The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 11
The next morning, Edmund sat in the large dining room for breakfast, a poorly cooked egg floating in weak broth. The stale bread that was a staple of Moulde Hall cuisine had been burnt on one side, and then — in a display of Mrs. Kippling’s insistence on getting it right — burnt slightly more on the other.
Even considering the blandness of the meal, Edmund didn’t taste a thing. He was too busy staring at the paper in his hand, too preoccupied with the implications of what he had written in his sleep to bother with simple things like flavor.
It was rare in Edmund’s life that there were no options. He was an educated man, both from university and from the War, and he had learned quite quickly that there were few situations in life that did not have at least three possible paths ahead. Edmund stared at the page he had written in his sleep. He had been very clear. This time, there were no options.
Scandal.
It was the eternal threat for any of the upper-class. To say that Kolb had spoken impolitely was true. To say that his destruction of another persons property — to wit; one glass door — was beyond the pale, was also true. To say that these two indiscretions were fixable was also true…or would have been, had Kolb not committed a far greater sin:
He had told the truth. There was only one solution for that.
Edmund glanced across the table to where Googoltha sat. Edmund had been shocked to see her there, sitting calmly when he entered the dining hall. True, he often-times forsook the dining hall to have breakfast in his room, but he had never seen her for breakfast.
“She’s been sitting here since dawn,” Mrs. Kippling had whispered as she served Edmund his meal. “Hasn’t touched her food.”
“Has she been eating well?” Edmund asked. “Dinners? Lunches?”
“Not-my-place,” Mrs. Kippling shrugged as the soft click of the far door echoed through the dining room, and a recently awoken Kolb arrived for breakfast.
The man had certainly made an effort; while his arm was still absent, he had managed to pull the empty sleeve of his shirt through the empty sleeve of his dress jacket and clipped the empty cuffs closed with silver cuff-links. There are some things a single arm cannot do, however, so he had opted for a wrinkled cravat in place of a tie. His good arm, having no partner, had no cufflinks on its sleeve. His laces were tied at odd angles to his feet, and his usually jocular gait was quite subdued for someone eager to give the air of a well-refreshed man.
Edmund watched as Kolb moved towards the table; one side of his body was armless but well dressed, the other of one piece but disheveled and misshapen. In his bifurcated state, he divulged both his passionate need to be healthy and whole again, and his ignorance of what that looked like. Could he have made it any clearer?
Mrs. Kippling bustled away to set a third place at the table. Edmund, for his part, simply watched as his disheveled cousin sat in his chair.
“Good morning, Patron!” He crowed, after a soft clearing of the throat. “Sleep well, I hope?”
Edmund didn’t answer; his notes had been very clear about this. Instead, he simply stared.
“And dear niece-in-law,” Kolb tried again. “I am…honored to…yes…I say, ahem.”
Kolb’s smile slowly faded as Googoltha’s slowly grew. Breaking off his diplomatic assault, Kolb directed his attention to the bowlful of egg-broth Mrs. Kippling had just ladled out. His one arm grabbed for the spoon, spinning across his fingers in a heavily practiced florish.
Edmund held his gaze for a carefully measured half-minute, and then looked back at his notes.
“As…” Kolb cleared his throat. “As Patron of our merry band of misfits, I must…I’m afraid I must apologize to you…/and/ your…charming fiancée…for my boorish behavior last night. It was unbecoming of a Moulde, much less a Popomus, and I am quite ashamed of myself.”
Edmund didn’t answer.
“I…of course, I will extend my apologies to the Brocklehursts. I have written a letter,” he set down his spoon and produced a slim envelope from his shirt pocket, “of great regret and formal apology. With your permission…I should like to send it on behalf of the Moulde Family.”
“You are not part of the Moulde Family,” Edmund said.
It was a cold answer, designed to threaten. From the look on Kolb’s face, Edmund could see that it had.
