Lin Yuchan pulled a new transatlantic letter from the mailbox, slowly opening it with a small knife while carefully reviewing the past few months’ real estate turmoil.

She, too, had moments of temptation. Compared to the hard work of running a business, speculating in property for a few months to double her wealth was too enticing.

Many people like her knew this was just a bubble carnival. But everyone has wishful thinking, believing that as long as they safely disembarked before the bubble burst, they could profit from the fire without loss.

But the problem was, no one knew when this bubble would burst. As long as one participated, every minute and second was like dancing on a minefield of gold.

The envelope was neatly cut open. She pulled out Rong Hong’s reply letter.

Everyone habitually gathered around. This irregular letter-reading activity had become an important team-building project for Boya Company.

This letter was thick. But Lin Yuchan tacitly allowed everyone to slack off.

Cotton harvest season hadn’t arrived yet, and there were still months before they could “roll up their sleeves for big projects.” So last year’s cotton star team, led by Chang Baoluo, was currently semi-idle.

As for the tea business, due to the economic crisis, business was slow, and having just merged with Defeng Company, they needed time to digest. Lin Yuchan indicated there was no rush to resume operations. Old Zhao’s side wasn’t busy either.

So they might as well focus on team building. Improve professional standards and cultivate colleague rapport.

Lin Yuchan took a sip of water and began reading the letter.

“Miss Lin,” Rong Hong wrote, “receiving your letter brought exceptional joy…”

Early this spring, Lin Yuchan had tentatively written to the hotel in Connecticut where Rong Hong was staying, sending it via Grinnell Shipping Company’s transatlantic passenger liner.

Rong Hong had taken this company’s ship to America, and later, when Lin Yuchan booked tickets for Christmas Freeman, she’d used the same company—they were regular customers. So the clerk was very enthusiastic, promising careful delivery on time.

In that letter, Lin Yuchan had described Boya Company’s current business situation and had all employees write greetings—even illiterate ones dictated a few words.

The letter was indeed delivered quickly and safely. After receiving the reply, Rong Hong was overjoyed and immediately wrote a lengthy response.

“Found a machinery factory willing to take orders. Putnam Company, in Fitchburg, Massachusetts. I’ve thoroughly inspected it—very satisfied!” Rong Hong completely ignored his old company’s business situation, immediately writing about machinery, machinery. “However, the required machinery types are numerous and will take half a year to manufacture. I don’t want to be idle this half year, so I plan to join the army as a volunteer soldier to fulfill my American civic duties…”

Lin Yuchan and the several people reading with her were startled, breaking into nervous sweats in the hot weather.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t go into danger…”

Fortunately, someone was more rational than Rong Hong. The American general who received Rong Hong’s enlistment letter, upon hearing his background, immediately expressed thanks for his kind intentions but said that as a Yale honor student currently entrusted with important duties by the Qing Emperor, he shouldn’t engage in combat. Better to stay safely in the rear and contribute more to Sino-American relations in the future.

Rong Hong wasn’t disappointed for long before finding another project.

This year marked the tenth anniversary of his graduation from Yale University. So Rong Hong went to New Haven, Connecticut, to attend Yale’s ten-year reunion, meeting many former classmates. The gathering was extremely joyful.

In nineteenth-century America, those who could attend university were all privileged sons of wealthy families. These classmates, ten years after graduation, had some enter politics, some joined the military, some became industrialists—all with bright futures. That sole poor international student, Rong Hong, had resolutely returned to his backward homeland and disappeared without a trace. All classmates thought he’d wasted his life; unexpectedly, he’d now become a pillar of his nation, shouldering the historic responsibility of transfusing industrial blood into an ancient agricultural empire. All expressed amazement and praise.

“My classmates suggest that when the machinery is ready and I return to China, instead of taking the old route, I should cross America and head west from San Francisco, becoming Yale’s first person to circumnavigate the globe!” Rong Hong continued fantasizing in his letter. “Unfortunately, the government-supported railroad from Chicago to San Francisco isn’t complete yet, but I’ve already inquired—I can first take a ship south from New York, cross through Mexico, transit the Panama Isthmus, then sail to San Francisco…”

This string of place names was tongue-twisting. Rong Hong wrote in English, and Lin Yuchan’s translation was like no translation at all, leaving everyone confused.

She had a mental map of America and deeply admired Rong Hong’s ambitious aspirations. But with no globe at hand, she couldn’t explain to everyone.

She just said: “He wants to cross the American continent… um, about ten thousand li distance. Let me calculate—roughly from Shanghai to Kashgar…”

No exclamations were heard. Everyone assumed she’d miscalculated.

Lin Yuchan suddenly thought: so… the transcontinental railroad was about to be completed?

