When Sir William Whealwright died in the midst of evicting a tenant, from what his doctors described as overexertion, he left a number of bequests to his nephew and ward, Sir Oswald.
These included the rambling old house at Lovelost Grange; a great library of works on economics, philosophy and natural sciences; a significant tract of farmland, complete with grumbling inhabitants; and a small empire of mills, mines and manufactories.
Sir William had considered himself a thoroughly modern man, a pioneer of no less courage than those brave souls mapping distant and hostile rivers and mountains in the name of His Majesty. He had come under the influence of certain learned men, and their thoughts on both morality and pin manufacture had been impressed upon the malleable mind of his nephew.
The boy had learned at a young age to consider the greater good in all he did, and that greater good was generally expressed in output and efficiency. A mill worker going hungry was a great tragedy, to be sure; but how greater the tragedy would be if he were to be well fed and sink in a sump of indolence! The first was a tragedy for one, the second a tragedy for all of England!
In short, Sir Oswald had become the sort of young man who, when approached by a blossoming young lady in flirtatious finery, would find his thoughts turning to advances in the manufacture of hair ribbons. Such women approached him often, but retreated with great alacrity when he opened his mouth.
The final bequest which Sir Oswald receved was a sealed envelope. The letter within, in his uncle's precise and dispassionate handwriting, implored him to ask no questions about the factory on Cokehouse Lane.
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Sir Oswald's Peculiar Letter
FantasySir Oswald Wealwright, pioneering industrialist and eligible bachelor, has never had any truck with occult nonsense or peasant superstitions. His manservant, abysmal poet and incorrigible daydreamer Johnny Burslem, thinks of little else. Which is wh...
