The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 5

The next day of importance for Edmund Moulde is well known to all students of Sir Edmund’s life: the 23rd of March, 1881.

This day was, in fact, only two days after his journey to Tendous Grange and five days before Matron’s wake. It is a notable day primarily because of three singular events which occurred.¹

The first event was that Edmund woke up from a fitful and restless sleep to find the paper he had placed under his hand during the night had been written on.

The fact that he had written in his sleep had been surprising and delightful enough. It had been almost a month since he had returned from the War, and Edmund had begun to worry that he would never write in his sleep again; that he would be forever more alone with his waking thoughts. His relief was subdued by the second realization that came from reading the scribbled words; Edmund was about to be married.

Whether it was this awareness that galvanized Edmund into action is unclear, and is secondary to the second notable event of the day, which occurred after breakfast: Mr. Shobbinton arrived with the promised assessment of the Moulde’s financial situation.

Of course, he also arrived with a fresh batch of legal documents that required Edmund’s signature.

“What is this?” Edmund held up a paper.

“A bit of legal hand-waving,” Mr. Shobbinton grimaced. “This ensures you will not have to re-establish your legitimacy as Patron of the Moulde Family if you ever happen to travel outside the city limits.”

“I need to supply a sample of blood?” he read.

“A single drop, here,” Mr. Shobbinton pointed. “More for show than any practical reason; to ensure the signature has come from a living, bleeding, person.”

“It could be anybody’s blood,” Edmund noted.

“Ah, I see you are indeed starting to think like a Moulde, Patron.”

“This is a draft contract for a future trade agreement with a family I’ve never heard of.”

“It is possible they may be moving to Brackenburg. It is efficient to have a contract ready.”

“This is a witness statement saying I was never near the events that occurred on a date that has yet to be filled in.”

“No solicitor worth his salary wouldn’t have several such statements on file.”

“And this? This is a shopping list.”

“Required supplies for upkeep on the orchard in North Rottingham.”

Edmund felt the thick paper between his fingers. “Surely, that’s a managerial issue, not a legal one.”

“I think you will find, Patron, that in the matters of the Founding Families, all managerial issues are legal ones.”

Edmund signed the rest of the papers in silence. When he had finished, Mr. Shobbinton began his presentation.

“First,” the man cleaned his monocle with a small cloth, “I must impress upon you the fact that there are a great deal of potentialities when it comes to the Moulde’s holdings. There are any number of intricacies that mean it might be perfectly accurate for me to tell you that a holding, asset, or liability is, in fact, owned by the Mouldes, while at the same time holding no legal claim.”

Edmund was familiar with such absurdities. He had been both to school and to war. “Let us start with holdings. What does the Moulde family actually have claim to?”

Mr. Shobbinton pointed to several pages in front of him. “There is a currently an inoperative factory in the Farrows district, one hospital in Brackenburg, and partial shares in a wide variety of local businesses, including a music hall, a tannery, two mining organizations which have not operated for some fifty years, a —”

“Assets?”

Mr. Shobbinton coughed. “Largely your own inventions which have been leased out to private companies and organizations. Your pens have largely been discontinued, while the design for a ‘dry-battery’ is currently leased to multiple industries across Brackenburg.”

“Liabilities?”

Mr. Shobbinton opened his mouth, and then closed it. Swallowing hard, he tried again. “The Moulde Family is currently in debt to multiple organizations, families, and businesses…to the measure of over a million pounds.”

Edmund stared until Mr. Shobbinton continued. “Matron had very little personal wealth, barely enough liquid capital to maintain Moulde Hall itself. In addition, the leasing of your inventions has done little more than reduce the interest on a few ancient debts created from your fore-bearers.”

Edmund closed his eyes. The next few steps of his plan had to be taken very carefully.

“Our net worth?”

He had not stepped carefully enough for Mr. Shobbinton; he bristled at the phrase. “Patron Moulde, I must insist you use more precise language in your discourse. The net worth of the Moulde family has little connection to their financial holdings. If you are asking about the numerical value of the family assets less liabilities, please say so.”

“How much money does the Moulde Family actually posess?”

“I’m afraid that ‘money’ has yet to become a point of significance for the Founding Families. I think you will find the concept best left delegated to the working class.”

“Are we broke?”

“That word is not a legal term. Nor is it useful for the landed-gentry. Consider in terms of capital, that the Moulde Family still owns this building, several portions of land, and the honors and titles due to all Mouldes. While the family is certainly in deep financial debt, to say that the family is ‘broke’ — that is, void of all capital — is quite wrong.”

