To Dream Again Read online

  "I would have time to find investors willing to capitalize Elliot's."

  "Investors?" He stared at her in amazement. "You'll have difficulty finding investors with your present situation."

  "The company is a fine investment. If you look at my financial statements again, you will see that—"

  "Mrs. Elliot," he interrupted gently, "the fact is that you are a woman. You have little experience in the harsh world of business. It is difficult enough for a man of the world to succeed, much less a lady such as yourself. I doubt you will be lucky enough to find investors who feel differently."

  "Lucky?" Mara forced herself not to grind her teeth. "I don't believe in luck, Mr. Abercrombie, and I would have thought that a man of logic and reason such as yourself would not believe in it either."

  He stiffened. "The fact remains that your husband is dead."

  "James has had nothing to do with the management of Elliot's for some years now. I have been in charge. You know that. I've come in every Monday for the past four years to make deposits, go over our account, and manage our financial affairs."

  "Mrs. Elliot, I realize that circumstances forced you to take on some responsibility for the business when your husband went to America. But all this time, he was still within reach of a telegraph if the need arose for serious decisions. Now that he is dead, who will make those decisions?"

  "I have been making those decisions for four years now, sir. My husband was a brilliant man in his way, with an uncanny knack for making money, but he also had an uncanny knack for losing it. I assure you, I never telegraphed to him for advice. It was neither necessary nor desirable for me to do so."

  The banker was unconvinced. "Nonetheless, your husband owned the company, and he was responsible for it. Now that he is dead, the bank wishes to remove itself from any possible future losses resulting from his death."

  "This is ridiculous!" Mara burst out, frustrated by the sheer unfairness of it. "I have been responsible for Elliot's. I have worked very hard to make the company profitable. I will not stand by and watch it all unravel!"

  The banker seemed uncomfortable at this display of female emotion. He picked up the documents and handed them to her. "The decision has been made. I am truly sorry if the company is forced into bankruptcy, but this is business."

  Mara stared down at the neatly penciled figures of her balance sheet, feeling her options slipping away, but she would not beg. She would not confess that if she lost the company she would have nothing. She could not.

  Steeling herself with her pride, she looked at Mr. Abercrombie. "What is the exact balance owed, and how much time do I have to pay it?"

  He opened a ledger on his desk. "Principal plus this month's interest comes to five thousand and twenty-five pounds, twelve shillings, and ten. Due by the close of business on Friday, July twelfth."

  It was Wednesday morning. Three days. She had three days. Mara rose to her feet. "All right. Draw up the papers, and be prepared to accept payment in full on Friday, Mr. Abercrombie. You will have your money."

  "Mrs. Elliot, I admire your tenacity." He also stood up. "But how will you raise over five thousand pounds in three days?"

  Rob a bank. The words hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't think Mr. Abercrombie would appreciate the comment. At the moment, however, robbing a bank didn't seem like a bad idea.

  ***

  Nathaniel reached for another piece of miniature railroad track and attached it to the preceding one. He pushed the two sections firmly together so that the electric current would pass from one section to the next and the toy train would run smoothly.

  Boggs and his son were busy making the alterations to his ceiling, hammering and pounding, but Nathaniel ignored the noise. He continued to put together railroad track, knowing this idea would revolutionize the toy train industry.

  Grandfather would have liked the idea. He smiled down at the half-completed track on the table, remembering long-ago summer days on the Isle of Wight. The stuttering excitement of a young boy filled with ideas and the encouraging enthusiasm of an old man filled with patience.

  It was growing dark. Nathaniel lit the gas lamp on the table and continued building the invention that would determine his future. But his mind was in the past.

  Grandfather had believed in him. Heady stuff for a boy who'd never been quite good enough. Not good enough for his own father to listen or give him a chance.

  But in his will, Grandfather had given him the chance. Nathaniel had left Cambridge, and at the age of nineteen, he'd finally been given the opportunity to prove himself and had been thrust into the midst of Chase Toys, out of obscurity and into the light for the first time. It was then that his father had first begun to realize that his second son had more in his head than impractical ideas and airy dreams.

