If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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Mary-Beth laughed, a bright, musical sound. "My husband has a habit of ruining the past for people. Please, come inside. You must be parched, and Antonio has prepared a rather extensive welcome lunch for you."
As the group moved up the steps and into the grand foyer of the mansion, Caleb seamlessly orchestrated the division of the party. He knew that if he wanted to lock Howell's loyalty in iron, he needed to speak to the man not as a host, but as a peer in the realm of high science.
"Mary-Beth," Caleb said smoothly, pausing in the hallway. "Would you be so kind as to show Mrs. Howell and the children to the sunroom? Antonio has the tea and refreshments waiting there. Dr. Howell and I have some rather pressing important schematics to review in my study."
"Of course," Mary-Beth smiled, looping her arm gently through Anne's. "Let the men lock themselves in their dusty rooms, Anne. We have a much better view of the gardens, and I would love to hear your thoughts on the city."
As the women and children walked down the bright, airy hallway toward the rear of the mansion, Caleb placed a hand on Howell's shoulder, guiding the brilliant academic toward the heavy oak doors of his private study.
"Drink, Doctor?" Caleb offered, stepping behind his massive mahogany desk and gesturing to a crystal decanter of premium Kentucky bourbon.
"Given the sheer velocity of this morning, Mr. Thorne, a bourbon would be highly appreciated," Howell admitted, taking a seat in one of the plush leather armchairs.
Caleb poured two heavy glasses, handing one to the doctor before taking his own seat. He didn't waste time on small talk. Howell was a man of science; he respected data, structure, and ambition.
"Let us speak plainly, Dr. Howell," Caleb began, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "You were the Dean of the medical faculty at Johns Hopkins. You are arguably the most respected physiologist on the eastern seaboard. You left a legacy to come to a city that currently does not even possess a unified medical board. Why?"
Howell took a slow sip of his bourbon, his sharp eyes narrowing as he evaluated Caleb.
"Because Johns Hopkins is a magnificent institution, Mr. Thorne, but it is built on stone that is already hardening," Howell answered honestly. "We dragged medical education out of the dark ages. We brought the students to the bedside. But now... the board is conservative. They fight every request for laboratory expansion. They view research as a secondary pursuit to clinical billing. Your man, Pierre, handed me a contract that guaranteed me absolute authority to fuse biological research directly with clinical education. He promised me a facility without limits."
"And you shall have it," Caleb stated, his voice ringing with absolute, uncompromising iron.
Caleb reached across the desk, pulling a massive, rolled architectural blueprint from a leather tube. He spread it flat across the mahogany, weighting the corners.
"This is the Thorne Medical Institute, Doctor. The physical construction is currently fifty percent complete," Caleb revealed.
Howell leaned forward, setting his glass down, his eyes scanning the incredibly detailed schematics. His breath caught in his throat.
"My God," Howell whispered, tracing the lines of the massive surgical pavilions. "The scale of this... it rivals the finest hospitals in Europe."
"It doesn't rival them. It renders them obsolete," Caleb corrected softly.
And then, Caleb unleashed the terrifying, anachronistic brilliance of his Past Life Memory. He didn't just talk about bricks and mortar, he talked about the fundamental biology of the future.
"I am not building a hospital to treat the symptoms of the nineteenth century, Doctor," Caleb explained, his voice taking on a hypnotic, visionary cadence. "I am building an institute to conquer the pathogens of the twentieth. In this wing, we have the primary surgical theaters. I have completely redesigned the architectural flow. There is no porous wood. The floors and walls are seamless, non porous white ceramic tile. The lighting is provided by Tesla arc lamps, eliminating the shadows and the heat of gaslight."
Howell stared at Caleb, his mind racing to keep up with the structural genius. "Seamless tile... for absolute cleanliness."