By comparison, China’s first self-designed and constructed railway wouldn’t begin construction until 1909, over forty years later.

How embarrassing.

The gap kept widening, though after a difficult century, it would gradually narrow again.

Rong Hong was also obsessed with this unfinished railroad. In his letter, he emphasized several times his regret at not being able to stay in America a few more years to experience these railroads after their completion.

“I have a classmate who happens to be a senior manager at Central Pacific Railroad. I’ve used my savings to purchase 20 shares of this company’s stock to show support,” Rong Hong wrote. “If I have another chance to come to America, I’ll experience the transcontinental train journey…”

This passage everyone finally understood. After hearing Lin Yuchan’s interpretation, several new and old employees cried out in unison: “Absolutely not!”

Mr. Rong had been bewitched and was also dabbling in stocks!

Old Zhao clutched his heart, repeatedly muttering: “Good thing he used personal savings—at worst, he’ll be stranded in America, unable to return. But if he lost even one or two taels of the Qing’s funds, that would be a capital offense! Master, you can’t be corrupted by those foreigners…”

Chang Baoluo was more anxious than anyone, urging: “Let’s quickly write a letter telling him not to touch stocks! Send him those torn ‘Gibson Real Estate Company’ stock certificates we picked up yesterday!”

Aunt Hong said worriedly: “That won’t work. By the time this letter arrives, it’ll take at least a month or two. By then this Mr. Rong probably can’t afford hotels anymore and will likely be homeless on the streets, unable to receive the letter… Sigh, is his health okay? Can he do manual labor?”

Everyone looked at Lin Yuchan, using their eyes to urge her to quickly write a letter of advice.

But Lin Yuchan didn’t pick up her pen, her eyes showing contemplation.

Not all stocks were unreliable garbage. At least the “Central Pacific Railroad Company” that Rong Hong bought, being a U.S. government-supported project, shouldn’t easily go bankrupt.

Right, she’d heard this company’s name before!

In some reading material, she’d read: “California’s famous Stanford University… founded in 1891 by industrialist Leland Stanford… During America’s railroad boom period, he founded the Central Pacific Railroad Company and earned enormous wealth from it…”

She slapped her thigh and exclaimed, “This company has great prospects!”

At least their president didn’t go bankrupt and still had money to open a world-famous university!

Everyone looked at her like she was a monster.

Lin Yuchan checked the clock. Lunch break time.

“It’s like this.” She pulled over paper and pen, slowly drawing a map, pretending to answer a geography exam question. “I’ve heard that America’s territory is nearly as large as the Qing Dynasty, with fertile land, but east and west are heavily separated by mountains and deserts. The West’s vast fertile lands and mineral resources can’t be cultivated or developed, while the East’s industrial cities lack markets for their manufactured products. If they could build a railroad spanning east to west, it would be like an artery connecting the country’s resources and markets…”

“Railroad” and “train”—these concepts were still novelties in contemporary China. People had only heard of them in foreign newspapers but hadn’t seen what they looked like.

Only a few had seen the fierce, smoke-spewing locomotive heads in pictures, identical to steamship smoke. They knew trains were just another achievement of industrial civilization, like mule carts and horse carts—all for hauling things, but with Western magic applied, capable of traveling eight hundred li daily, the divine fleet-footed protector among vehicles.

Lin Yuchan: “Mr. Rong says the railroad construction project has strong government support, so those railroad companies must be financially solid, not shell companies. Moreover, building railroads is long-term industrial work. Once completed, America can massively develop the west, achieve economic takeoff, and become a world power…”

Aunt Hong and several others were completely lost and quietly left for lunch.

Literary youth Chang Baoluo forced himself to listen for a while before commenting: “Other people’s national economy has nothing to do with our Qing Dynasty. If they want to reform and develop, we can offer distant support—no need to throw real money at it.”

Lin Yuchan smiled: “True. But Mr. Rong considers America his second homeland and is willing to spend money on it—we can’t control that.”

She said this not to lecture others but to organize her thoughts.

It could be said that nineteenth-century America’s building of railroads was like twenty-first-century China’s building high-speed rail. Smooth transportation networks catalyzed America’s industrialization process, completely transforming this federation of autonomous states into an integrated superpower.

Shanghai’s recent real estate was a bubble. America’s railroad industry, at least currently, was not a bubble.

But rather a new emerging industry with enormous potential.

Lin Yuchan didn’t dare act unilaterally. After the Sunday commercial association meeting, she came to an affordable Shanghai-style Western restaurant two streets away and smilingly requested a private room.

Su Minguan was buttering her bread when he heard the curtain, his mouth corners silently curving upward without lifting his eyes.

Both had their businesses, rarely having opportunities for privacy, so Lin Yuchan suggested weekly appointments at new restaurants for working meals.

