Chapter One

A Dupont Original

London, England ~ 1840

Charles Dupont disliked the city of London long before it had become a den of the newest epidemic, Cholera. The city always held a stink that could be smelt for days. It took even longer to get it out of your senses. The city was never without a bustling of people going places, ready to go places, or just leaving a place. He should know he worked here for years as a common laborer at one of the largest building companies in the London area: Lowen Buildings & Renovations. Fortunately for Charles, although the main office of Lowen was situated in London, the clients were often outside the city and where he would work weeks and months on end was a much cleaner environment.

Lowen Building & Renovations building was still standing, however Edward Lowen and his four associates, Thomas Decker, Frederick Greene, Palmer Newsbury and Henry Quinton or ‘Hank’ as everyone referred to him, were no longer the business owners. A sweeping boom in the building industry over the last decade and those five men, who spent far too much on themselves than on their business, subsequently lost the entire company to Hanley & Sons, an old competitor of Lowen. Hanley & Sons, not only brought with it a reputation for building faster and cheaper, they often paid less attention to detail as well. Putting Charles in an unfortunate position under the leadership of Samuel Hanley, a good businessman in truth, but with no actual design talent in any arena, especially houses.

However, it was Hanley who first appreciated Charles’s talents and his own lack of them. Charles would be sent to the clients, he would find out what they wanted, he would design the structure creating diagrams and displays that Hanley often remarked were works of art on their own. It was Charles who would present those designs to the clients and it was Charles who would supervise the building. He was designer, foreman, and worker, often cutting the pieces and detailing them himself. Hanley was a good businessman in Charles’s assessment. After all, he had only paid Charles a weekly salary of 10 shillings for the first year. It was Charles’s own business sense that had that raised to 1-pound/3 farthings the following year. His salary doubled again in the following year and before he left Hanley and moved onto his own business, Dupont Construction in 1830, Charles was said to be the highest paid designer in London.

It was in Dupont Construction, a risky venture even for a man with the talent, clients and respect of the wealthy, that Charles other talents shone. He was a shrewd businessman, always making certain he put forth his best efforts in designing, while the client put forth their money. Within the first year of creating Dupont Originals, a term, the London Times invented and Charles’s opposed no objection to, he was already a highly sought-after designer and builder of beautiful architecturally sound homes. Everyone in society buzzed about Dupont Original Design and who would be the next to receive one.

Charles took to keeping his clientele at very high levels, unlike his former employee who worked more for the middle class, a rising group of people in London who had made money, but not enough to be considered among the elite. Charles knew how to manipulate the elite social classes of the day, often relieving them of large amounts of money to create their masterpieces. Just one month ago at a social gathering for a Mr. Franklin Paulson’s niece, whom Charles could not remember the name of. He had been commissioned to build a house for that same niece’s wedding the following year.

It was announced by Mr. Paulson that:

‘A Dupont Original home had no value of money to be placed on it. It will be the craftsmanship, the design that will endure for years to come. To be cherished and preserved speaking to future generations of the important of good English breeding.’

Paulson ended his dramatic speech referring to Charles Dupont as ‘one of their own.’

Charles had found it all very amusing at the time, considering his breeding consisted of a father who left their family when he was twelve, leaving behind a legacy of a seedy life in London whorehouses and betrothals. A mother who spent the family’s small income he provided on landum to continue a habit she developed several years earlier.

A means to an end, Elizabeth Dupont always said to her eldest son. She had been correct about that. Elizabeth Ellen Dupont died when Charles turned fifteen and he was the sole caretaker of a younger brother, Henry, only twelve at the time. Avoiding the authorities by making himself seventeen and of good working stock, Charles continued his labor job at Lowen and then Hanley & Sons until he was twenty-three in societies’ eyes, if only twenty-one in his own. This lie just began a series that Charles was caught in. Now at his true age of thirty-two just the day before, March 9th, he had resigned himself to become a part of the society he despised as a child.

The age issue had been solved somewhere in his mid-twenties when he opened Dupont Construction, ten years ago. He had built at a rapid pace, using the best labor force he could find. No children were ever employed by his company, only skilled laborers who had a part to play in the creation of Dupont Originals. The price was high, but the clients never refused to pay an extra hundred pounds or so to receive the perfect home. Those extra pounds made Charles a very wealthy young man, whom seemed to receive more offers at higher prices just so he wouldn’t stray to another client.

