Chapter 11

“Pwahahaha-hahaha!”

Apsley House stood proudly on London’s Piccadilly.

The drawing room of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington and Hero of Waterloo, was filled with his booming, hearty laughter.

“Listen to me, Melbourne. I swear on my life, the last time I laughed this hard while clutching my stomach was when we wiped that arrogant look right off Bonaparte’s face in the mud of Waterloo!”

The Duke of Wellington wiped tears from the corners of his eyes and kept chuckling, while Lord Melbourne could only let out one sigh after another.

He was still on the verge of losing his mind, completely unsure whether the Queen’s bombshell remarks were actually sincere or just the reckless bravado of a naive girl who knew nothing of the world. It only made him resent the Duke of Wellington all the more for laughing like a barbarian.

Just… smash them to pieces with cannons?!

Ever since that absurd private audience at Kensington Palace a few days ago, Lord Melbourne hadn’t been able to get a proper night’s sleep.

No matter how much he turned it over in his mind, those were not words that should ever come out of the mouth of a nineteen-year-old girl.

It might have been a different story if she were a battle-hardened veteran who had chugged whiskey straight from the bottle, high on bravado.

“I still feel like I need to doubt my own ears. Her Majesty, who probably doesn’t even know the first thing about war, actually suggested that we fire cannons!”

“Ha! I misjudged her entirely. To think she has such a fiery and bold spirit! If Her Majesty had entered the military academy, graduating at the top of her class would have been practically guaranteed!”

The Duke of Wellington’s eyes sparkled.

The pale queen who had once solemnly murmured about the weight of conscience and the compass of morality vanished, replaced by a striking new portrait of her, as if someone had painted thick, bold oil over a delicate watercolor.

“I thought I had lived seventy years and seen it all, leaving nothing left to surprise me. I was wrong.”

At his gesture, a maid in a neat uniform approached in silence.

She carried a small, intricately carved silver box in her hands.

Grape vines and lion motifs were intertwined across the surface. Receiving the box, the Duke of Wellington opened the lid as carefully as if he were handling a sacred relic.

Snuff.

“Well, anyway, I had them bring just the thing for our poor, despondent Prime Minister. Thanks to this fellow, I managed to keep my wits about me even amidst the terrible mud and smoke of Waterloo.”

With practiced skill, the Duke dropped a pinch of brown powder between his thumb and forefinger onto the back of his hand.

Blocking one nostril, he inhaled sharply through the other. His eyes widened wide for a fraction of a second before settling once more with a sigh of satisfaction.

Lord Melbourne reluctantly and clumsily imitated the gesture.

A sensation akin to scratching the inside of his nose pierced deep into his skull.

A sneeze threatened to burst forth, but he managed to swallow it down. His head spun for a moment, and then a lively clarity washed over him.

“By the way, I hear that new Viceroy of Huguang in Qing China is causing trouble?”

Perhaps because of the snuff, the Duke’s voice was much lower and calmer, yet it carried the intimidating edge of a blade.

“Indeed. A fellow with an unbearably difficult name to pronounce… Lin Zexu, or something like that. From what I hear, he is exceptionally strict, stubborn, and utterly devoid of even a sliver of flexibility.”

“Hmph. What could those rustic men of the East possibly know? Give them a few extra coins to show ‘friendship,’ and sweet-talk them a bit, and they’ll naturally tuck their tails between their legs and look the other way before you know it. That’s just how orientals are—simple and greedy.”

A scoff dripping with contempt.

To him, the East consisted of savages lagging far behind civilization.

“However… if a disaster occurs where trade is completely halted… what should we do then?”

The Duke of Wellington’s gaze flashed sharply for a split second.

“If such an unseemly and unfortunate event were to actually happen, of course we would naturally issue a strong diplomatic protest and demand fair and full compensation for all the losses our merchants suffered.”

“Are you saying the sword and cannon should be our last resort?”