Edmund nodded. Just as he had feared.

He was about to discuss the matter further, when the third significant event occurred:

“Patron?”

Edmund looked up. Enga was standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

“There is someone at the front door, requesting an audience. They refuse to enter until you see them.”

Edmund glanced at Enga’s hands. They were empty of silver trays, there was no card of introduction. “Who is it?”

“The gentleman in question requested I not name him, sir, I believe on the off chance you wished to send him away without seeing him.”

“Father Bromard?” Edmund guessed.

“The gentleman is most certainly not a man of the Church,” Enga said.

---

“Salutations!” The thin man waved a cheerful hand from the doorway as Edmund descended the Foyer stairs. “It is quite a marvelously magnificent moment that brings us back together again!”

“Cousin Kolb?” Edmund blinked as he crossed the stone floor towards his cousin. “Why are you standing outside?”

“Ah, well,” Kolb shifted the bag on his shoulders in an unusual display of embarrassment. “I admit to a cautious character, of late. Fate has flung foul fortune at my feet for some fortnights, and I find much wisdom now in waiting for welcome before wandering into another’s home. Especially if said home might…not be welcoming.”

“You are welcome,” Edmund said, after deciding there was no harm in it.

Kolb smiled as he stepped through the door, his gait shorter and more halting than Edmund had ever seen it. The Kolb of Edmund’s youth would have spun in a circle, his hands embracing the air in a passionate dance. He would have tossed his bag to the waiting arms of Enga, and produced an orange out of thin air. He would have never stopped talking.

This Kolb was older, thinner, and barely moved at all. His gloved hands remained clasped over the strap of his bag, as if he was afraid it might leap from his shoulder and flee. His eyes covered the room out of nerves instead of curiosity. Scars covered his face, and his smile was forced, a mask covering scars deeper than his skin.

“I see the war did you well,” Kolb looked Edmund up and down. “I heard you resigned? A pity, I thought the Lieutenant’s pips suited you.”

“I did my duty,” Edmund said, covering all manner of sins and schemes. “Would you like a drink? Something to eat?”

“Yes,” Kolb said, his eyes firmly planted on Edmund’s. “Yes, I would like a drink.”

By the time Kolb had a glass of gin in his hand and was seated on a long couch in the ground-floor game room, he had relaxed, somewhat; though his left hand still gripped the bag strap slung over his shoulder.

“Sto lat,” Kolb said, drinking deeply.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a toast,” Kolb said when he surfaced. “I heard it from one of my troop-mates in the trenches. Good Polish lad, not much older than you at the time.”

“What does it mean?”

“Literally?” Kolb’s grin was cruel. ‘One hundred years.’ It’s supposed to be a blessing for long life. I can’t think of a worse curse, can you?"

Edmund finished pouring his own drink — a true gentleman never lets a guest drink alone — and sat opposite Kolb in a tall-backed chair. “Probably,” he admitted. “If I thought hard enough.”

“Ha!” Kolb’s barked laugh echoed in the room. “You are same as you ever were, Master Edmund. Same as you ever were.” His smile faded quickly. “But things change, don’t they? They change quite fast, and quite forcefully.” The toyed with his glass, staring through the crystal clear gin.

“What can I do for you?” Edmund asked after he was quite certain Kolb was not about to speak again without prompting.

Kolb looked up, a flash of panic reverting to a business-like calm. “Ah. Yes. I’m afraid that, while it would be wonderful to wile away the while with your winsome self, I’m afraid I must insist that I speak with Matron. I am sympathetic to her instinct to send you instead. Not feeling well, I assume? Or perhaps to prepare you for the job when you become Patron? No matter. This is important business, and I must monologue a minute with our mutual matriarch of Moulde Hall.”

Edmund took a drink himself. “I’m afraid Matron died almost a month ago,” he said, with as steady a voice as he could muster.

For a moment, Edmund wondered if he had been too quiet, as Kolb gave no indication of having heard him. He considered repeating himself, when Kolb leaned his head back and smiled a sincere smile.

“Of course she did,” he chuckled. “It couldn’t have happened any other way, could it?”

“I don’t know,” Edmund said. He had spent many hours asking that very question, and had come no closer to an answer.

“Very well, then,” Kolb pushed himself forward, shifting to face Edmund full on. “My business is with you, then…Patron. I am tired, and find myself in financial fortune well enough to retire. From treasure hunting, exploring, all of it. No more expeditions across Europe, no more theatrics in the music-halls. All I need now, is…a residence. A place to stay. A home from which I can wile away my waning years in quiet contemplation.”

