The Great Full Short (1)

I sent word to the servants who used to work at our manor.

The maids and cooks had already found positions elsewhere, so there was no bringing them back. That much hardly mattered — I could always hire new ones. If young Mariel was going to hammer her authority into place as Head Maid, it would actually be easier if every face was a new one.

Fortunately, replies came in from the people who formed the real backbone of the estate: the steward, the administrative aides, and the rest. Of course, every answer came with a condition — they would visit the manor first, then decide.

Right. They won't believe it until they see it with their own eyes.

A baronial house that could have gone bankrupt tomorrow had suddenly paid off its debts and was asking them to come home. Anyone with a shred of common sense would find that hard to swallow.

I set the letters down on one side of the desk.

"Well then. Time to do a little renovation."

I'd need to remodel the place before they arrived. Mariel had been scrubbing, tightening, and oiling everything by herself all this time, but how was one person supposed to keep a manor this size from falling apart? Cracks ran through the walls, the ironwork was rusted through, and the garden was a thicket of weeds. I could hardly show them a wreck like that and announce, "The family is back in business. Please work here with peace of mind!"

Appearances matter just as much as substance, after all.

I rose from my seat, finished getting ready, and climbed into the carriage bound for the largest construction firm in the territory. A baron showing up without so much as a word of warning sent the office into a frenzy. The president came running out to greet me.

"L-Lord Goldman! What brings you to a humble place like this in person?!"

"Please, settle down. If I'm going to fix up my house, the homeowner should come discuss it himself, shouldn't he?"

"Y-your house... you mean the baronial manor?"

"That's right. Interior, exterior, garden landscaping — I want all of it torn out and redone."

At those words, the president's eyes wavered.

Yeah. I know that look.

He was wondering how a pauper planned to pay for a job like that. I opened the bag I'd brought, pulled out a bundle of cash, and set it on the table.

"That's the deposit. Should be more than enough, right? Cancel every job you've got scheduled and send every available worker to GoldmanGoldman Manor."

"I-I'll do my very best!!"

The moment he confirmed the cash, his attitude flipped. He bowed so low his head nearly hit the floor. I'd given him a proper taste of capitalism, but it left a faintly bitter flavor in my mouth.

When is this "penniless baron" stigma ever going to wear off?

Then, suddenly, I spotted something sitting on one side of the office desk and blinked in surprise.

"...Huh? Is that a telephone?"

The president shrugged and tapped the receiver.

"Yes! In this day and age, communication is the lifeblood of revenue, isn't it? No need to write letters or go back and forth in person. Ever since we installed this one unit, we've been getting commissions from neighborhoods way out of town. It's been quite profitable!"

Come to think of it, my manor didn't have a telephone. No — it used to, but we'd sold it off cheap to the debt collectors. Which meant that every time I had business to attend to, I had to write a letter or take a carriage. I was signing dozens of documents and writing letters every single day; my wrist was going to develop tendinitis at this rate.

I should pick up some office equipment and appliances while I'm at it.

A telephone, of course, and a typewriter too — that would at least make the place look like someone actually lived there.

A few days after I signed the renovation contract, carriages loaded with workers and high-grade materials poured into the manor. They surveyed every corner, then got to work. After a few weeks of hammering and sawing, the old, dingy Goldman Manor had been utterly transformed.

The walls were papered in luxury silk, and the stone floors had been replaced with polished marble. Rooms that had stood empty filled up with mahogany furniture. The bedding was goose down, of course. A chandelier set with hundreds of crystals poured light from the hall ceiling, and silver-worked sconces lining the corridors illuminated the masterpieces hanging beside them.

The garden couldn't be left out, either. Where the weed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠patch had been cleared away, flowers of every color were embroidered across the grounds, and from the fountain that had sat dry for so long, a clear stream of water now arced into the air. And besides all that — I'd replaced everything except the maid.

Evening had settled in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠before I knew it. Streetlamp lights twinkled throughout the newly refurbished garden. Standing among them, side by side with Mariel, I looked up at the manor.

If there was ever a time to use the word overwhelmed, this was it. A lump rose in my chest. I felt like I might cry.

Holding the feeling down, I looked at Mariel standing beside me.

"...It's finally back to the way it used to be."

Beneath the lamplight, she smiled at me.

