A strange start to the day for one transmigrator.
Richie was lounging in bed, unable to figure out what was going on. His gaze shifted to the golden tower-shaped clock. How strange — it was already twenty minutes to eight, yet no one had woken him. Usually the wake up call came earlier, but today there was no sign of the valet's now familiar visit.
Richard thought something bad must have happened, so he jumped out of bed.
He rushed to the door and, still in his pajamas, ran out into the corridor. Looking around, the boy found no one there — which was surprising.
He walked down the corridor toward the dining room, and only there did he finally find servants at work.
A young, slender brunette in a maid's uniform was setting the table. She immediately noticed the young master and nodded politely.
"Good morning, Mr. Richie," she said in a melodious voice.
"Good morning," the boy replied, glancing around the dining room in confusion. "Where is everyone? Where is John? It's almost eight o'clock, and he didn't wake me up."
"Mr. Richie, today is Sunday," the maid answered politely. "John has the day off."
Richie felt embarrassed. He had completely lost track of time—both literally and figuratively. The transmigrator had been so absorbed in his new life that he'd forgotten to keep track of the days of the week. Of course, a person couldn't work without days off. After all, John wasn't a slave, but a hired worker. It was surprising enough that he only had one day off a week.
"What should I do?" the boy muttered vaguely.
The maid took the question personally and hurried to respond.
"Sir, I think you should wash up, change your clothes, and rest."
"Um… excuse me, miss, I forgot your name."
"Lucy, sir."
"Yes, Lucy. I'm sorry. Can you tell me what I usually did on Sundays? Am I right in thinking that I won't have any classes today?"
"That's right, young sir," Lucy replied. "As far as I know, on Sundays you usually visited your friend after breakfast."
Since the transmigrator couldn't remember having any friends, he could think of nothing better than to ask:
"Which one?"
"Sir, I can't say for sure—perhaps you have other friends—but you used to be close with Miss Harriet Tomlinson. A lovely girl."
"Ah, Harriet!" Richie said, as though the name stirred a memory. "Thank you, Lucy. And is her father, Mr. Tomlinson, still in the same business?"
The maid thought for a moment, then replied:
"The last time I was in Chester, Mr. Tomlinson's curtain factory was still operating."
Richie almost snorted aloud.
Curtains? Are you serious?! the boy thought. The son of a billionaire duke is friends with the daughter of a small factory owner who makes curtains? I'm sure that business won't stay afloat for long.
Transmigrator and maybe the time traveler remembered all too well from history that, in the past—which now seemed like the near future to him—global trade development and advances in communication, particularly the worldwide spread of the Internet and affordable computer technology, had made it unprofitable to manufacture many goods in countries with expensive labor. Most types of manufacturing had been moved to China and other Asian countries. Curtains were a perfect example: it became far cheaper to import them from China than to produce them in Europe, leading to the bankruptcy of many small European manufacturers.
"Thank you, Lucy," Richie said.
He hurried back to his room, washed his face, brushed his teeth, changed into simple light blue jeans and black T-shirt, and then went downstairs for breakfast. He arrived just in time to find the table fully set, with Gerald already seated.
"Good morning, Father," the boy said, bowing his head slightly as he stood by the table.
"Good morning, Richie," Gerald replied.
"Dad, do you have some free time? I'd like to discuss the Grosvenors' financial situation with you. I talked about it with my economics tutor, but there's a lot I don't understand because the professor doesn't know the specifics of our finances."
"All right, we'll discuss it after breakfast. Richie, why are you dressed like that?"
"Dad, today is Sunday. I thought that, since it's a day off… I usually meet my girlfriend at this time."
In truth, Richie had no intention of visiting his "girlfriend." What would he even talk about with a girl his age—discuss dolls?! He'd simply chosen the most comfortable clothes because he was tired of wearing suits.
"No girlfriends!" the duke said sternly. "Have you forgotten again that we have to attend the annual royal charity reception today?"
"I'm sorry, Father, I forgot. Is the reception starting soon?"
"No. We need to be there at four in the afternoon. Now sit down and eat breakfast. We'll talk later."
Breakfast passed in complete silence. Only the soft clinking of cutlery could be heard. Richie quickly finished his meal and waited impatiently for Gerald to do the same. Finally, the moment came. The duke set his cutlery aside, carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin, looked at his son, and said:
"Richie, let's go to the living room."
Richard shot out from the table like a bullet and rushed into the living room. Gerald followed his son at a leisurely pace, his back straight.
Father and son settled into comfortable fabric-upholstered armchairs near the fireplace, facing one another. Only a round mahogany coffee table stood between them.
"So," Grosvenor Sr. asked, "what did you want to find out, son?"