Chapter 301: Can We Afford One?

Ernest had not intended to visit another dealership.

Eleanor knew this because Ernest had said so three times during their walk through the city center.

"We already saw one this morning," he said.

"Yes, we did."

"We have the complete sales reports waiting back at the hotel."

"Yes, we do."

"I don’t need to visit another."

"Of course not."

They continued walking down the cobbled street. The capital was alive with midday movement. Trams clattered along their metal rails, draft horses pulled heavy wagons, and pedestrians hurried between brick shopfronts.

Then Ernest stopped.

Across the street stood a handsome, two-story brick building with enormous plate glass windows. Natural light flooded the polished floor inside, reflecting off the deep enamel of four shiny automobiles.

A painted sign hung proudly above the wide entrance:

WILSON MOTOR COMPANY

AUTHORIZED TEUCHER MOTORCAR DEALER

Beside the double glass doors, a freshly painted chalkboard displayed prominent white lettering:

NEW MODEL ONE — FROM 75,000 RIELS

PAYMENT PLANS AVAILABLE

Ernest stared at the second line.

Eleanor paused beside him and folded her gloved hands. She waited a few seconds before speaking.

"You’re going inside."

"No," Ernest said, keeping his eyes fixed on the showroom.

"Ernest."

"I’m only looking."

"From inside the building?"

He considered her question with serious engineering gravity. "That would provide significantly better visibility."

Eleanor smiled. "Naturally."

They crossed the street. Inside, the air smelled faintly of fresh floor wax, vulcanized rubber, and hot machine oil. The showroom floor was busy. It was not uncomfortably crowded, but every one of the three salesmen was actively engaged with prospective buyers.

That caught Ernest’s interest right away.

Nearest to the front window sat a brand-new Model One. It was finished in deep dark blue, fitted with the standard four-passenger open tourer body, a folded canvas weather hood, and polished brass headlamps. It was clean, functional, and devoid of unnecessary luxury.

A second car stood nearby, stripped down to reveal the chassis, suspension springs, and drivetrain. Customers could lean over and see the steel frame and mechanical linkages firsthand. The third vehicle showcased optional equipment: leather side-curtains, an upgraded horn, and luggage racks.

The fourth automobile was what truly caught Ernest’s attention.

It was parked near the rear corner. A printed card rested against its windscreen:

PRE-OWNED

18 MONTHS IN SERVICE

4,870 MILES

INSPECTED & SERVICED

49,000 RIELS

Ernest stopped in front of it. "Forty-nine thousand riels."

Eleanor stepped up to his shoulder. "That is considerably less than seventy-five thousand."

"Twenty-six thousand riels less," Ernest said quietly. "That’s nearly three silver coins’ difference."

He walked a slow circle around the machine. The dark green paint had lost some of its showroom gloss. The brown leather seats showed creasing along the outer cushions. One brass headlamp was visibly newer and brighter than the other, suggesting a minor bump had cracked the original lens. The tires were not factory-fitted rubber either; they were replacement treads from an independent supplier.

Yet underneath those superficial blemishes, the car looked mechanically sound. The leaf springs were straight, the oil sump showed no fresh leaks, and the control rods moved smoothly without excessive slack.

A young salesman in a crisp vest and collar approached with a warm smile. "Good afternoon, sir, ma’am. Would you like to inspect the—"

The young man stopped mid-sentence. His eyes drifted to Ernest’s face, flicked down to his coat, and widened into twin circles of utter shock.

Ernest sighed inwardly.

"Baron Teucher," the salesman gasped.

Two nearby customers abruptly paused their conversation and glanced over.

"Please don’t announce it," Ernest whispered.

"I—yes, sir! My apologies, My Lord!" the salesman blurted, even louder than before.

"You are still doing it."

"Sorry, sir!"

Eleanor raised a gloved hand to hide her amusement.

Before the young clerk could cause an even bigger scene, the dealership manager emerged from the back office. He arrived in roughly eleven seconds flat, wiping his hands on a cloth before straightening his jacket.

His name was Robert Wilson. He was forty-seven years old, broad-shouldered, with silvering hair and calm, observant eyes. According to the regional dealership records Ernest had skimmed earlier that week, Wilson had run a thriving carriage dealership in Helmarte for twenty-six years before converting his premises into an automobile showroom.