“As Her Majesty so… well, ‘fiery and straightforwardly’ put it, I do not believe there is any need right now to deploy warships and marines to spill blood and wage war against savages. Would it not be foolish and dangerous to rashly try to solve a problem with military might when it can be sufficiently resolved through diplomatic efforts?”

“Ah, my friend, you’ve used the wrong word. War, you say? How could we possibly dare call a conflict against such primitive and lowly creatures a sacred War? Strictly speaking, it would be a Subjugation, a Punishment, or perhaps a Civilizing Mission. Don’t you agree?”

With those words, the two men burst into simultaneous, booming laughter.

Britain’s national power was soaring to the heavens, and in the eyes of both men, Qing China was nothing more than an overgrown, rotten, disorganized rabble.

Napoleon, who had once tried to swallow the European continent, had warned them to be wary of China, but just as he had ultimately fallen at Waterloo, the two men were certain that Qing China would collapse in an instant before an army flying the Union Jack.

In the office.

The portraits of former monarchs looking down from the ceiling seemed to be telling me:

You do not belong in that seat. What makes you think an outsider like you can possibly accomplish anything here?

Just as closing one’s eyes in front of a forest fire does not put out the flames, the massive spark of the Opium War was still slowly burning away on the powder keg of history.

I have to stop the Opium War. If I fail, I die.

Could there possibly be any problem more straightforward, more cruel, lacking an obvious answer, and starved of sufficient time?

I sat in my chair, took a calm breath, and opened Victoria’s diary to look for any records that might serve as a reference.

[You have 5 minutes remaining to view today’s diary entry.]

“How has it been so long that I only have five minutes left?”

It felt like I had barely read a few pages, yet twenty minutes had slipped by in a flash.

“Ha, whatever.”

I closed the diary and shut my eyes. What on earth should I do in this situation?
I weighed the thoughts that popped up in my head one by one.

First, enact a law in Parliament to completely ban the opium trade itself? That would certainly be the most definitive and righteous path.

But is it realistically possible?

Right now, Britain is suffering a severe trade deficit against Qing China.

To bridge this gap, they are using the opium trade to patch up the deficit.

What about the systematic backlash and lobbying from merchants engaged in the opium trade, including the East India Company?

The money the company poured out to hush up the past whistleblowing wouldn’t even compare.

Wouldn’t passing a bill in Parliament to ban the opium trade be harder than a camel passing through the eye of a needle?

Second, establish normal and equal diplomatic relations with Qing China, and develop or discover trade goods other than tea or silk to gradually resolve the trade imbalance? That sounds plausible too, but reality is certainly no bed of roses.

At the time, Qing China treated Britain as mere Western barbarians coming to pay tribute and rejected equal diplomatic relations altogether. The closed-ended trading system that restricted trade to just a single port in Guangzhou and allowed transactions only through a monopoly merchant group called the Cohong was also a severe problem.

To break this imbalance, one would ultimately have to rely on strong military might, making this a perilous gamble that sharply increased the likelihood of war breaking out. Far from conscience and justice, it would be boarding an express train heading straight toward a certain war.

Third, individually meet with conscientious members of Parliament in secret, preach the immorality of the opium trade, and secretly turn them into allies. Perhaps this was the most foolish and dangerous path of all three.

A nineteen-year-old queen with zero political experience bypassing the sitting Prime Minister and secretly contacting lawmakers?

This was a direct challenge to the cabinet and practically suicidal behavior inviting a constitutional crisis.

It was equivalent to a constitutional monarch pointing a knife at their own political survival.

All three choices were dead ends.

Ha… damn it. There’s not even an answer!

I figured the plight of a mouse trapped in a maze with no exit would be better than this.

When I lived as the whistleblower Kim Ah-young, I always managed to find a solution and carve out a breakthrough, but this was on an entirely different dimension.

What on earth can a single person do before the dark current of imperialism, far beyond the realm of pushing and pulling with a few politicians?

