in class…”
“I
can do all that. Maybe do your laundry too,” I mumbled around sandwich crumbs,
with an eye to his mussed and rumpled clothing.
“I
am not looking for a maid, Miss Mann,” he replied stiffly. “I need a lab
technician.”
I bit my lip. I was irritating him
already. Not a good start to a working relationship.
“Yes,
I know,” I said, in my most soothing tone. “I promise I can do all that. I
write a good hand, I read everything I get my hands on, I’m a good listener and
a quick learner. I’m strong as a horse. And I really need the money.”
“Well.
You are direct, I’ll give you that.”
“What’s
the point in beating around the bush? You need an assistant, I have rent to
pay—oh, and about that. Today is Wednesday. If you could see your way to pay me
for the rest of this week in advance…” I held out my hand hopefully. Never
hurts to try.
He took out his wallet once more and
pulled out ten dollars. He started to hand it to me then pulled it back.
“This
just feels a little sudden to me, Miss Mann. I’m not sure—”
“Please,
Professor Conn, I really need this position.”
I’m not very good at feminine wiles,
but I batted my lashes anyway, hoping he wasn’t used to being on the receiving
end of them either and wouldn’t notice my lack of finesse.
“I’m
down to my last dollar. There aren’t many openings for women in these
enlightened times of eighteen-seventy-four. England may be ruled by a queen,
but here in good old New York City, it’s a man’s world. I’ve tried all the
acceptable positions—shop girl, factory worker…but I never seem to land in one place
for very long.”
“I
wonder why that is,” my new employer commented wryly.
I felt the heat rise to my face.
Obviously, I was already making an impression.
“To
be frank with you, sir, unless I want to be a governess or a housemaid, all
that’s left for me is settling down as some man’s wife, and I assure you,
that’s not the life for me.”
“I
see,” Conn said, looking a bit taken aback. “Well, you do raise some very valid
considerations. I know something about societal expectations myself. We will
give it a week’s trial. Or, shall we say, half a week? If we are both satisfied
with the arrangement by Friday evening, we will consider a more permanent
arrangement.” He handed me the ten dollars.
Ten dollars for two days? It was a
fortune! I could live with that—and, with careful budgeting—start to improve my
situation. Mrs. Milligan would be happy to have the rent on time for a change,
that was certain.
I stuck out my hand again.
“You’ve
got yourself an assistant, Professor.”
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About the Author
Rie Sheridan Rose multitasks. A lot. Her short stories appear in numerous anthologies, including Nightmare Stalkers and Dream Walkers Vols. 1 and 2, and Killing It Softly Vols. 1 and 2. She has authored twelve novels, six poetry chapbooks, and lyrics for dozens of songs. These were mostly written in conjunction with Marc Gunn, and can be found on “Don’t Go Drinking with Hobbits” and “Pirates vs. Dragons” for the most part–with a few scattered exceptions.Her favorite work to date is The Conn-Mann Chronicles Steampunk series with five books released so far: The Marvelous Mechanical Man, The Nearly Notorious Nun, The Incredibly Irritating Irishman, The Fiercely Formidable Fugitive, and The Elderly Earl’s Estate.
Rie lives in Texas with her wonderful husband and several spoiled cat-children.
WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:
Website: https://riewriter.com/ and https://theconnmannchronicles.com/Twitter: https://twitter.com/RieSheridanRose
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheConnMannChronicles/
Thank you for the opportunity. I appreciate the support.
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