As Charles traveled through the streets of this city, he recounted his conversation last night with one of those upper society gentleman, a Mr. Thomas Hanley, son to Charles’s former employee, who had since passed away several years ago. Hanley & Sons provided lumber for Charles’s construction. Completing removing the company from any design work after Charles’s departure. The debt he felt he had owed Hanley’s father continued on in keeping Hanley & Sons operating for the past six years when it surely would have not. Thomas Hanley, the eldest son two years younger than Charles was a tall, lanky man who was not considered a handsome man, however made up for it with the ladies at least in charm and some money he still possessed. Most thought of Thomas Hanley as a society necessity. He came from a respected and wealthy businessman and he was accepted as much or little as any of them were. Charles didn’t care himself for societal hypocrisy but he did see opportunities when they presented themselves and he attended the needed functions to make those opportunities happen.

Thomas wanted out of the business and informed Charles of this venture last night, along with an endless dinner party he held at his grand estate outside of London. He offered Charles a high price for the lumber and the business building, stating it would help Charles’s venture also. Charles did not see eye to eye with Thomas on that point. The cost of upkeep on a further building to store lumber in the city was far higher than just hiring another company to provide that service to him when needed. Thomas argued through four brandies after dinner in his study with Charles. Charles drank only one. When Thomas finally resigned himself to a price Charles was comfortable with, he shook his hand and sealed the deal. After the four brandies Thomas had consumed, Charles figured he would be receiving a re-negotiation letter by post from him as early as today. He had been correct. It arrived later this morning at the hotel Charles had stayed in since his trip from his own home in Kent. The letter stated that they should discuss their business dealings at Jacob Moore’s party this evening in Bedford.

A few months ago, Charles had been invited to Mr. Moore’s residence for a social engagement to celebrate Mr. Moore’s business expansion into the Americas. He was in the oil business and from very old money. The kind Charles liked the most, no expense was too great and no hassles were fought over price. It was widely known that Jacob Moore never kept his business life secret nor most of his personal life as well. He had one son who died in the British Navy’s invasion of Ireland. An endless continuation to Charles of the British Empire’s plans to take over the world, even though those rebellious Americans won their freedom sixty years ago.

If Charles’s hadn’t wanted the contract with Mr. Moore, he may have pointed out to the man the irony of doing business with the Americas at all, while his son died fighting to expand the British Empire, they lost to America. However, outside of casual conversation about the world events, Charles was careful not to discuss any of it in lengthy details. The other factors of Jacob Moore’s life were his business ventures, he had his money in everything from secured government debt stocks to the new Indian Railways which was the only one guaranteed by the British Authorities. Everyone, who was anyone, Charles had been told, was investing in it. Charles wasn’t quite as impressed with the new railway.

However, despite Charles’s political or investing thoughts, he had liked the man, who was twenty years his senior and felt he was more pleasant less prestigious than the gentlemen Charles spent his time with in business affairs. He agreed to attend the function and even sent a letter to him accepting the invitation, something Charles was not known for. He upheld social graces when necessary, but he also liked his privacy. It was a gesture of good will to write a letter in response, that was all, in Charles’s mind. Unfortunately, Thomas Hanley had also been invited to this event and thus, left Charles with a new client and a new problem in the case of Hanley. Hanley was always a thorn in Charles’s side, since he knew him before he had gained his wealth. It never made Charles comfortable around the man.

The carriage turned down a road moving outside of the city’s stench a bit. On his left Charles could see the enormous London Bridge erected just twenty years earlier. He had been nineteen years old when the bridge was completed in ’27. It was a magnificent sight to say the least. He had gone along with almost all of London to wonder at the new bridge. For Charles, it all held a certain sense of annoyance. He watched the on-lookers faces as they marveled at this exciting structure connecting the city from one end to the other. It had always been a simple bridge in his mind, although the six arches were enormous and overwhelming to the casual eye, Charles saw a fault in the design from that first day. The first part of the structure to catch his eye was that it was entirely too small and would not accommodate the needs of the thousands of people who lived, worked and traveled to London. That fact took only a few months to be discovered by everyone else. The second parts of his annoyance lie in the lack of design that actually went into its making. The arches were beautiful, but completely unimaginative at the most and impractical at the least. Another fact Londoners would soon discover with newer ships and sailing vessels not being able to go under the bridge.