With her meager romantic experience, this was quite an ordinary idea. But in nineteenth-century Shanghai, it perfectly caught the trendy petit bourgeois fashion.

Business wasn’t good lately, but neither wanted to downgrade spending on these rare dates—truly “easy to go from frugal to extravagant, hard to return.”

However, with the recent economic depression, Western restaurants exceptionally posted twenty percent discount signs, so they had to support the business.

Now both were experienced, knowing how to book private rooms and behave to most resemble legitimate “young master and madam,” attracting the least attention.

“I’m a bit worried,” Lin Yuchan said while dismantling cream-baked hairy crabs, “the market is too chaotic. This time it was real estate stocks—we were cautious and avoided it. Next time who knows what it’ll be.”

Usually at Boya, she made decisions daily, though always consulting everyone, but had to appear constantly confident. Only before this young master could she honestly express deep inner anxieties.

Under unregulated market mechanisms, no matter how massive the assets, they could vanish in an instant.

Qing government policies changed daily. In its turbulent final fifty years, countless civil unrest and uprisings were still brewing.

Lin Yuchan’s current wealth was about ten thousand taels, mostly Boya’s asset value—actually, at land prices’ peak, her net worth could reach fifteen thousand, but these were pure numbers, visible but intangible.

Her personally available liquid savings were only about one thousand silver dollars. Already among the well-off petit bourgeois class.

But she increasingly felt that putting all her assets in Boya Company’s single basket—though she also had some Yixing shares, both businesses were fate-linked—seemed stable but was dangerous.

She tentatively asked: “Mr. Su, sleeping every night on Yixing’s such a large enterprise, do you ever feel—well, anxious and restless?”

Su Minguan quietly watched her dismantle the crab, shook his head, and patiently took over the plate to help.

Two years, no improvement.

“Yixing’s assets aren’t mine,” he answered very officially, watertight.

Lin Yuchan scoffed, pointing at the crab leg in his hand: “Eating crab on public funds—what’s the penalty?”

Only then did he smile, then quietly added: “Hardly counts as a large enterprise. I think it’s insufficient.”

Right, he belonged to the debt-ridden revolutionary class. As long as he hadn’t earned as much as his ancestors, he wouldn’t consider “money going down the drain.”

Besides, Su Minguan was backed by the Qing Dynasty’s top criminal network and didn’t need money for security.

He did business purely from instinct, incidentally helping comrades and earning convenience.

Su Minguan delivered strips of salty cream crab meat to Lin Yuchan’s fork tip one by one, watching her thoughtfully.

“A’Mei, planning to buy land?”

Any Chinese, whether official or merchant, after getting rich, priority was buying land. Official circles were full of deadly schemes, business was dangerous everywhere—only land wouldn’t betray you. Only after becoming a landlord could one truly feel secure.

Su Minguan thought again, then said: “I’m not trying to discourage you…”

Buying land in the Qing Dynasty wasn’t as easy as in ancient novels. Land was all farmers’ ancestral property passed down through generations. Unless truly destitute, who would easily sell? Even if someone was poor and desperate, their land was mostly already targeted by local wealthy families, ready to acquire it massively at any opportunity. Good land rarely entered the market.

Moreover, local gentry power was enormous. Often when outsiders came to villages wanting to buy land, the entire township and clan had to meet and vote, accepting this person as a hometown member before willing to sell land.

Retired high officials and wealthy merchants might rely on connections and power to acquire some quality, affordable land. But someone like Lin Yuchan, a rootless young widow, rashly approaching villages to buy land, people wouldn’t even acknowledge her.

Even if after great difficulty she acquired some corner scraps, unable to farm herself, she’d have to hire people to manage it and collect rent annually. If tenants were difficult, she’d need extra energy and argument, even violence, becoming the detestable old society stereotype she hated.

With worse luck, if land was encroached upon or sold illegally… then she’d have to compete in connections, wealth, and shamelessness, sometimes litigation lasting a lifetime.

So for Lin Yuchan, an outsider without power or influence, wanting to be a peaceful rent-collecting landlady was quite difficult.

Hearing his brief warnings, Lin Yuchan quickly smiled: “No, no.”

She had over a century’s generation gap with the natives regarding land, and wasn’t too obsessed.

Besides…

When the Qing fell and warlords fought, however much land she had couldn’t be protected.

Thinking long-term, her little Western house would likely be confiscated after a hundred years. Lin Yuchan was mentally prepared: colonial remnants would ultimately be returned to the people.

“Mr. Su,” she suddenly asked, “have you bought foreign company stocks?—Not land speculation shell companies, but real Western corporations doing actual business…”

“Yes.” Su Minguan leaned back in his chair, saying casually, “When my family ancestor was wealthiest, he was one of the British East India Company’s top ten shareholders. Thirty percent annual dividends.”

