"Nonsense!" John Thornton shouted at his foreman, Michaels, in his office at the Brewery. "There was no need for it Michaels and I will not stand for it!" he huffed, regarding the man with obvious irritation.

"With all respect Master," Michaels replied as he stood in front of Mr. Thornton, his clothes wrinkled, muddy and reeking of sour beer. He held his crumpled cap in his hands with bloody knuckles. "You didn't see 'im! He was outright defiant! You asked me to be the foreman and I've got to keep 'em in line-," Micheals added a belated, "- sir."

John rolled his eyes and walked in deliberate steps behind his desk and sat down slowly. John was a stoic man by all accounts. He often found that the pretend favor displayed in society was beyond him. His face was honest and he did not suffer to affect happiness or affection when he had none. Still, he was not unkind and he held his temper well. Settling into his chair, John regained dominion over his emotions and continued the conversation in what he hoped was a quiet and professional manner.

"Mr. Michaels." John looked up from his desk and waited for Michaels to meet his eye. "Do you know anything of Mr. Hutmacher?" Without waiting for the man to answer he continued, "I do. I met him off the train when he first arrived for work in the brewery two months ago. I would-" he scowled with intensity at Michaels, his blue eyes dark and ominous, "-humbly suggest that you learn more about those workers that I entrust to your supervision Mr. Michaels. For if you had spoken with Mr. Hutmacher even once you would know that the man is nearly deaf."

Michaels' face went blank. He looked down at his hat and twisted it for several seconds before looking back up to meet John's calculated gaze.

"I- I uh- didn't know that. Sir," Michaels admitted, his face flushed with shame.

"I expect not," John replied. He sighed and his scowl lessened. "So you see Mr. Michaels, Mr. Hutmacher was not being defiant. He did not hear you. And he certainly didn't deserve your fists as a punishment for that."

Michaels nodded solemnly.

"I know how it is done in other breweries, in other cities. But that is not how I run my establishment. I do not want to hear of you hitting another worker unless it is a matter of dire peril," John continued.

Michaels nodded again. "I'm terrible sorry sir," he offered weakly.

John nodded and waived the man out of the room. Michaels left and John scrubbed his face with his hands. His temper was quite under control now, but it flared when he remembered Hutmacher, split lip and black eye limping across the brewery yard to his boarding room. Thornton knew that this sort of thing was commonplace in other Breweries. Nearly half of his workforce were German immigrants, and some Masters saw fit to beat them into submission rather than learn how to speak to them, or how to earn their respect. John was determined not to be that type of man.

Sighing, he stood, shirking his coat and draping it neatly over his chair. He reached for his ledger and pen. He had work that needed done.

After several hours of work, the night air was welcome and crisp compared to the stuffy smell of papers and burning oil in his office. John smiled at the pavement, enjoying his short stroll from the brewery to his home. The brewery and distillery was its own section of town, walled in with four toll gates that kept the public at bay. Occupying the high ground near the river and just north of Arbor Park there were several buildings that made up the works of the business, and then two more that served as living quarters and dining hall for his workers. It was custom that the workers receive board as part of their wages, with so many being immigrants. There was a curfew enforced for the workers as well and the brewery grounds were fenced with a large gate along the road that separated it from the rest of the city. The Thornton house stood just outside the gate, built to all the modern standards of society. John was proud of its gleaming and rather ornate gas lamps, the brightly dyed but simple curtains and its handsome red brick exterior. It was a gift he'd made to his father, delivered post mortem.

The Thornton family was not a stranger to tragedy. John's father, Edmond Thornton was a soldier all of his life, struggling to rise in the ranks and gain a better station in society for his wife, son and daughter. Diligently Edmond set money aside for his eventual retirement where he planned to purchase a grand house for the family in the countryside. John's father's plans were dashed when a man on trial for treason managed to smuggle a dagger into his coat and stabbed the guarding soldier, Edmond, while being interrogated.

John, Edith and their mother were given the sum of money that Edmond had put aside and left to fend for themselves. They stayed with family for a few weeks while John – only fourteen at the time – secured the purchase of a brewery with his father's money. It was a risky business, to give up all of the money they had in hopes of earning more. The business began small, with John, his mother, and even young Edith working alongside the hired laborers. They lived in a ramshackle boarding house and subsisted on a thin gruel. Every shilling was saved, inspected, planned and invested. John picked up the German language among other business skills and within a year's time the brewery had doubled its orders. After that, John added distilling to the works.

Slowly, John worked to pull them out of poverty. He held off selling the outfit to snide and smooth tradesmen, taking their offers to mean he was doing well. His mother had asked John quite directly if he might sell the brewery and buy the country house her late husband had imagined. She'd told him the price of the land, saying he could buy a small estate and tenants with the sums offered. John had never known the countryside, and had no desire to live there. Already headstrong and secure in his decisions, he stayed the steady course. Season over season he improved the Brewery, and his family's station. The Thornton's rented a suitable home for a time, and on the 10 year anniversary of his father's death John had opened The Thornton House.

The porch staircase was stone and John's footsteps made a sharp tapping as he climbed them. The grand entry door stood two men tall with elegant and intricate stonework on either side. He opened the door and was greeted by his servant Elsie.

"Evening Mister. I'll be taking a basket to the German man, will I not?" She asked gesturing at a wicker basket with bread cheese and a crock that he assumed had some sort of broth or soup. It was the typical Master's Favor that he paid when a man was injured or ill from the Brewery. John was not surprised that Elsie had already heard of Mr. Hutmacher. The servants often knew gossip long before others; their network of stealthy whispers while passing in the streets or delivering goods was far more effective than the veiled mutterings of genteel drawing rooms.

"Yes please, Elsie," John replied, and made his way to change for dinner.