However, amid his critical judgement of the London Bridge, he could not deny that it was a symbol to the people who stood on it that night. Charles discovered at that moment he did have true talent for designing, true talent for making those structures that could allure the eye and capture an imagination gone silent. He decided something that changed his entire life, he could become his own man, it seemed trite now that he looked at the bridge and the overwhelming congestion of coaches, buggies and carriages strung along from end to end. But on that earlier day in a youthful and hopeful mind of a nineteen-year-old, he wanted to see those faces looking up at one of his buildings. He wanted to believe in years to come that people would speak of Dupont Originals, of how well they were made. How unique and fascinating the small details were that Charles had put into each one. He wanted what all men did, to be remembered. To be preserved. To say to the future, I was here.

It seemed to make sense to the thirty-two year old that he would want to be remembered. Another memory came into his mind and preyed on him as his carriage entered the bridge and bounced along the stone. These memories was not hopeful, not dream like and certainly hadn’t filled Charles with any realization or insight into his life, at least not one that he hadn’t all ready figured out. It had been a night years before the London Bridge was erected, before London became industrialized. It had been bitter cold that night and the winds whipped around the back alleyways of London. Charles could easily remember why, as he thought, he needed to be reminded, I am here.

“Come on, boy,” his father had to the ten-year old boy behind him as they ran through the streets and finally stopped outside the back door to a place, the boy had heard was a devil’s den.

Charles Dupont, his eldest son’s namesake, was a hard man. His face was handsome still if not a bit dragged through the mug. He was a tall man, over six feet with menacing callused hands from working in many menial labor jobs over the last few decades. His hair was black and full. It curled around its shoulders. His eyes were black like the son he stood in front of, looking down at. He always carried a knife in his back pocket and a few ‘quid’ in his front. This time his father had taken the money from his mother’s night table drawer inside the bible that was always there. It had been Charles the younger who had to go the actual theft. His father had sent him into the bedroom following dinner. His father had waited until his mother had taken some of her landum and was more lucid and lost inside her illusions before instructing Charles to take the money inside the bible. Charles did so, knowing to refuse or complain that the money had been set aside for himself and his brother to have new shoes before winter, would fell on deaf ears that would take to strapping him many lashes. Charles had resigned himself to taking only three of the four quid there, hoping his father did not know the amount. Fortunately, the man had not and accepted the money without a thought.

A few moments after they were passing through a crowd, with Charles trying to keep up with his father’s rapid pace. They rounded a corner and entered into the alleyway.

“Alright, you stay here and I’ll be back. Don’t be wandering about now, boy or I’ll take the strap to you. You understand?” His father instructed and looked towards him for an answer.

“Yes, sir,” Charles replied. He knew his father’s threats well. He had learned by them. The strap was his father’s old belt that held on a door in their small apartment’s front hallway. It always came out for special occasions, mostly for drunken fits when his father was frustrated or had lost a job. Charles took the burnt of it, sparing his younger brother from it all. If his father went after Henry, he would step in-between receiving double the lashes for his behavior, but Charles didn’t care, the lashes healed and he knew someday, he would be old enough to leave or strike back. That was the only part of himself that Charles was frightened of -- his temper. Charles had taken the temper of his father for years and through beatings and leaving his own family, Charles vowed never to follow in his father’s footsteps. He did everything possible for many years to control his own temper from those days to this.

The rest of that night’s memory was interrupted for Charles as the carriage hit a large rock bringing it to a halt on the bridge. The driver was instructed by Charles to bring the carriage to the side, as he stepped outside and onto the bridge itself. A pulling of the horses and several pushes of the wheel, the carriage was moved allowing traffic to continue caused only a slight blockage as the carts came towards the stopped carriage.

