On the auspicious day Thurbeous Humboldt discovered that love, in fact, did exist, he locked himself in his study to record each and every detail of his fateful meeting with Emily Kershaw. In the course of 18 long hours, 5 quill pens, 2 ink wells, and numerous cups of tea (his maids emptied the chamber pot twice per hour at the height of his frenzy) he managed to complete a 117 page account. He emerged from the ordeal with his thinning hair splayed akin to an aroused peacock and fingers as black as a chimney sweep’s nose. The look in his eyes vacillated between serene and deranged as his body was beset by waves of hormones it hadn’t encountered since his brief puberty.

According to Aldus Allgood, his right hand man in all issues business and personal (the former category large and the latter category minute, although expanded exponentially in light of recent events) he failed to string together a coherent sentence to explain his appearance and dazed manner when he came to accompany him to work. Instead, Thurbeous merely handed his stooping partner a sheaf of paper and collapsed in his spacious armchair.

Aldus occupied the adjacent armchair, produced his pince-nez and began reading. In the report, titled “My Brief and Ravishing Encounter With an Angelic Being on Earth aka the Inimitable Emily Kershaw: a Treatise in Love at First Sight and the Consequences” Thurbeous praised every single aspect of her being. Indeed between the “pale moon-shaped crescents of her finger nails” to the “delicate flecks of London’s street muck that have splattered the hem of her pink dress like the spots of a female jaguar” his keen eye and tireless pen hand captured all. After an hour broken only by the occasional editorial comment (Aldus noted Thurbeous’ tendency for misplaced modifiers) Aldus asked the appropriate question:

“Now that the source of your love is documented in full, how may we work to gain Miss Emily’s attention?”

“Attention?” Thurbeous said incredulously. To show his disapproval, he pulled the tip of his aquiline nose twice. “I suppose that I will walk the streets until I locate her again and then profess my undying love to her. I shall ask for her hand in marriage. If she needs proof, you, good sir, are holding it!” The idea that his account contained an accurate portrayal of his love made him very happy. He clapped his hands together, a gesture he was unaccustomed to, but which made him all the merrier.

Aldus stood up and drew up as high as his hunched back would allow. He wagged a crooked finger at his longtime associate. “And what of the matter of Mister George Derby?”

Thurbeous froze mid-clap. When he pouted, any newfound youthfulness in his visage was crushed under the weight of a thousand wrinkles

“I hadn’t remembered Mister Derby or his sanctimonious speech giving! I suppose I shall have to overcome not only his youth but his political ideologies as well.” It was all the comment he would give on the matter and he immediately excused Aldus so he could clean up for work.

By the time that Thurbeous and Aldus made it to the factory, a highly abridged version of the tale had already snaked through the workforce.

“Ole Thurby wad oud in da market,” Blind Bill Baskins said as he swung a hammer. He was christened Blind Bill for his constant squint. “When ‘e ‘eard dat pro worka speaka George Derby a-talkin’ ‘bout unsanity factory conditions.”

“Juss as ‘e ‘bout to send dat union rouser a piece o’ ‘is mind, ‘e sees da mos’ beautiful girl in dis whole world,” Fred Dawkins continued.

At the glue table: “Emily Kershaw. Perfection on dis earth.”

David MacDonald said, “Eyes loike diamonds set in a bloo sky.”

“She ‘ad all her teeth and dey white!” added Finnegan Cooley, who sadly only had 4 teeth, one of which was wooden.

“I knowed she got a long neck, all da mos’ beautiful women do.” Edison Blarney had not heard the story but nonetheless felt assured of the verity of his comment.

“Wha happen when ‘e met ‘er? Did he tell he preten’ to be loike ‘er?”

“Nat’rally,” (Adam Christensen paused to spit) “when he approach ‘er, ‘e played da part of a progressive. ‘e said he believed in the cause!” The assembled crowd released a merry laugh; the thought of Thurbeous at an anti-industrial rally! The proprietor of one of the larger metal works in London! It was the moment of the proverbial pig taking flight. No one could believe that there was a heart inside Thurbeous’ black chest to beat for any woman, let alone a progressive one. The only thing that might give Thurbeous joy was money and money came from the turn of cogs, the belch of smoke in the sky, and the blood of his workers.