"You've worked so hard, Master."

A few days later, letters arrived from the servants who had written back, saying they would likely reach the manor in about a month.

A month... that's a bit of a gap.

What should I do with the time? After a moment's thought, I retraced the contents of the novel.

Come to think of it, there's an incident coming up that I can put to use.

Once the servants came back and started tackling the estate's problems, money was going to pour out in droves. So it would be nice to fatten up the account balance before they arrived, wouldn't it?

I unfolded the morning paper and scanned down it quickly.

"...Not today, either."

The article still hadn't been published. Which was actually good news.

The so-called Rachel Southern Arc. Before long, a disaster would strike Selwyn Trade, the company Rachel belonged to.

Around now, a merchant ship should have hit a reef on the way home and gone down to the bottom of the sea.

The sailors would barely make it onto the lifeboats and survive, but that wasn't the real problem. This merchant ship was a vessel whose fate was tied directly to Edward's survival as an executive. Edward would thrash around trying to contain the situation, but hyena-like reporters would sniff out the information and splash it across the front page.

The fact that the article hasn't run yet means the survivors haven't arrived.

Regardless, the disaster would send Selwyn Trade reeling. Edward, the top executive, would be worn down by attacks from brothers and key personnel who had been eyeing his seat... but thanks to an invention Rachel would produce, the company would make a miraculous recovery. That was the original plot. Edward falling head over heels for Rachel was just a bonus.

So what could I do at this point?

Short Selwyn Trade stock.

I felt a little bad for Edward, but what could I do. What happened, happened — and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the people who were going to profit, should profit.

I'd leave about five million gold as emergency funds. The rest of the spare cash, I planned to dump entirely into the stock exchange. I'd looked into it while staying in Hamilton — you didn't even need to go to the exchange in person. As long as you had a telephone, you could trade by proxy.

Having made that decision, I headed to the bank.

Why a bank? Because our manor didn't have a telephone. Plus, the territorial bank was close to the manor, and it was convenient for checking the account, so it was the perfect place to trade from.

This feels like going to the bank in summer just to sit in the air-conditioning.

A bit of an imposition, maybe — but hey, I was a noble.

The moment I stepped into the bank, I headed straight for the branch manager's office as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Manager. Mind if I use the telephone here?"

"Of course, please use it as much as you like."

"Ah, and could you print out a balance certificate as well?"

"I'll bring it right away."

The branch manager stepped out. In the meantime, I picked up the receiver of the mana telephone and dialed the Hamilton Stock Exchange.

"I'd like to place a short-sale order. Is that possible right now?"

"Allen Goldman. 48-1120248."

Right on cue, the branch manager came back with the balance certificate. I took it from him and checked the balance.

I'd had over seventy million gold, and nearly three million had gone out. The remodeling costs really had been enormous.

Well. I got what I paid for.

"The stock is Selwyn Trade. What's it trading at right now?"

"219 gold... just a moment."

I grabbed a pen and scribbled the formula on a blank sheet of paper.

"Balance minus five million is roughly sixty-two million... divided by 219..."

I finished the calculation and placed the order.

"I'll short 283,151 shares at the current price."

At those words, Branch Manager Smith sucked in a sharp breath. His face went pale and he stammered, but since I was on the phone he couldn't interrupt, so he just stamped his feet in place.

What's with him?

The clerk on the other end of the line was trembling too — the quantity had clearly startled him.

"Yes, that's right."

I entered the password.

"Yes, thank you."

The instant I set the receiver down, Branch Manager Smith poured out words.

"N-no! LordLord Goldman! How can you pour that much money into a dangerous short sale?! And of all things, Selwyn Trade?!"

I snorted and asked, as if genuinely curious.

"Why? What's wrong with Selwyn Trade?"

"W-well, Selwyn Trade is a massive trading company that practically monopolizes commerce in the southern Empire! And that's not all! They've posted consecutive profits for the last five years, they have connections to the Imperial Family — it's a blue-chip among blue-chips, a stock that only ever goes up!"

The branch manager orated as if it were his own money on the line.

"Betting your fortune on a price drop in a company that stable?! The risk is far too great!!"

"Manager."

"Y-yes?"

"Have you forgotten how I paid off every last one of my debts?"

"Th-that's..."

My eyes gleamed as I made my boast.