They say even if the sky falls, there is a way to rise…

It was right then.

“Your Majesty, Lady Ashburton is said to be arriving shortly.”

Baroness Lehzen’s words snapped me back to reality.

Ah, right! The tea party!

I had completely forgotten that it was time for the tea party while locking horns with Lord Melbourne over the Qing issue.

Tea parties with noblewomen had quietly become one of my main duties, and ever since I started handing out special chamomile tea containing salicin as an alternative to laudanum, the Kensington Palace gardens had turned into the hottest spot in London’s high society.

Stepping out into the garden, silver teacups on a round table beneath the shade of trees were quietly glistening in the afternoon sunlight.

And noblewomen dressed in gorgeous gowns had already taken their seats. Spotting me, they all rose from their seats at once and gracefully executed curtsies.

“We present ourselves to Your Majesty.”

“Please, everyone, sit comfortably. The weather is truly lovely today.”

The words coming out of my mouth were calm, but my inner self was still wandering through the quagmire of the Opium War.

Yet, I had to smile here. For the smile of one who wears a crown is always like that.

As we sat, the maids moved in strict synchronization to fill the teacups, and as the fragrant aroma of chamomile drifted through the air, color returned to the faces of the noblewomen.

“Your Majesty, thanks to this mysterious tea, my troublesome migraines have vanished as if washed away. Truly, Your Majesty is our savior!”

The first to speak was naturally Lady Ashburton. At her words, the other noblewomen chimed in eagerly.

“Indeed. The nightmares I suffered every night have vanished as well.”

“My nerves were on edge all day long, but now my heart feels so at ease.”

“I am glad to hear that all of your health has improved. What else could be a greater asset to our nation than healthy bodies and minds?”

At my words, the noblewomen nodded with moved expressions.

Then, one lady spoke up, as if remembering an article published in the newspaper a short while ago.

“I read a story in the newspaper recently about a laudanum addict, and it gave me the most terrible chills. Apparently, suffering from hallucinations, they ultimately ended their own life.”

“Oh, how horrifying!”

“To think we were drinking such a dreadful poison without a second thought! Just imagining it is terrifying.”

When Mrs. Stanley covered her mouth with her fan and chuckled, the others also burst into laughter, asking, “How could we have been so ignorant?”

What a relief.

No one is looking for laudanum anymore.

While conversation flowed for a while with gossip, small talk, and praises of my mysterious tea, the topic naturally shifted back to me.

“Now that I think of it, Your Majesty’s coronation is not far off!”

At Lady Ashburton’s words, everyone’s gaze converged on me.

“Goodness, has it already come to that? Time truly flies.”

“It will be the most glorious day for our Britain. All of us are counting down the days until then, Your Majesty.”

The noblewomen could not hide their fluttering expressions as they talked each of their coronation gowns and jewels, but in truth, I felt little emotion.

Unlike me, who only thought of ‘coronation = official authentication procedure,’ it seemed to be the event of the century for the noblewomen.

“Speaking of the coronation…”

Lady Ashburton, who had been quite excited, let her eyes sparkle as if she had thought of something.

“By the way, Your Majesty, have you ever heard of heliography?”

“Heliography?”

It was a word I was hearing for the first time. It sounded like the name of a sun god from Greek mythology. At my bewildered expression, Lady Ashburton began to explain excitedly.

“Some eccentric inventor in France apparently made it. You coat a pewter plate with some strange chemicals…”

“And then?”

“If you put it inside a dark box and let light shine through a small hole, the scenery outside the box is drawn right onto the plate! Not a painting, but the exact real appearance! Isn’t it truly amazing? How wonderful it would be if Your Majesty’s coronation could be captured with that!”

A dark box, light, and… scenery drawn in its exact real appearance.

In an instant, fragments of knowledge scattered inside my head clicked together into one.

Helio… Helios (Sun) and Graphe (Drawing)? Wait a minute. Isn’t that photography?