[All characters, place names, organizations, and events appearing in this work are fictional and bear no relation to reality, being products of the author’s imagination.]
As agreed with Bart, Henry’s afternoon was filled with inspections and interviews, sweeping through every corner of the estate.
The first people he encountered were the mansion’s servants. Far from the sexy maids he had hoped for, they were all grizzled veterans who had been through countless hardships, so Henry smothered his disappointment and opened his notebook.
“Henry, the facilities are so old that not a day goes by quietly.”
The suggestions Bart conveyed were desperate. Henry nodded on the outside while inwardly cheering.
*Frequent clanging and banging from the pipes in the heating system. Frequent leaks in the water supply pipes. Electrical wiring tangled together from 1920 to the present. Cracks in the marble exterior walls. Severe warping of the wood in the grand study. Good. I have plenty of excuses to tear everything down to the framework and rebuild later.*
There was a limit to antiquated charm; traversing this vast mansion without an elevator violated the aesthetic of Henry, who had grown up in an apartment. Switching to modern systems was essential even for Henry himself.
The subsequent interview with the private garden landscaping team outside the mansion was much the same. They talked while looking around only the garden near the mansion. Though they were satisfied with their work and wages, the suggestion that came up was, as expected, about the water pipes of the fountain located in front of the mansion’s entrance.
Liam Robert, head of the garden landscaping team, was an elder of the family who had managed the thirty-acre garden from his youth to the present, a figure whom even the rebellious madman Henry—the original owner of this body—had treated with caution. Henry, the supposedly normal(?), promised a full replacement in the near future and parted ways with him.
*The whole marble fountain wasn’t in very good condition anyway; I should tell them to replace the fountain itself, not just the pipes, while we’re at it. If the mansion’s exterior is fine, a reflecting pool would probably look good too, wouldn’t it? I’ll jot this down for now.*
In the center of the forest that appeared when one followed the oak-lined path from the mansion, there was a family private cemetery shaped like a Greek temple. Here, from the Founding Father to the parents of this body’s previous owner who had recently passed away, all rested in the marble burial grounds. Henry solemnly bowed his head for a moment before his parents’ tombstones, then took his leave.
*The marble columns at the cemetery entrance have fine cracks. Must fix together during the future mansion renovation. Marble is certainly beautiful, but it can’t withstand being outdoors over time.*
Henry returned to the mansion through the oak forest as if taking a stroll. There, the Rolls-Royce Bentham VI that Bart had prepared was waiting.
It was a monstrous thing said to be the exclusive property of 1970s aristocrats and heads of state. Its massive body, approaching six meters in length, gleamed in the sunlight. When Bart opened the rear door, Henry nodded lightly and buried himself in the seat. The heavy texture of the leather upholstery transmitted through his hips.
*Wow, so this is a true chairman’s car. The very air is different from the compact car I used to drive in Korea.*
Even with his massive 190-centimeter frame seated, the headroom above him was ample. Thinking that this must be why everyone went on about Rolls-Royce, Rolls-Royce, Henry couldn’t help but admire it inwardly.
The next destinations were the satellite residences located around the main house. Normally, they would have been used for long-term stays by external business partners, but to Henry now, they were merely more things in need of repair.
“The facilities here are troublesome too...”
He toured all four satellite residences from north to south, but the story he heard was consistent everywhere. Old, leaking, broken. Henry looked at the estate scenery passing by outside the car window and muttered softly.
“Jay. Now that I think about it, friends my age are nowhere to be seen on the estate.”
Outside the window, the white-haired master gardener Liam and his team members were visible between the perfectly manicured trees. Searching his memories, Donald Robert—Liam’s grandson and a schoolmate—had already left the family and become independent by the time Henry went to college. And it wasn’t just him. Countless young people had left the estate.
“Haha, doesn’t the Young Master know as well? Just until recently, hippie culture swept through this country. My peers all fled to the underground clubs in Manhattan, saying they would find freedom. But I’m different, aren’t I? I’m ‘Johnson of Devenger.’”
Jay Johnson answered, gently turning the steering wheel. A member of a vassal family that had served the Devenger family for generations, and the vehicle security chief of the security firm [Devenger Resources]. His loyalty was as certain as Joshua had vouched for, and he passed Henry’s standards with flying colors.
“We’ll discuss it formally at the full family meeting, but those who lost their lives in this accident will receive separate compensation in addition to the insurance payout. The price of their devotion to the family must be properly paid.”
Henry added, sinking deeper into the plush seat of the Rolls-Royce. To a safety-first advocate like him, there was no surer risk management than buying people’s loyalty.