“You want Moulde Hall to be that home?”

“I can think of no better place,” Kolb’s eyes grew distant. “So many rooms, so many hallways; you will never see me, hear me, or speak with me unless you wish it. And while I do believe many of our kin would think my retirement cause for celebration enough, do not think I am unwilling to pay my way…”

Kolb shrugged again, slipping the bag off of his shoulder, and setting it on the ground. With his right arm, Edmund noticed. He hasn’t used his left arm at all, and he still hasn’t removed his gloves.

“The world has changed, so here, my pragmatic Patron, is the profitable proposition I present.” With a familiarly extravagant flourish, Kolb opened his bag, revealing a dull yellow glint from its depths. “Gold from Spain, of finest quality, both of metal and manufacture. All for you, yours, the Moulde Family. Take what you will, give the rest away, do what you like, only let me reside in your gargantuan mansion.”

Edmund reached in and pulled a goblet free from the pile. “Where did you get all this?”

“Spain,” Kolb repeated. “Some other places too, I believe. We were at war, remember, and a good length of time passed since you saw me in the Harmingsdown Hospital. The Spanish had taken…a lot from me. It was only fitting I returned the favor. Justice of a sort; the only kind you ever find in war.”

Edmund replaced the goblet and pulled out a small stack of ornate corner-plates. Exactly the kind that framed holy-books and pulpits. So much gold! A quick estimation of cubic meters, weight, and current gold prices flashed through Edmund’s mind.

When he had finished, he set down the plates with care. “Would you please roll up your sleeve?”

Kolb balked a moment before leaning back with a rueful grin. “A sharp eye, my Patron. Yes, this was one of the things they took, but I managed to find quite an eloquent replacement.”

Edmund stared as Kolb pulled off his glove and rolled back his left sleeve. His arm — or what had once been his arm — was now a tightly constructed mass of steel and rubber. Every piece was re-constructed. From the wrist — a fully articulated ball joint pushed and pulled through tiny pistons along the back of the hand — down to the bicep — a cluster of rubber tubing that pulsed gently with the filling and emptying of some unseen fluid. Every muscle was a lever, every tendon was a strap; it was a marvelous display of technological and medical engineering.

Perhaps most surprising to Edmund was the size; he had seen artificial limbs before, mostly in the Amputee Ward in the Moulde’s Hospital. They were large and unwieldy things — all brass and gears and steam — and they tended to injure as many people as they helped. This was so much more compact. Elegant. Almost delicate.

“I don’t use it much,” Kolb muttered. “It tends to stick in damp weather, and it is quite costly to fuel…”

“Where did you get it?” Edmund asked. He would have to speak with the inventor and share notes.

“I’m afraid I was quite incapacitated at the time. I was mollified with a marvelous medicinal mixture of morphine. Soldiers take care of their own, thankfully, and I was able to…persuade a few engineers to make modifications. I will say, there is nothing like the fear of death to stimulate the inventive juices.”

Edmund nodded. Survival was the mother of invention, as they said. “You can stay at Moulde Hall as long as you like, if in addition to the gold you will let me study your arm.” He didn’t wait for Kolb’s nod before he stood and rang for his butler.

Enga opened the door almost instantly. “Patron?”

“This is Master Kolberman Popomus. He is my cousin-in-law, and will be staying at Moulde Hall for the foreseeable future. He should be afforded every courtesy while he is here, and provided every luxury. Understood?”

“Perfectly, Patron,” Enga bowed again. “I shall prepare a room immediately.”

“Please take this bag, and place it in the third-floor eastern storage room.”

Enga bowed again before taking the large bag of gold from the floor where it lay and stepping out of the room.

Kolb stood up to refill his glass. “Patron. Patron Edmund Moulde…” he shook his head as he paused with gin-bottle in hand. “Can you believe I once fought you? I did. You may not have noticed. I struggled quite hard to prevent you from ever becoming Patron when you were younger…or at least without me getting a share of the estate when you did…Ha!” He downed his drink in a single swallow. “Then I thought I could get in your good graces, much like I had tried with Matron…help you at Grimm’s…”

“And now?”

“Now?” Kolb blinked as he poured a third glass. “Now, I look back at myself and shake my head in shame. Why did I bother? It makes no difference. Why be a noble when you’ll some day be forgotten? Why be a hero when it’ll end in death? Why horde gold and fame and power when all it does is feed an ever-starving beast?” Kolb paused, and drank again. “Why bother?” He wandered back to his seat and sat heavily on the plush cushions.

