Chapter 233: Right Here and Now Part 1
Three days after Ernest Teucher told Eleanor Valemont that he loved her, he decided he was going to marry her.
It was not an entirely new idea. The thought had been taking root in the quiet spaces between his working hours—watching her laugh on the hillside at Willowbrook, standing together in the dimly lit workshop of the old forge, and listening to her read to the children at St. Margaret’s. He had already begun imagining their mornings, the arguments over estate ledgers, her medical books resting beside his engineering journals, and children running across the lawns of Oriel Estate.
Imagining a future, however, was merely a concept. A decision was an engineering commitment.
Between Eleanor whispering I love you in the dusk and Ernest waking the following morning with the words still anchoring his thoughts, the uncertainty had vanished. He wanted Eleanor to be his wife. Not after the next trunk line was surveyed, not after the rolling mills hit their annual targets, and not in some distant, quiet season that would never arrive.
He wanted to ask her now.
The only complication was that Baron Ernest Teucher had absolutely no idea how a sensible man was supposed to propose marriage.
At quarter past seven on Monday morning, Hollen Vane walked into the executive suite at corporate headquarters, carrying a rolled blueprint under one arm.
"The throat lining on the Number Three converter is burning out," Hollen said, dropping his hat onto the side table.
Ernest looked up from his desk. "Already? We relined the vessel four months ago."
"Three months and two weeks," Hollen corrected, unrolling the schematic across the mahogany. "Which means twelve heats a day is chewing through our refractory brick faster than predicted."
Ernest leaned over the drawing, running a finger along the cross-section. "Look at the wear pattern along the tuyeres. It’s asymmetrical. The eastern wall is worn twenty-seven millimeters deeper than the western face."
"Aye. The draft is channeling."
"Twenty-seven millimeters is close enough to thirty to warrant a complete teardown of the throat," Ernest murmured.
Hollen stopped. He slowly turned his head to stare at Ernest. "What did you just say?"
"I said the draft is uneven—"
"You just said twenty-seven millimeters was ’close enough’ to thirty." Hollen squinted with profound alarm. "Who are you, and what have you done with the Chairman?"
"It is an approximation for initial maintenance scheduling, Hollen."
"You once shut down an entire machine shop because a shaft was three-tenths of a millimeter out of true." Hollen’s sharp eyes flicked across the desk, suddenly catching sight of a small, square object resting near Ernest’s right hand.
It was a small jeweler’s box, wrapped in dark, unadorned velvet.
Ernest noticed the shift in Hollen’s gaze and instinctively slid the heavy blueprint over the box.
Hollen’s jaw tightened. "Did you just attempt to conceal an object under a furnace blueprint?"
"I was clearing the workspace."
"Move the paper, lad."
"No."
"Ernest."
"Hollen, this is my private desk."
Hollen reached for the corner of the heavy drafting paper. Ernest grabbed the opposite edge. For several undignified seconds, the two men who commanded the largest industrial conglomerate in Belfast engaged in a silent, grim-faced tug-of-war across an antique desk.
"Release the blueprint, boy," Hollen warned, tugging hard.
"You are seventy years old; conduct yourself with professional decorum."
"I’ll rap your knuckles with my ash stick."
"I’ll have building security escort you to the street."
"You don’t have the nerve."
Hollen gave a violent yank. The paper tore along the margin and slid away, leaving the small velvet box sitting completely exposed upon the green leather blotter.
Silence dropped over the room.
Ernest leaned back in his armchair, exhaling a long, defeated breath. "Are you satisfied?"
Hollen stared at the velvet box. He reached out a scarred, calloused thumb to touch the clasp, but Ernest slapped his hand away.
"Hands off," Ernest ordered.
"It’s a ring," Hollen murmured, the teasing edge vanishing from his voice.
"I am aware of what it is."
"A ring for Eleanor."
"No, Hollen, I have developed a sudden, passionate interest in ladies’ jewelry."
The sarcasm fell flat. Hollen didn’t smile. He took the chair opposite the desk, resting both hands on his walking stick, his weathered face turning entirely still. "You’re going to ask her."
Ernest looked down at the dark velvet, then met his old friend’s eyes. "Yes."
"Properly? Because you want a life with her, and not because your mother is pacing the halls at Oriel?"
"I love her, Hollen," Ernest said quietly. "I love her more than anything I’ve ever designed, built, or owned. When I imagine my life ten years from now without her in it, the whole enterprise feels entirely hollow. I don’t want an heir for the company. I just want Eleanor."
Hollen sat back in the chair, a slow, gentle warmth softening the deep lines around his eyes. "All right, then. Ask her."
Something in Ernest’s chest untangled. Coming from the man who had taught him how to strike iron, the simple blessing felt heavier than a legal charter.
"When?" Hollen asked.
"Saturday," Ernest replied. "I’ve drafted the arrangements."
Hollen’s eyebrows shot up. "You’ve... drafted the arrangements?"
Ernest opened a drawer and pulled out a neatly handwritten, three-page document.
Hollen threw his head back, groaning at the ceiling. "Merciful heavens. Tell me you didn’t write an operational itinerary for a proposal."
"It is a logistical contingency framework," Ernest defended, holding the papers defensively.
Hollen lunged across the desk, snatching the top sheet before Ernest could pull it back. The old man squinted at the neat, precise headings:
MARRIAGE PROPOSAL — LADY ELEANOR VALEMONT
Primary Venue: Willowbrook Ridge
Weather Contingency: Oriel Conservatory
Departure: 10:00 AM
Luncheon: 12:30 PM
Proposed Question: Approximately 3:00 PM (±15 min)
Hollen lowered the paper, staring at Ernest in sheer disbelief. "You allocated a fifteen-minute tolerance window for asking a woman to marry you?"
"Travel times and weather patterns introduce minor operational variables," Ernest stated with absolute seriousness.
"Ernest, she’s an intelligent woman who has spent months trying to stop you from living your life by a stopwatch. If she sees a contingency schedule for her own betrothal, she’ll throw you in the river."
"Preparation prevents failure, Hollen."
"Tear it up," Hollen ordered, tossing the paper back onto the desk. "Plan the journey. Pack the ring. Know what is in your heart. And burn the bloody timetable."
Ernest looked down at the neat lines of ink, hesitated, and then tore the sheets in half. He tore them again and dropped the scraps into the wastebasket.
Hollen nodded approvingly. "Good."
Ernest quietly reached toward his lower desk drawer.
Hollen’s eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"You have a duplicate copy in that drawer, don’t you?"
"I maintain archival backups of critical documentation, Hollen!"
Hollen slammed his ash stick against the floor. "Burn the backup, Ernest!"