“I am sorry, Mr. Dupont, sir,” his driver, Gerald said. Gerald was no older than sixteen and lived in London all his life. Gerald had worked for Charles for nearly two years and he liked the boy. He had his faculties about him and he worked hard, both good reasons for keeping the boy employed as his driver.

“It’s all right, Gerald, you just hold onto those horses. I will attempt to dislodge the rock,” Charles replied, pleasantly. Situations like rocks and carriages were easy to Charles, he never lost his temper over those things. It was better to just solve a problem he had always reasoned. It wasn’t the boy’s fault, nor the horses, or even the rock. Solving a problem, he had been known to say, was always simpler than placing blame or ridiculous shouting at the top of your lungs, neither of which ever had helped in a situation.

“Yes, sir,” Gerald said and walked to the horses, holding their reins closely together.

“You’d think,” Gerald started, he spoke in a broken English, showing his years of the streets of London, something Charles himself had worked hard to overcome and had not spoken in poor form for many years now.

“That the sweeps would take care of them rocks on the bridge,” Gerald always had an opinion from dirty roadways to rocks. He held a remarkable knowledge of roadway passages and quicker paths to get wherever they were going. Charles always held that knowledge with a bit of admiration. The boy knew his job and knew it well. Charles could never deny that fact. So when Gerald would offer his opinions, Charles always was polite, realizing the boy’s hidden talents.

“Yes,” Charles said as he moved the wheel back and forth until the rock dislodged. He stood up with the start of the trouble in his hand and threw it, extending his long arm over the side of the bridge. He brushed off his white-gloved hands and looked towards Gerald.

“You would believe that,” Charles stated and walked to the carriage door, but Gerald was already ahead of him, replacing the reins on his seat above the carriage and opening the door. He nodded at the boy in acknowledgement.

“You know, Gerald,” he said after stepping inside and sitting down in the carriage.

“Perhaps you should write a letter to the Parliament on that matter. I am certain they would be interested in your thoughts, considering the vast knowledge you have received from working on these streets,” The boy looked at him for a long moment, deep in thought.

“You think, Mr. Dupont?” He questioned. Charles nodded. The boy nodded his head to himself after another moment. “Yea, I just might,” he said, closing the door and latching it. “They should know about these things and all,” he continued to himself as he moved back to his own seat. “Now hold on,” he announced as the carriage moved back into the line and continued on its path.

Charles smiled to himself. The boy was ambitious he would give him that. Charles knew Gerald would at least attempt to write the letter. Unfortunately, the boy had one fault. He couldn’t read well and his writing tended to be even worse. However, Charles never considered that a fact he couldn’t overcome with some help. Help that Charles himself had been working on for the past few months, when he received a moment for anything. He had inquired of a tutor for Gerald and he had been pleased when one replied. Unknown to the flaxen black-haired boy seated in front of him, he would be receiving reading and writing lessons every Tuesday in the city from a Mr. Alfred Winterberry, a teacher from a London Day school in the area, he had met through a business client whom supported the school. Charles had decided to tell the boy tomorrow when he came to drive him back home to Kent.

As the carriage pulled away from the city and the bridge they traveled for a long while. The sun was descending in the sky above them creating a twilight blue effect on the streets ahead of them. Charles looked out the window and could see snow still on the ground. He noted it had been a particularly harsh winter. This fact led to thinking about his newest construction, Lord and Lady Farthington’s home on the English Channel. The endless snowstorms had caused most of the construction to cease. However the inside of the house still had constructing continuing. Charles had kept the Lord and Lady interested by sending them a few furniture makers and such to help him determine the inside look of the twenty-seven rooms inside the home. The home was being built for Lady Farthington who had been instructed by a well-known physician that the cool ocean breezes of the English Channel would sooth her illness she suffered. Immediately a Dupont Original home was commissioned and Charles began design work and building construction on it in September.

The construction had managed to put the walls and roof on before the first snow hit in mid-November. Since then, some three months ago, the construction was being completed on the doorways, the floor and the large rooms inside. Now that March was upon the English countryside, the construction would pick back up on the house’s grounds and veranda overlooking the water. The veranda had been a design of which Charles was very proud. It was a terrace that fell into three tiers and connected to a pier outstretching to the ocean. The separate tiers were oval in shape and different sizes ranging from large to small, interlocking over and under each other with two swirling ramps connecting them. The ramps were to assist Lady Fathington’s chair with wheels that she always sat in. Her legs hadn’t worked in many years, but Charles always that her to a pleasant woman, tall and slender, and still holding remnants of a classic beauty she retained from her more youthful days.