Edmund had several answers to the question, but he opted instead to focus on more pressing matters. “Enga will show you to your room when it is ready. If you require dinner, Mrs. Kippling will provide, but I must leave you now to attend to prior business.”

“Oh?” Kolb grinned as his eyelids sagged. “I’m offended. Some criminal, I hope? Scouring the squalid sluices of society, to scavenge something to salvage your stratagems?”

“Mr. Shobbinton is visiting to discuss several legal situations.”

“Ah,” Kolbs eyes shut. “I was right.”

---

Edmund thought he had pushed the study doors with the exact amount of force necessary for an entrance, but they opened with such force that Mr. Shobbinton jolted upright in shock. Edmund considered trying again, but he was in a hurry; “Mr. Shobbinton, we must discuss a windfall of fortune.”

“We must?” the solicitor replaced his monocle and straightened his shirt.

“What is your professional opinion of South Dunkin?”

“May I ask why you are interested in the subject?”

“No,” Edmund answered. “Tell me about South Dunkin.”

“I am not a tour-guide, Patron. I’m afraid my knowledge is limited to purely the legal precedents, and the most basic geographical information.”

“That will do for a start. Proceed.”

Mr. Shobbinton cleared his throat. “South Dunkin is a district on the out-skirts of south-east Brackenburg. It is situated in such a position as to be both “of” and “not-of” Brackenburg proper; there is some discussion among the legal community as to whether South Dunkin actually is a district of Brackenburg or a town in its own right.” He scoffed. “However, the concept of Phagourbanization has a large body of legal precedent, which makes the answer obvious for any who have bothered to read the proper literature.”

“It’s a suburb?” Edmund prompted.

Mr. Shobbinton grimaced. “I am not particularly fond of the term, but yes, that is the modern ‘slang.’” Edmund was impressed; it was not everyone who could say “slang” like the word itself was no more than trendy shorthand.

“If I were to purchase some land in South Dunkin, what would you say?”

Mr. Shobbinton’s mouth gaped, and then closed again. “I would be forced to remind you that you had asked me here to give you a clear view of the family’s finances, a view which suggests such a purchase would be…unwise.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Mr. Shobbinton gently removed his monocle with the tired air of a parent speaking to a child. “South Dunkin is a…humble town. There are a great number of laborers, farmers, and similar rustic types. As such, South Dunkin has resisted any significant incursion of moneyed interests. Purchasing land may be quite difficult for one of your stature and prominence; North Dunkin is far more receptive to those of a certain status.”

Edmund nodded. “I thought you might have said because we didn’t have enough money.”

“As I believe I said before you left, money is primarily the purview of the working class. If you desire a purchase be made, there are many countless methods available. However,” Mr. Shobbinton sniffed, “such a purchase would require a great deal of time and liquid capital, neither of which are at a surplus at the moment, to say nothing of the extensive legal proceedings with the Mayor’s office.”

“I see,” Edmund leaned over the desk, pressing his hands down like supports on a trebuchet. “A collection of approximately three stone of gold has just made it into my possession.”

“A gift?” Mr. Shobbinton asked, struggling to keep up.

“Of a sort. Yes.”

“As a gift, you are free to do as you like with it, accepting any social or political ramifications.”

“What about financially?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Edmund sat down, and put his head in his hands. How could he explain without poetry? He could feel the world changing, but he couldn’t put it into words that Mr. Shobbinton would be able to grasp.

Doctor Hamfish had asked for money.

Edmund looked up. “I would like to reduce the Moulde Family’s liabilities.”

“Ah,” Mr. Shobbinton coughed, adjusting his bowler hat. “Then you wish to pay off your debtors…I’m afraid that…this is an uncommon request from the peerage, such as yourself. I will have to explore the legal —”

“Do so,” Edmund asked. “Find out how much of our debt three stone of gold will pay off at current prices, and how much money will have left.”

“I’m no metallurgist, Patron,” Mr. Shobbinton sniffed. “I am a solicitor. While I will be able to handle any legal issues surrounding the liquidation of your…gold into cash, I will be unable to handle the…transactions themselves. It would hardly be proper.”

“Then hire someone who can,” Edmund waved his hand. “Quietly and quickly. Draw up the contract and I’ll sign it.”

“Very well,” Shobbinton made a note on his notepad. “I must caution you, however, that a rapid pay-off of debts may be seen by certain parties as isolationist. They may wonder why you do not wish to be beholden to your debtors anymore. They may suspect you are preparing something…dangerous.”

Edmund nodded. He was. Something very dangerous indeed, for both his family and Brackenburg.