“I…understand why you say that. Indeed,” Kolb’s voice raised in pitch, “no true Moulde would ever behave as I did, and I aim to prove to you that —”
“I let you stay in this house,” Edmund interrupted, “eat my food, drink my wine, share my good fortune, and this is how you repay me?”
Kolb’s face flushed as he set the letter down. “Now, forgive my impertinence, Patron, but if I recall correctly, I paid for my food and drink with a large bag of gold. You have not done poorly by my staying here, and save for this admittedly inappropriate accident, I have repaid you quite handsomely already.”
“Is that so?” Edmund looked up from his notes. “And when word spreads that the new Patron Moulde has allowed a lout to remain in residence in these hallowed halls? When word of your behavior spreads, and people start to wonder if the Moulde Family is really as proper and noble as it purports to be? Will that also be repayment?”
“Don’t be a fool!” Kolb spat, leaning towards Edmund, his eyes flashing. “The Moulde Family was never as noble as it purported to be!” He took a quick breath. “Besides, the War has…changed things. Word may spread, yes, but it will be word of Patron Moulde taking pity on a…a wounded war-veteran. A noble soul doing his part to heal the wounded warriors who came home only…part of the men and women they used to be. Word will be of your nobility, not your foolishness.”
“Will it?” Edmund asked, pointedly.
Kolb licked his lips. “I’ll make sure of it.”
After a carefully measured minute of silence, Edmund gave a slow nod. “Very well. I am glad we understand each other.”
A sincere smile flashed across Kolb’s rough face. “We understand each other better than anyone else, I’ll warrant.”
Edmund leaned back in his chair, adopting an air of curiosity. “I never thought you would be willing to debase yourself so visibly. Are you sincerely willing to become a broken man in the eyes of the Moulde Family?”
“How will it hurt me more than I already have been?” Kolb shook his head as he picked up his own spoon, “I have lost interest in the Moulde Family. If you have anything I want, it is my absent appendage.” He paused a moment, resuming only when Edmund did not take the bait. “May I request my requisite reparations to reassure it’s return? It’s absence has been…problematic.” He tugged again at his empty sleeve.
“I want you to travel to South Dunkin for me,” Edmund said, swallowing the last of his soup and setting aside his spoon. “As my surrogate.”
“South Dunkin?” Kolb paused with his own spoon halfway back to his own bowl. “You’re joking.”
“I am not,” Edmund folded his hands into his lap. Now, Kolb, how far will you go? And how fast will you run?
Kolb’s mouth worked for a moment. “You are sending me away? Exiling me? I said I would apologize. Quite eloquently, in fact. Such an apology as would charm Lucifer himself back through the pearly gates.”
“It will be safer for both of us. I have a plan to restore the lost prestige of the Moulde Family, but I need everything to work perfectly for that to happen. In South Dunkin, as well.”
Kolb’s eyes narrowed a moment before he spoke again. “I’m not certain if you’ve heard,” he glanced theatrically around, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “but things are not going well in South Dunkin. Unrest is rising among the rural rogues and rascals across the country. The War took many of their young men and women, and gave little in return. Even before the war, there was little love lost between the low-born locals and the privileged peers with proud and prosperous pedigrees.”
“Nevertheless, I am building a new factory in South Dunkin to…manufacture one of my new inventions.”
“Ah…” Kolb smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Nevertheless. You do enjoy that word, Patron.”
Damnation. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, cease this simplistic stratagem,” Kolb winced as he waved a hand across his face. “I’m more a Moulde than you think. You’re planning something, Patron, and you want me to be an unwitting tool. Well, I refuse. I’m not a pawn-piece to be pushed across the board in a pitiful performance of purported pusillanimony. What are your schemes, Patron? Why do you really want me in South Dunkin?”
For neither the first nor the last time, Edmund felt a yearning to explain. He so desperately wanted to share his plans with someone. Matron was no longer an option, but Kolb? Could he understand?
The risk was too great. Edmund took a breath, collecting his words. “You said the war hurt South Dunkin? I think it’s time to give them something in return. Maybe, with a factory full of new jobs, steady wages, and the security of a future industry, they may be more…kindly disposed towards us.”