“Ooo, I’m Emily Kershaw and I love noice people,” sang Fred Dawkins in earsplitting falsetto.

It was at this moment in the narrative that Vincent entered the work floor and the room went as silent as a church. Even the machines found a way to run quieter and the mice who lived under the floorboards scurried on tiptoes.

At the top of the factory hierarchy was Thurbeous and on his right, Aldus. That made Vincent, the floor supervisor, his left hand – the hand of doom. His mountainous presence alone inspired fear and promoted a ‘motivated’ work environment. He resembled an unholy union of man and gorilla, with forearms bigger than most men’s heads covered in a pelt-like thatch of soot black hair. Underneath a Neanderthal brow his eyes were scrunched and watery, like he had just sneezed. An unlit cigar rested comfortably in his under bite and his close hewn hair did little to stop the lice from making a tidy home there, with a guest house for relatives.

Grotesque physique aside, it was his fury that scared the men. Once, he killed a young man with one crack of his whip. It had stopped his heart.

“Christensen!” he roared, the cigar bouncing precariously. “Fix the damn widget machine, woulda! An’ the rest of you, stop gawkin’ and get back to work or I swear I’ll beat your ‘ead so hard you’ll be shittin’ teeth!” He cracked his whip at Blind Billy’s bowler hat for good measure and the workers scattered. Satisfied, he reached behind his head, scratched furiously with stubby fingertips, and ambled away.

In the head office, Thurbeous and Aldus argued over the proper way to tie a French cravat. It was Thurbeous’ fashion choice for his next meeting with Emily Kershaw.

“Hey boss,” said Vincent as he squeezed through the door. “Da workers are busy gossiping ‘bout your love, ‘stead of working.”

Thurbeous let go of the silk tie.

“Well, Vincent, did you properly incentivize them?” A long time ago, before he owned the factory, Thurbeous had been a floor supervisor too. Although his frame was always slight, in his time he could whip the wings off a fly.

“Of course!” When Vincent chuckled several small items in the room vibrated like there was an earthquake. “But I’m afraid that -”

He was interrupted by a sharp rapping, three times, upon the door. It swung open on creaky hinges to reveal, Adam Christensen, mopping his face with a handkerchief.

“Sorry, but I’m havin’ some problems wid dat widget machine,” Adam Christensen said genially.

Aldus summarily vomited down the front of his shirt. Thurbeous sighed and Vincent chewed his cigar.

“Is he alright?” Christensen tried to ask. What his company heard, however, was: “Issh eee alrie?” When he smiled, only the left side of his face responded. The right side was encumbered by the six inch piece of metal piercing his cheek.

“Blimey, it’s hot in here,” were the last words of Adam Christensen. He swayed in place with glassy eyes for a full five seconds, before falling dust accumulated in such a manner on one shoulder to unbalance him and he collapsed.

“Turd time this week,” said Vincent, scratching his head.

“Alright, Aldus, time to go buy a casket. Let’s get four or five so we can plan ahead.”

***

In the cramped, cobbled streets of London, sound waves travel a complex and dense path down even a single alley way. As such, the acoustics produce several strange phenomena’s, such as the “projection effect.” If two strangers stand in the correct locations, they can converse accurately over long distances. This effect accounts for a 20 year verbal relationship between Lord Fatuous Abbott from his office in the palace of Westminster, and an East London Prostitute called Sticky Jane. Their story was later chronicled as a well-received stage play, The Whore Who Debated Politics.

Indeed, the projection effect, explained how Thurbeous recognized the sound of his beloved’s voice from over a mile away.

“It’s Emily!” he exclaimed. “She’s here!”

“Where?” asked Aldus. There was no one else in the alley way except for them and a hulking man loading their cart with the cheapest caskets money could buy.

“No not, here, but there! Down on the corner of Gareth and Eagle. I can hear a rally and I heard her voice amongst the crowd.”

“Have you been drinking absinthe again?”