Lord Farthington, on the other hand, was a most unpleasant disagreeable man, in Charles’s assessment. Most Lords were. The man had changed seven times at Charles’s count the inside door design and walls to the study room and the sitting room was changed a few more than that, before he had finally decided on what he wanted.

Charles had not particularly minded the changes, it had cost the Farthington’s double what they originally commissioned and that meant a hefty profit for Dupont Construction. The extra money had not bothered the Lord either, it was the wood that he fought over. First, it was to be hardwood of the best quality, mahogany. Then it was oak, then it was a combination and then to Charles’s surprise, he went back to just mahogany with a gold detailed finish around the top of the entire room with a leaf design that would cut directly into the wood. Of course, it could not be any leaf designs. Lord Farthington had a very specific leaf in mind, from his childhood days in York and although the man could not remember what it actually looked like, he wanted that one specifically. Given only a sketchy, at best, recollection of the leaf from the Lord, back in November, Charles was able to finally find the correct leaf. He drew a design for the trim in front of the Lord, and although with a marveling at Charles’s skills, he agreed to add another 1,000 pounds onto to Charles directly if he would do the detail work himself. Charles politely agreed.

Unknown to the Lord, Charles wanted to do it, he loved to work in design art. It was one of the things he did not do as often as he would have liked. However, in society, the designer does not do the actual work, it was a constant frustration to Charles, who tried to surround himself with competent skilled laborers but found many to be lacking in detail work. He looked towards others from his travels in that. It had found one man, Jacques Pierre, a skilled detail artist in Italy four years earlier and he put him instantly on Dupont Construction’s pay wages. Pierre had originated from France but moved to Italy to work on various structures there. His work in wood and cement artistry was very moving and although the man spoke only some broken English. Charles and him enjoyed a profitable venture, since designs were in illustrations and not in words. He had already enlisted the help of Pierre in completing the Lord’s study and had left him a few days ago to continue on the design work while he attended this social function.

Charles thought about the Lord’s extra one thousand pounds to be added to his rapid growing wealth and shook his head at the one pound salary he had once received for his labors. The wealthy class of England was quickly making Charles Dupont into a force to be reckoned with. That pleased the tall, handsome man with dark eyes, brown hair that was always tied in the back and fell past his shoulders an inch.

As he sat in his carriage, lined with red velvet soft to the touch and comfortable as any gentlemen’s coach, perhaps more so with the feather downed cushions beneath him, he knew he had shed his past and was living in a very comfortable present, moving towards a promising future. He had acquired his money off those that regarded him as one of them, perhaps not completely, but certainly in public and never left him out of a large or sometimes small, social gathering, whether he chose to attend or not. He had been introduced to beautiful daughters, nieces and cousins to royalty from Lords to Dukes and even once a girl whose father claimed was sixteen times removed from Queen Victoria. The women never fascinated him much, but he enjoyed their company and took to escorting many of them to social parties as a favor for a client. More rebellious ones would offer more than just a passing social function and he would enjoy them as well. However, marriage, which was all of their hopes, was not something he had considered much. He knew he would get married and he knew what he wanted in a wife. He had always been certain on those points. He had seen his own parents mistakes, his elusive and out of control brothers mistakes with women and he had made a few of his own along the way to be inclined to know exactly what he did not want. Over the years, he had narrowed his prospects into a simple, but concise view of a wife.

Beautiful, devoted, upholding standards of customs, without the restraint of a minor lapse in those customs to provide a whim or retreat for the senses. She would be clever, but not too clever, smart, but not too opinionated and overall have a sense of humor. Simple virtue of course was best, but not without some knowledge of men. Aside from those things, he just wanted someone who could love, support and understand him, one whom would welcome the return of that love, support and understanding without judgement or a harsh propriety that could kill a man’s desires as quick as a marriage. It was all simply put inside Charles’s head and although, he doubted at times a woman of that means existed. He knew he would not settle. He wanted children, he always had, but rushing into an unfulfilling marriage was not good for either him or children. He knew that all too well, growing up within one.

