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From the moment Henry drove into the grounds of Oak Spring Farm, its extraordinary character was plain to see.
Unlike European royal gardens, this estate resembled a botanical garden, divided into zones each with its own personality. Yet within each section, there were subtle touches—living plants arranged to harmonize with lifeless sculptures, trellises, and railings—so seamlessly that it all became one coherent whole.
All of this was personally overseen by Mrs. Rachel Lambert Mellon, well-deserving of her reputation as a master gardener.
Compared to the lush gardens, the farmhouse itself was modest: a cluster of low, white-walled, gray-roofed buildings, without even a second floor or attic. Plain to the extreme.
But stepping inside revealed a very different story. The rooms overflowed with artworks. Paintings filled the walls.
To describe it more accurately: artworks were treated as furniture; Old Masters hung like wallpaper.
Everyday items—a curtain, a window frame, a cabinet, a chair, a candlestick, a vase—were all masterpieces of design. Even the cups, plates, and teapots displayed in glass cases radiated aesthetic harmony.
There were no "decorations" in the conventional sense—only usable objects that nonetheless flaunted a wealth ordinary mortals could never dream of.
The first sight on entering was an entire wall of Renaissance masterpieces: Mona Lisa's Smile, Madonna of the Flower, The Madonna and Child with St. John, Young Bacchus, Sleeping Venus, and more.
It was practically a roll call of Giorgione, Leonardo, Raphael, Bellini, and Titian.
If not for the fact that Michelangelo's works were frescoed on church walls, the Mellons might have brought those here too—and then the collection would truly be complete.
Henry stood dumbstruck before that wall, until he noticed the others watching him.
Snapping back to himself, he quickly composed his face and said, "Apologies—I lost my composure."
Givenchy laughed. "No matter. They enjoy playing this little prank on newcomers. And your reaction is exactly the kind that amuses them most."
Henry forced a smile. "And what kind is that?"
"You were wondering if the paintings on this wall are all real, weren't you?"
Henry gave a wry grin. "How could I not? Even major museums rarely have such a complete set of works from this era. In any ordinary home I'd dismiss it—but this is the Mellons' Oak Spring Farm."
Paul Mellon stepped forward, a touch of pride in his voice. "Over ninety percent of the artworks circulating in the market or hanging in museums are fakes.
"Museums and galleries prefer a kinder term—'replicas' instead of forgeries.
"And I won't deny: some forgeries are so skillful even experts can't tell. But don't mistake me for one of those who brings authentic pieces home and hangs them up casually.
"Such artifacts, bearing the weight of history, belong to humanity. They must be preserved in climate-controlled conditions. Any damage at all is an affront to history.
"Some wealthy collectors love flaunting their 'genuine' treasures—trampling on history in their arrogance. Whether those pieces are truly authentic is another matter.
"I've more than once seen people boast that the museum's piece is a copy and the true one is in their hands. One glance, and I knew they were laughable fools.
"They have no eye for art. They don't even care whether their possessions are genuine. All they want is to flaunt the power of ownership.
"My wife and I have devoted ourselves to building the National Gallery, donating many works. Such disrespect for history is exactly what we strive to avoid.
"Now, if you see Impressionist or post-Impressionist pieces here, nineteenth or twentieth century works—those are Rachel's personal collection. Being more modern, they are genuine, not replicas.
"But I must admit, even after I explain this, most guests stubbornly refuse to believe me. They assume I'm joking, or being evasive. So be it." He shrugged.
"So you're saying—" Henry gestured at the Renaissance wall. "These are all replicas?"
"Correct," Paul admitted easily. "But unlike museum replicas, which are often resized or marked to show they're copies, these are painstaking forgeries I commissioned or acquired—intended for greeting new visitors.
"Friends in the know happily play along, letting me fool the uninitiated for a laugh. I hope you don't mind."
What could Henry say to such rich men's mischief? It reminded him of Harry Potter's Sorting Ceremony—everyone knew how it worked, but they still pretended for the sake of hazing the newcomers.
Today, he was the fresh-faced student, teased by the elders.
"But…" Henry hesitated. "May I take a closer look?"
Paul gestured permission. Rachel, more attentive, asked gently, "Henry, do you think something is amiss?"
Henry stepped up to the wall, sniffing here and there. Then he turned and asked, "Did your experts conclude that Leonardo's Lady with an Ermine is also a copy?"
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Do you think that piece is different?"
Henry explained, "Aged oil paintings are tricky. There's no chemical shortcut to authentic aging. Forgeries usually rely on simple techniques—oven-baking, ironing to flatten, then smoke exposure for the patina of age.
"Most use cigarette smoke—Marlboro, Winston, Lucky Strike, West. I can smell all of those here. But that particular painting lacks those scents."
He pointed directly at the supposed copy of Leonardo's Lady with an Ermine.
"You're certain?" Paul Mellon frowned.
"Think of me as having a dog's nose," Henry replied. "Most of the time, it's remarkably accurate."
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