Chapter 30

Charles Grey.

A stalwart of the Whig party and former Prime Minister.

And in actual history, the very person from whom Earl Grey black tea derived its name.

I alternated my gaze between the letter and the teacup, a faint smile playing at the corners of my lips. The crest of the Grey family upon the letter and my own reflection mirrored upon the red, rippling surface of the tea inside the cup.

It felt as though a long, slender thread of time was weaving the opposite sides of the globe together with the past and the future, tying a single knot right upon this very moment.

The most flawless stage and the most flawless name to introduce this tea to the world have walked right in on their own two feet.

I repeated that quietly to myself.

Earl Grey.
This name was not something I had invented; rather, it was simply being placed upon the tongues of this era through my hands first.

“Baroness Lehzen, write a reply. Tell them I will gladly attend.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And… inform them that I am preparing a very special gift to bring along.”

I looked out the window at the sky of London.

Very soon, every teacup in London would be filled with the fragrance of bergamot.

And that fragrance would become the golden key that propelled the Royal Tea House Company into the finest enterprise in Britain.

“Let’s get going!”

A few days later, the townhouse of Earl Charles Grey.

His residence was an antique building situated at No. 48 Berkeley Square, right in the heart of Mayfair, London’s most exclusive district. By the time the carriage I rode in approached the square, a long queue of vehicles had already formed.

The gaslit street, flickering with smoky yet yellowish flames, glittered with noble ladies adorned in jewels and gowns alongside gentlemen in tailcoats, while Metropolitan Police officers directed the carriages hither and thither.

“To think Her Majesty is gracing us with her personal presence—this is truly a momentous honor.”

“Earl Grey’s influence remains formidable. Even long after his retirement.”

Murmurs from the crowd occasionally drifted past on the wind. Those tiny fragments of conversation sketched out the backdrop of tonight’s stage even before I had stepped down from the carriage.

At that moment, a magnificent carriage emblazoned with the royal crest appeared in the distance. The majesty of the carriage rolling in under the escort of the Life Guards caused the bustling square to fall silent in an instant.

“Long live the Queen!”

As the carriage door opened and I stepped out, the crowd bowed their heads and curtsied in unison.

I waved with an expression as dignified as possible, yet without appearing overly stiff.

Forget the ball—I want to reveal this already. Earl Grey is genuinely god-tier.

Thinking these thoroughly ruined thoughts while maintaining an elegant demeanor, I headed toward the entrance, where an elderly gentleman with a head of snow-white hair—Earl Charles Grey—stood with an expression of deep emotion. If a young person’s emotion was like fireworks, an old man’s emotion resembled the lingering embers of an ancient fireplace. A glow that flared faintly yet refused to die out. The light of those embers lay thinly nestled among the creases of his wrinkles.

“Your Majesty! I am at a loss for how to express my gratitude for your gracing this humble place.”

“How could I possibly refuse an invitation from someone as distinguished as Lord Grey?”

As I spoke, I scanned my surroundings and found virtually all the prominent figures of British politics gathered here.

Lord Melbourne, naturally, alongside Sir Robert Peel—tipped as the next Prime Minister—and Lord Palmerston, who had frequently stood in opposition to me, and so on…

Though ostensibly a charity banquet, it was in reality an occasion for the heavyweights of high society to fraternize. Tonight, various agreements, debates, or information that would line individual pockets would undoubtedly pass back and forth across the room.

Though, of course, I shall be today’s protagonist.

Stepping into the ballroom, the dazzling chandeliers and film-score-like melodies of the orchestra welcomed me, yet I felt little stir.

Within my mind, I was solely calculating the exact timing to unveil Earl Grey.

When the fervor of the ball was in full swing, I approached Earl Grey to offer my greetings. Naturally, inquisitive aristocrats were hovering nearby with pricked ears.

“Lord Grey, thank you for inviting me to such a noble occasion for charity.”

“It is an honor. Her Majesty is blessing this old man’s final service.”

Final service.

Those two words settled quietly into my mind.

This old man had already accepted that his remaining time was short.