  Nathaniel fitted the last piece of railroad track into place. It was time to test the train and see if it still worked after being tossed around in transport for the past two weeks.

  He reached for the locomotive, but before he could place it on the track, there was a knock on the door. "Come in!"

  The door opened to reveal a dark-haired man standing there. "Well, well," the man greeted him with a grin, tugging at the brim of the wool cap he wore. "It's been a long time, my friend."

  "Michael!" Nathaniel set down the train and maneuvered his way through the maze of his belongings to the door. He thrust out his hand and the other man shook it warmly. "You received my letter? How are you?"

  "Well enough, I suppose, although your letter was a bit of a shock." Michael looked around at the chaos of Nathaniel's flat and started laughing. "Ten years and you haven't changed a bit. What is all this?"

  "Sorry about the mess, but I'm moving in, you know." He waved a hand vaguely to the hammering above their heads. “Some workmen are remodeling the attic for me."

  A loud bang interrupted any reply Michael might have made, and chunks of plaster fell through the hole in the ceiling, forming a cloud of dust as they hit the floor.

  Michael took another glance around and caught sight of the train on the table. "What is this?" he asked, stepping over a crate on the floor to have a closer look.

  "That is what I asked you to come and see me about," Nathaniel said, coming up to stand beside him.

  Michael picked up a piece of railroad track and whistled. "Sectional track?" he asked. "And a figure-eight design? You've made one that works?"

  Nathaniel caught the rising excitement in Michael's voice, and he nodded. "Yes. It's taken me three years, but damn it all, it works!"

  Michael bent down and studied the track at eye level. "How smooth does she run?"

  "Like silk, Michael. Pure silk. But that's not all."

  Nathaniel bent down and rummaged in the huge crate beside him, pulling out brightly painted tin miniatures, setting them on the table as he identified them. "Train stations, street lamps, bridges, crossings, town buildings. Michael, I'm talking about complete railway systems!"

  Michael picked up one of the prototype train stations to examine it more closely, listening as Nathaniel went on,

  "Sectional track makes it possible, and the possibilities are endless."

  Michael nodded and looked up, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement. "You market the trains as sets, of course."

  "Yes, and sell all the additional accessories by the piece. Can you imagine the profit potential?"

  "Tremendous." Michael set down the miniature train station and circled the table to the opposite side. "Let's see her run."

  Nathaniel placed the electric locomotive on the track, but before he could attach the dry-cell batteries, Mr. Boggs came up to stand beside him.

  "The 'ole to the attic's all done," he told Nathaniel, pulling off his cap to wipe the sweat from his brow. "We put in that ladder you wanted, too."

  "Excellent." Nathaniel reached for the wires hooked to the battery and attached them to the track. The motor hummed, but the train didn't move.

  Michael grinn
ed at him across the table. "Some invention."

  Nathaniel was unperturbed by the teasing. "Do you want me to remind you of all the brilliant ideas you've had that didn't work?"

  "Please don't."

  The workman interrupted again. "We've swept up the plaster, sir."

  "Thank you, Mr. Boggs," Nathaniel murmured. He leaned over the table and studied the locomotive. "It has to be the motor," he said. "Something's probably been jarred in transit."

  "Guv'nor?" Boggs waited a few moments, but Nathaniel continued to stare at his unmoving train, and the workman gave a slight cough. "Well, if that's all, sir, me an' me boy will be goin' now. If you could pay us, sir?"

  Nathaniel paid no attention until Michael leaned over the table and snapped his fingers in front of his face.

  "Nathaniel, I believe your workmen would like to be paid."

  "Oh." Nathaniel straightened and glanced at Boggs, realizing that the man was still standing beside him. Boggs glanced down at the table, eyeing the train with some skepticism before giving Nathaniel an apologetic smile.

  "It's growing late, sir. If you'll just pay us, we'll be on our way."

  "Of course." Nathaniel unhooked the batteries from the track. "See if you can figure it out," he told Michael. "I'll be right back."