“By the way, Jay, I never thought I’d be riding in a car driven by you. In my memories, it was always Uncle Nasus. Even now, it feels like that old man’s nagging, pouring out every time I left the house while looking back at me, still lingers in my ears.”
Nasus. Jay’s father and an old knight who had served the previous patriarch his entire life. And also a victim of this recent incident. Jay’s eyes briefly clouded over through the rearview mirror. Thinking he had misspoken, Henry fell silent for a moment before shifting the mood.
“Well, there’s nothing to be done about the past. Enough sentimentality—let’s head to the northern plot. I have a friend left there, after all. How is the distillery situation? Ben must be doing well, right?”
“The apple harvest has just finished, Young Master. This year’s crop was good, so Benjamin’s boasts were endless about how the brandy’s aroma would be especially rich.”
The vehicle showed off its unique hydraulic suspension as it left the smooth asphalt and headed toward the northern hills. Outside the window, endlessly stretching 2,000 acres of apple orchard continued. Only after driving for quite some time did the majestic Devenger brandy distillery reveal itself.
*Come to think of it, how is this just walking around the house grounds? I think we’ve been driving for over five minutes... Is it about 3 kilometers from the mansion to here? These 6,000 acres are no joke.*
Henry clicked his tongue at the unreal scale of the estate. Approximately 3 kilometers from the mansion to the distillery. It was a distance long enough to cut through a decent-sized neighborhood. He couldn’t even imagine how long it would take to get from the main gate to the house without a car. The overwhelming size of the estate was something he never got used to no matter how many times he saw it.
“Young Master! No—Patriarch!!”
Even before Jay could open the door, an eardrum-shattering volume burst out. A voice hotter than the sticky June heat of 1979. Henry let out a hollow laugh as he got out of the car.
“Ben, what’s the rush that you’d come out to greet me? That’s not like you.”
When Henry lightly extended his hand, Benjamin Thomas hurriedly wiped his hands on his work pants and then crushed Henry’s hand in a fierce grip. Rough calluses and the scent of copper polish. Henry naturally threw his arm around Benjamin’s shoulder and moved with him toward the inside of the distillery.
“Drop the Young Master and Patriarch stuff. Maybe in front of others, but when it’s just us, call me Henry. If even you act like that, I feel like I’ve been stuffed and mounted as a trophy of this family.”
Benjamin was the young artisan of the family who had managed the Devenger distillery for three generations, and one of Henry’s few true childhood friends. In his memories, this relentless guy had secretly let Henry—who wasn’t even ten yet—dip his finger in raw distillate and whispered ambitions about the greatest liquor.
“Of course I was waiting! It’s really good to see you, Henry. While you were off at college spouting about hippies and rock, enjoying yourself with women, I didn’t rest for a single step! There’s nothing I haven’t tried for the greatest liquor. Um, so the money is running a bit tight... The inflexible bastards at the family administration office insist that absolutely nothing over the amount promised by the previous Patriarch will do.”
“Hah, Ben. So you were waiting with your neck stretched out for me to invest? Haha!”
It was an incredibly rude thing to say to a patriarch, but Henry instead felt refreshed. After being trapped behind the facade of formality and authority, Benjamin’s honesty was like a vitamin to him. Above all, this guy was an open book. Devoid of lies, honest, and running straight toward his dream without wavering. He was easy to deal with, and just as likable.
*He’s the guy who taught a ten-year-old about liquor and extorted promises every time we drank that when this body became patriarch, he’d invest big and make Devenger liquor the best in the world. His only memories are of liquor and drunken ramblings, but he’s so consistent that he’ll make it big. Didn’t he pester the previous patriarch—who had no interest in liquor—hundreds of times to build this distillery?*
Entering the clean, newly built distillery beside the old building, not the old one itself, a sharp yet sweet apple fragrance wafted in at once. Unlike the aged equipment of the crude Devenger Applejack that George Washington had supposedly loved, a French-style alembic still glowed red in the distance, boasting its magnificence.
“Is this the apple brandy... what the French call Carvados? Is this the machine that makes it? As you know, I’m a complete outsider to brewing, so tell me about it.”
“Calvados! This alembic still is slower than the one that makes that Applejack, but it draws out the raw spirit with real body. The raw spirit that comes out like that is aged in oak barrels to become apple brandy, and the French bastards call that Calvados. That’s roughly it, now, follow me! I’ll teach you one by one!”
“There’s no need to go that far—... Hey, wait! I have to go with you!”