Thurbeous ignored the jibe and snapped the reins against the mule. The cart rolled forward without the payload secured. The uppermost casket slid out the back and landed on the toes of the worker.

“MY FOOT. I”VE SHATTERED MY FOOT!” the worker cried in tortured tones.

“Sir, I think you ought to turn around and see to that fellow?” said Aldus as the poor man receded from view.

“Nonsense. The caskets were overpriced. Two shillings for used wood? He can buy a cast.” Thurbeous spurred his mule onward.

“PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME!”

“Shut up!” yelled a baker four miles away, who heard the wailing, clear as crystal from his outhouse.

George Derby stood up on a platform in front of an impressive midday crowd of 47 women, 12 men, two cats and a ferret. Behind him a large poster proclaimed: Anti-Industrial Speaker George Derby in small enough print to make room for the enormous portrait of his own face. The work was done by a Hungarian artist who specialized in all things jaw and chin related. From the picture of George Derby, his jaw would appear to be made of granite, and although the real-life counterpart was handsome (tall, good bone structure, dark curly hair and all his original teeth) his jaw was rather ordinary. The dimple on his chin was cute and boyish, not chiseled by cannon fire.

“Imagine if you will, working – no, being trapped – inside a factory all the long day,” he bellowed. “A room with no windows and only one door that will open after 12 or 14 hours of labor! Ladies, I am afraid to say this, but there are buckets along the walls. Please, cover your ears now, if you cannot stomach my explanation of those buckets.”

No one in attendance attempted to cover their ears and most leaned closer to the podium for a better listen. Derby stepped aside the podium and knelt down like he had a secret to tell. He began talking quietly and built up into his theatrical, full-throated delivery.

“The buckets are filled to the brim with excrement and only emptied at the end of the day, after stinking in the afternoon heat. It’s inhuman!” he decried.

A women in the front row swooned. Derby leapt from the stage and caught her as she fell. By the time her eyelids fluttered open he had a handkerchief pressed to her brow.

“Mister Derby…” she coughed.

“Be still milady,” he said in a hushed tone and dabbed her face. “You are but a sweet woman and the story has shaken you to you core.” The way he looked at her was as if the entire crowd had melted away. Three women nearby starred with envious hatred and another practiced pretending to faint as to capture his attention at a later time.

“Emptied at the end of the day? Try the end of the weak,” scoffed Thurbeous, shattering the tender silence.

“Shhh, sir! Hold your tongue!” scolded Aldus.

It was too late. The intrusion of the large, coffin laden cart was enough to cause a stir. Furthermore, the loud, well-dressed man driving it was just as unusual a sight at a middle class anti-Industrial protest.

Derby looked up from his maiden and gave a devastating smile. Like a shark sniffing blood, he knew that he had an opportunity. He raised the woman to her feet, patted her head (and her bum, quickly) and addressed the newcomer.

“For those of you who do not know our new guest, it is none other than Thurbeous Humboldt, the owner of one of London’s most foul metal works.”

Derby paced to the cart and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.

“He works his men like dogs and has even hired an ape named Vincent to subjugate them.” He paused at a pretty woman to wipe a tear from her cheek. “He is the reason that the skies are dark over London,” he told the trembling girl.

“Bloody murderer!” someone yelled from the crowd.

Thurbeous sank back in his seat as the jeers intensified. His mind raced to find a response. Everywhere he looked he saw faces contorted by hatred, open mouths of gnashing teeth and slanted eyebrows. None of them Emily’s blue ones. His mouth twitched and produced a feeble whine.

Derby raised a hand and the riotous mocking ceased.

“Please, people. Give the man chance to speak for himself.” He looked up into Thurbeous’ terrified eyes and winked.

Then he saw her. Emily. She was poised near the edge of the crowd, holding her white hands together. He could tell that she recognized him, remembered him from their meeting. She was no doubt confused by his introduction as a factory owner, and yet, he could see that she believed in him. His mouth clattered to a stop.

Thurbeous stood up on the cart. “I do own a factory. That much is true.” The crowd began to yell and even the cats hissed. Derby succeeded in calming them down after he flashed his glowing smile.