Kolb shook his head. “A fine concoction. Very commendable. Humbug and hornswaggle, but commendable. Now…the truth, if you please?”
Edmund glanced across the table. Googoltha had vanished. When had she left? Why had she gone? Where was she now? Had he known when he was eight that a fiancée would come with so many questions, he might have reconsidered the whole plan. “The truth is…if you are still ignorant it is because you are more use to me thus. If that is true, I would think long and hard about whether learning more is worth the risk of becoming less useful.”
Edmund watched as the thoughts whirled through Kolb’s mind, risk and reward vying for supremacy. Finally, the light in Kolb’s eyes dwindled to a flicker.
“Excellent,” Edmund gestured to Enga, and stood up from his seat as it was pulled away. “I will fetch your arm, and you can leave for South Dunkin after lunch, along with a few suggestions of how you could spend your time.” Spinning hard on his heel, he left his cousin sitting there, alone, to eat his meal in the peace and quiet of his own thoughts.
When the dining room was well behind him, Edmund exhaled. There. Another step in the plan taken.
The plan…Why was it so hard? Would it ever get easier? How hard had it been for Matron to set up the pieces and knock them down at the right time, in the right order, in the right manner…
Edmund noted with numb surprise that his hand had slipped once more into his pocket, to trace the lines of Matron’s letter. Perhaps she had written him advice, that would make his duty sit more comfortably on his shoulders.
Had it ever been difficult for her? Had she ever been filled with uncertainty and regret over what she had to do to save the Moulde Family from its worst excesses? She had faked her own death to rid the Moulde Family of her father, Patron Grunder. What had that felt like? When she had taken the carriage ride all the way from Haggard Hill to the orphanage on the outskirts of Brackenburg, had she been uncertain?
“Patron? The carriage is ready, at your leisure.”
Edmund turned to see Enga standing at his side. “Thank you, Enga. I will be down in a moment.”
A short moment, as it turned out. There was little purpose to wallowing in his confusion, and it wouldn’t do to keep a head of a Founding Family waiting.
The Broodains, while not the most powerful, noteworthy, or richest of the Nine Founding Families, were certainly the most terrifying. As with all things Founding Family, this was mostly due to tradition, as the Broodains cornered the transport industry early in Brackenburg’s formation, and as such became the one family that the other families could not afford to annoy. They were the heart of ancient Brackenburg, pumping the life-blood of coal in and out of the city, ensuring it could turn into gold.
The proudly and pompously named Broodain Highcastle, built on the western side of Brackenburg, was easily twice as tall as Moulde Hall though only half as wide. Spires and ramparts wound their way around a large stone keep, the tallest tower brushing the ubiquitous black clouds of Brackenburg.
The inside of the fortress was no less intimidating, with ornate wrought-iron sconces burning sickly flames and flickering shadows. The servants were dressed in deep blue, their eyes alternately filled with terror or empty of emotion. They moved like criminals, tip-toeing through the stone hallways lest someone punish them for disturbing the dust.
Edmund was ushered to a room that might have been an ancient dining hall. Edmund could easily imagine the long table surrounded by giant Norse warriors, eating and drinking their fill in front of the fireplace that was large enough to swallow three men side-by-side.
Now, the room was filled with a large rug with several chairs surrounding it. It reminded Edmund of the Tribunal room during the War. Each chair could seat a stern and judgmental peer, who would stare at the person standing in the center as they desperately tried to justify their actions.
“You’re the new Moulde?”
Edmund turned around to see the stern and judgmental face of a young girl.
“I am,” he said, reaching out his hand. “it is a pleasure to meet you, Matron.”
Matron Keterine Broodain stared at Edmund’s hand for a moment before heaving a put-upon sigh and placing her hand in his for the briefest moment before skipping away. Smoothing out her dress, she hopped into the nearest chair, her legs swinging freely. “You’re not as old as the other heads. I think that’s nice.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Edmund sat down across from her.