  The other man nodded. "I'll check your motor."

  Nathaniel pulled off his spectacles and set them on the table, then crossed the room and looked up at the square hole in his ceiling. He gripped the ladder bolted to the wall and climbed into the attic. By the light of the hurricane lamp the workman had left burning, he took a look around.

  Once the rest of his furniture was shipped from San Francisco, he'd have to find another place to store it because even with the attic, he still wouldn't have enough room. But for storing some of the equipment he'd brought with him, this would do nicely. "Perfect!" he shouted down to Boggs. "Now I have plenty of room."

  He descended the ladder, lamp in hand, and made his way to his desk. Setting down the lamp, he began to rummage through the papers, books, and other odd items strewn over his desk. "Just what I wanted, Mr. Boggs. You've done a splendid job. You, too, Alfred," he added to Boggs's fourteen-year-old son, who stood silently nearby.

  Boggs twisted the cap in his hands and bobbed his head in an almost embarrassed acknowledgment of the praise. "Thank ye, guv'nor."

  Nathaniel pushed aside a tinplate carousel and a wind-up toy dog and continued to delve through the pile on his desk. "Now where did I put it?"

  Two books slid off the edge and hit the floor, but Nathaniel paid no heed. He opened drawers one by one, pulling out items as he searched. He knew he'd taken his wallet out of his jacket the day before and put it somewhere near his desk, but he couldn't remember quite where. A white silk cravat, a toy steam engine, and his favorite shaving brush were all tossed aside before he gave an exclamation of triumph.

  "There it is!" He pulled out his wallet and began to count out money for Boggs. "I believe two pounds and ten was the fee we agreed on?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Nathaniel placed the money in the workman's hand. He then tossed the wallet onto a nearby shelf where it landed between the music box with the dancing clowns on top and his beloved Stradivarius violin.

  Boggs and his son departed. Nathaniel pulled two bottles of beer and a tin of sweet biscuits from the crate of supplies Mrs. O'Brien had purchased for him. He walked back over to the table with the refreshments and placed a beer on the table beside Michael, who held the toy out to him. "It is the motor. Drive belt slipped off, and I can't quite reach it."

  Nathaniel set down his beer and the tin of biscuits and took the locomotive from Michael. Holding it beneath the light of the lamp on the table, he peered at the electric motor inside. He tried to slip the belt back into place, but he couldn't reach it either. "I hate to disassemble it for such a minor problem."

  Michael shrugged and took a swallow of beer. "Forget it. Show it to me some other day." He went across the room to the sofa and chairs by the fireplace, pushed a rumpled newspaper off one of the chairs, and sat down. "You haven't changed much, although you've lost your stutter, I noticed."

  "Ten years of practice. Without Adrian around, it was easier to conquer it." Nathaniel smiled slightly. "But it still plagues me from time to time."

  "What brings you back to England?"

  "I intend to make toys again," he said, following Michael across the room and taking a seat on the sofa.

  "What?"

  Nathaniel nodded. He set down his beer, grabbed a handful of biscuits, and leaned back. "The train is too good an idea to sell to somebody else. I want to manufacture it myself."

  Michael pulled a biscuit from the tin. "In your last letter to me you said your toy company in St. Louis failed," he reminded gently. "Are you sure you want to try again?"

  "Yes," Nathaniel answered without hesitation. "I'm buying into the electrical equipment factory right next door. I'm making the train."

  "Is your brother putting up the money? I can't believe he would agree to back you!"

  Nathaniel grinned. "I haven't asked him."

  Michael stared at him. "Then where shall you find the money? I thought you'd lost everything."

  "I sold the patents on about half my inventions to raise capital. I'm forming a partnership with the owner of the factory next door. Man named James Elliot. I met him in San Francisco a few months ago. He'd heard about me, and he came to see me. He told me he was interested in making some of my inventions, and he proposed a partnership. That's why I came back to England."

  "Your brother isn't involved in this?"

