The departure from Eskildsgård was a somber, formal affair. Christian held one final morning briefing, but its tone was different. He was no longer just a manager; he was a lord leaving his domain.
"Soren," he commanded, his eyes sweeping over his four foremen, "you are in charge of all agricultural operations. The planting of the new crops will proceed the moment the seeds arrive. I expect weekly progress reports sent by courier."
"Stig," he continued, turning to the blacksmith, "I want three more 'Model 1' plows completed by the time I return. Use the new iron shipment when it arrives. Spare no expense."
To Klaus and Erik, he gave similar, long-term directives concerning the port and the livestock. He was not just giving them tasks; he was delegating whole spheres of authority, trusting the system he had put in place. He was transforming them from laborers into managers. They accepted his orders with a gravity that would have been unthinkable only a month ago.
The journey back to the capital was a reversal of the one he had taken weeks before. Then, he had been a boy fleeing to the country to build a hidden foundation of power. Now, he was a Count, returning to the city to claim a public one. His thoughts were not on drainage and crop rotation, but on political factions, ministerial weaknesses, and the financial portfolios of the most powerful men in the Danish Parliament.
Copenhagen was a city clenched in the teeth of a losing war. Flags flew at half-mast on many buildings. The streets were filled with a tense energy, a mixture of patriotic rallies and anxious crowds gathered around news boards. He saw wounded soldiers, their uniforms dirty and worn, their eyes hollow. The national crisis he had studied from afar was now a visceral, living reality.
His first appointment was not at the King's palace or the parliament, but in his father's—now his—formal office in the family's city residence. There he met with Mr. Bjerre, the family's lawyer for over thirty years. Bjerre was a thin, dry man with parchment-like skin, who radiated an aura of cautious, unshakeable conservatism. He had come to guide a grieving boy through the complexities of his inheritance.
"My deepest condolences, Count Eskildsen," Bjerre began, his voice soft. "Your father was a great man. A patriot."
"He was," Christian said, cutting short the pleasantries. He gestured to the chair opposite the great desk. "The portfolio, Mr. Bjerre."
Taken aback by the boy's directness, Bjerre opened his briefcase and began to lay out the state of the Eskildsen estate. The assets were vast, as Christian knew. But the liabilities were staggering.
"Your father was a patriot, as I said," the lawyer explained, pointing to a long list of figures. "He took out significant loans against the estates to purchase war bonds and to help fund the outfitting of several volunteer regiments. The family's finances are… strained."
"What is your recommendation?" Christian asked, his face unreadable.
"Prudence, my lord. We must be prudent," Bjerre urged. "I suggest we sell the Norwegian timber holdings. The market is strong. It would clear these debts and give you a comfortable operating capital. We must also maintain your father's political allegiances in the Landsting. The Højre landowners are our traditional allies…"
Christian listened patiently until the lawyer had finished. He let the silence hang for a moment before he spoke, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of absolute authority.
"We will sell nothing."
Bjerre blinked. "My lord?"
"The Norwegian timber is a strategic asset of immense future value. To sell it for short-term liquidity would be financial malpractice," Christian stated. "The debts will be managed, not by liquidation, but by a radical increase in the profitability of our primary assets, starting with Eskildsgård."
He leaned forward, his eyes boring into the astonished lawyer. "Your recommendation is based on a paradigm of managed decline, Mr. Bjerre. My paradigm is aggressive growth. The age of gentlemen landowners content with their rents is over. The age of industrial agriculture and capital investment is beginning."
He stood and walked to the window, looking out over the troubled city. "I want you to prepare two documents for me. First, a full portfolio of our most liquid assets—stocks, bonds, trading shares. I will be redirecting capital. Second, I want a complete dossier on every sitting member of the Landsting: their primary sources of income, their known debts, their business partners, and their political ambitions."
Christian turned back to face the lawyer. "You will no longer be advising me on how to preserve my father's legacy. You will be executing my instructions on how to build my own."
Bjerre was speechless. His jaw worked silently. He had walked into this room to advise a boy on how to curtail his expenses. He was now being given orders that sounded less like those of a nobleman and more like those of a ruthless industrial magnate planning a corporate takeover.
He gathered his papers, his hands trembling slightly. "As… as you wish, Count Eskildsen."
As the lawyer left the office, his mind reeling, he clutched his briefcase like a shield. He had come to guide a grieving son through his inheritance. He had left with orders from a man who looked at the kingdom's ruling class not as peers, but as entries on a balance sheet.
The old Count was dead. A new, far more dangerous Eskildsen now sat in his chair. And Mr. Bjerre felt a profound shiver of fear, not for the family's finances, but for the very future of Denmark itself.