"Exactly," Caleb nodded. "But cleanliness is merely a reactionary measure. We must operate with asepsis. I have designed high pressure steam autoclaves, plumbed directly into the basement boilers, capable of superheating surgical instruments to temperatures that physically obliterate bacterial spores. Every tool, every bandage, every gown will be sterilized before it ever enters the theater."
Howell looked up from the blueprint, his eyes wide. "Mr. Thorne... the theories of Lister and Pasteur are barely accepted by half the surgeons in this country. You are speaking of institutionalizing absolute biological sterility on an industrial scale."
"Because half the surgeons in this country are butchers who refuse to wash their hands, and I will not allow them to operate in my city," Caleb stated coldly. "But the surgery is only the physical intervention. Here..." Caleb pointed to a massive, separate wing attached to the primary hospital. "This is why I brought you here, Dr. Howell. This is the Thorne College of Medicine, and the primary research laboratories."
Caleb locked eyes with the brilliant physiologist.
"I have already approaches and almost secured Dr. Simon Flexner from Pennsylvania, and Dr. Theobald Smith from Boston," Caleb revealed, dropping the names of the two young titans of pathology and bacteriology.
Howell actually gasped, gripping the armrests of his chair. "You... you are close to bought Flexner and Smith? At the same time?"
"They are already drafting their laboratory requirements," Caleb smirked. "But they are researchers. They are going to spend their lives looking through microscopes at infectious diseases. I need you, Dr. Howell, to build the bridge between their microscopes and the patient's bedside. I want you to design a curriculum that forces every single medical student to understand the cellular pathophysiology of a disease before they are ever allowed to prescribe a treatment."
Howell sat back, entirely overwhelmed by the sheer, staggering magnitude of the vision. Caleb wasn't just building a hospital. He was actively attempting to drag the entire field of human biology forward by fifty years, funding it with limitless capital.
"It is a revolution," Howell breathed, looking at the young billionaire with a mixture of profound awe and deep respect. "If we implement this... if we integrate the bacteriology labs directly into the clinical teaching rotations... we won't just be training doctors, Mr. Thorne. We will be training medical scientists. We will rewrite the textbooks."
"That is exactly what I am paying you to do, Doctor," Caleb smiled, raising his glass of bourbon. "To the future."
"To the future," Howell echoed, clinking his glass against Caleb's, his mind already racing with curriculum structures, laboratory layouts, and the sheer joy of unhindered academic freedom.
While the men forged the architectural and scientific future of the empire in the dark, heavy wood of the study, an entirely different, but equally vital, foundation was being laid in the bright, sun-drenched parlor at the rear of the mansion.
The sunroom was a masterpiece of southern architecture. Tall, arched windows wrapped around three sides of the room, offering a sweeping, panoramic view of the meticulously manicured gardens, the blooming magnolias, and the distant, sparkling fountains. The air was cool, smelling of fresh jasmine and the rich, dark roast of the coffee Antonio had just poured.
Mary-Beth sat on a plush, floral patterned settee, a porcelain teacup resting delicately in her lap. Across from her, Anne Howell sat with her teenage son, William Jr., and her young daughter, Clara.
The initial tension and culture shock that had gripped the Howell family at the train station was rapidly melting away under the warm, effortless charm of their hostess.
"I must confess, Mrs. Thorne," Anne said, taking a sip of the exquisite coffee, "when William told me we were leaving Baltimore to move to the deep South, I had visions of... well, of rural isolation. I certainly did not expect a city that rivals New York for industry, nor did I expect to be driven to a palace in a machine that runs on explosions."
Mary-Beth laughed, a rich, grounded sound that made the opulent room feel instantly comfortable and human. "Please, call me Mary-Beth. And you must forgive my husband's flair for the dramatic. Caleb believes that the best way to prove the future is arriving is to drive it directly through the front door."
Anne smiled, setting her cup down on the silver tray. "It is a beautiful city. And this home... it is breathtaking. Have you lived in Saint Denis long?"
