My Husband Forced Me Out When His Father Struck Me at His 1864 Banquet — He Didn't Know I Secretly Owned Their Iron Dynasty
The news of the impounded railcars spread like wildfire, even through the quieter sections of Washington. Silas Endicott was in an uproar, sending furious telegrams and legal threats to the War Department. Meanwhile, Julian, his usual placid demeanor shattered, was growing increasingly desperate.
He found his way to Clara Albright’s boarding house late one evening, his usually immaculate suit rumpled, his face pale and etched with worry. Clara met him at the door, her expression unyielding.
“I need to speak with Eleanor,” Julian said, his voice strained. “It’s urgent.”
Clara stood firm, blocking the entrance with her sturdy frame. “Mrs. Endicott is not here, Mr. Julian. And even if she were, she wouldn’t see you.”
Julian ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting nervously down the quiet street. “Father is… quite distressed. This situation with the impounded trains, it’s unprecedented. It threatens everything.”
“Perhaps,” Clara replied, her voice flat, “General Endicott should have considered that before he struck his daughter-in-law and cast her out.”
Julian flinched, but quickly recovered. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. “Look, Clara, I understand your loyalty. My father has always been generous to you and your family.”
He peeled off a stack of crisp banknotes. “A thousand dollars,” he offered, pressing the envelope into her hand. “Just tell me where she is. Tell me where she’s hiding. It’s for her own good, I assure you.”
Clara looked at the money, then back at Julian, her gaze hardening. “My loyalty, Mr. Julian, belongs to the Danforth family, to whom your father owes a great deal more than a thousand dollars.”
She pushed the envelope back into his hand, her rejection firm.
Julian, startled by her refusal, fumbled with the money. As he tried to stuff it back into his pocket, another, thinner envelope slipped from his grasp, landing silently on the worn rug. It was sealed, marked with the Endicott Ironworks crest.
He didn’t notice. He was too consumed with his own agitation, mumbling apologies and threats as he finally retreated, his footsteps echoing down the street.
Clara watched him go, then bent down, her fingers closing around the forgotten envelope. She brought it inside, her brow furrowed. It felt heavy, filled with papers.
She carefully broke the seal. Inside, tucked amongst a stack of correspondence, were several internal invoices. They detailed massive shipments of shell casings to the War Department, but one set of figures stood out starkly.
It was Silas Endicott’s distinctive, sprawling signature on two separate invoices for the exact same order, the same quantity of shells, but with different dates and slightly altered prices. He was double-billing the Department of War.
Clara’s lips thinned. Her loyalty had not been broken. But Silas’s carefully constructed web of lies was beginning to unravel, piece by damning piece.
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