For most nobles, afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace was an unspoken social ritual.
But for Arthur, it was more of a quiet adventure to relax his mind.
He sat in the private receiving room of the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, holding a cup of exquisite tea. It was not a blend available on the market, but a superior-grade variety purchased directly from the Wuyi Mountains of Fujian, in the Great Qing Empire, through the special channels of the East India Company.
The tea liquor had a captivating amber color and released a warm current of unmistakable fragrance—pine-smoke and dried longan—rising with the steam. Arthur raised the cup and took a gentle sip. The delicate flavor, with a hint of caramel sweetness, melted instantly on his tongue, soothing his spirit after the stress of the day.
"It seems, Arthur, that you've had quite a stressful day," said Lord Melbourne with a smile, noticing the relaxed expression now settling on Arthur's face.
"Yes, you have no idea," Arthur replied sincerely, setting down the cup. "But drinking this tea after such a long day truly helped me relax and put aside, even briefly, all the problems weighing on me."
"Well said. It happens to me as well," Lord Melbourne nodded, then gestured for the servant to place a plate of exquisite pastries in front of Arthur.
It was a Victoria Sponge Cake: two layers of soft yellow sponge, light as a cloud, with a thick filling of bright red raspberry jam and delicately whipped fresh cream. The top was finely dusted with a layer of pure white powdered sugar—simple, elegant, inviting.
Arthur cut a small piece with a silver fork and placed it in his mouth. The sweetness of the cake, the creaminess of the cream, and the perfect acidity of the jam blended harmoniously; paired with the delicate tea, the result was flavorful yet never cloying, leaving a lingering aftertaste.
That afternoon—the tea, the pastry, the atmosphere—momentarily left him dazed, as if he had truly become a nineteenth-century English gentleman.
Naturally, his meeting with the Prime Minister was not merely for the sake of tasting delicacies.
After facing both the open and hidden attacks of Conroy, Arthur's private meetings with Lord Melbourne had become increasingly frequent. Their conversations, too, had deepened, moving from general national policies to specific matters of governance.
Arthur subtly offered advice, drawing upon his knowledge of history. For example, he would "accidentally" mention that the potato cultivation system in Ireland was dangerously uniform and that a single outbreak of disease could trigger a devastating famine across the island. He suggested the government establish food reserves and an early-warning mechanism in advance.
Or he would remark that in distant India, the power of the East India Company had grown excessive, behaving like a state within a state; and if this continued, it would inevitably lead to mutinies among the local soldiers, shaking the very foundations of imperial rule.
These "warnings," far ahead of their time, always left Lord Melbourne astonished and deeply impressed. He had come to regard Arthur as his most valuable "secret strategist," privately seeking his counsel on many critical decisions.
Arthur was pleased. He knew that by influencing the Prime Minister, he was subtly shaping the direction of the entire empire—clearing the path for his own future and Victoria's.
Late at night, Arthur's office was still brightly lit.
After clearing a full day's backlog of business documents and completing a political memorandum for Lord Melbourne, he finally had time for the activity he looked forward to most—an activity even more soothing than tea: writing a reply to Princess Victoria.
Their correspondence had become an unbreakable habit.
Every day, at the same hour, two letters were delivered: one from Kensington Palace to the Industrial Park, and the other in the opposite direction.
Arthur spread out a sheet of fine, lightly perfumed writing paper—a gift from Victoria, and her favorite type. He read the letter she had sent that day, and its content brought a spontaneous smile to his lips.
Victoria no longer wrote about weighty political matters. Like a normal girl in love, she shared with him the small details of her life.
"Arthur, the weather is truly lovely today. The sunlight pours through the window and warms my desk so gently. I spent the afternoon painting the great oak in the Kensington Gardens—the place where we first met. But no matter how I paint it, I can't seem to capture that beautiful golden halo that surrounded you when you stood beneath it that day…"
"Today my mother scolded me again for eating one extra strawberry pudding. She says members of the royal family must always remain in perfect shape. I truly don't understand why even the joy of eating a pudding must be taken away from me. Sometimes I really envy the children who can run freely in the streets and eat whatever they wish…"
"Oh, and today I read a novel called Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy is such a stubborn yet charming man. I don't know why, but I always feel his personality resembles yours a little. Of course, you are much kinder than he is."
Reading these words—so innocent, sincere, and warm—Arthur could sense clearly that within the cold walls of the palace, a young heart was opening to him without reservation.
He dipped his pen in ink and began writing his reply.
As always, he did not begin with matters of state.
He chose instead to respond first to her emotions.
"My dearest Princess," he wrote, "if you wish, I can have puddings of every flavor prepared daily by the best pastry chef in London, and discreetly delivered to your windowsill. In my opinion, seeing a beautiful lady smile while enjoying something delicious is far more important than debating some tedious bill."
"As for the book you mentioned, I have read it as well. Pride and Prejudice is an exceptionally brilliant novel, and I believe it will remain so even centuries from now. I am honored to be compared to Mr. Darcy. But please believe me—had I been in his place, I would never have made the woman I love wait so long. Miss Elizabeth is a rare and precious woman; at our very first meeting, I would have told her that her eyes are the most beautiful lakes I have ever seen—so clear that I would gladly drown in them and never wake again."
Arthur paused.
He wasn't sure how a nineteenth-century princess would react to such direct, explicit declarations. He had never been the type to use overly sentimental lines with girls—but now things were different.
He wanted her to grow accustomed to his presence, to be enveloped by the unique emotional experience he gave her.
After a moment of reflection, he opened a small sandalwood box from his drawer. Inside, wrapped in silk, was not a jewel but a portion of the tea he had tasted with Lord Melbourne—the same tea Victoria had asked about.
He carefully tucked the tea leaves into the letter.
P.S.: "This is a very fine tea I had the chance to taste recently. It is not as delicate as the black tea you usually drink, but it has a fresh fragrance—like green grass after the rain. When you brew it, do not use boiling water, or it will scorch the leaves. Use warm water, and wait patiently as they open in the cup, just as one waits for a flower to bloom. I hope it brings you a moment of rest and peace."
He folded the letter, sealed it with wax, and set it aside.
He knew that this letter, together with the tea, would act as a delicate key—one that would open yet another door in the Princess's heart.
He was not merely courting a future queen.
He was gently, imperceptibly imprinting upon her soul the emotional patterns of both the twenty-first and nineteenth centuries.
An imprint far more enduring than any political alliance.