A/N: I had actually started this story for a Social Studies homework, so I haven’t gotten beyond this chapter. If you guys like the story, then I’ll continue it. If not, then I’ll take it off. Make sure the R&R!

Chapter 1

Captain Tilder strutted about the ship, all high and mighty. “I am the ruler of this ship, and all shall obey me!” his poise practically shouted. Ooh, how I’d like to burst his bubble of self-pride and egoism by boasting how, in fact, I, Jessica Sharpe, was the true reason behind American industrialization. Yes, me, not this person who thinks he’s so great because he transports “great workmen” from England to America. What a laugh.

I am the true reason for most of the industrialization in North America, like I said before. And I am not lying. Nor am I over-exaggerating. I’ve masqueraded as servants, slaves, daughters of wealthy businessmen… Almost any position available in England. And for what? Here’s my job: to smuggle not goods, but information out of the country. I find that many people do not offer instructions to build their new creations easily. They like keeping them a secret. But no secret stays hidden for long, especially when it comes to me. And being an “under-developed”, “dim-witted” female that I am, no one suspects me.

I had suggested to Henry Ford that using the assembly line would improve business after a recent trip to England. Did you really think that dimwit would’ve thought up something like that himself? He is a good man, and intelligent and clever too. But he is more of a “big-picture” person. Little details? Not really his thing. But the assembly line did allow mass production for him, and then he ran a monopoly of cars. And now he’s rich. But he always remembers the little people, such as I, with a ten percent dividend from each month’s profit he makes.

But I have stolen inventions that haven’t become as popular with Americans. Such as the pulley-wagon. What a waste of detective work! I should have known better to steal that one, as it wasn’t even that popular in England to begin with. The pulley-wagon is a large wagon with six wheels instead of four, and a bar across the front where you rest your chest. On the sides were two bars, one on the right and the other on the left. They were long, and attached to the three wheels on each side. You would “row” the bars, making the wheels turn. I thought it was a very unique and efficient, though that did not seem so with other people. The man that hired me had wanted to run a free enterprise system, but eventually had to give out so many rebates to sell the rest of the wagons that he was put out of business. It was a shame, really. A trip for me across the sea, and not that much profit. And the poor man too. I can tell you right now, hiring me isn’t cheap.

In spite of a few failures, I still have made myself a very rich person. All at the age of eighteen! I own a roomy mansion in New York, a small house in California, and another small house in Texas. (You never know where you might need to go on these missions of mine!) I also own several shares of stocks, under a man’s name, of course. (Jack Silver.)

I am thinking of all this when the ship slows and eventually comes to a halt.

“New York City!” the First Mate shouts. We all pile off, and I wrap my shawl tighter around myself because it is quite cold here.

I curtsy to a naval officer waiting to escort me to a car. “Thank you, Sir,” I say, batting my eyelashes. As rich and successful as I am, I am still a young lady.

I get into the car and tell the driver, “To the Silver’s Estate in Pearl River, please.” My home is known as the Silver’s Estate, as I don’t wish to be known everywhere. That would certainly ruin my career. Instead, I use my “brother’s” name.

Sometime during the ride, I decide to break the silence. “How are the railroads and train networks going?”

“Ah, same as always,” he replies. “They’re still pooling, and the prices are shooting through the ceiling. If they keep this up, I suspect that they’ll go out of business!”

I narrow my eyes at the news, not liking it too much. The prices aren’t helping my profession, that’s for sure. “I do believe you’re right,” I comment, but the conversation drops there.

We ride the rest of the way in silence.

I get out of the car once we reach the house, and I pay the driver. When he is out of sight, I stretch in a most unladylike manner. But what can I say? The six hours in a car without moving stiffened me up a lot!

I trek up the house, and one of my maids answers the door. “Miss, you have a visitor,” she says. I raise my eyebrows in question but she just shakes her head.

I walk elegantly into the living room to see who is here so late. In the room, I see a man sitting in a chair. He looks as if he would be tall if he stood up, and is wearing a black business suit. He has curly brown hair, and a hat in his hand. His eyes wandered around the room, but turned to me as I entered.

“May I inquire as to who you are, Sir?” I say first.

“Ah, begging your pardon, Ms. Sharpe. I am James Flameon, and I have a proposition for you,” the man says, getting up.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Flameon, and what is it that you would like to tell me about this proposition?” I say this not unkindly, but I do let some suspicion creep into my voice.

“First things first,” Mr. Flameon says. “I do believe that you are Ms. Elizabeth Charles of England?”

I jerk in surprise. That was the woman I had disguised as this trip back to England! How did he know? I feign my surprise as shock. “Beg your pardon? I assure you, I don’t know of any Elizabeth Charles.”

“Then where did you go on this last trip across the sea?”

“I went to visit… my grandmother… in France,” I fib glibly, though not without a few pauses. “Comment t’allez-vous, Monsieur? How are you, Sir?” I do accumulate a variety of languages on my voyages.

“In that case, I’d best be leaving. This message only applies to Elizabeth Charles, or the woman pretending to be her.”

“Ah, don’t leave,” I say hastily. “You have just gotten here,” (even though I’m not sure he has) “and should sit and relax. Tell me more about this Elizabeth Charles, and maybe if I run into her along my travels, I’ll tell her. I do go to England quite often,” I add, as he looks doubtful. “Any secret you have is safe with me.”

Mr. Flameon nods, and we take a seat. “I am a representative from the Alexander Johnson’s Corporation. We have found that Elizabeth Charles is really a woman in disguise, with a birth name of Jessica Sharpe, though you deny that claim. We are a small railroad business. We are about to be put out of business by a local trust, and we do not wish that to happen. We would like to consolidate Elizabeth Charles’s skills with our own to gain vertical integration of trains, so that we might still have a job even if the trust does put us out. You may also tell Ms. Charles that we offer a hefty price for the completion of this task.”

The mercenary in me cannot resist. I get up and curtsy.

“You have presently engaged in the services of Jessica Sharpe,” I say. Then I cock my head to the side. “But you may know me better as Ms. Elizabeth Charles of England.”