Creating an Industrial Empire in 19th Century Parallel World

On January 25th, 882, Poul strode through the Astoria Hotel lobby in New York, his eyes scanning the room. The patrons inside stared back at him with inquisitive gazes that seemed to question his presence among them. The men and women looked at him with contempt, as if to say he didn't belong to treat upon the ground they were standing on.

But Poul paid them no mind. He knew he had the means to pay for a room, and the hotel owner had a connection with John Morgan, a powerful man who could open doors for Poul that others couldn't.

As he made his way toward the exit, he overheard a group of people whispering about him. "They keep coming and coming, huh?" a man said, his tone dripping with disdain.

"So even an Albian can earn as much money as us, huh? How far society has fallen," a girl chimed in.

Poul couldn't help but smirk. He spoke audibly enough for them to hear. "At least I'm not living on inheritance."

The girl who had spoken turned to him, her expression contorted with anger. "Excuse me, what did you just say to me?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

"I said, at least I'm not living on inheritance," Poul repeated.

She retorted with a scoff, "And how did you assume that I'm living on inherited wealth? Do you even know who I am? No, probably not, because you are an Albian. You may have the money, but you lack the class, and if you aspire to gain entry into high society, you should abandon that notion. We shall never acknowledge your kind."

Poul laughed, seemingly amused by her caustic words. "Why did you assume that I would even aspire to join the high society? Those norms are fading, particularly in a rapidly advancing country like this."

This only exacerbated the situation. "Oi! You better watch your tone when speaking to her," one of the men warned.

Poul remained nonchalant, "Why? Who is she, anyway?" he asked, displaying a lack of interest.

The man's expression revealed his incredulity, "She's Fiora Whitney, of the illustrious Whitney Family," he answered.

Poul remained unimpressed, "The Whitneys? Who are they? I am unfamiliar."

"That is unsurprising, given your station," Fiora responded, lifting her fan to conceal her contemptuous smile.

The speaker's words were dripping with malice as they said, "Your social life is finished, Albian. You'll be seen all over the newspaper for speaking so rudely to her." In the late nineteenth century, social class held a critical place in society, and it was seen as impolite and uncivilized to speak disrespectfully to someone of a higher class. Poul's behavior was not just imprudent, but also unacceptable, but he remained indifferent to the implications.

"Social life? As if I am ever going to need one," Poul said, his tone cool and collected. "You said you are from the Whitneys, right? Well, that only proves my point that you live off your family's wealth. Without your last name, you would be just like any other woman out there."

The impact of his words was palpable as Fiora walked up to him. The moment she was inches away, she swung her arm, delivering a slap. But Poul caught her arm, stopping it mid-air.

"Ouch…get your filthy hands off me," Fiora growled, trying to free her arm. The atmosphere was tense as the two individuals engaged in a power struggle, with Poul remaining stoic despite the gravity of the situation.

"Fiora was it? I must admit, you are beautiful but you are ugly on the inside," Poul said before removing her arm from his grasp.

"What's going on here?" A man dressed in a bespoke suit stepped in, his polished demeanor and genteel manner immediately grabbing the attention of those present. As he glanced at the individuals, he recognized one of them. "Miss Whitney?" he inquired.

"Oh, Sir Astor, this Albian is harassing me with his words and I feel disrespected. I demand that you expel him from your establishment, or I shall lodge a complaint," Fiora said, her voice laced with indignation and contempt.

Sir Astor's gaze flickered to Poul as he asked, "Is that true, Sir Nielsen?"

Poul's response was immediate, "They were the ones harassing me, spouting words of hatred for my Albian background."

Sir Astor's expression conveyed his confusion as he tried to understand the situation. In the late nineteenth century, social class and decorum were of the utmost importance, and incidents of incivility were taken very seriously. It was his responsibility to ensure that his establishment upheld the highest standards of conduct and decorum.

