August 31st was marked by the fact that Gerald Grosvenor stayed home. At the end of breakfast, he addressed his son:
"Richie, we need to talk."
The man's tone didn't promise anything good. Richie braced himself for trouble. All the good mood he had just moments ago vanished. With a sigh, he set his fork aside and followed his father into the living room, where Gerald traditionally settled into a chair by the fireplace. Opposite him, Richie took his usual seat.
Gerald didn't waste time beating around the bush:
"Son, I'm glad about your success in business, but remember what we talked about at the beginning of summer."
"Dad, I remember everything perfectly."
"Since you remember, we had an agreement that you would balance work with your studies. And what do I see? Richie, you've thrown yourself headfirst into business, you haven't touched your schoolwork even once, and you've abandoned fencing."
"But Dad, it's summer!" Richie asked in genuine bewilderment. "All kids have a vacation this time of year."
"Let's allow that," Gerald said, composed and serious. "Maybe you did have a vacation, but it can't continue like this. Starting tomorrow, you need to resume your studies. I've already hired tutors. Today, we're moving to the main estate!"
"But…"
Richie would have gladly ignored school; after all, it couldn't give him anything. What he had been doing, however, had made him rich. He could continue his business ventures and earn enormous sums without a school diploma. But the elder Grosvenor had his own opinion on the matter. Richie knew perfectly well that he wouldn't be able to persuade his father otherwise.
The boy sighed gloomily and said, "Fine. But I hope, Dad, that when I finish school, you won't force me to continue studying?"
"No, Richie," Gerald shook his head slightly. "When you finish school, you can do whatever you want. But I do hope you'll choose to pursue higher education, perhaps in management. That would be extremely useful for your business endeavors."
"M-m-m… Maybe, but I can't promise anything. Dad, before we leave for the estate, I need to issue instructions for the investments."
"I understand, Richie. You have until lunch; after that, we're leaving."
"Until lunch?" Richard said thoughtfully. "I'll have to make it in time."
***
For the young, successful businessman, September 1st began just like it did for other children his age—that is, with school.
Richie had to return to the detested routine. And really, who would want to waste time on useless studies when at that very moment one could be handling millions of dollars?
The transmigrator fully understood that Gerald considered him still a child. And even though he allowed some liberties, like any responsible parent, he wanted the best for his son. From his father's perspective, it would be better for Richie to receive an education. But in reality, the transmigrator, who had already earned a higher education in his previous life, needed school about as much as a dog needs a fifth leg.
Still, Richie knew that until he had a diploma in hand, he couldn't run his business properly. Therefore, he decided to pass all the necessary exams as quickly as possible.
Richie dug into the granite of knowledge like a beaver into a rotting log. He buried himself in first-grade textbooks of secondary school without any urging.
Day and night, he studied. Thanks to his excellent memory, the humanities came easily. The main challenge was English and history. The transmigrator noticed some inaccuracies and discrepancies in historical events, which he attributed to the fact that, in his previous life, he had not studied diligently in school and lacked such a memory.
It took Richard only two months to pass the exams for the seventh grade.
Apparently, he had set too high a pace. In addition to school subjects, he had to resume fencing practice. He also had to devote some time to business. Even if a little, he had to stay involved, study exchange rates, and monitor securities.
All this led to the inevitable result—stress built up day by day, and fatigue weighed heavily on the shoulders of his young body.
After taking the final exam for the seventh grade, Richie arrived at fencing practice not in a good mood, as one might expect, but tired, drawn, and irritable.
The boy was like a container full of gasoline—any spark could ignite a fierce blaze.
And where there is fuel, there is always a fool willing to strike a match. This person turned out to be the new coach, replacing the usual Mr. McCormick, who was ill.
The young man with light hair lined up all the children in a row. He looked like a pompous peacock. Staring at his charges as if they were the by products of some animal's existence, he shouted in a loud, shrill voice:
"You're a herd of sheep! But I, Stanley Vince, silver medalist of international fencing competitions, will make champions out of you!"
(End of Chapter)
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