Chapter 7

The following day, Lord Melbourne came to see me again.

True to his reputation as a seasoned politician, he had concealed the flustered look he showed yesterday and instead wore a calm, gentle expression.

“I understand Your Majesty’s concerns a hundred times over—a thousand times over. I have children myself, so how could I not?”

As soon as he began speaking, I started counting to myself.

‘One, two…’

Once the sympathy was over, the word “but” would always follow.

It was a pattern I’d seen countless times in working life.

It always started with, “You have a point, but…” before they went on to say what they really wanted.

“I am not saying that it is wrong for Your Majesty to sympathize with mothers who have no choice but to soak their infants in poison before they can go to work.”

That was the sympathy.

“But.”

There it was.

“Not everything can be handled according to ideals alone.”

He explained everything.

Carefully.

Logically.

Without leaving a single gap in his reasoning.

“Of course, creating a nursery inside the palace itself is a very simple matter. With a single order from Your Majesty, renovating a storage room and hiring nannies is hardly difficult.”

It sounded as though he was agreeing with me, but I knew the real point was what came next.

“But now that Your Majesty has done this, the nobility can no longer pretend not to notice.”

“Pretend not to notice?”

“Precisely. And those nobles own this country’s factories, farms, and mines. Once word spreads that Your Majesty established a nursery for palace servants, they will begin to grow suspicious and uneasy.”

His gaze met mine once again.

This time, there was no sympathy or gentleness in his eyes.

Only the sternness of a political mentor urging me to face reality.

“If this news spreads, they will begin wondering whether they, too, must spend money to build nurseries. No… beyond mere doubt, they will feel pressured to do so.”

“Why would that be pressure? If workers’ children grow up healthy, won’t that ultimately mean healthier workers for their factories and farms in the future?”

I brought up what was common sense in the twenty-first century—the idea of investing in human capital.

Lord Melbourne frowned slightly.

To him, it must have sounded like a completely unfamiliar and dangerously radical idea.

“Your Majesty, they do not think that far ahead. They are people worried about tomorrow’s coal costs and labor expenses. To them, a nursery is not an investment in the future. It is simply another expense in the present.”

He shook his head and continued.

“Rather than being moved by Your Majesty’s charity, they will be outraged at the possibility of having to empty their own pockets. Some may even whisper, ‘Her Majesty intends to impose another tax upon us.’”

“All this… over a single nursery?”

“It is not merely a single nursery, Your Majesty.”

“Because it sets a precedent.”

Strength entered Lord Melbourne’s voice.

“One precedent gives birth to another demand. Once a nursery exists, people will ask for doctors to care for the children. Then teachers to educate them. The demands will never end. And who, in the end, will bear all those costs?”

“…”

“This is the greatest difficulty in governing a nation, Your Majesty. A small stone thrown with the best of intentions can unintentionally trigger a landslide. In trying to save one person, you may end up placing ten others in hardship.”

His explanation was so logical that it was difficult to find any room for rebuttal.

Resistance from the nobility and industrialists.

Unexpected financial burdens.

Even social unrest.

His argument that my little nursery could create such a butterfly effect was entirely convincing.

It reminded me of my fight with the company in my previous life.

The prosecutor had pressured me with the argument that I had intentionally omitted my report.

Pitting an individual’s conscience against the realities of an organization.

It was a tactic those at the top of an organization loved to use.

I turned my eyes toward the window for a moment.

From the nursery building in the distance, I thought I could faintly hear the children’s laughter.

What should I say now to protect those voices?

“I understand exactly what concerns you, Lord Melbourne.”

Responding emotionally would only make me prey for that crafty old fox.

“But there is one thing you have overlooked.”

“Please, enlighten me, Your Majesty.”

“You are looking at the nursery purely as an expense. I, however, see it as a profit.”

“A profit?”

For the first time, genuine confusion appeared on Lord Melbourne’s face.

“A baker needs flour to bake bread, and a carpenter needs sturdy timber to make a chair.”

“Of course.”

“Then tell me, Lord Melbourne. What is the most important resource required to run factories, sail warships, and create this nation’s wealth?”

He hesitated briefly before answering.

“…People, I suppose, Your Majesty.”

“Exactly.”

I smiled at him.

“Our country is treating its most valuable resource—its people—with astonishing carelessness. Children are dying from laudanum addiction, and mothers cannot focus on their work because they are constantly worrying about them. What greater waste could there be for a nation?”

“A waste…?”

“A child may grow up to become a worker, a soldier, or even a great inventor. But a dead child can become none of those. And a mother caring for a sick child cannot devote her full labor to her workplace. Isn’t it possible that the factory owners you mentioned are so fixated on today’s expenses that they are overlooking the far greater profits of tomorrow?”

As I continued explaining, Lord Melbourne’s expression became increasingly complicated.

Viewing a nursery not as a cost, but as an investment—

An investment in the nation’s future workforce—

It was likely a perspective he had never once considered in his life.

“Of course, I have no intention of forcing nobles or factory owners to establish nurseries immediately. That would be an abuse of my authority.”

I deliberately appeared to take a step back.

“But, Lord Melbourne, as queen, I have a duty to show this nation what an ideal employer should look like. To say, ‘Look. This is the wise way to cherish your people and invest in the nation’s future.’ Even if they do not follow that example today, won’t they eventually come to understand what truly brings lasting returns?”

Lord Melbourne was unable to speak for quite some time.

He had come intending to persuade me.

Instead, he found himself on the verge of being persuaded by a strange and unfamiliar line of reasoning he had never encountered before.

“I shall… give this matter serious thought. Then…”

He seemed about to say something else, but perhaps he could not find a suitable rebuttal.

His lips moved slightly before he simply lowered his head.

After he left, I remained sitting on the sofa for a long time.

