Chapter 269: Invitation

The Teucher commercial branch in Helmarte had outgrown its skin.

Six months earlier, it had been a quiet agency on the corner of Highgate Circus, handling iron rail shipments and foundry contracts for the southern mines. Now, the ground floor was packed with people.

When Ernest and Eleanor stepped through the double oak doors, they were met with a wall of sound: the clatter of typewriters, the ringing of service bells, and the steady murmur of well-dressed men arguing over delivery schedules.

In one corner, a young sales clerk was using a cutaway brass model to show three country gentlemen how an epicyclic gear worked. At the main mahogany counter, two clerks were writing out receipts for bank drafts, while an older woman in a silk pelisse was sternly asking whether the carriage could be ordered with green cushions instead of black.

Arthur stood at the back of the room, leaning over a clerk’s shoulder, looking like a man who had not slept in three days and was enjoying every single second of it.

He looked up, saw Ernest, and broke into an enormous grin.

"You took the train, I hear!" Arthur called out, walking over and bowing neatly to Eleanor. "Welcome to the front lines, Chairman."

Ernest looked around the crowded floor. "What are all these people doing here?"

"They are attempting to part with their money, Ernest," Arthur said happily. "We took thirty-four firm deposits this week alone. If I had another hundred chassis on the wagons from Belfast, I could clear the yard before Saturday night."

"The allocation remains two hundred," Ernest said automatically.

Arthur groaned, throwing his hands up. "I brought you here to show you the demand, not to hear that wretched number again!"

"Show me the workshop," Ernest replied.

Arthur sighed, but gestured toward the rear passage. "Right this way, your lordship. Prepare to be disappointed by how well it is run."

The workshop occupied what had once been a livery stable behind the main building. The smell of horse sweat and dry straw had been completely replaced by the sharp, clean odors of paraffin, hot engine oil, and wet paint.

Six Model Ones were parked over timber work bays.

Ernest’s eyes narrowed instantly, his instincts flaring. "Why are six cars off the road?"

"Calm down," Arthur said, catching his shoulder. "None of them are broken. That one on the left is getting fresh oil after its first five hundred kilometers. The blue one belongs to a magistrate who ran over a blacksmith’s iron rake and punctured both front tires. And those two on the right are having their drive chains adjusted."

The shop foreman—a steady, middle-aged mechanic named Davies whom Hollen had personally trained in the old forge—walked over, wiping grease from his calloused palms with a cotton rag.

"Afternoon, Baron," Davies said, touching his cap. "Lady Eleanor."

"How are the chassis holding up, Davies?" Ernest asked, stepping over an iron air line to inspect the underside of a car.

"Better than the roads, sir," Davies said with a faint grin. "The cobblestones rattle the wing nuts loose if the boys don’t peen the threads, but the engines are sound. Not a single burned bearing. We keep twenty sets of valves on that timber rack, forty spark plugs, and three barrels of cylinder oil. We turn most minor jobs out within four hours."

Ernest looked at the tidy bins of bolts, the neatly hung wrenches, and the rows of labeled parts boxes along the whitewashed brick wall.

Arthur watched him, a smug expression spreading across his face. "Well? Is the service department sufficient to satisfy the great engineer’s conscience?"

Ernest stood up straight, brushing a speck of sawdust from his trousers. "The parts racks are too close to the oil drums. It’s a fire hazard. Move them six feet to the north wall."

Davies blinked, then nodded quickly. "Right away, sir."

Arthur stared at Ernest in utter disbelief. "That is your only remark? A fire hazard?"

"A fire burns the cars, Arthur," Ernest said mildly. "It seems an appropriate observation."

Before Arthur could mount a defense, a loud commotion broke out in the front courtyard.

A sharp, ringing bell sounded—not the polite chime of a bicycle, but the heavy, urgent clang of a brass foot-gong.

Ernest, Eleanor, and Arthur walked to the stable doors to look outside.

A Model One was turning into the brick yard at a brisk clip. It looked entirely different from the private carriages in the square. The body was painted a deep, utilitarian maroon with the royal crest stamped in yellow paint on the side panels. Heavy iron luggage racks were bolted above the rear fenders, piled high with leather mail pouches, and two uniformed men sat on the front seat wearing the peaked caps of the Crown Post.

The driver pulled the handbrake with a confident snap, bringing the machine to a halt right before the workshop doors.

The mail guard hopped down, grinning at the assembled staff. "Twelve minutes from the South Gate terminal, Mr. Davies! The morning dispatch was sorted before the railway clerk had even finished his tea!"

Arthur stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with pride. "The Post Office contract, Ernest. They’ve been testing that unit for a week on the express packet routes. The Postmaster General told me yesterday they want sixteen more by the spring."

Eleanor leaned close to Ernest’s shoulder, watching the postal clerks unstrap the mail pouches. "That is the third time today I have seen your machines doing real work, my darling."

"It’s practical work," Ernest said softly, watching the men lift the heavy leather bags down. "That’s what matters."

Arthur pulled a folded document from his breast pocket and held it out toward Ernest. "Speaking of real work... this arrived by royal courier two hours before your train pulled into the station."

Ernest took the thick, cream-colored parchment. It was sealed with a heavy round disc of red wax bearing the crest of the Royal Household.

He broke the wax with his thumb and unfolded the single sheet.

The script was penned in formal, courtly hand:

To Baron Ernest Teucher, Chairman of the Teucher Motor Carriage Company.

By direction of the Lord Chamberlain, you are requested to attend upon the Master of the Horse at the Royal Mews Palace, tomorrow morning at the tenth hour. You are instructed to present an example of your four-passenger road carriage for mechanical inspection and operational demonstration before the officers of the Household.

Ernest read the lines twice, his face expressionless.

Arthur leaned in close, his voice dropping to a tense, excited whisper. "Do you understand what this means? If the Palace orders a fleet of carriages for the court, every lord from here to the southern coast will have to own one just to keep up with the Crown. It’s a complete royal endorsement."

"It is an inspection, Arthur," Ernest corrected, folding the parchment carefully along its creases. "Not an order."

"They don’t summon people to the Royal Mews for a casual chat, Ernest!"

"They want to see if the machine works," Ernest said calmly. "And that is all we are going to show them."

Arthur’s eyes widened with immediate suspicion. "What do you mean by that? What car are you taking?"

"Chassis Forty-Two," Ernest said, nodding toward the clean green carriage parked in the corner bay.

"Forty-Two? That’s a standard production model!" Arthur protested. "We should take Harcourt’s blue carriage! Or paint one white with silver lamps! We should put velvet cushions on the tonneau!"

"The palace does not need another gilded toy, Arthur," Ernest said firmly, his tone brook no argument. "The King already possesses thirty ceremonial landaus covered in gold leaf. If they want to evaluate a Teucher motorcar, they will evaluate the exact machine an ordinary provincial merchant buys from our catalog. Dark green paint. Black leather. Standard hickory wheels."

Arthur looked ready to tear his hair out. He turned to Eleanor in desperate appeal. "Lady Eleanor, please. Tell your husband that one does not present a common work-cart to the royal family!"

Eleanor looked at Arthur, then turned her clear gray eyes toward her husband. A small, proud smile curved her lips.

"My husband is entirely right, Arthur," Eleanor said smoothly. "If the King wishes to buy gold leaf, he can hire a gilder. If he wishes to travel forty miles without an iron axle breaking, he will buy a Teucher."

Arthur groaned, throwing his hands to the sky. "I am surrounded by idealists. May heaven protect our quarterly dividends."

Ernest looked down at the parchment in his hand, then turned toward the workshop bay where Chassis Forty-Two sat quietly under the skylight.

"Davies," Ernest called out.

The foreman stepped forward. "Sir?"

"Check the spark gaps on Forty-Two. Drain the carburetor sediment bowl, verify twenty-eight pounds of pressure in all four tires, and grease the steering knuckles."

"Will you be driving her yourself, Baron?" Davies asked.

Ernest looked at his wife, catching the quiet, steady confidence in her eyes.

"Yes," Ernest said, slipping the royal letter into his coat pocket. "I’ll crank her myself."