After hearing the request from the Marquess of Salisbury, I found myself momentarily unsure how to respond.
If it had been a matter of politics or economics, I could have answered decisively. But this was a matter between a man and a woman.
If it were an experienced adult persistently making advances, I could simply cut the matter off. But the Marquess of Salisbury's second son was still a teenager.
What if the boy's feelings were genuinely pure and sincere? Was it really appropriate for me to interfere?
"Lord Salisbury, what exactly are you asking me to do? Do you want me to stop your son from behaving strangely? Matters like this are usually something the parents should address firmly first…"
"I have, of course. But the boy is unbelievably stubborn. That is why he could not get along with his peers at Eton and eventually withdrew."
"…So even after being told to stop, he insists on charging ahead?"
"Yes. At first, when he said he had fallen for a nurse ten years older than himself, I thought it was a joke. But then he said he wanted my permission to formally court her. I looked into it. Her family background is respectable, but not enough to outweigh the ten-year age gap. So I tried to reason with him gently—and he accused me of being a vulgar materialist."
Mm. Everyone goes through that phase when they are young.
Becoming completely absorbed in one's feelings as if one were the protagonist of a romance novel was a classic symptom of adolescence.
Ten years later it would probably become the sort of embarrassing memory that made him kick his blankets in the middle of the night.
But at that age, one's emotions felt like the entire world.
It was not that such feelings were wrong.
Humans were creatures of hormones, and this was simply a natural phenomenon of youth.
"Still, from what I understand, Miss Nightingale has no intention of entering into a relationship with any man. If she says no, doesn't that settle the matter?"
"Exactly. The problem is that the boy has no intention of giving up."
"Ah. So you are asking me to persuade your son to abandon the idea."
"Yes. Boys that age never listen to their parents. But my son admires Your Highness deeply. He would certainly take your words to heart. And since you also have a close connection with Miss Nightingale, perhaps you could persuade him gently."
"You mean something like telling him to stop because Miss Nightingale is troubled?"
I exhaled slowly.
Never in my life had I imagined I would receive a request like this.
Yet the marquess was not entirely wrong—this was not a matter unrelated to me.
Nightingale was someone I supported, and the Marquess of Salisbury's second son was someone I had been watching closely as a promising talent.
I had originally intended to test the boy's abilities once he reached his twenties.
But I had never imagined our paths would cross like this.
The Marquess of Salisbury was a respected Conservative figure in the House of Lords. It was difficult to ignore such a sincere request.
And if he was willing to humble himself over his son's affairs, he must be aware that he would owe me a considerable favor.
The problem was that the person I was truly interested in cultivating was not the father—but the son.
"Very well. I will speak with him. I will also speak to Miss Nightingale directly, so please do not worry too much. Is your second son here tonight?"
"I did not bring him. I thought he might cause a scene."
"Then let us meet after the ball. Bring him to the palace tomorrow."
"Yes—yes! Thank you."
Perhaps embarrassed that he had troubled the Prince Consort with such a matter, the marquess bowed repeatedly before withdrawing.
As long as he understood he owed me one, that was enough.
From my perspective, this was simply an opportunity to bring Robert Gascoyne-Cecil—the future Marquess of Salisbury—into my sphere.
The Wellesley government might be firmly established now, but politics could change dramatically in twenty or thirty years.
Even though Wellesley was not particularly old for a politician, it was always better to hold more cards in one's hand.
Sports teams worked the same way.
Even if you had several star players at their peak, neglecting your youth development would inevitably lead to collapse once those stars grew old.
Politics was no different.
The Conservative Party seemed unassailable under Wellesley's leadership, but in truth it lacked many capable figures who could carry the next generation.
The fundamental reason was that Wellesley himself was still young.
The greatest political giant the British Empire had ever produced had become prime minister in his thirties and was only forty now.
Most people believed he could easily lead at least two more elections.
Naturally, everyone rallied around him.
Even Benjamin Disraeli—the next most prominent figure—was of a similar generation.
But precisely because of that, politicians in their mid-thirties to forties were unlikely to become the next prime minister.
By the time Wellesley and Disraeli stepped down, they too would already be quite old.
Which meant that promising youths in their late teens and early twenties needed to be cultivated early.
If Wellesley ruled too long, dissatisfaction might grow among the younger generation.
Preventing that in advance was essential.
Unfortunately, one of the key figures in my plans had chosen to fall in love with none other than Nightingale.
If it had been anyone else, I would gladly have played Cupid.
But why did it have to be a celibate nurse ten years older than him?
Still, there was no point speculating.
I needed to hear the full story.
After slipping away from the crowd that had been surrounding her, I approached Nightingale and handed her a glass of cold water.
"How are you holding up? Enjoying the party?"
"The attention is actually a little overwhelming."
"Is it? I noticed people asking whether you had any plans for marriage."
"Women of my age who remain unmarried are apparently considered unusual. But I have already made it clear that I intend to devote my life to this work and have no intention of marrying."
"That makes sense. Having a family would certainly affect your work."
With her conviction that firm, there was really nothing more to discuss.
Unfortunately, the future Marquess of Salisbury would simply have to experience the pain of rejection.
First love during adolescence was often like that.
"By the way, I met Lord Salisbury earlier. He mentioned his son."
"…Ah. So you heard."
At the mention of the marquess, a troubled smile appeared on her lips.
"He said he was sorry his son was causing trouble. I imagine this is awkward for you as well."
