Chapter 337: Project Delivery One

Two weeks later, the preliminary engineering targets were laid out on the boardroom blackboard:

Target Payload: 500 kg (half-ton)

Engine: Adapted Model One two-cylinder

Drivetrain: Heavy-duty clutch with lowered first and second gear ratios

Brakes: Reinforced four-wheel drums

Platform: Standardized rolling chassis with universal body mounts

Arthur leaned back, arms crossed. "What will the chassis cost to manufacture?"

"Too early to say," Ernest replied.

"If it costs as much as a passenger car, small bakeries and laundries won’t touch it," Arthur warned. "They’ll stick to old horses."

"Not if we don’t build the bodies ourselves," Ernest countered.

Arthur blinked. "Explain."

"Helmarte has dozens of skilled carriage builders whose trade is drying up because of motorcars," Ernest explained. "Why set up an expensive wood-and-panel shop here? We build the rolling chassis—engine, wheels, frame, controls. We sell the bare chassis to certified coachbuilders who build whatever body the customer wants: mail vans, bread boxes, or flatbeds."

Arthur’s face brightened. "No dedicated body lines. No storage yards full of rotting timber. Just running gear."

"Exactly."

The first coachbuilder they invited up was Samuel Harrington of Harrington Coachworks, accompanied by his daughter Margaret, who ran their design office.

Margaret took one look at Ernest’s chassis blueprint and frowned.

"Your rear mount brackets are clustered too close together," she said without hesitation.

Ernest raised an eyebrow. "How so, Miss Harrington?"

She pulled out a pencil, sketching directly onto the margin. "An enclosed wooden delivery body flexes differently from steel sheet metal. Road vibration will twist your frame rails right at these joints. You need flexible rubber mounting blocks here and wider outriggers to distribute the load."

Hollen whistled softly under his breath, giving Ernest a grin. "She’s good."

"Very good," Ernest agreed, offering his hand to Samuel Harrington. "Let’s draw up a development agreement."

Just as things were looking promising, a letter arrived from Alfred Baines with his latest monthly freight logs.

The Cargo One trucks are saving us a fortune on the main rail routes, Baines wrote. But we’re losing small parcel accounts every week. If you build that half-ton van, put me down for the prototype trial.

Arthur held up a hand before Ernest could even breathe. "No prototype authorization. Not yet."

Ernest laughed. "I didn’t say a word!"

"You were about to."

"All right, Arthur. No metal gets cut until we survey the market."

The commercial department drafted a simple, one-page survey sent directly to urban merchants, grocers, postal branches, and delivery contractors.

At Arthur’s insistence, the survey ended with one blunt question:

What is the absolute maximum price your business can afford to pay for this vehicle and still turn a profit?

"Find out what they can afford before we spend a fortune engineering something they can’t buy," Arthur noted.

"Sensible as always," Ernest nodded.

Late that evening, rain beat a steady rhythm against the tall windows of the drafting office.

Hollen and Ernest stood over the refined chassis drawings, the factory yards outside quiet under the amber streetlights.

"Funny, isn’t it?" Hollen murmured, packing his pipe. "We spent five years building bigger engines, heavier trucks, and stronger tractors. Now we’re breaking our backs trying to make something smaller, lighter, and cheaper."

"Making things cheaper without making them flimsy is the hardest engineering there is," Ernest smiled.

"Much harder," Hollen agreed. He tapped his pocket watch. "Six-twenty. Get out of here, Ernest. Eleanor will have my head if you’re late for dinner again."

"Going, going," Ernest chuckled, gathering his leather case.

When Ernest walked into his library at home, a warm peat fire was burning. Eleanor sat in an armchair with a book on her lap, looking up as he walked in.

"Did you solve the kingdom’s delivery problems today?" she teased gently.

"Not quite," Ernest said, leaning down to kiss her forehead before sinking into the chair opposite hers. "Arthur made sure we didn’t spend all our money first."

She smiled softly. "Good old Arthur. But promise me one thing, Ernest."

"Anything."

"Don’t get so excited about inventing new machines that you forget the people running the old ones."

Ernest looked into the crackling fire, thinking of Thomas Bell saving co-op pennies, young Daniel Foster learning how to turn straight furrows, and old Alfred Baines figuring out how to save his father’s haulage company.

"Never," Ernest said quietly.

Later that night, sitting alone at his mahogany desk, Ernest opened a fresh page in his personal journal.

At the very top, he penned:

PROJECT: LIGHT COMMERCIAL CHASSIS

WORKING TITLE: TEUCHER DELIVERY ONE

(NO PRODUCTION AUTHORIZATION — FEASIBILITY FIRST)

He smiled, knowing Arthur would be proud of that last line.

Outside in the dark, the autumn rain fell over the rooftops of Oriel. Somewhere across the city, bakers were stoking their ovens, postmen were sorting mailbags, and stable boys were feeding horses.

The industrial revolution wasn’t just about giant factories and smoking rail yards.

Sometimes, real progress came in the form of a small, unglamorous green delivery van quietly doing the work of four horses, helping ordinary people earn an honest living before the city even woke up.

Ernest capped his pen and set it down beside the inkwell. He leaned back in his chair, listening to the muffled strikes of the grandfather clock in the hall as it chimed midnight.

A quiet knocking sounded at the study door. Eleanor stood in the threshold wrapped in a soft woolen shawl, holding two warm mugs of spiced tea.

"Still awake, my Lord?" she asked softly, stepping inside.

"Just finishing a thought," Ernest said with a tired smile, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Eleanor set the mug before him, her eyes catching the bold heading in the open ledger. She traced the underlined words with her fingertips: TEUCHER DELIVERY ONE.

"Sounds less like an industrial monument and more like a dependable friend," she remarked, taking a slow sip.

"That’s the goal," Ernest replied. "A locomotive inspires awe, but a delivery van earns affection through pure routine. If a baker never has to worry about ruined dough, or a physician can reach a sick child twenty minutes faster... that’s where the machine proves its worth."

Eleanor smiled, meeting his gaze over the rim of her cup. "Then make sure it runs true, Ernest. The kingdom has enough wonders. What it needs now is a helping hand."