Shropshire, Spring 1782
The forge yard of Imperial Dynamics thundered with familiar sounds—hammers on anvils, the hiss of cooling steel, the low roar of furnaces. Men shouted to one another as carts of timber and iron rolled past. Progress was being forged day by day. Yet Phillip's gaze had already moved to something beyond rails and engines.
Inside the drafting hall, the tall windows let in pale spring light. A single parchment hung pinned to the wall above the oak table. It wasn't of a locomotive this time. No pistons, no smokestack, no flywheels. Instead, the drawing showed a long, elegant carriage: a rectangular frame set on paired wheel assemblies, with neat windows marked along its sides and benches carefully measured within.
Henry Carter noticed immediately. He set down the set of calipers he'd been using and frowned. "That's no engine. What on earth are you plotting now, my lord?"
Phillip's eyes gleamed with conviction. "Not an engine, Henry. A coach. A carriage designed for people, not coal or cloth. Wagons on rails can carry weight, but this—this will carry society itself. We are going to build the world's first passenger coach."
Henry rubbed his beard and gave a dry chuckle. "Passenger coach? We've barely enough men to keep up with rail orders, and you want us upholstering parlors on wheels?"
Phillip turned sharply, his voice steady and firm. "Think, Henry. We've proven the locomotive can move freight faster than any horse. But Parliament still sees it as a curiosity. They cannot yet imagine men and women riding it because well, they associated travel with horse-drawn carriages. So if we make something similar to a carriage they are so used to, they will never again think of this as just industry. They will think of it as the future."
In his world's history, Phillip learned that the first locomotives were an open-top carriage, that is to say vulnerable from the elements such as the smoke from the engine, the rain, the heat, and snow. It will only take another decade for a redesign of how people travel in locomotives and come up with something similar to train coaches.
"Well…if we are going to make that, we should approach a company that specializes in making a wagon for horse-drawn carriages. Because we are too occupied with the project."
Phillip's reply was firm. "I know, I'll ask my father to use his influence to gather the best wagon-makers and furnishers in London. Men who know how to shape wood for comfort, not just strength. But they will work under our direction. This will not be a carriage copied for rails—it will be a new creation entirely."
Henry sighed and crossed his arms, glancing once more at the parchment pinned to the wall. "And you expect these coach builders to take orders from smiths and foundry men?"
Phillip's gaze sharpened. "They will, once they see where the future lies. The ones who resist will cling to their horses and eventually fade. The ones who adapt will prosper with us. Henry, we aren't only building machines. We're building an industry."
By the following week, letters had gone out from the Duke of Wellington's office. Summons were delivered to established carriage-makers, upholsterers, and glass specialists. Some arrived in Shropshire curious, others openly skeptical.
One morning, the yard buzzed with the unusual sight of London craftsmen in fine coats, their soft hands better suited for shaping wood and stitching cushions than for hauling steel. They stood in clusters, wrinkling their noses at the smoke, until Phillip strode out to meet them.
"Gentlemen," Phillip began, unrolling a fresh set of drawings across a long table. "You are here because your craft has built Britain's roads for a century. But now, I ask you to help build its rails. What we design today will carry not just cloth or coal, but the gentry, the merchant, the farmer, and the noble. Comfort and safety are as vital as iron and steam. And for that, I need your skills."
The men peered at the drawings, puzzled. One older builder, Master Rowan, tapped the sketch of the bogie wheels. "Eight wheels? And all beneath one frame? Sir, a road coach rides on four at most. Too many and the thing will weigh a ton!"
Phillip leaned forward, explaining with steady patience. "That is why they are divided—two bogies, each able to swivel. On rails, there is no need for reins to guide a horse. The rails themselves dictate direction. With eight wheels, the weight is spread, and the ride is smoother. Imagine no potholes, no mud, no broken axle from a rut. Rails promise that."
Another, a younger upholsterer, frowned at the marked rows of windows. "Glass in such quantity? It will shatter the first time the coach lurches."
Phillip shook his head. "Not if the frame is reinforced with steel ribs. The glass will be set in deep, with brass fittings. These passengers must see the countryside pass before them, or else they will not believe they are moving faster than any horse alive."
The murmurs grew louder. Skepticism remained, but so did curiosity.
Henry leaned against a beam, watching with amusement as Phillip's words slowly eroded their resistance. "You're seducing them with words again," he muttered under his breath.
Phillip allowed himself a small smile. "Better words now than lawsuits later."
The work began in earnest.
The steel underframe was laid first—thick beams riveted crosswise, heavy enough to support the weight of timber walls, seats, and passengers. Carpenters measured and cut oak panels, fixing them against steel ribs that gave the coach its strength. The bogie assemblies were the most complex: four axles, each bearing flanged wheels, fitted to pivot beneath the coach on a central pin.
Failure came quickly. The first bogie seized when turned, the bearings grinding against the pin. The coach frame shuddered awkwardly when moved even a few feet along the trial rails.
Phillip crouched beneath the frame with a lantern, sweat darkening his shirt. "Too tight," he said, running a finger over the scored metal. "It must be snug, but not strangled. File it down a fraction, and grease the bearing more thoroughly. Rails demand precision, not brute force."
The smiths grumbled but obeyed, sparks flying as the fittings were adjusted.
The carpenters had their own troubles. The oak panels warped after drying, leaving gaps in the walls. Rain leaked through when a sudden spring storm lashed the yard.
Phillip stood in the dripping coach, water pattering through onto the benches. His jaw tightened. "Oak alone won't do. It must be seasoned longer—and reinforced with thin steel sheeting between timbers. The steel will hold the shape, the timber will provide the finish. We cannot have passengers sitting in puddles."
Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Every time we think we've solved one problem, you add two more."
Phillip's answer was simple. "Better here in Shropshire than before Parliament."
By midsummer, the prototype finally began to resemble his vision. A long coach with a steel underframe, oak-paneled sides, and glass windows gleaming under the sun. Inside, cushioned benches lined either side, upholstered in dark green fabric. Brass fittings caught the light, polished until they gleamed.
The men gathered around it as it sat upon the yard's test track. It looked nothing like the open wagons used for coal. It looked—dignified.
Henry whistled low. "I'll give you this, Phillip. It's handsome. Like a rolling parlor, just as you said."
Phillip ran a hand along the brass rail inside the doorway, a strange warmth in his chest. He had seen such coaches in history books in his old world, but here and now, this was the first. His.
But the true test was still to come.