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Chapter 190 – Invitation at the Stables
🕑 Added 2025-09-27 16:25:11 +0000 UTC
The night passed uneventfully—this world wasn’t woven with conspiracies at every turn.
Though Paul Mellon was the direct heir of the family, the real reins of power rested with his cousin, Richard Mellon. Paul himself was absorbed in art and horse breeding. His most serious “work” had been helping establish and expand the National Gallery of Art in Washington. In truth, he lived like a carefree gentleman of leisure. His wealth guaranteed he would never worry about food or shelter, so there was no need to stage a melodrama of knives in the dark for his guests.
Early the next morning, Henry washed up and wandered through the gardens. Inside the house, with so many priceless treasures, he dared not roam unescorted. But outside, among flowers and shrubs, there was little risk. Rachel Mellon hadn’t yet gone so mad as to plant her gardens with pearls and gemstones. As long as Henry wasn’t trimming hedges with giant scissors, no one would mind.
Or so he thought—until he was caught by Paul Mellon himself.
“Henry Brown?”
“Yes, Mr. Mellon. Good morning.” Henry greeted him politely, unsure what the old man wanted.
“Do you like horses? Care to visit my stables? Far more photogenic than these plants.”
Henry bit back a laugh—such a remark, if recorded and played to one’s wife, would spark a battle. Still, he kept his humor to himself and answered:
“My knowledge of horses comes only from books and television. It would be an honor to see them in person.”
“Ha! Then come along, young man.”
White-haired but spry, Paul waved him over. Henry, curious to see the famed horse-breeding operation of this “old money” magnate, gladly followed.
The stables were not far from the farmhouse. A small group, including Paul’s attendants, rode there in vehicles much like oversized golf carts.
The thoroughbred, bred in the 17th and 18th centuries by crossing Arabian stallions with English mares, was anything but “pure.” In fact, “thoroughbred” itself was the name of a breed, not the mark of purity.
The ideal specimen bore a refined head, long neck, tall frame, deep chest, short back, strong hindquarters, a lean body, and long legs—the very image modern people think of when they picture a horse. Other breeds, especially ponies, could seem almost like another species in comparison.
Thoroughbreds had spread worldwide thanks to racing—an immensely profitable sport. That financial incentive drove ranches everywhere to breed ever faster, ever finer horses, giving rise to a whole new industry of bloodlines and training lore.
As Rachel could talk endlessly about gardening the day before, Paul was the same with horses. He rattled off every pedigree and race record as though reading from a sacred text.
To Henry, it was like listening to his old friends discuss video game stats back before his “crossing”—except horses couldn’t be quantified in neat numbers. Only performance on the track, and the records of sire and dam, served as benchmarks.
Henry responded politely at the right moments, though he regretted not being offered a ride. The joy of galloping on horseback was out of reach. But given that he’d admitted having no riding experience, it was no wonder Paul wouldn’t let such valuable animals be mishandled. Letting him look was generosity enough.
Still, Paul’s enthusiasm puzzled Henry. Surely the man could find better audiences among his own circle—people who would shower him with flattery until his dying day. Why share all this with a nobody?
As Henry sipped the black tea brought by an attendant, Paul suddenly asked:
“Henry, would you be interested in working for me?”
In that instant, Henry understood. His performance when first applying to be Hepburn’s assistant must have been noted by Alex Hart and passed quietly through certain circles. That would explain why a man who had been cool yesterday was suddenly warm today. Clearly his background had been checked overnight. How much had they learned?
Henry laughed, gesturing at the attendants with subtle mutant features who stood behind Paul.
“Mr. Mellon, you already have plenty of capable people. My skills—buying a few bulletproof briefcases—hardly compare.”
“I know people like you value respect and protection, to live like ordinary folk. What I need is protection. It’s a fair trade, don’t you think?”
Henry glanced at the arrogant postures of those mutant retainers—living proof of the saying: ‘Even the servants of a prime minister rank above others.’
Smiling wryly, he said, “Mr. Mellon, I’m currently Miss Audrey Hepburn’s assistant. Right now, she truly needs me.”
“I understand.” Paul produced a solid black card embossed with gold lettering and offered it.
“When the time feels right and you’re ready for something new, come find me.”
So—it wasn’t a matter of imminent danger requiring bodyguards. Just the man’s collecting habit, extending now to people.
Henry accepted the card with a polite, “I understand. I hope one day I’ll have the chance to be of service.”
But inwardly he thought: Power and privilege? Best kept at arm’s length.
The old magnate had given him a graceful exit—no point in refusing bluntly. Still, Henry had no desire to live caged in another man’s stable. That life would be too dull, too confined.
Just like the horses around him—no matter how fast, they could only run circles on tracks and training grounds, never knowing how vast the sky and earth truly were.