“I am not a sadist. My factory is clean, my factory is safe. The workers enjoy coming to work there.” Thurbeous tried to fashion a grin from his wrinkled lips and purple gums. “We are one happy family.”

Derby rolled his eyes and the crowd responded with a wave of laughter.

“Care to support these claims? You are driving a cart with several coffins in it, mind you.”

Thurbeous nodded gravely. “One of our own, a dear Adam Christensen died today. Our employee, uh, benefits provide him a proper church burial and a gift to his family of 6...” Thurbeous strained to finish his statement, “of 6 months full wages,” he finally managed.

“6 months wages? I was under the impression that you workers paid you in blood and received little in return.” Derby gave an about face and held up his hands as if to ask the crowd if they understood it any differently.

Thurbeous glanced at Emily and took a deep breath.

“They are paid for their labor,” he said. “And since you are so reluctant to believe my ‘claims’ why don’t you stop by the factory yourself?” This time when the crowd cheered, they cheered for Thurbeous.

Derby spun and Thurbeous recoiled at the venomous burning in his eyes. His stomach twisted when he realized he had just prodded a sleeping lion in the mouth.

“Perhaps, I shall, Mister Humboldt,” he hissed.

Thurbeous hitched up his pants. “Don’t come alone,” he said in a voice far braver than he felt. “Bring a witness, bring...her!”

He stabbed one crooked finger at Emily.

“If a lady cannot approve of my factory, then it is not fit to run.”

“For once, Humboldt, something we can agree on.”

Emily lowered his hands and looked from Thurbeous to Derby. Her eyes were wide, but focused. At the base of her throat, just above the top of her dress, her pale skin thrummed to the beat of her heart.

When she was ready she said in her musical voice, “I will accompany Mister Derby on his inspection of Mister Humboldt’s factory.”

Derby clapped his hands together. “And so it is!”

He leaned to Thurbeous and whispered, “After I make your factory the shame of London I shall take Miss Kershaw and make her my bride so that when you die, you will die alone and childless. That is your punishment for daring to interrupt change; the world will forget the Humboldt name.”

“I’d like to see Vincent have a word with that rake! Knock the piss out of him!” seethed Aldus as Derby strode away to kiss the hands of his adoring fans.

Thurbeous gathered the reins and chuckled. “No, Aldus, we cannot let him rile us. We must beat him at his own game.”

***

The cart jittered over the cobblestones, the coffins straining their ropes, daring to pop out. Aldus had a notepad on his knee and tried to take down Thurbeous’ instructions with much trouble.

“We have one day to make the factory sanitary, presentable, and functional.”

As soon as Aldus had his hand set, his pince-nez popped free of his nose.

“Have Anderson and Greaves whitewash the main doors. Remind them to oil the hinges first. If the door knob doesn’t work, get rid of it.”

“Paddock and Leatherbury are small. They will handle the rodents. Have them crawl under the floorboards spraying poison and laying traps.”

“The bulk of the men will deal with the work floor. Have them sweep the floor and knock the locks off the windows so there is fresh air. Blind Bill will be in charge of cleaning and oiling the machines. Tell him to make the widget machine presentable but avoid fixing it, lest he end up like Christensen.”

“Geoffrey Carp is a good singer, I am told. Sober him up and tell him to practice shanties and such to sing for the men as entertainment. Promise him a cask of wine if he can get through the day, the lout.”

“Purchase 10 hocks of ham and potato mash from the pub. Musgrove can play chef.”

“Chef?” Aldus interrupted.

“For their lunch break. We’re providing the food.”

“Send Vincent to the tailor and the barber to fix those mutton chops. We can’t do much for his face, but at least the man will dress like a gentleman.”

“How does that sound?” Thurbeous asked when he had finished.

“Sounds great, writes horribly,” Aldus said sheepishly. “Care to repeat?”

***

The mood was high and appropriately industrial at the factory. The men were more than happy to make their workplace brighter and safer. If they ever begrudged the work, they only had to look at Vincent in his new waistcoat to brighten their mood. Even Geoffrey Carp had arrived early and almost sober to practice his songs and all the men joined with gusto for his hearty rendition of “The Queen Smells Queer.”

