Chapter 27

The catalyst that made black tea popular in Britain was when Catherine of Braganza married Charles II and first brought Chinese black tea, which was considered a precious gift at the time, to Britain as part of her dowry.

At that time, the tea chest Catherine brought had the phrase “Transporte de Ervas Aromáticas” (Carrying aromatic herbs) written on it, and this was later abbreviated to T.E.A., which supposedly carried down to the present day. Well, true or not.

Tea. Tea. Tea.

There was a joke that black tea flowed through Britons’ veins instead of blood.

It was the sole comfort that helped laborers endure the smog of the Industrial Revolution, and an indispensable fixture missing from no noble social gathering.

The problem was that as long as they imported this damn leaf entirely from Qing China, if they failed to secure a structural surplus in their trade with Qing China—or at the very least, achieve a balance—Britain’s economy would slowly wither and die.

Just as a body into which blood only flowed and never exited was a sick body, a country where silver only departed and never entered would surely fall sick as well.

It was now 1839.

To be sure, in original history, Britain eventually succeeded in cultivating tea in India…

The question is when.

I tapped rhythmically against the ledger with a quill, deep in thought.

Perhaps a decade or more of time might be required.

I could not simply turn a blind eye and watch massive quantities of silver flow out of the warehouses during that long wait.

I had already sent a message to the Viceroy of India instructing them to investigate the Assam region.

Yet given that a similar attempt had been thwarted a decade prior, miracles were hardly about to sprout from a mere directive. If it was a matter of stacking yet another failure upon a record of failure, remaining idle was far better.

Knock, knock.

At that moment, alongside the sound of a knock, Baroness Lehzen entered.

“Your Majesty, Sir Clark has requested an audience.”

“Show him in.”

It was their usual routine medical checkup, yet his face looked unusually bright today.

“Judging by the cheerfulness gracing your face, you must bring good news?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Thanks to the support of the Baring family concerning the willow matter you ordered last time, we are set to commence large-scale cultivation across Yorkshire.”

“Splendid. Though it will take some time, a few years from now we will be able to ensure a stable supply of salicin.”

“All thanks to Your Majesty’s deep concern.”

As he moved to bow respectfully, I seated him upon the sofa and personally poured him a cup of tea. Guangzhou black tea, sending up a gentle plume of steam. That small, clear sound of a teacup striking its saucer settled the chaotic, worry-riddled corners of my mind.

“Sir, how do you find the taste of this tea?”

At my query, Sir Clark picked up the teacup with a puzzled expression.
After taking a single sip, he tilted his head.

“It possesses the magnificent flavor as always, but… does it perhaps not suit your palate? Have you recently suffered from a fever, or perhaps caught a cold…?”

His gaze instantly transformed into that of a physician.

True to a royal physician, Sir Clark possessed the habit of translating every word escaping my lips into medical terminology. To him, questions were always symptoms, and silence was always a clue.

“My health is beyond reproach. It is simply that this tea weighs heavy upon my heart.”

“Hmm… tea. Come to think of it, an incident occurred recently in London where a gang was caught adulterating black tea with copper and selling it. Might you possibly—?”

“No… it is nothing of the sort, Sir. The taste of black tea has not changed. It is merely that every single one of these tea leaves represents a lump of silver, and that thought sits heavy upon me.”

Setting down my teacup, I brought up the main topic.

Beating around the bush was never my preference.

“I wish to cultivate these tea leaves upon our own soil. In India, or elsewhere.”

“Cultivate tea, you say?”

Sir Clark’s eyes widened into circles.

“Yet Your Majesty, is the tea plant not a specialty of Qing China? The climate differs, and the soil will differ as well—would such a thing be possible?”

“The potential is fully there. Plants are living things too; as long as the conditions align, will they not grow anywhere? We merely require the assistance of an expert.”

Leaning forward, I launched properly into the conversation.

“Since you are a physician, are you not well-versed in botany and herbalism as well? Do you happen to know a reliable expert in this field? Not a mere scholar who prattles on about theory, but someone who genuinely knows how to work the soil.”

Sir Clark stroked his chin briefly, sinking into contemplation.

“Hmm… botany. There are certainly many esteemed figures within the Royal Society, however…”

A moment later, he struck his knee in realization.

“Ah, there is precisely one person.”

“Who is it?”

“Dr. John Lindley.”

“Lindley?”

While I tilted my head, Sir Clark added his explanation.

“He is a professor of botany at University College London (UCL) and a core figure in the Royal Horticultural Society. He enjoys an illustrious reputation, particularly as an authority on orchid research. His academic depth is remarkable, but above all, he is hailed as the foremost figure of our era when it comes to the practical cultivation and classification of plants.”

