Chapter 229: Becoming Us Part 1
The following morning, Ernest Teucher discovered that falling in love carried an unexpected, deeply disruptive side effect.
It made him impatient.
Not with his foundry foremen, nor with the coal suppliers, nor with the stubborn clerks at the Ministry of Commerce. Those remained precisely as irritating as they had always been.
His impatience was focused entirely on Thursday. Specifically, three o’clock on Thursday afternoon.
Ernest sat at his mahogany desk, scowling at the brass desktop calendar. It was ten past nine on Monday morning. Three entire days—seventy-two agonizing hours of operational meetings, tariff disputes, and boiler inspections—stood between him and the hospital solarium.
He tapped his pen against the blotter, briefly considering whether there was any justifiable commercial pretext to call at the Valemont townhouse before then. There was none.
He then considered whether an excuse was strictly necessary. That was a considerably more dangerous line of thought.
A heavy knock sounded at the door, and Hollen Vane walked in without waiting for an answer. The old ironmaster ambled across the carpet, leaning on his ash stick, and dropped into the armchair opposite the desk.
Hollen squinted at him. "You look guilty."
"I am auditing the weekly rolling-mill returns," Ernest replied smoothly, keeping his eyes on the paper.
"You were glaring at your calendar."
"Production schedules require an awareness of the date, Hollen."
"You were glaring at Thursday."
Ernest paused, slowly lifting his gaze.
Hollen wore a broad, infuriatingly knowing smirk. "I thought as much."
Ernest let out a resigned breath, tossing his pen onto the blotter. "Do not begin."
"I haven’t said a word, lad."
"Your expression is loud enough to rattle the windowpanes."
Hollen grunted, leaning forward to glance at the figures. "How’s the basic converter holding up?"
"Output is up three point two percent," Ernest said, grateful for the pivot to metallurgy. "Lining wear is within predicted tolerances, and fuel consumption is down slightly."
"And the heavy rail section?"
"Rejection rates on the forty-pound rail are still higher than I’d like."
Hollen rubbed his bearded chin. "Number Three finishing stand?"
"I suspect an alignment issue in the bearing housings," Ernest nodded. "Samuel’s survey crew checked the masonry footings yesterday, and they haven’t settled."
"Then pull the spindle couplings and check the brasses for uneven wear before the night shift starts."
"I’ll have the master mechanic pull them after lunch."
The exchange was effortless, born of fifteen years of shared labor. Long before boardroom tables, government charters, or titles, there had just been the two of them. Ernest supplied the mathematics, the audacious designs, and the capital; Hollen supplied the deep, intuitive knowledge of hot metal and taught men how to build what Ernest dreamed. They had never signed a formal partnership agreement; the alliance had simply forged itself.
Hollen leaned back in the leather chair, watching Ernest in silence for several long seconds.
"What?" Ernest asked, shifting under the scrutiny.
"Stop looking at me like I’m about to keel over," Hollen said.
"I am not."
"Good. Because I intend to haunt this works for another twenty years." The old man’s tone shifted, the gruffness softening into something quieter, more direct. "Now. Tell me about Eleanor."
Ernest’s posture stiffened slightly. "Her name is Lady Eleanor."
"I know her name, boy. I’ve known her father since he was buying bar iron for his tenant gates." Hollen tilted his head, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "You’re serious about her."
It was a statement, not a question.
Ernest looked toward the tall sash windows. Beyond the glass, the brick chimneys of the capital pumped plumes of white steam into the pale autumn sky. He thought of the quiet hillside at Willowbrook, the warmth of her hand in the carriage, and the small pencil mark she had carved into the pillar of the old forge.
"I love her, Hollen," Ernest said quietly. "I didn’t intend for it to happen, but... I love her."
Silence settled over the office.
Hollen didn’t laugh. He didn’t make a crude foundry joke, nor did he threaten to alert Anna. He simply sat in the leather chair, resting both hands on the crook of his walking stick, his weathered face entirely still.
"Aye," Hollen murmured softly. "I could see it on you the moment you walked into the breakfast room yesterday."
Ernest gave a faint, self-deprecating smile. "Is it that obvious?"
"You were seven years old when you first marched into my forge," Hollen said, his voice husky with memory. "Small lad in clean clothes, refusing to leave until I explained why the iron glowed cherry red before it turned white. Your father stood in the doorway apologizing, and you just kept asking ’why’ until I nearly threw you into the slack tub."
"You did throw me into the coal pile."
"Because you were trying to adjust the blast valve with a pair of cold tongs," Hollen chuckled. The smile faded, his eyes turning fiercely warm. "I’ve watched you chase the next thing your whole life, Ernest. The next furnace, the next mine, the next railway line. Every time we finished a job, you were already looking past the horizon at whatever came next."
Hollen leaned forward, tapping his stick against the floorboards. "I used to worry you’d spend your whole life staring at the horizon and forget to build a home on the ground you were standing on."
Ernest looked down at his desk, feeling the quiet weight of the words.
"She’s a good woman," Hollen said softly, rising from his chair. "She has her father’s spine and her own mind, and she doesn’t flinch when you start talking like a mathematics textbook."
He walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the brass latch. "Don’t treat her like an engineering problem, Ernest. You can’t calculate a marriage."
"I know," Ernest said.
"Good." Hollen glanced over at the side table, where the small wool bear sat proudly beside the polished model of Belfast No. 1. A wicked grin returned to his face. "Though if you bring that stuffed beast into the boardroom on Friday, I’m voting to remove you as Chairman."
"Out, Hollen."
Thursday afternoon arrived at last.
