The long-distance display of affection between the Queen and the Prince Consort—"epic" and utterly unprecedented—would forever etch the story of the Telegraph into the minds of the highest personalities of the British Empire.
No one dared call it a "parlour trick" or a "toy" anymore.
Everyone now regarded this new technology, capable of making information "travel at the speed of light," with hungry, calculating eyes, already plotting how to profit from it.
Bankers and brokers, led by Baron Rothschild, were nearly driven mad with desire.
They sought out Arthur Lionheart at once, waving chequebooks and using every persuasive tactic imaginable to convince the Prince Consort to sell the patent rights to the Telegraph—or at least to permit private investment.
But Arthur's stance was unexpectedly firm.
He had only one answer for them:
"The Telegraph technology belongs jointly to the Royal Promotion Association and the Royal Family. It will accept no private investment, nor will any patents be sold."
Entrepreneurs across London were shocked by disappointment.
But soon Arthur dangled another "carrot" before them, rekindling their hopes.
"Gentlemen," he said during an Association dinner, smiling at the restless capitalists around him, "although the technology itself will remain sealed, the telegraph lines built under our Association will provide information services to all of you in the future."
"To give you a more intuitive sense of the value of these services, I will personally fund the construction of the first experimental commercial line."
He approached a large map of Great Britain and drew a red line between two cities.
"This line will connect the financial heart of our Empire, London, with its greatest industrial and maritime city, Liverpool."
"Construction will take about six months. You are welcome to check the progress whenever you wish."
His decision puzzled many of those present, but as it had been spoken by the Prince Consort himself, no one dared object.
With the arrival of April, the London social season unfolded beneath light rain and scattered sunbeams. Carriages once again clattered through the West End; balls, dinners, and afternoon teas bloomed night after night in a glittering display of aristocratic splendour.
And that year, alongside the miraculous Telegraph, an altogether more intimate rumour dominated the salons:
Why was the Queen still showing no signs of pregnancy?
Two newlyweds so passionately devoted to one another should by now have had happy news to share; for this was not merely a family matter, but a question that would affect the future of the imperial line.
At first the whispers came only from refined ladies speaking behind fluttering fans.
Soon, however, conservative-leaning newspapers began printing sly insinuations.
The boldest was the Morning Post, long aligned with the Conservative Party.
In a column about the royal family, they wrote with venomous elegance:
"Her Majesty the Queen has recently developed a particular fondness for gardening at Windsor, while our esteemed Prince Consort devotes countless nights to his grand 'Royal Promotion Association' and his 'Telegraph enterprise'… Admirable as his diligence may be, one wonders whether cultivating a healthy heir for the Empire might not be a more urgent duty than cultivating roses."
Every sentence cut like a knife.
And it suggested three cruel notions:
The royal marriage might not be as harmonious as it seemed.
The delay in producing an heir might be due to the Queen herself, subtly implying frailty or weakness.
Victoria was being painted as a lonely, neglected sovereign.
The reaction was immediate and explosive.
"Have you heard? The Queen may not be well."
"Poor Victoria. The Prince should have chosen a sturdier wife."
These poisonous words eventually reached Buckingham Palace.
That evening, when Arthur entered their bedroom, he sensed at once that something was wrong.
Victoria sat on the bed hugging a pillow, her eyes red as though she had just finished crying.
"My love… what's the matter?" Arthur rushed to her side and gently wrapped her in his arms.
Without speaking, she placed a copy of the Morning Post in his hands.
Arthur read the article.
His expression darkened.
A cold, controlled fury rose within him like an unsheathed blade.
He could tolerate attacks on his policies,
tolerate underhanded commercial rivalries.
But he would never tolerate anyone insulting his wife, nor allowing anyone to question their love.
That was the line no one crossed.
"Parasites," he growled, crushing the newspaper in his fist.
Victoria lifted her face, tears tracing her lashes.
"Arthur… how can they say such things about me? About us?"
Her wounded yet gentle gaze turned Arthur's anger into a blazing protective instinct.
He cupped her face and looked deeply into her eyes.
"Victoria, listen to me.
You are the Queen of England.
No petty gossip-monger has the right to stain your name.
And no one—no one—touches what is mine."
His voice carried the authority of a royal decree.
"For rats hiding in the shadows, explanations are useless. There is only one way to silence them: break their teeth, one by one."
Victoria looked at him and saw the familiar strategic fire ignite in his eyes.
Arthur rose.
"They want an heir so desperately? Very well—we shall deal with that later tonight."
"But first," he said, his tone turning iron-hard,
"I must go and crush these buzzing insects."
He strode out of the room.
The next morning, just as the conservative faction prepared to laugh once more at the royal family, two events shook London to its core.
First,
Future Industries announced the suspension of all commercial cooperation with any company that advertised in the Morning Post.
At the same time, all companies tied to the Royal Promotion Association quietly withdrew their advertisements from the paper.
A devastating blow to the newspaper's revenue.
Second,
the Home Office security police raided the Morning Post's headquarters, charging it with:
"deliberately slandering the royal family and endangering national security."
The press was sealed.
Every document confiscated.
The editor-in-chief and the article's author were arrested on the spot and taken to the Tower of London.
Swift.
Ruthless.
Absolute.
Smaller newspapers immediately panicked, publishing full-page apologies and desperately trying to distance themselves from the scandal.
The entire London press was plunged into terror.
Arthur Lionheart had made one truth unmistakably clear:
"The Queen is mine.
Insult her, and I will erase you."
At Buckingham Palace, Victoria read the apologies and official statements, and all the pressure, all the pain, melted into a profound sense of safety.
She went straight to Arthur's study.
He was calmly reviewing documents, as though he had not just shaken the capital to its foundations.
She embraced him from behind.
"Thank you… Arthur," she whispered.
"For what?" he asked, taking her hand. "Protecting you is my duty."
"No," she murmured, resting her cheek against his back, her voice soft and timid, "for silencing those people… and for the future of our Empire…
Tonight, perhaps we shouldn't read any books."
Arthur chuckled warmly.
And in that moment Victoria understood that no storm would ever reach her as long as that man stood by her side.