Only then did I recall seeing the name tucked away in a corner of Victoria’s diary.
John Lindley.

The towering titan who led Victorian botany.

Even in original history, he was the very person the British government consulted first when probing the feasibility of tea cultivation.

That a name I needed to know was placed before me precisely at the moment I needed to meet them.

Whether it was the intended design of the diary or the mischief of coincidence, perhaps this was what they called destiny.

“Splendid. If it is him, he will be able to verify my plan.”

“I believe Dr. Lindley would be entirely capable. If we dispatch a letter through the Society, he will respond with gladness.”

“Splendid. It would be even better to tell him we require consultation regarding the gardens here at Buckingham.”

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

Two days later, inside the South Conservatory of Buckingham Palace, a man wearing fastidious spectacles and neatly combed-back hair lay sprawled flat upon the dirt floor.
His sharp gaze was completely pinned upon a single leaf resting upon the soil, with a depth of concentration so intense that he remained entirely unaware of my approach.

“…Is that man Dr. John Lindley?”

“If I may be so bold as to report… scholars are generally prone to being somewhat eccentric, Your Majesty.”

At my query, Sir Clark blushed slightly with an air of embarrassment.

This scene, where the two individuals waiting in the audience chamber had ultimately led us all the way to the dirt floor of this conservatory before we could finally meet them. Yet I felt a strange affinity for the tableau. A person absorbed in their scholarship to the point of forgetting mere formalities was far more trustworthy than someone sitting grandly upon a high seat waiting to be addressed with ceremony.

“Ahem.”

Fearing he might start counting the ants crawling across the garden at this rate, I approached and offered a polite cough, at which he finally sprang upright and offered a respectful bow.

“Oh! Please forgive my lack of manners!”

“Your Majesty, this passionate gentleman here is John Lindley of the Royal Horticultural Society.”

“Please call me Dr. Lindley, Your Majesty.”

Watching him shake the dirt from his clothes much like a dog shedding water, I thought to myself that one truly had to be mad to this degree to earn a doctorate.

Ah, thank goodness a hundred times over I never went to graduate school.

Having brushed away all the dirt, he offered a respectful bow.

Wearing gloved hands, I toyed with an orchid leaf and offered him a businesslike smile.

“Delighted to meet you, Dr. Lindley. Thank you for coming despite your busy schedule.”

“Not at all. I was told you sought consultation regarding the cultivation of the Buckingham Palace gardens, so I came running with a joyful heart. What is it you are curious about? I shall impart all the knowledge I possess!”

A chill ran down my body at his enthusiasm, which felt as though he were about to begin a lecture on a blackboard right on the spot.

Then Dr. Lindley’s gaze drifted toward the orchid I was touching.

“Oh? Is it perhaps on account of the orchid? Orchids, Your Majesty, are plants where drainage is paramount, yet different varieties diverge…”

No! Absolutely not!

If I simply let Dr. Lindley pour out words at a level that would make a flock of pigeons in Trafalgar Square take sudden flight, a day and a night might not suffice.

I quickly removed my hand from the orchid and looked him straight in the eye.

“Actually, I’ve called upon you, Doctor, because I’m painting a somewhat bigger picture than just the gardens.”

“Pardon? Then you didn’t summon me on account of the plants…”

At that, Dr. Lindley made a face like a dejected puppy.

This made me feel unnecessarily like I’d done something wrong, but I didn’t have time to sit through a lecture right now!

“Let me ask you directly. Do you believe it is possible to cultivate tea plants in India?”

At my words, Dr. Lindley’s eyebrows twitched.

Had he intuited that this was no casual question about a hobby?

With the cautious attitude characteristic of a scholar, he sank into thought for a moment before opening his mouth:

“Theoretically… it is entirely possible.”

“Theoretically?”

“Yes. Tea plants belong to the Camellia family. If the environment can sustain camellias, tea plants can thrive as well. The northern mountainous regions of India, particularly the Himalayan foothills, share similar latitudes and comparable climates to Qing China’s tea-growing districts.”

Confidence resonated within his voice.

“…I examined a few specimens several years ago, and there were even reports that wild tea plants already grow natively in the Assam region of India. That serves as the most powerful evidence that the soil is suitable for tea plants to flourish.”

Indeed, an expert was different. He already knew the answer without requiring me to spell it out.

“Then, Dr. Lindley, why are we still chaining ourselves to Qing China? Why has Indian tea failed to grace London’s dining tables?”

At my sharp inquiry, Dr. Lindley offered a bitter smile.

“Possibility and reality are two different things, Your Majesty. The presence of wild trees does not mean one can immediately produce marketable tea. Cultivation techniques, processing methods, and above all…”

He paused briefly and readjusted his spectacles.