Yet within that acceptance, there was no bitterness.

Instead, his voice carried the resolute determination possessed only by someone who had chosen for themselves how to spend their remaining days. A person capable of choosing their own direction even at the edge of life—was that not perhaps the most precious freedom a human being could accumulate throughout their existence?
I found myself envying that just a little bit.

Following the exchange of conventional greetings, Earl Grey’s gaze fixed upon the luxurious, gold-embossed wooden chests carried by the attendants trailing behind me.
The royal crest was vividly stamped upon the exterior, making it inevitable that his eyes would keep drifting toward them.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but what might those be…?”

Unable to contain his curiosity, the Earl asked eagerly, whereupon I smiled knowingly and pointed toward one of the chests.

“A gift I prepared personally to support the Earl’s charitable endeavors.”

“A-A gift, you say? That is entirely uncalled for.”

“Not at all. It is a modest token compared to Your Lordship’s hard work and loyalty.”

At a nod to Baroness Lehzen, the attendants opened the chests.

At that instant, a familiar yet enchanting bergamot fragrance subtly drifted throughout the entire ballroom.

“Goodness, what is this fragrance…?”

“Is it a floral scent? Or perhaps perfume?”

As the people gathered around the chests ceased their conversations and began sniffing the air, I smiled at their reactions and raised my voice just a fraction.

Not quite enough to discord with the ballroom’s music, but loud enough to reach those who had been cocking their ears since a moment ago.

“And it is… the royal family’s newest treasure, unveiled for the very first time to the ladies and gentlemen gathered here.”

At the word “treasure,” the gazes of the crowd locked onto us all at once.

Just as expected.

How could Britons ever ignore the word treasure?

The history of this island nation fundamentally consisted of fetching treasures from distant seas, and the radiance brought back by those treasures had filled every parlor, museum, and warehouse in the land. In a way, it was an age-old tradition they had accumulated—virtually a national pastime.

“Your Majesty, if you call it a treasure…”

Instead of answering, I signaled the attendants once more. Under Baroness Lehzen’s direction, the attendants began systematically drawing out the tea leaves.

“It is a newly blended tea created not long ago.”

“Tea… did you say?”

“Seeing it for oneself is better than merely hearing about it.”

The moment hot water touched the tea leaves. The magic began.

Whoosh―

The instant the boiling water made contact with the tea leaves, a fresh, dazzling bergamot aroma burst forth like fireworks, cutting through the stagnant air of the banquet hall.

The space—previously a blend of tobacco smoke, food odors, and human perspiration—instantly transformed into an orange grove in Italy.

At this very moment, dozens of London aristocrats stood together beneath the Mediterranean sunshine without having moved an inch.

“My word, what is this scent?”

“Goodness, it smells like flowers… and yet like fruit.”

“How utterly fragrant!”

Enwreathed in the refreshing citrus aroma, I lifted the teapot myself and poured the tea into the Earl’s cup.

As the deep red tea liquor and the mysterious fragrance mingled within the rising steam spread outward, the gazes of the onlookers converged entirely upon us.

“Lord Grey, would you be so kind as to become the very first taster of this tea?”

Receiving the teacup with trembling hands, he brought the cup close to his nose and inhaled deeply for a long stretch.

For the old man’s lungs to welcome this unfamiliar fragrance into his body required a slightly longer breath than a young person’s body would demand. Yet in proportion to that length, his acceptance was profound.

“…I cannot believe this, Your Majesty. For tea to release such a fragrance.”

And then, a single sip.

Everyone in the banquet hall held their breath, watching the Earl’s reaction.

“T-This flavor…!”

Taking a sip, his eyes widened. For decades, the tongue of an old man who had consumed countless top-tier teas was now discovering a territory it had never known.

“How is it? Does it suit your palate?”

Savoring the taste within his mouth, he exclaimed in a voice brimming with emotion.

“Goodness… Your Majesty! There is not a trace of astringency, and it glides down as smoothly as silk. And this aroma… It feels as though spring has arrived inside my mouth. I have never tasted such tea even in Qing China!”

At his praise, the surrounding aristocrats began to buzz with excitement. For Earl Grey—renowned as a gourmand—to offer such glowing praise? Their curiosity had now swelled into an unstoppable wave.

“Your Majesty, what is the name of this magnificent tea?”

The name.

That single word was placed once more at the center of tonight. I delayed speaking for a moment.

The length of this silence mattered. Too short, and it would sound like a prepared response; too long, and it would lose its naturalness. After all, the destiny of a name was decided according to the texture of the silence right before its birth.

In response to Earl Grey’s question, I looked around the banquet hall and answered in a clear voice.

I glanced around the banquet hall once. Countless gazes were gathered upon my lips.

“We infused precious tea leaves of the Orient with a fresh fragrance that holds the sunlight of the Mediterranean.”

At my voice, the entire ballroom began to listen even more intently.

“Deeming it a fragrance fitting for Your Lordship’s noble character, elegance, and conscience… I would like to call this tea ‘Earl Grey’.”

“…M-My name, you say?”

Last night, I had thought at length about the name Charles Grey.

In 1833, while he was serving as Prime Minister, Britain had abolished slavery.

Of course, it was not an achievement accomplished by his strength alone.

It was a decision that would have been impossible without Wilberforce and the countless consciences that followed him.

Yet the fact remained that on the night the bill passed, his signature rested at the very bottom of that document. The conscience of an era had been ultimately actualized through the tips of his fingers.

So that the conscience of the era may be remembered for all eternity.

I could have attached my own name to this tea.

In this timeline, since I had developed the bergamot-flavored tea first, the right was indisputably mine. Just imagining the scene where a tin case featuring my portrait was displayed in every grocery store in London was enough to lift my spirits.

History might perhaps record me as the first.

Yet I knew that was not the truth—that this name ought properly to lie sleeping within the embrace of that old man over there.

Therefore, I wondered whether it would truly be conscientious to ignore this and seize the name for myself.

Conscience is most honest when no one is watching.

And at this very moment, not a single soul in this era knew that I was returning this name to its original owner.

Returning the name of the tea to him was the act of the conscience of one era quietly reaching out a hand to the conscience of another. The consciences of different years crossing the river of time to clasp each other’s names.

The answer to the question Commissioner Lin had asked me—“Does your country and its royal family truly possess even a single shred of conscience left?”—was delivered tonight in a small banquet without a single person noticing. For conscience always reveals its true face in places where no one can see.

“Truly… truly, I am overwhelmed with emotion, Your Majesty!”

Earl Grey’s hand trembled slightly.

The teacup wavered within his grip, and the steam rising from the surface scattered briefly in time with that tremor before gathering once more.

His face was flushed, yet this was not out of embarrassment; rather, it was akin to the emotion of a moment when one’s entire lifetime of work was fully recognized by another’s eyes.

He had considered himself an old retiree stepping out for one final service.

Yet the tea I had placed upon his name tonight would transform his service from a finale into a beginning.

For generations to come, his name would be quietly invoked every single morning at millions of kitchen tables.

The aristocrats standing nearby could no longer contain themselves.

“My Lord, what on earth does it taste like for you to react so?”

“The aroma is truly breathtaking. Just a single sip for me as well…”

Curiosity is like a plague; once the curiosity of a single person flares within a space, that energy instills the same urge in everyone within a radius of a few meters.
Now, this ballroom was no longer a place where people had gathered to dance, but a place gathered to receive a single cup of tea.

“Serve this tea to everyone. Today is a joyous day, so let everyone partake of it.”

No sooner had my words left my lips than attendants hurried about among the nobles carrying trays, pouring the tea, and shortly thereafter, gasps of admiration erupted from all corners of the ballroom.

“Oh, my word! This is black tea?”

“It’s as fragrant as perfume! There isn’t a hint of astringency!”

“Look at these blue petals mixed inside. Aren’t they like jewels?”

“Just smell this aroma!”

“To think a flavor could be this elegant!”

The banquet hall instantly transformed from a dance floor into a tasting venue, and everyone’s expressions began to fill with enchantment.

To nobles weary of the insipid or heavily smoky taste of conventional Chinese tea, the dazzling flavor profile of Earl Grey was quite literally a new world.

Then, looking toward Earl Grey, who was still savoring the bergamot fragrance, I drove the final wedge home.

“A portion of the sales proceeds from this tea will be donated to Your Lordship’s charitable endeavors. So you may promote it to your heart’s content.”

“Your Majesty…!”

The Earl’s eyes welled with tears.

A tea bearing his name, a gift bestowed directly by the Queen, and on top of that, funding for his charity work.

He would undoubtedly appoint himself a lifelong goodwill ambassador for this tea, and from now on, any aristocrat who failed to drink Earl Grey would be treated as a hopelessly outdated bumpkin.

“Your Majesty, where might one acquire this tea?”

Sure enough, as a noble lady approached and asked with an eager expression, I hid my smile behind my fan.

“It is not yet on the market. But… should many desire it, it might be introduced through the Royal Tea House Company.”

“The Royal Tea House Company?”

“It is said to be a tea enterprise established by a few courageous individuals in London. They presented it specially to Us, and finding its aroma and flavor exquisite, We wished to share this joy with others.”

At that instant, the expressions of the profit-scenting nobles and merchants gathered there shifted.

And they realized it instinctively.

This tea would sell.

No, it was an item they wouldn’t be able to keep in stock.

A tea whose name was bestowed directly by the Queen.

A tea named after Earl Grey, a former Prime Minister and respected aristocrat.

And above all, a fantastical fragrance unlike anything ever smelled before.

Earl Grey.

Sensing that a craze for a hot new item was about to begin in the tedious London high society, I lifted my teacup while observing their reactions.

“Everyone, please enjoy yourselves.”

With those words, the official proceedings concluded, but I left unsaid the fact that starting tomorrow, it would be their turn to open their wallets.

Baroness Lehzen, trailing behind me, quietly stepped back after placing a small ivory namecard box—in place of the wooden chests—upon a table in a corner of the ballroom where no one would notice.

During that brief instant when the box landed upon the table, a few sharp-eyed individuals caught the motion.

Long-standing heavyweights of high society were peerless at reading the subtle gestures beneath the surface of a conversation rather than the surface talk itself. They would have instinctively understood the purpose of this ivory box already.

We are now accepting investors.

Several quick-witted individuals silently began to carefully fold a corner of their namecards and drop them inside the ivory box. It was an age-old grammar of 19th-century high society, an action that spoke louder than a thousand words.

We wished to call upon you directly to discuss the enterprise, but being unable to secure an audience, we convey our intentions this way.

I had not openly declared it a royal enterprise, nor did the nobles openly state they were investing money.

After all, we had all simply attended a charity ball today anyway.

“High society manners are truly exhausting.”

I muttered to myself inside the carriage returning to Buckingham after the ball concluded.

My little toe was throbbing inside my stiff shoes.

The weight of the ballroom shoes was every bit as honest as the weight of the crown.
Where a monarch’s day ended was not upon the throne, but within the small swelling inside her shoes.

Every dazzling occasion invariably entailed such minor physical tolls, and enduring those tolls was labor in itself as well.

Yet even while gently soothing that throbbing pain, my gaze remained fixed upon the ivory box resting on my lap. Inside it, dozens of folded namecards quietly touched edges with one another.

As expected. I knew Earl Grey would work.

Parliamentary budgets, government loans, bureaucratic approvals.

Such things were no longer necessary.

With these folded slips of paper handed over today alone, more than enough capital had been generated to blanket the entirety of Assam in green tea fields.

The thread of conscience is invisible. Not a single soul in this era knows of that thread’s existence.

Decades from now, even future historians would likely fail to record that thread.

Decades into the future, Earl Grey black tea would be reborn through various tales—such as it being a gift of gratitude Earl Grey received from the Orient, or something created through a tea company during his premiership.

And amidst all those stories, my name would remain nowhere.

Right then. If I don’t manage to create a conscientious British Empire, I’m done for—so shouldn’t I start by doing right myself?