When Ernest stepped through the double doors of St. Margaret’s Children’s Hospital, the cool autumn air gave way to the scent of lavender soap, beeswax polish, and clean linens.
A young ward nurse carrying a stack of blankets paused, offering a bright, familiar smile. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ernest. Lady Eleanor is in the east reading room."
"Thank you, Sister," Ernest nodded, hanging his coat on the peg.
He walked down the corridor to the reading room and stopped in the doorway.
Eleanor was seated on a low wooden bench beneath the arched windows. A small girl of four or five was nestled in her lap, chattering happily while Eleanor gently braided her dark hair with a blue ribbon. The afternoon sunlight caught the rich chestnut tones in Eleanor’s hair and cast a warm glow across her profile.
As if sensing his presence, Eleanor glanced up.
The moment she saw him standing in the frame, her entire face changed. The polite, measured expression she wore for the world dissolved into an immediate, radiant smile meant entirely for him.
Ernest felt a strange, thrilling tightness in his chest.
The little girl followed Eleanor’s line of sight, gasped, and pointed a finger. "The Dragon Man is here!"
Eleanor burst into musical laughter, and Ernest sighed, walking into the room with an amused shake of his head. "My professional reputation in this city is thoroughly ruined."
The reading circle passed quickly, filled with dramatic roars and enthusiastic demands for locomotive lore. By four o’clock, the children had been escorted back to their wards for supper, leaving the room quiet.
Eleanor smoothed her skirts, turning to him as she gathered the stray books. "Walk with me to the square, Ernest? The weather is far too pleasant for a closed carriage."
"Gladly," he said.
They left the hospital grounds, strolling along the tree-lined avenues of the residential quarter. The pavement was dusted with gold and amber leaves, rustling softly beneath their boots.
For several paces, they walked in comfortable silence. Their hands brushed once, then twice, until Eleanor simply turned her palm and laced her fingers through his.
Ernest looked down at their joined hands, feeling the steady warmth of her grip. A month ago, such unscripted physical contact would have caused his mind to seize with panic. Today, it felt as natural and necessary as drawing breath.
They turned into the quiet public gardens at the center of the square, finding an empty stone bench shaded by a late-blooming hydrangea.
Ernest looked at her. "Something has been occupying your thoughts since I arrived."
Eleanor tilted her head, arching a dark brow. "And what precise diagnostic metric led you to that conclusion, Baron?"
"You were quiet during the tea service, and you twisted your left glove three times while we were putting away the picture books."
Eleanor stared at him, then let out a soft, defeated laugh. "You truly never stop observing, do you?"
"I observe what matters to me," Ernest replied gently.
Her smile softened, but a flicker of hesitation lingered in her gray eyes. "My father received a formal letter yesterday morning. From Lord Ashcombe."
Ernest kept his face perfectly composed, though he felt a sudden, cold prickle of irritation along his spine. "The southern estates?"
"Yes. His eldest son, Julian, has concluded his diplomatic tour in the capital and returned to the province." She glanced at him sideways. "Lord Ashcombe suggested that our families dine together next week."
"I see," Ernest said, his voice flat.
Eleanor’s lips twitched with suppressed mischief. "You’ve said ’I see’ with that exact cadence twice now."
"It is a neutral, non-committal phrase."
"You are jealous, Ernest."
Ernest looked straight ahead at the gravel path. "I have no rational reason to experience jealousy. I am fully aware of your intellect, your discernment, and your independence. Therefore, jealousy would be a failure of logic."
"That is the most absurdly elaborate way of admitting you’re jealous I have ever heard," Eleanor laughed, leaning her shoulder against his.
Ernest frowned, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. "I dislike the man."
"You have never laid eyes on him!"
"I dislike the concept of him," Ernest said firmly. "I dislike the concept of eligible southern aristocrats arriving in Helmarte with the express purpose of attending dinner at your family’s table."
Eleanor pressed her forehead against his sleeve, laughing until her shoulders shook. "I find this deeply endearing."
"I find it undignified," Ernest muttered.
She reached up, cupping his jaw with her gloved hand and gently turning his face toward hers. Her humor faded, replaced by an intense, luminous sincerity. "Ernest. I have zero interest in Lord Ashcombe’s son. My father sent a polite refusal this morning."
Ernest looked into her clear gray eyes, the tension melting from his shoulders. "I know. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to make my intentions unmistakable."
Eleanor’s breath hitched slightly, her fingers lingering against the warmth of his cheek.
"Would it comfort your pride to know," she murmured softly, "that I experienced the exact same irrational irritation last month?"
Ernest blinked. "You did? Over whom?"
"Lady Beatrice Harcourt," Eleanor said without hesitation. "At the Royal Founders’ Banquet. She spent twenty minutes leaning against your arm near the champagne fountain."
Ernest searched his memory in genuine bewilderment. "Lady Beatrice? The woman whose father owns the woolen mills in Eastmoor?"
"Of course you remember her by her family’s industrial output," Eleanor sighed. "She touched your coat four times, Ernest."
"I assumed she was unsteady on her evening slippers," Ernest said honestly.
Eleanor stared at him for three seconds, then covered her face with both hands, dissolving into breathless laughter. "Unsteady on her slippers! Oh, heavens, Ernest... you are completely blind when people flirt with you."
"I was discussing raw wool tariffs with her father," Ernest defended himself, a grin breaking across his face.
"I disliked her intensely," Eleanor said, crossing her arms with mock defiance. "I disliked the historical concept of her."
Ernest chuckled, catching her hand once more. "A very dangerous concept indeed."