  "God, no! Why would I want to be partners with Adrian again? With the hell I went through after Father died, you think I'd ask Adrian for help?"

  "Wait!" Michael held up one hand. "Do you mean to tell me you intend to compete directly against your brother?"

  Nathaniel laughed. "I'm afraid so."

  "He'll be furious when he finds out what you're up to."

  "Yes, I know." Nathaniel leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands behind his head, giving Michael a wicked grin. "It'll be good for him."

  "I always knew you were crazy."

  "Not that crazy. I want you to come and work for me."

  "What?" Michael's smile faded. He tugged at his cap and took a deep breath. "Nathaniel, I already have a job."

  "Yes, I know." He made a sound of contempt. "Tailoring. You're not a tailor, Michael. You're an engineer. The best damned toy engineer in the business. I need you."

  Michael shook his head. "I can't, Nathaniel. I can't risk what I have for some new venture. Not even one of yours."

  "Is it because the last time I tried, I went bankrupt?"

  "Of course not! I've always believed in your ideas."

  "Why then? I'm not asking you to put up any money."

  "I'm engaged to be married."

  "You are?" Startled, Nathaniel stared at him.

  Michael nodded. "Her name is Rebecca Goldman and I work for her father. He's done a great deal for me, and he pays me a decent salary. I'm hoping to have enough put by to be married next year. I have a future with Goldman's."

  "Do you like being a tailor?"

  "Of course not. What does that have to do with it?"

  "It has everything to do with it. Michael, listen to me." He leaned forward. "If you don't do this, if you don't try now, then you'll stay a tailor for the rest of your life. You'll be married, you'll have children, and one day you'll wake up an old man, and you'll know you spent your whole life doing something you never wanted to do."

  "Nathaniel—"

  "Do you think the train will sell?"

  "Are you joking? Of course it will." He grinned. "Provided you get the thing working."

  "Then what's the problem? I'll pay you ten pounds a week."

  Michael laughed, but he didn't sound amused. "You make it tempting."

  "That's because it's so much fun."

  Michael drew a deep breath and
let it out slowly. "It'd be just like the old days at Chase before your father died and Adrian took over."

  "Better." Nathaniel took a swallow of beer. "I'll have the controlling interest in this partnership. Fifty-one percent." He paused, then added, "I'm truly sorry Adrian fired you."

  "There was nothing you could've done. It's not your fault your brother is a Jew-hater," he said with a hint of bitterness. "Stop apologizing."

  "I can't help it. I brought you into Chase. I wish I could have done something to stop him."

  "Forget it. How's your new partner feel about making me your engineer?"

  "He doesn't care about you being Jewish, if that's what you mean. When he proposed this deal to me, I knew immediately I wanted you for my engineer. We discussed it, and he agreed. There's no problem."

  "When shall I meet this partner of yours?"

  "He's not back in England yet, and there's no word yet on when he'll arrive. I'm meeting with his wife tomorrow to show her the train." Nathaniel took another swallow of beer. "He's been in America for quite some time, and it's my understanding she's in charge until he returns. Converting this factory will mean a great deal of work. I'm hoping we can start immediately."

  Michael nodded. "It's July. We'll need that much time, if we intend to have the trains out by the Christmas season."

  "We? Are you coming to work for me, then?"

  "I can't. I just can't." Michael looked at Nathaniel and groaned, in an agony of indecision. "I hate being a tailor. And I have to admit, taking revenge on Lord Leyland would be rather fun."

  "Well, then?"

  Michael raised his bottle of beer in a gesture of surrender. "All right!" he said, laughing. "I'll do it."

  "You won't regret it," Nathaniel promised him.

  "I may not live long enough to regret it. Rebecca might kill me."

  "If she loves you, she'll stand by you."

  "Sure she will. Pigs fly, too." He set down his beer. "If you're to show the train to that woman tomorrow, we'd better get it running."

  The two men set to work. They tried using a screwdriver to pull the belt back into place, but that was unsuccessful. "What we need is something with a hook on the end," Michael told him.