"…Yes. Quite."
"Is it common for patients at the hospital to fall in love with nurses?"
"Not common, but not unheard of either. However, having a young nobleman behave this way is a first for me."
"Would it not be simpler to reject him firmly? Though I suppose you must already have tried."
If the boy had acted arrogantly, Nightingale would never have tolerated it.
Of course, anyone behaving outrageously toward her would also have to deal with me—though they likely did not realize that.
Still, I was curious.
What kind of courtship could leave Florence Nightingale merely troubled rather than furious?
"It is surprisingly difficult to reject a sincere young student without hurting him," she said quietly. "What did the marquess say?"
"He claims the boy has no intention of giving up. So I agreed to handle it."
"…Your Highness will?"
"Yes. It is rather ridiculous, isn't it? But since both you and the marquess are troubled, it seems best to help if I can. Do not feel pressured. Tell me honestly—what would you like me to do?"
"…Perhaps introducing him to a suitable young woman would help."
So the old strategy: overcome love with new love.
Not a bad idea.
But first, I needed to understand the whole story.
I asked Nightingale to explain exactly what had happened between her and the young man who would one day become the Marquess of Salisbury.
The beginning of the incident was surprisingly simple.
It occurred shortly after the cholera panic had begun to subside.
Robert Gascoyne-Cecil suddenly arrived at the hospital suffering from severe diarrhea.
A week earlier, following his doctor's advice to improve his health, he had been running through various parts of London for exercise.
During one of those runs, he drank water from a public pump to quench his thirst.
That was the cause.
The future Marquess of Salisbury had nearly died from something so absurd.
Fortunately, thanks to the devoted care of the staff at Victoria Hospital, he survived—though he lost nearly seven kilograms during his illness.
At the time, Robert believed his life was cursed.
He had entered Eton with high expectations, only to be ostracized by his peers and eventually forced to withdraw.
For the second son of a marquess, it had been an unforgettable humiliation.
What saved him during that dark period was none other than the kindness of the Prince Consort of this nation—Killian.
When Robert's father realized that his son could not adapt at Eton, he had consulted me as a fellow alumnus.
To Robert's astonishment, I had sent him a letter encouraging him not to lose heart and to continue his studies.
And so he resolved to start again.
Education did not exist only within Eton's rigid system.
He traveled, broadened his horizons, studied independently, and exercised to rebuild his confidence.
He had begun preparing himself for the day he would enter Parliament.
Then suddenly he found himself in a hospital bed.
What crime had he committed to deserve this?
Worse still, he contracted cholera after I had already shut down the contaminated pump.
Perhaps the disease had remained dormant in water he had drunk earlier.
While the rest of London celebrated freedom from cholera's terror, he lay alone in a hospital bed fighting for his life.
Isolation.
Despair.
Only those who had experienced it could understand.
Even the hospital staff had relaxed slightly after the crisis ended.
How much worse must it have felt for him?
It was at that moment that Robert fell in love.
"Here, patient. Drink this."
"…Nurse, my stomach hurts."
"Do not worry. The professor is developing a medicine for cholera based on an idea from His Highness. It has helped other patients, so it should help you too."
"Really? Will this cure me? Nurse… I do not want to die."
"You will not die. Trust me."
Her voice was firm, yet elegant.
Her beauty possessed both dignity and grace.
And above all, she comforted him with a warmth that felt almost maternal.
It was hardly surprising that Robert's heart burned with a fever of love.
Perhaps it was the medicine Nightingale gave him.
Or perhaps simply time.
But after a few days, Robert overcame cholera and was discharged.
Surely it was thanks to the angel who had cared for him.
If his life had been saved by that angel, then surely he should devote that life to her.
So what if she was ten years older?
Age meant nothing in the face of love.
Unfortunately, Nightingale did not take his passionate confession seriously.
"Yes, yes, patient. After you leave the hospital, please be careful with your meals. If your stomach hurts again—"
"No, that is not what I mean! Miss Nightingale, I am serious. I may still be young and lacking, but I will do everything I can to become a man worthy of you!"
"…Sigh. You are eighteen, are you not? When you turn twenty, I will already be over thirty. Please do not say things that would break your parents' hearts. Go home and get some rest."
"I would not care if you were forty!"
From that day onward, Robert visited the hospital almost every day.
He never interfered with medical work.
Instead, he volunteered to help with various chores around the hospital.
If he had been an arrogant young noble, they could have simply thrown him out.
But since he behaved respectfully and helped the staff, no one stopped him.
His father, his mother, and even his friends told him to come to his senses.
But none of it mattered.
Robert had become a prisoner of love.
Perhaps Nightingale did not accept him now.
But if he continued this devotion for ten years—or even twenty—would her heart not eventually open?
Even the Marquess of Salisbury had finally surrendered to his son's stubbornness and promised to speak with Nightingale at the ball celebrating the end of cholera.
And that day, contrary to expectations, the marquess returned home with surprising news.
"The Prince Consort wishes to see you."
"…Truly?"
"Yes. So come with me to Buckingham tomorrow. And remember—do not say anything strange."
"Of course!"
Robert had heard countless times at the hospital that Nightingale was a nurse personally supported by Killian.
And surely the Prince Consort was also a man.
If he heard the story of this burning love, he would surely take Robert's side.
Thinking of Nightingale's angelic smile, Robert resolved to overcome any obstacle that stood in his way.