“I didn’t say you could sit down!” Keterine shouted.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I hate the other heads,” Keterine folded her arms and stuck out her lower lip. “You never do what I say, and I can’t do anything about it.”
Edmund studied the young girl as she frumped. No older than eight, perhaps even seven. As young as Edmund had been when he first became a Moulde.
But while Edmund had been an orphan for the first eight years of his life, Keterine had been a Broodain since she was born. She had been trained from birth to take up the mantle of Matron when she was called upon.
Edmund had heard about “being spoiled.” It had been the Brackenburg Mayor’s excuse for depriving the orphanage of money. For Edmund’s part, he had been curious and wanted to know exactly what being spoiled was like. Now, sitting across from Keterine, he wondered if he was better off. He could feel his stomach churn as he reminded himself that he needed this young Matron’s help.
“You could do many things about it,” Edmund said.
“I know,” Keterine’s eyes rolled in her head like dice. “I could behave better or pay attention to my lessons. Rajij says the same thing. It’s what he always says.”
“That is not what I meant,” Edmund shifted in his chair. It was not nearly as comfortable as it looked.
“I hate them!” Keterine screamed, slamming her tiny fist on the arm of her chair. “They’re taking everything that was ours! They’re thieves! And stealers! And…and I hate them!”
Edmund paused while the head of one of the nine richest and most powerful families in Brackenburg threw a tantrum. “Be that as it may,” he continued, once she had paused for a breath, “I know that Lady Doorson’s daughter has quite a sizable sum of capital available for investment. To say nothing of the Cromley’s current supply-chain weaknesses…If you wanted to, you could exert quite a large amount of leverage over the Founding Families.”
Keterine’s wailing stopped. Her eyes snapped to Edmund’s, the youthful impatience replaced with cunning calculation. “You just told me that?”
“Why not?” Edmund shrugged again. “Everyone knows it.” He paused a moment, and then realized his mistake. “I’m sorry, did you want me to pretend to be fooled by your ‘impetuous youth’ act?”
Keterine glared, the firelight burning in her eyes. “I’m not impetuous.”
“I know,” Edmund agreed. That was what he said.
Keterine scowled. “Rajij!”
In a moment, the door opened and a tall Indian gentleman stepped into the room. “Matron?” he asked, a faint hint of weariness leaking through his voice.
“Deal with this man!”
The Indian looked at Edmund, his dark eyes curious, but restrained. “Are we board with our lessons?” he asked. “Ready to let someone more capable handle your family’s affairs?”
“No!” Keterine drew herself up, hands on her hips. “I’m the Matron! You do what I say!”
“Very true, Matron,” Rajij gave a paternal nod. “And what is it, exactly you want me to do?”
Keterine’s face grew smug. “I’m delegating that to you, Rajij.”
“A fine use of the word, Matron,” Rajij sighed, “but a misplaced time, I fear. I would advise patience —”
“Ugh!”
“— and attentiveness.”
“You always say that!”
“A good ruler must always be patient and attentive. It is through these virtues that wisdom is gained.”
Keterine mouthed along with Rajij’s steady voice, flopping her head back and forth, punctuating the mockery with a stuck-out tongue. Rajij took no notice, and receded to the background of the dark room. Edmund was impressed. Or rather, disturbed. Perhaps both.
“Certainty” was not a word that Edmund used often. It was difficult to imagine a case where it applied to him, as he never needed to be certain of anything. Certainty was for people who didn’t know.
But he had been certain that Keterine had been taught by the best tutors the Broodains could acquire. He had been certain the family was being run by a shrewd and calculating Matron, as the other Founding Families were. Besides, it was too perfect a tableau. The petulant child, the wizened old adviser, the careless and angry spoiled behavior that told Edmund nothing, while still encouraging him to see Keterine as a hapless and foolish child…easily underestimatable. It was too good.
Now, another thought entered his mind. What if it wasn’t an act? What if he was dealing with a fool?
One thing he was certain of: the fact that he doubted meant he was going to have to be very careful in the near future.