It felt as though every ounce of strength had drained from my body.

The cost today versus an investment in the future.

Even in 21st-century South Korea, people had been debating that question for decades without reaching a conclusion.

There was no chance 19th-century Britain, in the midst of the Industrial Revolution, would somehow have the answer.

No matter how many times I grabbed hold of the nobles and shouted, “Children are our future!”, I already knew what their response would be.

“So, exactly how much money do I have to take out of my pocket for that future?”

It would only become a pointless argument that accomplished nothing.

Besides, the biggest problem was my position.

I was the monarch of a constitutional monarchy.

I bore the title of queen, but most of the real power rested with Parliament and the Cabinet.

With the balance of power overwhelmingly tilted in their favor, it was a battle I was destined to lose.

‘Charging straight at them like this would be foolish.’

I could never win by fighting on their field.

Just as Lord Melbourne had said, all I would gain was the reputation of an inexperienced monarch who divided public opinion and threw society into turmoil.

‘I can’t let them drag me into their game.’

A frame.

I needed to change the frame itself.

The nobles’ frame was perfectly clear.

To them, the nursery was an excessive act of charity toward the lower classes and a dangerous precedent that would undermine the class system.

In other words, they viewed the issue through the lens of class and cost.

But I had built the nursery for one reason alone:

To get Godfrey’s Cordial out of Kensington Palace.

So what if I removed the entire framework of class and cost from the issue?

What if I replaced it with a greater, unquestionable cause that even the nobility could not openly oppose?

At that moment, it felt as though I had been walking through dense fog when a sudden wind swept it away, clearing my vision all at once.

‘That’s it.’

A smile spread across my face.

The following afternoon, Royal Physician Sir James Clark came to see me for my regular examination.

“Your Majesty, you look much healthier.”

“Thanks to you, Sir. It seems that when my mind is at ease, my body becomes healthier as well.”

After finishing the brief examination, Sir Clark, as always, advised me to get plenty of rest.

I watched him quietly for a moment before speaking, as if an idea had just occurred to me.

“Sir Clark, I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal, Your Majesty?”

Sir Clark looked at me in confusion.

“What do you think about establishing the Royal Pharmaceutical Research Society?”

“…Pardon?”

Sir Clark was completely caught off guard.

Royal.

Pharmaceutical.

Research society.

It was as though his mind had stopped for a moment, unable to process a combination of words he had never imagined putting together.

“After everything that happened with laudanum and Godfrey’s Cordial, I realized something.”

I looked him directly in the eyes.

“You’re a physician. More than anyone else, you understand how harmful those medicines are to people—especially to children.”

A bitter shadow crossed Sir Clark’s face.

As a physician, he had always known how dangerous those drugs were.

But he had likely spent years suffering from the helplessness of being unable to change anything.

“So why don’t we establish a royal society and spread the truth? We can tell people how dangerous these medicines really are, and what terrible consequences they can bring when misused. If we persuade people with medical and scientific evidence, wouldn’t that truly help them?”

“…”

“A physician’s duty is to save lives, isn’t it?”

At my question, Sir Clark hesitated briefly before giving a quiet but resolute answer.

“…Yes, Your Majesty. It is.”

“And a monarch’s duty is to protect the people.”

This time, my own voice carried unmistakable conviction.

Sir Clark slowly raised his head to look at me.

His eyes trembled.

“…Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then the Royal Pharmaceutical Research Society we establish must research medicines solely for the people, in the interests of the people. And it has a duty to reveal the truth about harmful drugs like these to everyone.”

“…Your Majesty.”

Sir Clark’s eyes began to shine.

Was it shock?

Inspiration?

Or perhaps the sense of duty he had buried deep in his heart throughout his years as a physician?

Whatever it was, he seemed even more overwhelmed than when he had first seen the nursery.

“I have lived my entire life… burdened by guilt. I knew the dangers of these medicines, yet all I could do was lament them. I was never able to change anything. But…”

He rose from his seat and knelt on one knee before me.

“Your Majesty… I finally understand your vision. I will gladly devote everything I have to carrying out Your Majesty’s will.”

“I believe you’re the right person for the job.”

As I helped him to his feet, his eyes were filled with certainty and determination.

After Sir Clark departed, I stood by the window of the audience chamber.

A change of frame.

That was the answer I had been searching for.

The nursery debate should no longer be about class conflict or economics.

It had to become a matter of public health and national well-being.

Even the same painting became an entirely different work when placed in a different frame.

Place the nursery inside the frame of “charity for the lower classes,” and the nobles would rage.

But place that same nursery inside the frame of “the Crown’s duty to protect its people from poison,” and who would dare oppose it?

The nobles could talk all they wanted about class order and financial costs.

But beside the determination to prevent my people from dying from poison, those arguments could only seem insignificant.

Protecting the people was not something to be weighed against political calculations or compromises.

It was the very duty of a monarch.

Standing before that principle, no noble could ask, “So how much money am I expected to take out of my pocket?”

The moment they did, they would become someone who dared place a price tag on the lives of the people before a monarch trying to protect them.

Beyond the window stretched London’s sky.

Sunlight occasionally broke through the gray clouds.

The road ahead was still long.

I had to establish the Royal Pharmaceutical Research Society.

Publish its findings.

Change public opinion.

Move Parliament.

And, in the end, prevent the Opium War.

All of that had to be accomplished within three years.

Fortunately, I had found my direction.

I would not confront them head-on.

I would not fight on their field.

Instead, I would move the field itself.

From a debate about class and cost…

…to a debate about life and health.

On that ground, the righteousness of my cause could never be overshadowed.

I returned to my desk.

My quill began racing across the paper as I drafted the proposal for the establishment of the Royal Pharmaceutical Research Society.