Phillip might have shocked them by a lot as they still hadn't recovered from the statement he just made.
"Tons," he repeated calmly, as though the word weren't a thunderclap in their ears. "That is the measure by which steel must be sold. Not pounds, not bars, but tons. Because gentlemen—steel will not be the craft of a smith alone. It will be the backbone of industries."
The elder Arkwright blinked, his weathered face caught between disbelief and calculation. "You talk as though you could stack mountains."
Phillip allowed himself a faint smile. "Why settle for mountains, when we can pave kingdoms?"
Edward Arkwright leaned forward, his voice taut with youthful hunger. "If you truly can sell by the ton, then you mean to say your process can outpace every furnace in Sheffield combined."
"Not just outpace," Phillip corrected, his violet eyes sharp. "Replace."
"So, how much for a ton?"
Phillip had anticipated that question long before the Arkwrights ever set foot in Shropshire. He had spent nights scratching figures by candlelight—cost of ore from the nearest pits, coal prices from local seams, lime from quarries, wages for forty men, timber for scaffolding, and brick for refractory linings. He knew that steel had to be priced to tempt, yet not so cheap as to seem impossible.
He folded his hands behind his back and met Thomas Arkwright's eyes squarely.
"Twenty-five pounds per ton."
The words landed with the same finality as a hammer blow.
The elder Arkwright's brows shot up. Edward's lips parted as if he might protest, but Phillip spoke on before either could interrupt.
"That figure," he said firmly, "accounts for coal, ore, lime, labor, upkeep of the furnaces, and my men's wages. At twenty-five pounds, I can cover costs, expand the works, and still undercut the price of wrought iron, which even now fetches forty to fifty pounds per ton. Sheffield crucible steel costs far more—closer to a hundred pounds for but a fraction of the yield. What I offer is not a luxury metal for cutlers. It is steel for industry. Steel for mills. Steel for war."
Edward exhaled as if struck. His gaze darted to the ingots stacked like golden bricks beside the converter.
He swallowed hard before finding his voice. "Very well, we'd like to buy fifty tons."
The words seemed to hang in the smoky air, heavier than the steel itself. Several of Phillip's men nearby stiffened, their eyes widening as though they'd misheard. Fifty tons—no smith's shop in England had ever dreamed of such a request in one breath.
Thomas Arkwright's weathered face remained guarded, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eye. "That will be enough to refit every spindle and shaft in my mills. If your steel proves half as durable as you claim, the savings alone will pay for the purchase in a year."
Phillip allowed himself a slow, deliberate nod. "Fifty tons at twenty-five pounds per ton… that is one thousand two hundred fifty pounds."
Even speaking the figure aloud carried a weight of its own. His father had once given him five thousand to prove his mad venture. With this first order, he had already returned a quarter of that investment in a single stroke.
Edward's eyes shone. "We'll need delivery within two months. Can you manage that?"
Phillip glanced over his shoulder at the stacks of ingots and the great smoking converter behind them. Already, nearly twenty tons lay cooling in the yard from their first weeks of labor. With the men trained, the rhythm established, and the blast furnace running steady, he knew the rest was within reach.
However, there was one problem—transportation. Delivering fifty tons of steel to the Severn mills was no trivial matter. A wagon could carry a ton at most, and the muddy tracks through Shropshire would devour wheels and horses long before they bore such weight.
Phillip's mind raced. He would need barges on the Severn, perhaps even contracts with local boatmen to carry the loads downstream. The thought tightened his jaw, but he did not let doubt show. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, as if the challenge were already solved.
"The steel you ordered will be ready within two months," he said. "But fifty tons is no bundle of wool or cartload of grain. The question becomes: how best to move it?"
Thomas Arkwright crossed his arms, his thick brows furrowing. "You've the furnaces and the men, aye. But can you deliver? My mills stand on the Severn for a reason—coal and cotton both come by water. Steel will need the same. Wagons alone won't serve."
Phillip inclined his head. "Quite so. Which is why I propose this: you supply the barges. I will supply the steel. The Severn flows from here to your mills—straight as a spine. With your boatmen and my ingots, we can bridge the gap."
Edward leaned forward eagerly. "That could work. We already contract boatmen for coal. If they can carry coal, they can carry steel."
"Very well, let's head to my office and complete the paperwork there," Phillip said, turning toward the timber shed that he had claimed as his counting house.
Inside, the rough-hewn table bore little resemblance to the polished desks of London banks, but on it lay ledgers, quills, and papers.
They spent one hour in the office, outlining the terms and conditions of both parties and once it was done, they signed the contract.
And at that moment, Phillip made his first transaction.
***
Two months later, the air was warm when Phillip rode back to the Wellington estate.
When he arrived, the butler led him through the grand halls. His father, the Duke of Wellington, waited in his study.
Phillip entered, holding a leather-bound ledger close to his chest. He bowed slightly.
"Father."
The Duke raised his eyes. "Phillip. You have been gone these weeks. Have you brought results?"
Phillip stepped forward and placed the ledger on the desk. "Yes. Here. My first sales."
The Duke's brows lifted. He opened the ledger slowly. Inside were neat rows written in Phillip's hand.
Sales Ledger – Shropshire Steelworks
To Thomas Arkwright & Sons, Severn Mills – 50 tons of steel.
Price per ton: £25.
Total: £1,250.
Delivery complete, May 31, 1778.
The Duke ran his finger over the numbers. "One thousand two hundred fifty pounds… in only two months?"
Phillip nodded. "Yes, Father. And there are more orders waiting. The mills want more. Other merchants have already come to ask."
For a long moment, the Duke said nothing. Then he closed the ledger and looked at his son.
"You have done what I thought was folly."
"I'm glad to hear that father. I'm contemplating formalizing my own company, I have a name in mind."
"Hoh?" His father leaned forward, curious. "What might that be?"
"Imperial Dynamic Systems," he revealed. That was the name of the company he worked in his previous life. Now, if Clara was indeed in this world, she would recognize it immediately.
"Imperial Dynamic Systems," his father repeated. "That's quite a long name, and an intriguing one. So your company solely focuses on producing steel?"
"No father, steel has a lot of applications, didn't I tell you that? In fact I'm making equipment using steel, one of which you are familiar with. Steam engines."
The Duke's brows rose. "Steam engines? You mean the contraptions the others toy with in Scotland?"
Phillip nodded. "Yes, Father. But unlike theirs, mine will be made with stronger steel parts, not brittle iron. Pistons, boilers, gears—all will last longer, work harder, and be safer. With them, mills will not need waterwheels. Mines will not drown from floods."
"Isn't it expensive?"
"With my technique of mass-producing steels, it won't be even expensive. In fact, I do have a prototype for the steam engines that can be worked on literally anything, though varying in designs to serve different purposes."
"I see," his Father muttered. "The business that you created is a good venture, but still I need more numbers to fully invest in your enterprise."
"Very well father."