The prospects seemed dim at this time, but Charles remained somewhat hopeful it would come upon him when the time was correct.

“We’re here, sir,” Gerald said, opening the door. Charles had been thinking since London he didn’t notice the carriage had stopped at its destination, Jacob Moore’s residence in Bedford. The sun had completely set in the sky an hour ago and the brightly-lighted driveway that he now stood on was illuminated by the moonlight. Other carriages were parked in various areas. A footman, dressed in all black with white gloves descended the long stone steps from the house towards him.

“I will take care of the carriage and your servant, sir,” he said, politely, nodding towards Charles. Charles nodded back. “Mr. Moore is expecting you.”

“Have a good time, sir,” Gerald said as he passed him. Charles looked at him and wondered if the boy would ever learn rules or etiquette. Secretly Charles liked the boy’s sudden outbursts, it made him feel a bit more like a person and less a gentleman, a term Charles’s despised with a horrible passion. To be a gentleman meant simply you were expected to have enough money to continue your leisurely existence of making more money. He turned to the boy and gave him a nod Gerald smiled back.

Charles ascended the stone steps as the door was opened and a butler tall and straight, moved towards him. Charles handed him his long overcoat that was black with gold trim on the first layer near the collar. The second layer held a fainter red trim around the bottom.

“Mr. Dupont, it is a pleasure to see you again, sir,” the butler replied and Charles looked at him. He had never come to Jacob Moore’s residence here in Bedford. He had met him in London several months ago. The butler looked at Charles as he stopped at the top of the steps. “I used to work for Lord Farthington,” the butler added. Charles acknowledged his remembrance.

“Yes, Harold, is it not?” Charles said, Harold nodded at him. “What happened with Lord Farthington’s employ?”

“Situation of the gravest family concern,” the butler said, indicating some indiscretion with a member of the butler’s family and the Lord of the house was concerned.

“I see,” Charles said and politely avoided the subject.

“It was a pleasant night for a ride,” Harold commented as they walked inside the door and Charles handed him his top hat and gold-tipped cane. Charles nodded.

“Spring shall come again, I fear,” Charles commented. As he looked to the foyer of Mr. Moore’s large house. A marble floor shined off the candlelight situated all around the oval shaped room. Noises of many people were coming from a room towards the back of this grand foyer, Charles assumed was the ballroom or large parlor room.

“Right this way, sir,” Harold said, handing Charles’s coat, cane and hat to a maid who appeared in the foyer. Harold walked ahead will Charles followed him to where the noise was coming from.

“It must be different for you, sir,” Harold started as they walked a considerable distance from what Charles had believed where the room was. Charles looked at him. Harold turned slightly to him to be polite. “Entering houses, I meant, sir.”

“Oh,” Charles said. “They are always an experience,” he said. “Good and bad.”

“I would imagine that is correct, sir,” Harold finished and opened a double door to a room filled with people. Harold nodded at him. Charles stepped inside.

“If you need anything, the under butlers will serve you. Have a pleasant evening,” Harold said and didn’t wait for a response as he closed the doors and exited the room.

Charles stood for a moment at the door, scanning the room with his eyes to get a good view of who was there. He saw Thomas Hanley in the corner talking with several other men he knew but could not recall all the names of at that moment. To his left was a group of men from Ridgewood Railway, a new railway line, he had been told about at the Gentlemen’s Club luncheon last week from several other business acquaintances. The comments were the railway was not going to built on time for the spring and that Samuel Ridgewood knew nothing about building a railroad in the first place, it was rumored he had hired an American man to help with its construction. There were many comments about that fact alone, Charles remembered. He had thought at the time, the war may be over in America for the British armies, but in the classes of the elite the war never ceases.

“Charles,” Jacob Moore said, pleasantly as he approached Charles. “Come in, come in, have a drink. I trust the ride was pleasant from Kent.” Jacob was several inches shorter than Charles was and quite round from his years as a gentlemen of leisure. He had a round face and it made him rather jovial opposed to Charles’s longer face that held more somber tones in it. Charles smiled quickly and nodded at him.

