The road from Poltava took almost the entire day.
Autumn had fully taken hold. The sky was low and heavy, and a cold wind moved freely across the fields, carrying dry leaves and patches of withered grass. The ground had darkened after recent rains, and the wheels of the carriage occasionally sank slightly into the softened road.
Skoropadsky sat in silence, looking out the window.
Fields stretched on both sides of the road. In some places the harvest had already been completed, while in others small stacks of grain still stood. Occasionally they passed through small villages, where thin streams of smoke rose from chimneys.
He found himself recalling the lecture in Poltava.
The faces of the cadets.
Their questions.
The discussions with officers afterward.
Within a few years, many of those young men would stand in a real war.
Some would become capable officers.
Some would die.
He knew that too well.
The carriage turned from the main road onto a familiar country path.
In the distance, the fields of his estate came into view.
The autumn wind swept across them in long, pale waves.
Soon the rooftops of the estate buildings appeared.
As the carriage entered the yard, Skoropadsky immediately noticed that life here had become far more active.
Several carts loaded with grain stood near the barns. Workers carried heavy sacks into the storage building. Near the stables, two young men were brushing horses.
The coachman stopped the carriage.
Skoropadsky stepped down and looked around carefully.
Even small details showed that the estate was growing.
There was more work.
More people.
The door of the house opened.
Two small figures ran into the yard.
—"Papa!"
Maria ran first, with Elizaveta close behind.
Skoropadsky smiled and knelt down to catch them.
Both girls embraced him at the same time.
—"You've grown," he said, lifting Maria into his arms.
A moment later Oleksandra appeared on the porch.
Little Petro was in her arms.
She paused on the steps and looked at him attentively.
—"Was the journey long?"
—"Not too long."
He stepped closer and gently touched his son's hand.
Petro looked at him with serious eyes.
—"It seems he no longer recognizes me."
Oleksandra smiled faintly.
—"He is simply thinking."
For a few seconds they remained silent.
Then she said:
—"You arrived just in time. Hryhorii Stepanovych wanted to speak with you."
Skoropadsky nodded.
—"Then let us see how things are going."
After lunch, he went outside with the estate manager.
Hryhorii Stepanovych held a small notebook in his hands.
—"There is much more work now," he said.
—"I can see that."
They walked past the grain storage building.
Several workers removed their caps as Skoropadsky passed.
—"This year's harvest turned out well," the manager continued. —"Especially the wheat."
—"How much did we collect?"
—"Almost a quarter more than last year."
—"And the prices?"
Hryhorii Stepanovych opened his notebook.
—"In Poltava they are currently paying about sixty rubles per ton of wheat. The price may rise closer to winter."
Skoropadsky nodded.
—"We should sell part of it now."
—"I agree."
They stopped near the storage building.
Workers were stacking sacks in neat rows.
—"How many men are working now?" Skoropadsky asked.
—"About thirty permanently. During the harvest there were nearly fifty."
—"All local?"
—"Mostly from nearby villages."
He paused briefly.
—"Since the distillery began operating, more people have been coming to ask for work."
Skoropadsky looked toward the road.
—"That is good."
—"Stable work is rare," the manager added.
They approached the gate.
In the distance, several kilometers away, the chimney of the distillery could be seen.
A thin line of smoke rose into the cold sky.
—"Shall we go and take a look?" the manager asked.
—"Of course."
Some time later, the carriage stopped near the building.
The distillery was simple but solid. Stone walls, wide gates, and several barrels and carts stood nearby.
The workers noticed the carriage.
One of them quickly removed his cap.
—"Good day, Pavlo Petrovich."
—"Good day."
Skoropadsky stepped out and examined the yard.
Smoke rose steadily from the chimney.
The air carried the distinct smell of fermentation.
—"Production is still small," the manager said. —"But stable."
They entered the building.
Copper distillation equipment worked quietly. Several workers monitored the process, while the master carefully inspected the machinery.
He approached immediately.
—"The machines are working well. Almost no breakdowns."
—"The main thing is not to rush expansion," Skoropadsky said.
—"Of course."
When they stepped outside again, the manager added:
—"The workers are satisfied."
—"Why?"
—"The work is steady. And the wages are better than seasonal labor."
Skoropadsky looked at the distillery building for a moment.
—"This is only the beginning."
Hryhorii Stepanovych studied him carefully.
—"You are still thinking about Kryvyi Rih?"
—"Yes."
—"If a plant appears there, everything will change."
—"Not just one plant," Skoropadsky said calmly. —"An entire industry."
The manager nodded slowly.
—"Then the south of the Empire will become very different."
—"Exactly."
By evening the house had grown quiet.
The children were tired after the day.
During dinner, Maria told a long story about playing in the garden, while Elizaveta interrupted her from time to time.
Petro sat in his mother's arms, trying to grab a spoon.
Skoropadsky watched them silently.
Moments like this were calm.
But they were exactly why the work mattered.
After dinner, the children were put to bed.
The house gradually fell silent.
Skoropadsky sat in his study at the desk.
After some time, Oleksandra entered the room.
She stopped near the window.
—"You are thinking about work again."
—"Yes."
She remained silent for a moment.
—"Sometimes it seems to me that you see much farther than others."
Skoropadsky smiled faintly.
—"Perhaps."
—"But all of this requires strength."
He looked at the papers on the desk.
—"Without it, nothing will change."
Oleksandra said quietly:
—"You want to change more than just the estate."
For a moment he remained silent.
—"The south of the Empire can become an industrial center."
—"And you want to begin with this."
—"Yes."
She stepped closer.
—"Then I hope it will succeed."
He looked at her.
—"It will."
For a few seconds the room remained quiet.
Then she added:
—"The main thing is that you still have time for your family."
Skoropadsky glanced toward the door behind which the children were sleeping.
—"I will."
Late that evening he sat alone in his study.
Letters, calculations, and maps lay across the desk.
The distillery was already operating.
The metallurgical project was only beginning.
But he understood one thing clearly.
This was only the first step.
The real work still lay ahead.