“Fine!” Keterine huffed, after a long pause. “Can I make the servants bring you anything?”
“No thank you.”
“Of course,” Keterine spat. “You wouldn’t want any of our wine, would you? You’re too busy saying we don’t deserve it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, we heard all about your cousin,” a smile finally broke through Keterine’s sneering face. “Ranting and raving during his own Matron’s wake. Calling the nobility babies, and spoiled, and broken. He sounded like a radical!”
“Kolb was wounded in the War,” Edmund explained. “He has not yet recovered fully. He did apologize, quite eloquently, I thought.”
“Of course he was eloquent. He loves an audience. That’s right, isn’t it, Rajij?”
“Based on his…theatrical history, I thought it likely,” Rajij bowed from the corner.
“See? That’s what I said.” Keterine settled back into her seat, a satisfied grin on her face. “Fine. What do you want, then?”
“The purpose of these meetings is for us to…get to know one another,” Edmund began.
“I know that! Don’t you think I know that? You’re not my teacher, don’t treat me like I’m a child!”
“You are a child.”
“You’re just a nothing Patron from a nothing Family. You don’t even own any trucks!”
Edmund paused. “Trucks?”
Keterine’s eyes twinkled in the darkness. “Ha! Didn’t know we had them, did you? Huge automobiles that carry lots of things! They’re like train cars, but they go on roads, not tracks. Not so smart now, are you, Mister Moulde? Patron,” she corrected, after a sharp cough from Rajij.
Edmund knew all about trucks, but he had called them Automotive Haulers. He had no idea that other Families had started to aquire them as well. He was trying to do too much. He didn’t have enough time to do it all. Things were slipping through the cracks…
“How many trucks do you have?” he asked, his mind working furiously to make up for lost time.
“Wouldn’t you like to know? Well I won’t tell you. They’re ours, and you can’t buy them. You see Rajij?” She pouted again, “they just want to take what they think is theirs.”
Edmund looked from Keterine’s smug face to Rajij’s cold and calm gaze. He needed to be careful. “I would offer a fair price,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t believe the Mouldes deserve what we have, either.”
“Of course you don’t,” Keterine shrugged as she hopped out of her chair. “You’re Mouldes. You know what? I think I’m just going to ignore you. I don’t care what offer you send me, I’m not leasing anything to you. I don’t care. And I’m not going to invite you to any of my parties, and you won’t meet any of my friends. You’re not smart enough to be my friend. You can go now.”
“We did invite him for lunch, Matron,” Rajij interjected.
“I won’t!” Keterine stamped her foot. “I’ve already spent absolutely hours reading the letters the other Matrons and Patrons sent me, and I’m tired of it! I won’t spend another minute with a dumb old stuffy Patron from a dumb old stuffy family. I won’t!”
Rajij advanced towards the girl, but it was too late. She had begun to wail.
In an instant, servants rushed in with goblets of milk and bowls of pudding. A single foot-servant hurriedly ushered Edmund out of the room, down the long winding stairs, and out into the night once more, profusely apologizing all the way.
Once the door was shut behind him, Edmund allowed himself a moment to feel suitably intrigued. It had been a wonderful performance. Granted, there was no proof it was all a charade, but it had been so beautifully put together: A foolish child, a shrewd adviser, a clear request for Edmund to send her an offer…if it wasn’t a charade, it was everything Edmund could have dreamed of.
Would the other Founding Families fall for it? Of course not. Or if they did, they wouldn’t let their guards down. So why do it? Perhaps she was doing precisely the same thing Edmund was doing; performing to a different group of people entirely? After all, Lady Brocklehurst would have doubtlessly been fooled, as would any number of other hopefuls. Perhaps she recognized the same threats Edmund did, and was preparing herself and her family in the best way she knew how?
Edmund nodded appreciatively as he left Broodain Highcastle. In the future, perhaps even the near future, he would have to consider working with the Broodains quite carefully.
History does not know when Edmund started, only when he finished.
