Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

Willie smiled, then stole a brief kiss before looking out the window and across the bustling street. “I’m glad we decided to buy Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. Wherever Ollie Rollins is, I’m sure he’d be most pleased to know my father agreed to step in as the proprietor. If anyone appreciates twentieth-century wonders and historical oddities, it is Michael Goodenough.”

Simon wrapped his arm around his wife, marveling that he felt as though he’d made his mark upon the world simply by focusing on family. “I’m glad your father agreed to move back to Notting Hill. And I’m relieved the queen’s gratitude extended to securing Ashford for my mother. We may not be legal, Willie, but we’re blessed.”

“Aye,” she said, smiling and leaning into his kiss. “We are blessed.”

GREAT BRITAIN, 1887 THIRTY-ONE YEARS AFTER THE INVASION OF THE TWENTIETH-CENTURY PEACE REBELS

“Could you have been any more rude?”

And here I was congratulating myself for being so astonishingly polite . “Apologies, Mother.” Repressing her frustration, Miss Amelia Darcy endured her mother’s disapproving glare—she was well used to it—and moved to the rear of Loco-Bug, the family’s one-of-a-kind steam-powered automocoach. Stoking the coal in the firebox, she simultaneously praised her papa’s ingenuity and cursed the extraordinary and unreasonable price of gasoline.

Since the Peace War, only the very rich could afford petrol for everyday use. Others, like Papa, hoarded such fuel for special occasions or, in his case, special projects. She supposed she shouldn’t complain about their fickle and sluggish mode of transportation. If her mother, who resisted anything relying on cogs, pipes, and belts, had her way, they’d be traveling by horse and buggy. The woman feared progress as though it were the plague. The only thing that vexed her more was her daughter’s emancipated mind-set.

Whilst Amelia replenished the boiler’s water supply, her mother stood by, tugging on her fur-lined gloves, tightening the sash of her ridiculously frilly bonnet, and arranging her thick traveling cloak to accommodate her portly frame. “I spent two months cultivating a relationship with the dowager Viscountess Bingham,” she grumbled under her breath, “and you managed to ruin my matchmaking efforts in less than two hours.”

“Proof of my restraint. Otherwise we would have earned the boot much sooner.” Not that Lady Bingham had physically shown them the door, but she’d certainly expedited their exit.

Speaking of which, Amelia glanced over her shoulder and saw the dour-faced woman in all her straitlaced glory standing on the front steps of the magnificent country estate alongside her son—the Viscount Bingham. Decorum dictated that they oversee their guests’ departure, no matter how tedious the process. Whereas Lady Bingham was no doubt scandalized by Amelia’s determination to fire up and drive a horseless carriage like an unrefined commoner, she could feel Lord Bingham studying her every move. She knew he was fascinated by her passion for aviation and flair for mechanics and somewhat amused by her father’s Frankenstein version of an automocoach. Influenced by sketches of Bollée’s La Mancelle and a time-traveling Mod’s psychedelic Beetle Bug, Papa’s hybrid, built from available scraps, was a visual curiosity. However, to someone like Amelia, who had not experienced life before the invasion of the Peace Rebels, Loco-Bug just was.

What really irritated Amelia was Lord Bingham’s keen fascination with her bountiful bosom. Even the modest and hideously constricting visiting gown she’d donned to appease her mother had not detracted from her bothersome “fine figure.” Most women would have been flattered by his attention, she supposed, especially since Lord Bingham was a man of great wealth and influence. But he was also an arrogant and crafty sod, and it was for that reason that Amelia had striven to alienate Lady Bingham and her son with her fervent utopian ideals. Influenced by the cautionary tales of the Mods, she took her role in policing the fate of the world most seriously.

The steam engine finally puffed to life and Amelia burst with joy. The sooner she distanced herself from Wickford Manor and the pompous Binghams, the better. She’d been duped into believing Lord Bingham was a fellow utopian, a New Worlder. After an hour in his company Amelia suspected he was, in fact, a Flatliner, someone who cared only for his future—and not the future of mankind.

Learning that he’d employed an entire staff of domestic automatons had singed Amelia’s bustle. How insensitive to purchase robotic domestics at a set cost when so many living, breathing Vics were desperate for employment! It was just one of the things that had soured Amelia on the man her mother had envisioned as her husband. Not that Amelia had any intention of marrying. Ever. Why tie herself down when there was so much of the world to see? Why bend to a man’s will and agenda when she possessed her own dreams and goals? As she lived and breathed, someday she would pilot her own airship and experience grand adventures! She imagined her exploits being reported alongside the colorful escapades of the Sky Cowboy, an American outlaw who flew the fastest airship in all of Europe. If only her mother would match her with that fearless aviator. Horrid husband material to be sure, but since she had no designs on being a wife—ever—she cared not about his notorious and scandalous reputation and only for his superior knowledge in aeronautical engineering.

Sighing, Amelia shoved aside that whimsical scenario and helped her mother up into the rear seat of the six-person cab. As the prim woman fussed and fidgeted, Amelia gathered her own bothersome skirts, compounded by the added layer of her leather duster, and climbed aboard the open-air driver’s throne. She pulled on her leather gauntlets and tinted fur-rimmed goggles, then tugged her worn top hat, a gift from Papa, over her blond coiled braids. Unfashionable perhaps, but comfortable. Sensible as well—which was more than she could say for bustles and bonnets. Grasping the steering wheel, she rolled back her shoulders, feeling deliciously in control. Why anyone would prefer the role of passenger to pilot was beyond her imagination. Loco-Bug vibrated and puffed, primed for action—same as Amelia. She would have smiled were she not conscious of Lady Bingham’s scorn and her own mother’s disappointment; were she not repelled by Lord Bingham’s lecherous attention, damn his eyes. “Are you going to glare at me for the entire journey home, Mother?”

“Quite possibly.”

At least she knew what to expect. Unlike with Lord Bingham. She’d expected—or, perhaps more accurately, hoped for—a tour of his collection of aerostats and aeronefs—flying machines of all manner, each a technological marvel—but she’d never gotten farther than the drawing room, and tea and watercress sandwiches. Her own fault, true. Still . . . Blast .

“You are a beautiful young woman, Amelia, in spite of your peculiar taste in fashion. Well educated. Charming, when you strive to be. Yet you are twenty summers old and without a husband.”

Smiling now, Amelia breathed in the crisp winter air and engaged the clutch, setting them on a course for home. “Life is good.”

“Why in heaven’s name did you even agree to this meeting, only to sabotage it? You could have saved me the humiliation by simply refusing.”

“If I had refused you would have pressured me until I relented,” she said reasonably as they rolled through the ornate iron gates. “I know this, since you have tried to match me six—”