“It’s all going according to plan,” Aldus said, skirting around a mop as it glided across the floor. Thurbeous mumbled his agreement and played with his cuffs.

“It’s alright; no one expected you to get this far. Now show the troops some backbone and remind them why they have nightmares of Thurbeous Humbodlt!”

Jeremy Leatherbury scampered up to them, teetering under the weight of a bucket he held.

“Yes?”

The boy hoisted up the bucket and showed them the accumulated dead rats.

“Oi got ‘m, sirs? Wot now?”

“You can dispose of them outside. Be sure to do it far from our doors.”

The pair went to their floor supervisor who was fiddling with his starched collar. To find one that fit his neck, the seamstress combined two normal sized collars, thus making a doubly expensive purchase.

“Boss!” barked Vincent. “You shore I caunt ‘ave my whip?”

Thurbeous placed a hand on the bulging fabric of his floor supervisor’s arm.

“If this fails, you may whip every man in this factory.”

And then under his breath. “Including me.”

***

Thurbeous awoke before dawn the next day and spent nearly an hour at the mirror surveying his appearance and finding little to his liking. He was old, more than twice Emily’s age and it showed in every crack and sag in his skin. His hair was grey and while he wasn’t bald, it had been a long time since hair had fallen in front of his eyes. He had once been proud of his long nose and the thin lips, but now he only saw a vulture’s beak and a vulture’s eyes and a vulture’s sad stoop.

He arrived at the factory ready to call off the charade. There was no fooling Derby and perhaps if he surrendered, it would save him some face. Nonetheless, he did still wear his finest suit, in the hopes that his fears were for naught.

As he reached for the handle of the newly white-washed doors, Vincent opened it from the inside. A pleasant aroma of sawdust wafted through the doorway. Somehow the overpowering stench of the cheap chlorinating agent had aired out overnight.

The factory was full and bustling. The gentle thrum of the oiled machines mixed with George Carp’s light tenor and the bass drum treading of boots to make a delightful song. Thurbeous could hardly recognize his own establishment.

“G’mornin’ sir,” said Blind Billy as he strode by.

“Remarkable,” he said to himself.

“You’ve got a good thing here.” It was a woman’s voice.

“Emily…”

“I came early.” Emily came out from behind Vincent. Her white dress was simple and suited her perfectly. It drew attention to her thin arms, and somehow, the freckles sprinkled on her nose.

“Oh heavens, Emily. I’m so sorry that I dragged you in to this mess. I just wish that I could talk to you.” He took her soft hands in his.

“Don’t apologize, dear Mister Humboldt. I cannot wait for Mr. Derby to see. He’ll realize that he’s all wrong. Your factory will be a shining example!” She took her hands away and gestured to the rows of happy workers.

“A shining example, indeed.”

Thurbeous could smell Derby standing behind him. His odor was pungent hair oil derived from goose bills.

“I must say that I am quite impressed for one day’s work remodeling.” He walked to the center of the room and waved his hand about.

“Nonsense,” Thurbeous said, hoarsely.

“Ah, you even have a lunch table!” he said as if he hadn’t heard the protest. He skipped back to the group and stood by Emily. “Miss Kershaw,” he said, the conspiracy dripping from his voice, “would you believe that this is all a sham?”

“I would most certainly not,” she said and crossed her arms.

“The men appear happy…but those machines look dangerous.” With the grace of a dancer he pranced to the nearest work station. “I imagine a man could lose a finger here,” he said, poking into the metal guts with his pinky.

Thurbeous realized that he was standing in front of the broken widget machine.

“Not…th-that one,” he stuttered.

“Why not?” Derby revealed his canines like a chimpanzee asserting dominance. “I thought you run a safe factory?”

“You aren’t properly trained.”

“I have inspected many a factory, Humboldt, I think that I can work a widget machine.” He gave a quick appraisal and found the start handle. “Stand back, Emily. Here we g-”

The shaft of metal that entered his throat ended his last phrase on God’s green earth.