"I regret to inform you, Sir Nielsen, that I must take Miss Whitney's complaints seriously. Therefore, we shall refund the money you paid to stay at our hotel," Sir Astor said, his tone firm but conciliatory.

Poul was taken aback by the announcement, "Wait? You are kicking me out?" he asked incredulously. "This is outrageous."

Sir Astor let out a long, weary sigh, and addressed Poul in a measured tone. "I am afraid you have made a grievous error, Sir Nielsen, by speaking so harshly to Miss Whitney. As a hospitality establishment, it is our responsibility to ensure that all of our guests are treated with the utmost respect and decorum. I regret to say that your behavior has been in violation of these standards, and it has forced me to take the necessary action."

Poul bristled at Sir Astor's words, his pride wounded by the accusation. "But I don't understand. Surely, I have the right to express my opinions? How am I being treated differently from the other guests?" he demanded.

Sir Astor remained silent for a moment, his eyes conveying a sense of disappointment and regret. Poul could feel the weight of his gaze... Finally, Sir Astor spoke.

"I assure you, Sir Nielsen, that we hold all our guests to the same standards of conduct and civility. However, in this particular instance, your actions have fallen short of these expectations. As a result, I must ask you to leave the premises immediately."

Poul scoffed, his frustration mounting. "Ah, this is all bullcrap. I don't care if I have violated the rules of society. What matters is that I have heard what I needed to hear. It is clear to me now that you hold the same prejudices as those in the upper class," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

Sir Astor regarded Poul with a mixture of regret and disappointment. He knew that Poul's actions were a reflection of a larger societal issue, and he wished that he could have done more to bridge the gap between the classes. However, he also knew that he had a duty to maintain the integrity and reputation of his establishment.

"Very well, Sir Nielsen. I shall have your luggage delivered to your new hotel. Please provide us with the necessary details, and we shall make the arrangements," he said in a calm and professional manner.

Fiora smirked her eyes following Poul's retreating form. She had enjoyed the momentary power she had exerted over him, relishing in the knowledge that she had put him in his place.

"Men like him never learn," she said with a derisive chuckle "They think they can just waltz into our world and pretend to be something they're not. It's laughable, really."

The other men and women in the room nodded in agreement, their expressions a mixture of amusement and disdain. They had all grown up in the upper echelons of society, and they knew that the divide between the classes was unbridgeable.

***

Outside, Poul strode towards one of the horse-drawn carriages that were lined up in front of the hotel.

"I need to get to Pearl Street. Are you available?" he asked the coachman, who looked him up and down with an expression of disdain.

"I'm not taking you," the coachman declared, his voice thick with contempt.

Poul's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"I said, I'm not going to take Albian and colored people," the coachman reiterated, his annoyance palpable. "I have standards, and I'm not going to lower them for the likes of you."

Poul regarded the coachman with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "You speak so haughtily for someone who earns a mere pittance each day," he said, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

The coachman scowled at Poul, his face contorted with rage. "How dare you speak to me like that? I won't stand for it!" he bellowed, his hand reaching for his whip.

Poul stood his ground, his expression firm and unyielding. "If you won't take me, then I'll find someone who will."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away from the carriage, his mind already racing with thoughts of how he would overcome the obstacles that lay ahead. Despite the challenges that he faced, Poul refused to be cowed or intimidated, knowing that he had the strength and determination to succeed in whatever he set his mind to.

As Poul walked along the sidewalk, he noticed a horse-drawn carriage pulled up beside him on the street. A footman hopped down from the back of the carriage and opened the door, revealing a familiar face inside.

"Miss Dupont?" Poul said, his voice laced with surprise.

"I figured I would run into you here, Mister Nielsen," Caroline said with a smile.

Poul regarded her curiously. "What brings you to this part of town?"

"To invite you to lunch, of course," Caroline replied, gesturing for him to join her in the carriage. "I thought it would be a pleasant change of scenery for us both."

Without a second thought, Poul climbed into the carriage and settled into the plush seat beside Caroline, eager to see where this unexpected invitation would lead.