"Long enough to see it change," Mary-Beth answered diplomatically, thinking back to the dirt and the desperation of the outlaw camps that felt like a lifetime ago. "Caleb has a vision for this region. He doesn't just want to build businesses, he wants to build a society that is safe, clean, and entirely self sufficient."
Anne's eyes drifted downward, her motherly instincts catching the subtle, tell tale modification of Mary-Beth's crimson silk dress, the high, empire waistline designed to flow gracefully over her midsection.
"You are expecting," Anne noted softly, a warm, knowing smile completely transforming her aristocratic face. "Your first?"
Mary-Beth's hand instinctively drifted to her stomach, her own smile softening into something deeply vulnerable and fiercely protective. "Yes. In the late spring."
"Oh, congratulations, Mary-Beth," Anne beamed, leaning forward, the formal boundaries of society wives entirely dissolving into the shared, universal sisterhood of motherhood. "It is the most terrifying but also most wonderful experience in the world. How have you been feeling? The early months can be quite brutal."
"The nausea has finally passed, thank heavens," Mary-Beth admitted, rolling her eyes slightly. "But Caleb has me on a rather strict regimen of outdoor exercise and breathing routines. The local doctors told me I should be confined to my bed, but my husband entirely dismissed them. He claims the modern approach is endurance, not fragility."
Anne laughed, shaking her head. "My William is the exact same way! When I was carrying Clara, he drove the traditional midwives absolutely mad with his theories on blood circulation and oxygenation. But I will tell you a secret, Mary-Beth... the men of science are usually right about the body. The exercise will serve you well when the day comes."
The conversation flowed effortlessly. They spoke not of radio waves, stock dividends, or anatomical pathology, but of the grounded, deeply human realities of life. They discussed the best schools in Saint Denis for the Howell children, the oppressive heat of the southern summers, and the overwhelming, terrifying joy of raising a family in a rapidly changing world.
Mary-Beth watched Anne Howell interacting with her children, feeling a profound sense of peace settle over her.
Caleb was in the study, buying the intellect of the twentieth century to build a fortress of steel and science. But here, in the sunroom, Mary-Beth was building the community that would inhabit it. She was forging the social bonds, the loyalties, and the human connections that would ensure the Thorne empire wasn't just a cold corporate monolith, but a living, breathing dynasty.
An hour later, the heavy oak doors of the study finally opened.
Caleb and Dr. Howell walked down the hallway and entered the sunroom. The two men looked entirely energized, their eyes burning with the shared, manic fire of absolute visionary alignment.
Howell looked at his wife, a massive, unburdened smile on his face. "Anne, my dear. I believe we have found our new home. What Mr. Thorne is building here... it is going to change the world."
Anne stood up, looking at her husband's joyous expression, and then looked back at Mary-Beth, returning a warm, knowing smile.
"I know, William," Anne said softly. "I believe they already are."
Caleb walked over to Mary-Beth, wrapping his arm securely around her waist, pulling her close against his side. He looked at the Howell family, the newest, most vital additions to his growing kingdom, and then looked down at his wife.
Mary-Beth looked up at him, her dark eyes shining with a profound, radiant affection. The sheer magnitude of his ambition, layered so perfectly over his absolute devotion to their family, was a combination she found utterly intoxicating. She let out a sweet, genuine smile, her hands resting lightly on the lapels of his midnight blue suit.
She leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, a cute, airy giggle escaping her as he immediately pulled her closer, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Caleb chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated in his chest, completely unbothered by the fact that the greatest physiologist in the country was standing only a few feet away. In Caleb's world, his wife was the only true gravity.
Slowly pulling back, Caleb turned his attention back to Dr. Howell and his family, seamlessly transitioning from the adoring husband back to the immaculate host.
"Dr. Howell," Caleb said, his tone shifting into smooth, reassuring hospitality. "I have arranged for a private estate for you and your family in the center of the Garden District. It is fully furnished, fully staffed with a dedicated cook and household servants, and entirely at your disposal. I hope you will find it more than adequate for your needs as you settle into the city."