"You sold horse carriages for over two decades, Mr. Wilson?" Ernest asked, skipping formal pleasantries.

"Twenty-six years, Lord Teucher," Wilson replied politely. "My family built carriages for three generations."

"And now?" Ernest gestured to the shiny motorcars around them.

"Now I sell internal combustion engines," Wilson said with a faint chuckle.

"You don’t sound bitter about the transition."

"Not in the slightest," Wilson smiled. "My father is furious about it, mind you. But the world doesn’t wait for old carriage makers to change their minds."

Ernest nodded in quiet approval.

"Would you prefer to sit in my private office, My Lord?" Wilson offered, lowering his voice. "We have tea and complete regional books available."

"No, thank you," Ernest said. "I would rather look around the floor."

"At the vehicles?"

"At the customers."

Wilson blinked. "The customers?"

"Yes," Eleanor explained helpfully. "He wants to see who is actually buying them, and who is walking away."

Wilson gave a slow, understanding nod. "Your presence will make my sales staff dreadfully nervous, My Lord."

"They shouldn’t alter their behavior simply because I am standing here," Ernest said.

"Telling them that will make them twice as anxious," Wilson murmured dryly, though he stepped aside without objection.

Ernest stepped toward the carpeted center aisle. He made no effort to look like an inspector or an aristocrat. He simply wanted to listen.

There were three separate families examining vehicles in the room. None of them wore silk or carried gold-topped walking sticks. They looked comfortable and respectable, but they clearly had to budget every silver coin.

These were not wealthy nobles tossing gold into a hobby. They were regular working citizens trying to decide if an automobile belonged in their daily lives.

The first family had gathered around the new, 75,000-riel Model One.

Their name was Harrison. Edward Harrison was a senior clerk at a local shipping merchant’s office. His wife, Margaret, managed their home and household budget. Standing beside them were their two children: an eleven-year-old boy in a neat wool cap and an eight-year-old girl clutching her mother’s skirt.

The children had already made up their minds. Their eyes were wide, and they bounced on their heels every time the salesman pointed out a feature.

The parents, however, were locked in a quiet debate.

"We can afford it, Margaret," Edward murmured, pointing to the price sheet. "Our savings cover the down payment."

Margaret looked directly into her husband’s eyes. "We can purchase it, Edward."

"That is what afford means."

"No," Margaret said firmly. "That is what purchase means. Affording something means buying it and still being able to feed our family, replace the children’s shoes, and pay our rent when winter arrives."

Ernest, standing a few paces away, nearly smiled.

Eleanor nudged his elbow. "She is entirely correct."

"I know," Ernest whispered back. "She has better financial sense than half the accountants at the ministry."

Edward had noticed them listening, so Ernest immediately pivoted and began inspecting a front leaf spring with intense, theatrical concentration.

On the counter, the salesman had laid out the terms. The standard four-passenger car cost 75,000 riels. The Harrison family had accumulated 24,000 riels in savings over four long years. Under the new dealership financing plan, they could put down 20,000 riels immediately, borrowing the remaining 55,000 riels through a partnered local bank, to be repaid in monthly installments of 2,500 riels over two years.

Edward was focused entirely on that single figure: 2,500 riels a month. On his clerk’s salary of roughly 14,000 riels, it felt manageable.

Margaret, however, was calculating everything that lived in the margins around that number.

"How much fuel does it burn on an ordinary journey?" she asked the salesman.

The young clerk checked his manual. "On flat roads, roughly one gallon of refined fuel every twenty-five to thirty miles, ma’am. Fuel currently sells at forty riels per gallon at city depots."

"And lubricating oil?"

"A minor top-up every few hundred miles, ma’am."

"And the tires?" Margaret pressed, her voice sharp and practical. "How long do these rubber wheels last before the rubber tears?"

The salesman shifted uncomfortably. "That depends considerably on road conditions, speed, and driver habits, ma’am."

"That isn’t an answer," Margaret said flatly. "Do they last six months? A year? Two years?"

Ernest could not help himself. He stepped slightly closer. "On unpaved regional roads, expect replacement treads every two thousand miles. On paved cobblestone, you may reach three thousand, provided pressure is maintained daily."

The salesman looked horrified at the intrusion, while Edward looked over in surprise.

"Do you own one, sir?" Edward asked.

Eleanor cleared her throat, looking up at the ceiling to hide her grin.

"Yes," Ernest replied honestly. "I drive one regularly."

"Would you recommend it to a family like ours?"

Ernest considered the question carefully. As an industrialist, his goal was to sell every car that left his factories. But as an engineer who remembered what poverty felt like, he could not bring himself to lie.

"That depends on why you are buying it," Ernest said. "It is not a magical money-saving device. If you neglect maintenance, costs multiply rapidly. Fasteners rattle loose. Valve seats collect carbon. Poor fuel fouls the ignition plugs. Brake linings wear thin, and driving on a flat tire ruins the steel rim instantly."

The salesman looked like he wanted to crawl beneath the chassis and die.

Edward looked stunned. "You aren’t very good at promoting these, are you?"

Eleanor let out a soft laugh. "He really isn’t."

Margaret, however, looked at Ernest with newfound respect. "I appreciate an honest man. Most shopkeepers talk as if these machines run on air and good intentions."

She paused, studying Ernest’s face in the bright showroom light. Her gaze lingered on his sharp features, his dark hair, and the quiet authority in his posture.

Her breath caught. "Wait. You’re... you’re Baron Teucher."

Edward froze. He looked from his wife to Ernest, and his spine snapped straight as an iron rod. "Good heavens. My Lord."

The eleven-year-old boy gasped, clutching his father’s coat. "You invented the motorcar?"

Ernest hesitated. In this world, his name was on the patent. But in truth, he had merely transported decades of earthbound engineering progress into a kingdom that was still burning wood and tallow.

"No," Ernest said softly. "Men far cleverer than me conceived the principles long ago. I simply built this particular one."

The boy looked slightly confused by the distinction, but Margaret didn’t lose her focus. She looked down at their handwritten budget notebook, then back at Ernest.

"Lord Teucher... if this were your family, and this was your savings, would you buy it?"

The entire corner of the showroom fell quiet. Even the salesman held his breath.

Ernest looked at their notebook. "Tell me about your travel."

Edward spoke up quickly. "I take the city horse tram to the shipping docks every morning. A return fare is four riels daily. But twice every month, we travel out to Margaret’s parents’ farm in Oakridge, about twenty-two miles beyond the southern city gates. We must hire a four-horse carriage for the weekend. That costs eighty riels each trip, plus tips for the driver. When the weather turns foul, the hiring stables double their rates."

Ernest did the mental arithmetic. Between daily tram fares, weekend carriage hires, and occasional market transport, the Harrisons spent roughly 2,800 riels a year on mobility.

A Model One would cost them 2,500 riels every month in financing alone, not counting fuel, oil, storage fees, or replacement tires.

"It will not save you money," Ernest said gently. "In fact, it will consume nearly a third of your discretionary household income for the next two years."

Edward’s shoulders slumped. The children looked crushed.

"Then why does anyone buy them?" Margaret asked quietly.

"Convenience and freedom," Ernest explained. "You do not need to wait for a hiring stable to have an available carriage. You can leave for your parents’ home at five in the morning or midnight. You can stay an extra day without paying stable penalties. You can transport heavy market bags directly to your doorstep. But if you are purchasing this vehicle hoping it will trim your monthly household ledger..."

He shook his head honestly. "It will not. Not at today’s prices."

Margaret let out a long breath. She touched her husband’s arm. "We wait another year, Edward. We build the savings until we can pay without borrowing."

Edward swallowed his disappointment and nodded. "Yes. That is sensible."

Their young son tugged at his mother’s sleeve. "Can’t we just get a smaller one?"

Ernest crouched down slightly so he was at eye level with the boy. "I am working on making them cheaper. Give me some time, all right?"

The boy stared at him with wide, serious eyes, then gave a firm nod. "All right. But make it fast, please."

Edward quickly pulled his son back, mortified, but Ernest only smiled as the family said their polite goodbyes and exited the glass doors.

Ernest watched them blend back into the bustling street. A dealership was not merely an engine of commerce. It was a crucible where ordinary households wrestled with the reality of progress.