Some suggest it took weeks of constant work. Others are certain it all happened in one night. It is possible that Edmund began his experiments the day after he received his sample of bauxite from the mines below Haggard Hill. It is also possible that his schedule had been so full that he had no option but to start much later.
What is known for a fact is Edmund completed his experiments on the 29th day of May, 1881, not one week after Kolb had been sent away.
What is also known, is over the course of this experimentation, Patron Edmund Moulde changed the course of chemical and industrial history.
The art of scientific experimentation is a redundant one. Without the proper mindset, the dull and repetitive actions of testing, examining, and collating all the available data can become quite unbearable. The human mind craves discovery, and the simple truth is there are few things that can be discovered without hours upon days upon weeks of mind-numbing tedium.
All of this is to say, the proper mindset of a scientist is madness.
Not the babbling disjointed madness of syphilis or mercury, but a refined and tempered madness that makes it seem perfectly natural to deconstruct a composite mineral into twenty separate elements before carefully applying each to thirty separate solutions on the off chance that one of them might bubble in a novel manner. An insanity that encourages the scientist to repeat the last week of unsuccessful experiments because a new kind of glass tubing might affect the results. A madness that believes the inscrutable can be scrutinized, and the inexplicable explained. A proper madness, which ensures that the scientist in question, after years of failure after failure, in the face of unmitigated boredom, simply won’t give up.
Edmund was very, very mad.
On the 29th of May, Edmund sat in his usual laboratory, hidden in the hundred rooms of Moulde Hall. He started as he always did, by opening his nearby notepad and scratching the date and time on the top of a free page. Then, after a quick glance at the previous pages to refresh his memory, he resumed his study of bauxite.
Bauxite was one of the only places to get aluminium in the world that wasn’t prohibitively expensive. Part of the reason aluminium was so rare and valuable was because the Waller process — the only known possible way of extracting aluminium from the few ores in existence — was inefficient and complicated, requiring the expenditure of incredibly expensive elements such as sodium and potassium.
But just because the Waller process was the only known possible way, that didn’t mean it was the only way. If Edmund could find a process to extract more aluminium from bauxite, and cheaper…even a fraction of an increase in efficiency could mean a difference in the thousands of pounds.
First, he tried a solution of dissolved charcoal and phosphorus. No effect.
Second, he tried a mixture of Lindley’s Emulsifying Elixir and ground lignite. This produced quite a vigorous effect, but not one conducive to extracting aluminum in a safe or reliable manor.
But it did produce an effect, so third, Edmund tried mixing the ground lignite with cryolite, and re-applying the elixir. This time, the effect was slower, but hotter, and Edmund had to quickly step away from the table before his eyebrows were singed.
Fourth, he tried graphite with charcoal in an aqueous solution of sulfur, boiled and then distilled into a flask. Fifth, he tried the same, but boiled with gas flame instead of oil. Sixth he tried using his own dry-cell battery to heat an elixir of sodium, mercury, and ground pepper.
Step by step, hour by hour, Edmund mixed and matched the different chemicals surrounding him like words in a poem, desperately trying to coax the aluminum out of its hard rock shell.
It wasn’t until he tried a concoction of cryolite and Edmund’s own Dispiritive Elixir that he saw success. The resulting mixture was a mineral slurry of dissolved bauxite. According to his formulae, the cryolite had changed the chemical composition of the elements in the stone, and now he just needed the proper catalyst to reassert the original properties…
First, he mixed the bauxite in various acids, which produced varying results. Celiph’s Caustic Concoction worked best, as long as the process was heated from underneath with a gas flame.
The resulting liquids were then separated and cooled using Diller’s Sixth Distillation Method, with a touch of Bringling’s Encouragement to assist. Once the resulting crystals were spun through a rotary kiln, Edmund had a material he had never seen before.
Edmund began anew, studying the mineral with every inch of his scientific mind. He poked, prodded, scraped, and electrified every sample he could create.