“There has been a shortage of individuals willing to dive madly into this endeavor.”

“Individuals, you say…”

“Yes. Not scholars sitting comfortably in research labs churning out papers, but field experts willing to leap into mosquito-infested jungles and swallow the dirt, so to speak.”

His words rang true.

No matter how magnificent a plan might be, without a single person to execute it, it remains mere scraps of paper.

Looking back across history, how many grand plans were buried under dust and vanished because they never found the right person? A civilization rich in knowledge yet lacking physical follow-through, a culture heavy in mind yet empty in hand. Perhaps my role was to properly orchestrate those elements.

“Dr. Lindley, I desire to cultivate tea in India and bring it back here to Britain.”

“Is there an absolute necessity that we must do so?”

His question was unexpectedly cautious. A subtle gap lay between the doctor who had poured out stories about orchids just moments prior and the doctor posing this inquiry now.

“It is true that tea grows natively in India and the climate is fitting. Yet that remains entirely a theoretical possibility up to this point; it is a dimension entirely removed from the practical business realm of cultivation and shipping.”

At that moment, a heavy shadow descended across his complexion for the very first time.

Over the face that had glowed brightly before the orchids moments ago, something entirely different was quietly settling. Neither fear nor modesty, but something resembling an old, festering wound.

He is hesitating right now.

I recognized that face.

Back in the day, there was a team brimming with passion and capability tasked with leading a company’s new project.

The team members believed in the project’s potential and staked everything upon that belief.

Yet when things failed to unfold as desired, the executives dumped the blame for the project’s failure under the singular label of the team members’ incompetence.

Ever since that day, they no longer spoke first. They no longer raised their hands first.

They gradually became people who sought to remain entirely unnoticed by anyone.

The expressions of those team members and the expression of the scholar standing before me now were identical.

Wounds inflicted upon the soul manifest with the same patterns across eras and languages.

“…Even should we fail.”

At my words, Dr. Lindley raised his head.

“The world will declare my judgment flawed, not the Doctor’s theory.”

“Pardon?”

“The Royal Tea House Company.”

Last night, I had pondered over this decision for a long time.

Into whose hands should the Indian tea cultivation enterprise be entrusted?

Hand it to the East India Company, or leave it to the cabinet?

Yet the already bloated East India Company had long since lost the capacity to manage the minutiae of business enterprises, and leaving it to the cabinet would merely turn it into fodder for partisan squabbling.

Countless failures were reflected within the mirror of history.

Rather than this, it’s better to establish a company directly under the royal house.

“I plan to found a tea company under the royal name before long. Naturally, the royal house will oversee the enterprise as a whole, but since I cannot travel to India myself to gather soil and analyze it, I require someone to take charge of it.”

“Your Majesty, those words mean…”

“Of course, should the enterprise fail, I shall bear the responsibility; should it happen to succeed, Dr. Lindley’s name will endure forever within the botanical history of Britain. Who knows? Perhaps a statue of Dr. Lindley will be erected at University College London?”

Responsibility for me, glory for the subordinate.

Had I shouldered the responsibility for a new project’s failure as a strategic misstep by the executives rather than denigrating the team members’ incompetence, the story might have turned out differently.

“So, give it a try. If it fails, I’m the only one losing money, but if it succeeds, the royal house gains wealth, and Dr. Lindley leaves behind eternal honor.”

Eternal honor.

At those words, Dr. Lindley’s gaze shifted.

Dr. Lindley opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it. A sentence swallowed before utterance could be seen trembling briefly somewhere around his throat.

While waiting for that trembling to subside, I remained entirely silent.

Pressuring words is akin to forcibly plucking an unripe fruit.

He slowly removed his spectacles. Then, he carefully cleaned the lenses with the hem of his shirt. Perhaps it was a conversation with himself, or perhaps his own private ritual leading toward resolution.

Having put his spectacles back on, he spoke at last in a very quiet voice:

“…Your Majesty.”

“Speak.”

“I have spent my entire life pondering plants. Where they are born, where they grow, and how they transform.”

A tremor ran through his voice, yet it was no sign of anxiety.

It was the act of posing a final question to oneself right before a deliberate resolution passed beyond the lips.

“Yet I immersed myself solely in theory and deliberately ignored reality—realities that might well have been entirely possible. Not even once.”

Not even once. Those three words slipped past his lips. And I understood the weight of those three words better than anyone else.

“I will go to India.”

Within his pupils bloomed the days of upcoming years yet unopened, the mud of unfamiliar soils never yet trodden, and the dream of opening wide with his own hands a possibility he had never once touched until now.