Anne Howell's eyes widened slightly at the mention of a fully staffed estate, her hand gently tightening on her husband's arm. It was a level of compensation that universities in the North simply could not, and would not, provide.
"Furthermore, William," Caleb continued, utilizing the doctor's first name to cement their new partnership. "The physical construction of the Thorne Medical Institute, as we discussed, is still underway. I ask only that you be patient until the hospital and the educational wings are entirely finished. Take this time to acclimate. Enjoy the city. Spend some well deserved rest with your family and explore the town as well. Once the doors open and the laboratories are pressurized, the real work will begin, and I assure you, rest will become a very rare commodity."
Howell let out a rich, genuine laugh, shaking his head. He looked at his wife and children, the heavy burden of academic politics visibly lifting from his shoulders.
"Patience will not be a difficult virtue to practice under these circumstances, Caleb," Howell smiled warmly, extending his hand one final time. "I have spent the last decade fighting university boards for pennies. A few months of rest in a beautiful southern estate with my family sounds like a gift from heaven. We will be ready when you are."
"Excellent," Caleb nodded, shaking his hand firmly. "Vincenzo and Pierre will drive you to the property now. If you require absolutely anything, you send a wire directly to this house."
The Howell family exchanged their final, gracious farewells with Mary-Beth. Anne hugged her briefly, a genuine connection having been struck in the sunroom, before the family walked back out the heavy oak doors and descended the marble steps. They climbed back into the idling, pitch black Model T automobiles, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and exhilarated awe as the engines roared to life and the convoy rolled smoothly down the gravel driveway, disappearing through the massive iron gates.
As the sound of the engines faded into the distance, the warm, hospitable atmosphere of the foyer instantly evaporated. Caleb's posture straightened, the aristocratic charm melting away to reveal the cold, calculating architecture of the syndicate boss beneath.
"Hosea. Vincenzo," Caleb commanded, not even turning his head as he spoke to the empty hallway.
From the shadows of the adjacent parlor, the two men emerged instantly. Vincenzo had returned from seeing the Howells to the cars, and Hosea had been quietly observing the entire interaction from a distance.
"My study," Caleb ordered, turning on his heel and striding down the corridor.
The heavy oak doors of the study clicked shut, sealing the three men in absolute privacy. Caleb walked directly to the crystal decanter on his desk, pouring three neat measures of bourbon, and handed the glasses to his lieutenants.
"The lynchpin is in place," Caleb stated, taking a slow sip, his eyes sharp and focused. "Dr. Howell is entirely ours. Now, we use his gravity to pull the rest of the board. Vincenzo, what is the current progress on the remaining targets?"
Vincenzo took a sip of his drink, a predatory, highly satisfied smirk forming on his face. He pulled a small, black leather notebook from his breast pocket, flipping it open.
"The ripple effect was immediate, Boss," Vincenzo reported, scanning his coded notes. "The moment the rumors of Howell's resignation hit the faculty lounge at Johns Hopkins, the ground started shifting. The ones who were already leaning toward our offers, Dr. Flexner at Pennsylvania and Dr. Smith in Boston, are practically packing their bags. They were both highly positive before, but hearing that the Dean of Hopkins has defected to Saint Denis? It completely validated the legitimacy of the Thorne Institute. They are locked in. We expect their signed contracts by the end of the month."
"And the hard targets?" Caleb asked. "Osler, Halsted, and Welch?"
"Halsted is furious, but he's listening," Vincenzo chuckled. "The surgeon is an egomaniac, but he respects Howell. Now that he knows Howell is designing the curriculum, Halsted sent a telegraph to our shell company asking for a secondary review of the surgical theater blueprints. He wants to ensure his operating rooms are exactly to his specifications. If we give him the tiles and the autoclaves, he's ours."
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -