Chapter 32

What is a craze?

Some say it is a wildfire.

Something that, once ignited, catches the wind and spreads uncontrollably.

Yet I believe that metaphor is incomplete.

A wildfire leaves behind only ashes when it burns through, but a craze plants the seeds of new desires right where it burned. And those seeds sprout all the more fiercely in the blackened, scorched earth.

Barely a month had passed since the charity ball.

The name Earl Grey pierced through the London fog and began to stimulate the desires of every social stratum.

On the leather sofas of social clubs, upon the marble steps of the Stock Exchange, and in every place where one lost face without wearing gloves, men looked at one another and applied the exact same yardstick.

“Still drinking that insipid Chinese tea? You’re woefully behind the times.”

“The rage these days is Earl Grey. If you haven’t caught that fragrant bergamot aroma, you can hardly call yourself a gentleman.”

Hidden within this was human society’s oldest and saddest truth.

What people yearned for was neither tea nor fragrance, but a sense of belonging.

They yearned for the proof that they were members of a certain world, the confirmation that they had crossed an invisible threshold, the reassurance that their reflection in the mirror matched the image of who they wished to be.

The teacup filled with Earl Grey was a tiny holy grail embodying all of that—and particularly for the wealthy merchants and factory-owning gentry dreaming of rising in status, it was an admission ticket straight into high society.

The only problem was that the supply of that admission ticket fell woefully short.

“What? Sold out?”

“Yes, sir. The Royal Tea House Company isn’t even taking reservations until the next ship arrives.”

Wealthy landowners and factory owners had no choice but to stamp their feet in frustration.

Aristocrats had already mobilized their connections to secure a tin or two and enjoy their teatime, while those who piled up far more gold in their vaults than the nobles were forced to gaze into empty teacups.

And an empty teacup was much like the most accurate portrait of unfulfilled desire.

Then there was only one method, they figured. If it didn’t exist, they would make it; and if it still fell short (which happened to be England’s proudest tradition and secret weapon), they would simply source it from somewhere else and piece it together.

Wasn’t Earl Grey, after all, just tea infused with an orange-like fragrance?

Hey, you can do it too!

The arrogant self-confidence of the English was an endemic disease drifting across the British Isles, and those infected by it who dreamed of becoming gentlemen and ladies were staging farces all across London.

The affair reported through The Morning Chronicle newspaper around Easter in 1839 was undisputedly the talk of London high society.

On the outskirts of London, the mansion of wealthy textile factory owner Mr. Smith.
The silver candlesticks in the home were larger than necessary, the curtains heavier than necessary, and the servants’ uniforms shinier than necessary.

Perhaps driven by a yearning for an unpossessed title, Mr. Smith gathered the local notables in celebration of Easter and hosted the grandest banquet in the region.
His purpose was singular: to flaunt his wealth and taste.

The flickering candlelight, pewter ornaments, and beautifully adorned dining table were laden with rich roast beef and wine, but the guests’ attention was focused entirely on that which would emerge after the meal.

“Now, now. Everyone has waited long enough.”

Soaking up the gazes and expectations to the utmost, Mr. Smith looked immensely triumphant.

Had he ever in his life received this many gazes focused solely upon him?

Amidst the clatter of factory looms and through decades spent among ledger numbers, he had never once experienced this kind of concentrated attention.

This very moment, with the teacups upon the silver trays gleaming under the candlelight, was the moment he had dreamed of all his life.

“Mr. Smith, I’ve heard the rumors. You’ve managed to secure that precious tea?”

“Hah-ha-hat, I managed it with some difficulty. Though it took quite a lot of hard work mobilizing my London connections.”

Mr. Smith put on airs, patting his belly.

In truth, he had never met the honorary chairman of the Royal Tea House Company, Lord Charles Grey, nor had he ever laid eyes on genuine Earl Grey.

Yet for a man whose face mattered more than his life, the word “impossible” did not exist in his dictionary—proving that the ghost of Napoleon Bonaparte was indeed still wandering England after crossing the Dover Strait.

“Now, everyone look forward to it. The very aroma Her Majesty the Queen enjoys!”

As the servants passed around the teacups, a pervasive fragrance drifted through the drawing room. Or rather, “invaded” would have been a more fitting description.
Instead of a delicate citrus whisper, a piercing, overpowering cosmetic scent occupied the room. It was as though an entire bottle of perfume had been left open—or rather, as if a flower shop and a general apothecary had exploded simultaneously.

“Oh… the fragrance is quite… intense.”

A guest said, wrinkling her nose.

“Are not the tastes of the nobility naturally distinct from those of ordinary folk? I am told they used extremely rare aromatics.”

Mr. Smith lifted his teacup with a nonchalant air, smiling secretly to himself.

In truth, he had doused cheap market black tea leaves generously with his wife’s French perfume.

Or rather, stating that he had soaked the tea leaves in perfume would have been more accurate.

Having merely heard the rumor that Earl Grey smelled of bergamot, he had assumed that diffusing a similar perfume scent would suffice.

“Do partake. It will be… very fragrant. How is it, everyone?”

At Mr. Smith’s prompt, each of them forced an ecstatic expression.

“Indeed! It resembles perfume rather than black tea! I am anticipating the flavor immensely as well!”

Anyone who had actually tasted real Earl Grey would have been horrified by a stench stinging enough to smart the nostrils, but unfortunately, the people gathered here were those who had never once tasted Earl Grey in their lives.

With half-suspicion and half-expectation, they brought the teacups to their lips and swallowed the hot tea in gulps.

“Hk?!”

A lady hastily clapped a handkerchief over her mouth.

It was an intolerable blunder in a social gathering where elegance was paramount, but her expression was twisted in agony.

“M-Madam? Whatever is the matter?”

“W-What on earth is this taste!”

The lady choked out, coughing.

“It’s like drinking soap… no, perfume!”

Immediately following, screams erupted from here and there.

“Ugh?!”

“Cough! Cough!”

Stung by a bitterness that scorched the tongue and burned the throat, respectable gentlemen buried their mouths in napkins and gagged.

“W-What on earth is this taste!”

“Are you trying to poison people on holy Easter?”

“Serving this off as tea—are you insulting us?”

“Nouveau riche, indeed. Lacks class altogether.”

The guests grabbed their hats from the silver-mirrored cloakroom and exited the door one by one.

As each of their backs vanished, something vanished from Mr. Smith’s world as well.

Whether it was his face, his pride, or some faith in himself, he could not precisely tell.

Only the perfume-tea, still sending up wisps of steam, remained before him as he was left alone in the empty drawing room, and the distorted reflection mirrored upon the surface of that teacup acted as a mirror gazing back up at him.

“No, wait, that’s not it… Isn’t it supposed to taste like this?”

His excuse echoed inside the empty room. Striking the walls and rebounding, the hollow cry reached no one’s ears.

A short while later, a humorous illustration depicting Mr. Smith dressed as a Magi holding a bottle of perfume-black tea, alongside people reacting in horror to this precious (?) gift, graced the pages of the newspaper.

Ultimately, Mr. Smith achieved the fame and reputation he had so desperately desired. Londoners came to refer to Mr. Smith by the splendid moniker of Lord Eau de Cologne.

Even setting aside Mr. Smith, whose desired renown arrived in such a fashion, the spirited attempts of Englishmen across the entirety of Britain to replicate Earl Grey continued unabated.

Whether it was crudely drying tangerine peels only to grow mold, or squeezing in so much lemon juice that milk solidified like cheese. Attempts directed toward the original ended in miserable failure.

Naturally, the more that happened, the more people yearned all the more intensely for the genuine Earl Grey—so it was how things naturally went that the stock price of the Royal Tea House Company soared sky-high.

A trading office in the City of London.

The atmosphere among the merchants importing Qing China tea remained akin to a house of mourning, yet following deep deliberation, they reached a conclusion.

“We are ruined.”

William, a director originating from the East India Company, muttered as if groaning while swigging rum.

“The top-grade Lapsang Souchong and Keemun black tea piled up in the warehouse are on the verge of rotting away. The nobles won’t even deign to look at them!”

“Let’s be realistic. Replicating Earl Grey is impossible.”

Madison replied to his words by rapping his knuckles against the table.

“If you don’t wish to end up looking like Lord Eau de Cologne, it’s best to abandon the thought of manufacturing scented tea. Patents aside, nobody has the foggiest idea what the blending ratio is.”

“Then what are you suggesting we do? Just sit here and twiddle our thumbs?”

“Not at all.”

Madison spoke with a sinister smile, his eyes gleaming like a hyena stalking its prey.

“Let’s flip our perspective. The Royal Tea House Company is pursuing an upscale strategy right now. They intend to deal exclusively with haughty aristocrats and wealthy bourgeois.”

“True. The price is preposterously steep.”

“That is precisely our opportunity.”

Madison unfolded a map and pointed toward the East End, the slums of London.

The East End. A place where merely uttering the name seemed to conjure up the smell of winter winds, coal smoke, and open sewers.

“The vast majority of Londoners can barely afford a decent loaf of bread, let alone Earl Grey. Yet they still drink tea. No, they have to drink it.”

To the laborers of this era, black tea was entirely different from what the nobility drank. A single cup of hot black tea laced generously with sugar was their sole companion helping them endure twelve hours of grueling labor, and practically holy water they could drink instead of the cholera- and typhoid-infested polluted water.

Thus, to the impoverished, tea was not a matter of preference, but of survival. And the cruel fact that those clinging to survival had no options left shone within Madison’s eyes under the guise of opportunity.

“Perfume? Floral fragrances? They couldn’t care less about scents. As long as the water brews dark and the astringent taste helps chase away sleep, that’s enough.”

“You don’t mean… to launch a low-price offensive?”

“Precisely. Let’s compete on price rather than quality.”

Madison clenched his fist tightly.

“When the Royal Tea House sells tea at one pound, we sell it at one penny. Earl Grey? Tell them to stop joking. We’ll mix our stagnant inventory, leaf sweepings, and—hell… anything that resembles a leaf—and sell the lot.”

“However… if the quality drops too drastically…”

“Who’s to know?”

William cut in and interrupted someone’s expression of concern, nodding as though agreeing with Madison’s sentiment.

“Laborers’ palates are dulled by backbreaking labor anyway. As long as the color brews up dark, it’ll do the job. If we skimp a bit on the tea leaves and… pad the volume by mixing in other things, our profits will grow all the same.”

He paused. A momentary silence. Within that silence, he might well have been closing the final door on whatever conscience he had left.

“…What is the population of London? Over two million. Among them, how many nobles could possibly afford Earl Grey? A few thousand at best.”

A smile gradually spread across William’s lips.

“What about the remaining one million nine hundred thousand? Laborers, housemaids, factory operatives. They want to drink tea, too. They want to imitate the nobility. But they don’t have the cash to buy a one-pound tin of tea leaves.”

“Yet Mr. William, that’s why we were selling cheap tea. But what are we supposed to do when even that isn’t selling?”

“We just need to sell it cheaper.”

To another merchant’s protest, William retorted.

“Sell it cheaper? Our margins are already razor-thin as it is. Once you pay the tariffs and deduct shipping costs, there’s nothing left.”

“That’s because you’re trying to sell ‘pure’ tea, and that’s the root of the problem.”

As William lowered his voice, the merchants’ eyes began to waver.

“Does tea… really need to consist solely of tea leaves?”

Silence fell. That silence was the sound of conscience holding its breath.

“What litters England by the abundance are hawthorn leaves and ash leaves. If you dry those thoroughly and blend them, who’s to know? If you feel the color looks a bit too pale, tossing in a pinch of copper dust does the trick. That bluish gleam makes it look wonderfully high-class.”

Copper dust.

The moment those words popped out, someone instinctively pulled their hand away from their teacup.

Lie Tea.

It was a secret recipe practiced under the table, but putting it forward openly as a business strategy was an entirely different league of problems.

“William, isn’t that… fraud? Good grief, copper dust? If people consume it and fall ill…”

“We just have to add an amount that won’t kill them, don’t we?”

William spoke as though discussing the weather. As though offering morning greetings.

“And besides, if you really look at it strictly, isn’t this charity rather than fraud?”

“Pardon?”

“Think about it. Thanks to us, even poor laborers can enjoy the leisure of a warm cup of tea. If we honestly sold only expensive tea, they’d be forced to live out their lives drinking plain water. Isn’t that far more miserable?”

It was a staggering piece of logic.

The most terrifying capacity possessed by human language is its ability to call a knife a flower.

Exploitation as consideration, poison as medicine, greed as charity. Believing—or pretending to believe—that changing a name alters the essence; this was the most refined barbarism born of civilization.

Yet to the merchants gathered there, that logic sounded nothing short of gospel.

“True. Those who have nothing should live like they have nothing, fitting their station.”

“We’re not forcing anyone to buy it either; they buy it because it’s cheap, don’t they? That’s the logic of the market.”

“What is the government going to say? In an era of free trade.”

At those words, life began to return to the merchants’ faces.

Although it might feel a bit prickly on the conscience, by a tradesman’s common sense, it was a flawless answer.

Freedom guarantees the right of choice to everyone, yet to those incapable of choosing, freedom is nothing more than a pretty, empty word.

Between one-penny poisoned tea and drinking nothing at all, could one truly call that a choice?

“Very well. Let’s drag out all those aged tea leaves sitting in the warehouse and mix them right up.”

“We’ll slash prices and seize control of the market. We shall rule the dining tables of the common folk!”

Greedy laughter echoed through the conference room, as dark as the color of the cheap black tea contained within their respective teacups.

Buckingham Palace.

“Mm….”

I stretched my limbs and sank deeply into the sofa. As the joints of my stretching arms cracked audibly, Dash leaped up eagerly, burrowed into my arms, and licked my joints.

“Dash! That tickles!”

After hoisting the rascal up and swinging him around a few times, my joints somehow stopped aching, when suddenly a document resting upon the table caught my eye.
Securing initial capital for the Royal Tea House Company had been a success.

Investment funds were pouring in thanks to the craze for Earl Grey, and Fortune had already finished preparations for his departure to India.

Can I finally catch my breath a little now?

I had been running non-stop ever since my transmigration.

Preventing the Opium War, selling salicin, brewing tea.

Had it not been for Dash, I would have died of overwork and been forced to file for workers’ compensation.

“Today I’ll knock off early and… no, head straight to the bedroom for a solid, sweet snooze.”

Just as I was rising from my seat harboring such modest dreams, something dropped from mid-air with a dull thud. A familiar leather cover.
The diary of Queen Victoria.

“…Why again?”

An ominous premonition washed over me.

Last time it had threatened me to stop the Opium War, and what sort of ordeal was it going to hand down this time?

Just as I was trying resolutely to ignore it, the study door swung open and Baroness Lehzen brought in a newspaper resting upon a silver tray.

It was The Times, radiating the warm scent of freshly ironed ink.

“Thank you. I wonder what sort of praises are printed inside today.”

Calming my unreasonably anxious heart, I picked up the newspaper.

The front-page lead article naturally covered the successful launch of the Royal Tea House Company and the shortage of Earl Grey black tea.

[The New Queen of High Society, Earl Grey! The Miracle Tea Sold Out Everywhere!]

[City Investors Pay Homage to the Royal Foresight!]

The corners of my lips curled upward of their own accord as I scanned the articles.
Stopping the Opium War, looking after the public health, and making money on top of it all.

Now that was killing two birds with one stone, catching two hares with one stroke—a win-win situation if ever there was one.

Yet it did not take long for that sweet intoxication to shatter.

A tiny single-column article tucked away at the very bottom of the front page caught my eye.

[Tragedy in the East End: Family of Four Found Dead After Drinking Tea.]

“Hm?”

My brow furrowed.

Thinking it might be a simple accidental death, I was about to skip past it when the ensuing details proved anything but ordinary.

[…Police surmise that toxic substances were mixed into the tea they consumed. Suspicion is falling upon a low-priced black tea proliferating recently in the slums—the so-called ‘Fake Earl Grey’—causing widespread shock…]

The newspaper in my hand rustled.

It hasn’t even been long since we launched Earl Grey, and already…

I had anticipated counterfeits appearing. Or rather, saying I wanted counterfeits to appear would hardly be an exaggeration. Farces like Lord Eau de Cologne served as excellent advertisements that further enhanced the value of the genuine article. But people had died from drinking those counterfeits?

It was at that exact moment.

The diary lying on the floor flipped open on its own accord, stopped at the torn-away second page, and text began to write itself across the surface.

“…What on earth is this now?”