Page 83 of The Dravenhearst Brides
October 1933
Reopened the stillhouse and began making mash.
Three more states voted for repeal this week, twenty-five total so far. It’s finally happening! Barrel filling to begin within the month.
—Excerpt, Dravenhearst Distilling Inventory Log as maintained by Merrick Dravenhearst
TheinfamousKentuckyheatdidn’t break until early October. Hot days and even hotter nights slipped into the crisp relief of fall. Alastair’s first grain shipment showed up contaminated with weevils (“He’s screwing with me,” Merrick roared. “Trying to fleece me!”), and the second took an ungodly amount of time to arrive (“He’s dragging his heels on purpose, the spiteful bastard!” “Yes, dear.”). By the time Merrick was able to start making bourbon mash, twenty-five states had ratified the Twenty-First Amendment, seeking to repeal Prohibition.
“Mark my words,” Merrick said as he and Margot walked down the hill together, “Kentucky will fall inline soon enough.”
“They’d better…” Margot mused, leaves crunching underfoot. The trees behind Hellebore House were burnished with russet and gold. “Since you’ve gone and turned our estate into a bootlegging operation.” She rolled her eyes.“Again.”
“You’ll feel differently in about ten minutes. That’s why I’m bringing you down here.” He smiled, full teeth and dimples. “Today, Mrs. Dravenhearst, is the day you fall in love.”
“Really?” Margot replied, suddenly breathless, heart fluttering.
“With bourbon,” Merrick clarified.
Was it her imagination or was there a teasing twinkle in his eye?
Merrick stopped outside a rather squat building at the outskirts of the distillery. He pushed the door open. “Welcome to the stillhouse.”
The first thing she noticed was the smell, an overpowering mix of sweet and sulfuric, sharp on every inhale. A little yeasty and warm too, like sourdough coming out of the oven.
Then there were the vats, massive copper drums two stories high, and exposed pipes running every which way. Dominating the far corner stood a magnificent column still; its copper tower stretched to the ceiling with clear, churning distillate visible through small porthole windows running up its length.
“It’s humid,” she observed as Merrick pulled the door closed.
“That’s the fermentation tanks.” He rapped a knuckle on the nearest copper vat. “We’ll start there. Come on.” He vaulted up a set of rickety stairs to the second-story catwalk.
The pungent smell was even stronger on the second level.
“Bourbon mash,” Merrick said, gesturing inside the nearest tank. “This batch is two days into fermentation.”
Margot leaned over the rim. Inside, a golden mustard-brown mix of grainy soup bubbled softly.
“All bourbon mash has to contain at least fifty-one percent corn,” he explained. “Every distillery has its own unique recipe. Corn adds sweetness, rye adds spice—that’s a Dravenhearst family secret, most other distilleries use wheat—and barley acts as the chemical stabilizer. During fermentation, yeast converts grain sugars into alcohol.” He reached for her hand, pulling it over the crust of the fizzing mash. “Feel that heat?”
Yes.Warmth radiated from the surface. She was mesmerized, staring into the vat. It lookedalive. Bubbling like stew on a stove.
“Heat is a byproduct of the chemical reaction happening under the surface. The mash takes three days to ferment. And then…”
He dragged her back downstairs, pointing out the well draining the alcohol from the fermentation tanks, then the pipes straining and transferring the distillate to the copper still. His mouth moved a mile a minute as he explained the minutiae of the process. Tripping over himself, hardly able to get the words out fast enough.
So much knowledge,Margot thought, watching the glow in his eyes, the vigor with which his hands moved.So much passion and precision and skill that’s gone unused for so many years.
It seemed, suddenly, a terrible waste.
Margot had never given much thought to the temperance movement. She grew up in a world of wets and drys, a world where Prohibition was the accepted reality. But here, standing in this stillhouse with Merrick, for the first time, she critically questioned that reality.
Thousands of lost jobs, he’d told her. Family businesses shuttered. Trade secrets forgotten. Decreased taxable revenue to the state.
It wasn’t as simple as mere morality, the drys be damned. This was abusiness. A lifeblood and a lifeline. One Merrick had every right to stake his livelihood on.
Her husband didn’t pause for breath until they settled before the column still. He exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the flow of the distillate as itmoved up and down the tower. Turning to vapor and back, concentrating and purifying, readying itself for the barrel.
“I haven’t seen anything distilling in here for thirteen years,” he whispered.