“How is your venture with Lord Farthington?” he continued as he stopped an under butler as he passed him. “Alex, do get Mr. Dupont something to quench his thirst. He has traveled from Kent, you know.” Charles knew it didn’t do any good to tell this nice man that he had only traveled from London and had arrived there yesterday for a business meeting with Hanley. He knew that the man would not have heard anyway and if wants to believe he traveled from Kent to come there tonight, Charles did not care.

“Of course,” Alex said politely. “What would you enjoy, sir?” The young man said in a very controlled manner.

“Bring him a brandy,” Jacob said, quickly, not allowing Charles to answer. Anther fact of the elite: you were never able to order your own drinks. That was their special right and Charles had become accustomed to it. “You drink brandy, don’t you, Charles? Oh, please don’t tell me you’ve haven’t taken up with those new bloods. I know it’s not as fashionable these days to drink brandy, but it’s still the best of the best. I know,” he said, smiling and holding up his own glass of brandy.

New bloods was a term used to describe people who acquired wealth from new ventures and not from family lineage. Charles always found it amusing that these half-wits could call judgements on people they have never met, but met one and couldn’t see past him to realize he was one of those new bloods they despised. It was a fact now that the elite of society supported and purported it, the Charles Malcolm Zanduvol the Fourth was not a new blood, but from old money somewhere down the line. Where it exactly came from didn’t really matter, the society elite never asked details and even if they did, they would usually fill in their own conclusions right then. Charles never disagreed in that arena.

“So, what do you think of the house? I hate to ask, but I must,” he said moving completely onto anther subject and then added quickly, “be kind.”

“The structure and design is Bollingworth,” Charles stated. “He was a fine architect in his day. I would say 1620s, perhaps even a few years earlier. The foyer is new, though, a creation of Greening. His marble halls will be everyone it seems,” Charles concluded.

“Absolutely correct. I do love how you do that, Charles,” Jacob said. “Greening put that mess up just this year. My wife wanted marble want was I to do,” he looked over at Charles and shook his head. “It’s too damn slippery is what I think, but let her fall on it.” He laughed a bit. Alex returned with the brandy. Charles took it and nodded towards him. He nodded back. There were times for speaking with the servants and times when you did not. Charles will fully aware of each of those instances.

“Tell me Charles, you didn’t get engaged since we last spoke, did you?” He asked, suddenly. It used to be annoying to Charles that they would change conversations in an instant, but he had since learned how it works. No one subject for too long, lest you create a debate and the very elite, the very old bloods, never liked too much debate. Their own skeletons, Charles had always mused, may fall out of their closets.

“No, I have no marriage prospects, that I am aware of,” he answered back. Jacob laughed at his joke. Charles smiled briefly and took a sip of the brandy. That was always an indication to someone of Jacob’s talkative nature to continue with whatever thought he had in his mind.

“Well then, you must meet my daughter, Emily,” he said, quickly, scanning the room. “She’s here somewhere.”

“Mr. Moore,” Charles started to protest meeting any more daughters. He knew Moore was to be a client and he would have to entertain his annoying, probably ugly daughter then he would, but he wasn’t in the mood until business was concluded. Always business first.

“It’s Jacob, Jacob,” he said, still keeping his eyes on the room. “There you are, Emily come here,” he called a bit out to someone. Charles looked in his direction but a hundred women were standing in different places close to each other.

“Emily,” Jacob called once more. From behind a rather round woman wearing a lime colored dress that did not accent any features she may have had, stepped a much younger woman. She was raven-haired that was pinned at the top of head in the newest wave fashion for young ladies. Small ringlet curls ran down her back a bit and were tossed on her left shoulder, accenting her off the shoulder dress of the warmest shade of blue Charles had come across. She walked closer and he saw a beautiful smile on her face that brightened her pale skin. As she approached Charles and her father, Charles looked down at the petite woman who only reached his chest, and into the prettiest blue eyes he had ever seen. She was completely enchanting, he thought to himself.

A compliment that Charles could not ever remember using before on any woman. < /FONT> < hr>