In a moment of inspiration — or perhaps madness — Edmund picked up the leads that connected to his prototype dry-cell battery, which he kept on hand for just such strange experiments, and dipped the two electrodes into the mixture.
The result was vibrant, energetic, and bright. Even shielded by smoked-glass goggles, Edmund had to squint to keep his gaze on the shimmering lights that arced across the liquid. A few moments later, he withdrew the electrodes, and carefully fished out a tiny crystallised lump.
His heart pounding, he studied the tiny speck with all the tools at his disposal. He weighed, scratched, burned, and applied several tests of his own design to the lump. Once he had enough data, he compared his findings with Tunansia’s Elemental Table. There was no doubt, this was aluminum.
Re-applying the electrodes, Edmund toiled away until the electrical arcs produced no more lumps of metal. Collecting his creations, Edmund measured the remaining slurry, the metal he had extracted, and the composition of what remained. From one sample of ground bauxite he had been able to create aluminum, a reddish-mud that likely contained the iron, and a strange and unfamiliar chemical by-product. He made a note to study it later and discern what it could be used for.
With baited breath, he measured the amount of aluminium he had created to the amount of bauxite he had started with.
He had extracted almost ninety percent.
He had done it! And if his calculations were accurate, which of course they were, this process was the most efficient method ever conceived for pulling aluminum from bauxite. Given the amount of the rock under Moulde hall, the Waller process could have made Edmund tens of millions, but his new process would make him hundreds of millions.
Edmund scribbled away in his notebooks. The process was complex, but the application was fairly simple. With proper construction, a giant aluminum-extracting engine could be created, eating ground bauxite in one end and pulling molten aluminum from the other.
Edmund turned the page. There was still the iron, too. Another valve here could lead into a simple re-smelting engine, which meant the iron could be sold along with the aluminum. Why, according to Edmund’s calculations, a single factory with access to the half-million tonnes of bauxite beneath Haggard Hill could create almost a quarter-million tonnes of aluminum.
Edmund stared at the figure. He did not have a chair in his laboratory — it was inappropriate for a room devoted to active engagement with the world — but if he had, he would have sunk in it, gripping his head in his hands.
It was all there, sitting beneath the mansion. It always had been. A cornucopia of wealth, just waiting to be plucked from the ground and milled into riches. This would not only secure the future of the Moulde Family, but the future of the Britannian Empire. Aluminum flying machines, zeppelin carriages, diesel engines…Trains would carry his metal across the globe, ships and zeppelins and trucks would form the strands of a giant spider’s web, and him at the center of it; the Aluminium Baron of Brackenburg!
Of course, the Rotledge family would kick up a fuss, but that was no problem at all! Not for someone who had made multiple fortunes off of aluminum. He could simply buy his way out of any legal or social troubles that came his way, and they wouldn’t be too eager to anger someone with such riches. In the end he would come out on top, the richest and most powerful Moulde in generations!
Edmund paused. No, if the Founding Families were good at anything, they were good at spite. If he became an Aluminium Baron, Wislydale would likely wrap him up in legal battles for years. Besides, he couldn’t mine any of the bauxite without angering the Church, and that carried its own troubles.
A fortune locked away underneath Moulde Hall, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had three options.
The first had been handed to him on a silver platter. He could marry Nausica Brocklehurst. Her mother could then handle the clergy, allowing Edmund to mine the bauxite without further objection. If he did, however, he would infuriate the Rotledges. Did that matter anymore? He had been a child when he had first planned to end the Blood Feud between the Mouldes and the Rotledges. Now that he was older, could he afford to keep his childish dream?
His second option was less enticing; he could lease his process to Wislydale. The aluminium belonged to the Rotledges, after all. Once he married Googoltha, they would officialy share the fortune, and a fortune shared was better than no fortune at all. But then the Church would bring its righteous anger to bear, and there was no telling how much trouble they could cause. But once the aluminium was sold, could even the Church stop them?
Neither the first nor the second option were ideal, and that left Edmund with the far more comfortable third option, which had the added benefit of being a distinctly Moulde solution.