Lin Yuchan: “…”

Too much! Imperialist accomplice and lackey! Bankruptcy well-deserved!

On second thought, such “shareholders” were all direct major investors, not buying stocks one by one in the markets. Thirteen Factories, wealthy merchants controlling foreign companies, weren’t for speculation profit but to participate in their decisions and obtain huge dividends.

This showed Su Minguan had no stock speculation experience either.

“Mr. Rong once said that buying stocks in America required complex procedures, needing specific seats in exchanges to qualify. But now America’s Central Pacific Railroad Company, building the transcontinental railroad, is publicly offering stocks—anyone can subscribe. He also knows company executives, making stock purchases convenient.” Lin Yuchan placed a stack of papers on the table. “This is information I compiled after visiting several foreign firms and reading years of newspapers. I think—I believe—putting a small portion of assets on the other side of the globe, in a rising emerging country, can effectively hedge against the risk of the Qing’s collapse.”

“Hedge risk”—such financial terminology she didn’t know when she’d heard it in her previous life, but felt very appropriate here. As for casually saying “the Qing’s collapse”…

Her ears tensed, stealing a glance at Su Minguan. He listened calmly without great alarm.

For certain naturally rebellious types, “Qing collapse” was like “everyone dies eventually”—just a matter of time.

He only suddenly lowered his eyes, a trace of loneliness flashing through them.

This girl had ideas bigger than the sky. While others worried about next month’s rice prices, she was “hedging risks,” arranging her later life’s retreat.

Su Minguan said softly, “Haven’t you thought that when truly penniless, you could come find me?”

Lin Yuchan giggled: “Thanks, but being your accountant is very hard work…”

“Don’t do it if unwilling.” He smiled slightly. “Just come find me, rest at my place, stay as long as you want.”

Lin Yuchan’s heart jumped, a soft corner touched.

But her mouth was unforgiving: “Great, reciprocal courtesy. If someday you go bankrupt first, you can also find me! I’ll support you!”

Su Minguan’s dinner knife paused: “Support?”

She blushed, not knowing how to explain.

Fortunately, the literal meaning wasn’t hard to understand. Su Minguan found it amusing and sharply retorted: “You couldn’t afford to.”

He stopped chatting and seriously examined her materials—flyers, brochures, newspaper clippings, even railroad company advertisements recruiting overseas workers…

He read carefully for a long time, then suddenly looked up at Lin Yuchan. Looking at those proper, delicate features, bright eyes containing excited flames.

“A cunning rabbit has three burrows, better than hanging from one tree.” He finally nodded, commenting: “When my family ancestor invested in the East India Company, he probably had similar thoughts.”

The result was self-evident. The East India Company died before the Su family fortune. The Su family died even before the Qing Dynasty.

Lin Yuchan said firmly: “America won’t die.”

Su Minguan looked at her gently and smiled.

“You’re poisoned by Rong Hong.” He urged her to drink soup. “You’re making me want to see America, too.”

In the nineteenth century, dominated by Europe economically and culturally, claiming that this rustic America would rise to become a superpower was indeed hard to believe. Su Minguan’s first reaction was probably that Rong Hong had constantly bragged during his time at Boya, painting America as paradise and fooling Lin Yuchan.

But his personality didn’t like meddling. Her money, her business—if she lost it all…

He imagined the little girl disheveled, knocking on Yixing’s door, tearfully “seeking support”…

Quite wickedly exciting.

After settling the bill, Su Minguan took Lin Yuchan to an exchange house, converting 740 U.S. dollars. Boya’s assets couldn’t be touched; this money was ninety percent of her current personal cash savings.

Then carefully sealed with a detailed letter, asking Rong Hong to help purchase Central Pacific Railroad Company stocks. At the current price of 23 dollars per share, she could buy 30 shares, with the remainder for handling fees and Rong Hong’s commission.

Currently no American banks had entered the Qing Dynasty, and several British firms hadn’t opened direct American business. To send money, only cash could be mailed.

Lin Yuchan could wait for Rong Hong’s return before paying him. But she didn’t want this advantage. Besides, Rong Hong held Qing’s public funds and couldn’t misuse them. If later someone found fault, both she and Rong Hong would be in trouble.

After handing the letter to the shipping company clerk, returning empty-handed to Boya headquarters, Lin Yuchan suddenly felt empty inside, with a “it was just that time, already bewildered” sense of loss.

Today, employees were off, the Western building silent and hot, gardenia fragrance floating darkly. Warm wind stirred the garden’s lush flowers and grass, rustling against walls with monotonous sounds.

She thought she was probably the first in all the Qing Dynasty, no, all Chinese history—to remotely speculate in overseas stocks, a little leek?

If she lost everything, would someone support her?