***

After Emily was escorted home and the blood cleaned from the floors once again with the powerful chlorine, Thurbeous let his men go. At first, no one left, but then they ambled away first in pairs and then packs. When the factory was empty, Thurbeous went into his office and sat in silence behind his desk.

He felt tears well in his eyes but refuse to fall. At some point in his long, bitter life he had forgotten how to cry. Now, with his plans for love ruined, his body didn’t know what to do.

“You’ve known me since we were just lads playing in the streets, Aldus. Was I always such a horrible man?”

Aldus came and knelt by his friend’s side. “You aren’t horrible. You always protected me, even when the other boys made fun of my back.”

“I beat the leader of the pack with a shovel and then made his mates work for me stealing goods and reselling them.”

“Perhaps some overkill,” agreed Aldus.

“Is that all I’m good at? Being cruel?”

“You are good at running a factory!”

“I suppose I am. Find Vincent. Get everybody back here and working, on the double! We have to make up for the lost time! Two days with hardly any work done, it’s unthinkable.”

“Well, sir, not really.”

“What?”

“I just checked the books. In the four hours the men worked today, they accomplished more than we would have done in two days. Almost three.”

“Nonsense.”

“Actually, we had to send them home or we would have run out of supplies.”

“Are you suggesting that a tolerable workplace is more efficient? That a tame hand is more powerful than a whip?”

Aldus scratched his sideburns and thought. “Well, yes, I suppose that I am.”

Thurbeous felt the world squeeze down upon his shoulders and then release.

“Ask Geoffrey Carp if he can sing all week – no, all year. Derby said that changing times would kill me, but he is wrong! I am the change and tomorrow is a bright day.”

***

The London Observer ran a cover story about the events of the Humboldt Factory. The headline proclaimed: Better Conditions Yields Better Work. Humboldt denied interviews but quotes from his competitors assured that they would follow his model for their factories in the future. Parliament was racing to enact a work limit per week so that men didn’t feel strange having a weekend off. The bill was going to be called the Humboldt Bill so that the world would not forget his name. Four pages in and next to an ad for a West End revival of The Whore Who Debated Politics was a small obituary about George Derby. It highlighted his “extravagant speeches, dashing self portrait, and social personality.” Twice they misspelled his name as Debra.

***

Three months later, Thurbeous was strolling in the marketplace on a free Sunday afternoon. The spring air felt good in his lungs. Now that the factory was clean, his lungs felt better all the time. They had installed fans and a ventilation system to get rid of fumes. The fainting in the work force reduced dramatically.

When he saw Emily leaning down to sniff a tomato his first instinct was to stand and watch her all day long. His second instinct was to run hide behind the nearest stall and pray that she couldn’t see him. Luckily, he followed his third instinct and approached her with a smile.

“Miss Kershaw, it has been a while since I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Mister Humboldt!” she said and a curtsied.

A man stood beside her and for a moment he saw George Derby leering at him. He blinked and it became a generous fellow with sandy hair and kind eyes. He and an old woman looked at him

“How do you do, Mister Humboldt,” said the young man.

“This is my fiancée,” Emily explained. “He just came back from a year in America.”

“That’s wonderful,” Thurbeous said. He hoped his voice didn’t sound flat. It made him happy to see Emily aglow with love, even if her arm was around another man and not him, but only so much. He realized he owed his new success to her, even if his love had failed.

“I would like to introduce you to my mother,” she was saying. “Elizabeth Kershaw.”

The woman beside Emily smiled and in an instant, Thurbeous saw all the charms of the daughter, but refined in the older woman. A woman his age. All the definitions of love he thought he knew when he looked at Emily crumbled to dust. For her, he had written a 117 page account. For Elizabeth Kershaw he could write a thousand operas and still be unsatisfied.

“My father died a long time ago,” began Emily, “and in that time she hasn’t…”

“Emily?” said Thurbeous. “I think that Elizabeth can tell me herself.”

He took the woman’s warm hand and they strolled into the market place talking and laughing.

“What a queer old man,” Emily’s fiancée commented when they’d left.

“Queer? Why he’s the kindest man in all of England. And boy does he know how to run a factory.”