My name is Daniel Abraham. I was born on August 22, 1840 to John Abraham and Charlotte Thornton Abraham. My father inherited his wealth as the owner of several fine textile factories centered in the county of Cambridgeshire. Naturally, I was raised in a society where grand mansions with numerous rooms and parlors were called home, where servant-children were my only playmates as a child, where dancing was considered a requirement, and where young women with seemingly good etiquette had ulterior motives. But that was when I did as I pleased, and no one dared to reprimand the son of Mr. John Abraham.
It came to a time in my life where I grew accustomed to many years of beautiful artwork, imported furniture, grand parties, and dancing with beautiful women, and understood the importance of my family’s name well enough that my father asked me to take up more responsibility in my inheritance. I remember that day well for it was the day I had waited my entire life for. He called to me from a dark, velvet-curtained study. He blew smoke rings from his wooden pipe as I anxiously stepped in. ‘I believe you to be ready, my dear Daniel.’
‘Ready, if I may ask, for what?’ I replied, nervously I might add. My father was not a man to be taken with ease.
‘To receive what is rightfully yours,’ - he stood from his seat, took a stack of papers from the desk and passed them to me with two hands- ‘a share in the family business.’
I could hardly comprehend what he was telling me. I eagerly flipped through the pages, reading through his handwritten notes. I summarized what I had read. ‘You plan to expand the company?’