Alright 👍 Here we go — the full imm
Chapter Two: Part I
The morning air was sharp, carrying with it the briny tang of the Thames. Jonathan woke to the sounds of wagon wheels grinding over cobblestones and the distant shouts of market criers. For a long moment, he lay still, blinking up at the low ceiling of his rented room, mind racing.
1736. London. This is not a dream.
He rose quickly, splashed cold water from a basin onto his face, and straightened the borrowed coat he had slept in. The garment was rough, the fabric cheap, but it was presentable. He needed to look the part. Today, he would meet William Atwood again.
Following Atwood
Atwood's warehouse on Cheapside was already alive when Jonathan arrived. Horses stamped in their traces, their carts piled with bales of cloth. Men hauled barrels from the docks, backs bent, faces streaked with sweat and soot. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lanolin from wool, molasses from sugar, and the faint sourness of damp wood.
Atwood himself was there, his wig powdered but slightly askew, his waistcoat buttoned in haste. He barked orders at two porters before turning his eye on Jonathan.
"You came back," the merchant said, narrowing his eyes as though half-expecting the young man to vanish into the city's crowd.
Jonathan inclined his head. "You offered me a chance, sir. I'm here to work."
Atwood grunted. "Then stay close and keep your ears open."
The day began with errands. Jonathan was handed folded notes sealed with wax and told to deliver them to other merchants nearby. He crossed Cheapside's narrow streets again and again, dodging carts and apprentices carrying bundles of cloth. Each time he returned, Atwood's sharp eyes measured him, as though weighing whether he could be trusted not to linger or pry.
Jonathan kept silent, but he observed. The merchants he visited glanced at him only briefly, their attention fixed on the paper in his hand. They read Atwood's words with frowns or nods, scribbled quick replies, and sealed them with their own signets before shoving them back into his hand.
Letters mattered. Paper, ink, and the words upon them carried weight here. Jonathan tucked that fact into memory.
The Warehouse
By midday, Atwood drew him into the warehouse itself. Sunlight slanted through high, dusty windows, glinting off scales, weights, and the edges of barrels. Two men wrestled a crate stamped with the East India Company's insignia.
Atwood pointed to the tallyman who scratched figures with a dull quill. "See that? He keeps count of every bale, every barrel. If the numbers fail to match what's written, a man might lose a fortune."
Jonathan nodded, though his modern-trained mind had already noted the man's sloppy script, the careless blotches of ink.
He carried parchment between rooms, fetched quills, and ran messages. The tasks were menial, but he did them with precision. Every errand was a chance to see more of this strange new world.
The Streets of Cheapside
In the late afternoon, Atwood sent him to accompany a porter to the exchange. They passed along Cheapside, and Jonathan drank in the chaos of London.
Criers shouted prices of grain and candles. Shop windows displayed bolts of cloth dyed deep red and blue. The smell of roasting chestnuts mixed with the stench of horse dung. A hawker tried to sell him a paper filled with the latest scandal about Parliament, thrusting the printed sheet toward him with an eager grin.
Jonathan bought nothing. He watched, he listened. Every man and woman haggled — for bread, for shoes, for ribbon. Price was never fixed, and money never stretched far enough.
He began to understand: this was not a city of set wages and receipts. This was a city where profit lived in the difference between what one man bought for and what another was willing to pay.
The Merchant's Table
That evening, Atwood called him into the counting room. It was a narrow space, its single window covered with soot, its table littered with scraps of parchment and dull coins.
Atwood sat with a heavy purse, opening it to count wages for the day's laborers. Jonathan leaned subtly closer, watching.
Pennies, farthings, halfpennies clinked into the men's rough hands. For the porters, there were silver shillings — larger, heavier coins stamped with the king's profile. One foreman received a guinea, bright gold that gleamed in the candlelight.
Jonathan's pulse quickened. He remembered:
A pound sterling was worth 20 shillings.
A shilling was worth 12 pence.
A guinea, though valued at 21 shillings by tradition, still carried prestige.
He was seeing, in real time, the hierarchy of value. Copper for the poor, silver for the skilled, gold for the gentlemen.
When Atwood dismissed the men, Jonathan lingered.
"Sir," he asked carefully, "do you often pay in coin alone?"
Atwood gave him a sharp look. "Not always. A merchant cannot carry enough coin for every deal. We use notes, drafts, promises sealed by hand. But coin—" he tapped the gold guinea, "coin never lies."
Jonathan nodded, filing away the truth.
The First Impression
For two days, he followed Atwood without complaint. He carried letters, tallied crates, and waited silently while merchants argued in voices that shook the beams above their heads.
The other men in the warehouse began to notice him. One porter spat and muttered, "Atwood's little shadow." Another, grinning, clapped him on the shoulder. "Running after the master, eh? Careful, lad — he bites if you stumble."
But Jonathan did not stumble. He held his head low, hands steady, eyes always sharp. Already, merchants were beginning to nod at him when he entered a room. He was no longer invisible. He was Atwood's man.
And that, for a beginning, was enough.