A new year in which the revolutions that had terrified all of Europe began to settle, and moderate reformers started leading the age.
A newly reorganizing order.A new world.
Everyone hoped for a year filled with promise.
But the world never allows only good things to happen.
Within every emerging order, the seeds of conflict inevitably begin to sprout.
And as more nations joined hands with the British Empire during the suppression of the revolutions, there was one country where resentment steadily grew.
"The recent actions of the British Empire cannot help but cause concern for our country."
The only nation that had sent not merely a diplomat but its foreign minister to the party celebrating the defeat of cholera.
Karl Nesselrode, the Russian Foreign Minister, sat across from William Gladstone, the leader of the opposition, his expression clearly dissatisfied.
There was no point confronting Prime Minister Charles Wellesley.
He was the architect of Britain's foreign policy in the first place.
Thus Nesselrode had approached the Liberal Party instead, calculating that the opposition might be easier to reason with.
Unfortunately, that calculation seemed no more successful.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Gladstone replied calmly. "Britain has no intention of containing Russia. Our foreign policy is quite simple—reducing conflict within Europe as much as possible. Naturally that includes Russia. We have no desire to provoke unnecessary tensions with such a great power. After all, what country would willingly create a hostile relationship with a nation like Russia?"
"…And yet Britain is openly isolating Russia diplomatically."
"Isolating?"
So he intended to pretend ignorance.
If this was the case, then the policy was not merely the position of the ruling party—it was a consensus shared across both government and opposition.
That realization left Nesselrode with a distinctly unpleasant feeling.
"Mr. Gladstone, pretending not to notice will not solve the problem. Britain has already drawn France into its orbit and secured Austria's cooperation. Now it is attempting to bring Prussia into its camp as well."
"…Prussia?"
Gladstone blinked in apparent confusion.
Nesselrode nearly struck him on the spot.
Suppressing the reflexive urge to lash out with superhuman restraint, he forced himself to calm down.
Could it be that Prussia had independently decided to abandon Russia and align with Britain?
No—that was absurd.
An alliance with Britain alone might be conceivable, but Prussia and France?
That relationship alone made such a development impossible without British manipulation behind the scenes.
Still, if Gladstone insisted on denying everything, pressing further would not change the outcome.
This was already clear proof that Britain had decided—across party lines—to apply pressure on Russia.
"Not only Austria and Prussia," Nesselrode continued, "but even the Ottoman Turks have recently begun openly challenging Russia. Do you know anything about this?"
"I'm not sure that's correct," Gladstone replied. "Unless the Ottomans have completely lost their senses, they would gain nothing by provoking Russia."
"Which is precisely why we suspect they might be relying on a powerful patron. Perhaps someone has promised to protect them even if Russia declares war."
"…It is an interesting theory. But I cannot imagine any country in the world eager to fight Russia."
"Then Britain is certainly not one of them."
In truth, this part of Nesselrode's argument was exaggerated.
Minor skirmishes between Russia and the Ottomans along the border had occurred for over a century.
They were practically a kind of ritual.
They would happen today, tomorrow, next month, and next year.
No one truly regarded them as serious provocations.
But Nesselrode had exaggerated the matter intentionally.
He wanted a clear statement from Britain.
Even if it was not an official government declaration, words from a figure as influential as Gladstone carried significant credibility.
"As I said," Gladstone replied, "Britain's current foreign policy is to prevent conflict in Europe. Encouraging disputes between other nations would contradict that principle entirely. I am not in a position to speak officially on behalf of the government, but I can assure you that nothing of the sort is happening."
"I see. Very well. It seems we may have overreacted."
Whether Gladstone's words were entirely truthful remained uncertain.
But one thing seemed clear—Britain had no desire to fight Russia.
Just as Russia did not wish for war with Britain, Britain likewise had little interest in war with Russia.
In that case, if Russia used the Ottomans to secure a justification for war, Britain might hesitate to intervene.
And if Britain stayed out, Russia could seize control of the Danube region.
Nesselrode had come to London under orders from the Tsar with that very objective in mind.
He spent the rest of the evening meeting figures from both government and opposition under the pretext of discussing the cholera response.
Britain might deny everything outwardly.
But Russia was not foolish enough to ignore the signs.
If they truly intend to trap us in our own cage, then the only option is to strike first.
The Tsar's words were somewhat extreme.
But they were not entirely wrong.
If Russia launched a sudden war before preparations elsewhere were complete, even Britain might hesitate to involve itself.
As Nesselrode observed the atmosphere of the ball, he became convinced it was not yet too late.
Killian Gore, who currently enjoyed immense popularity.
Prime Minister Charles Wellesley.
Gladstone himself.
The ambassadors of France, Austria, and Prussia.
Even those foolish Ottomans.
Every single one of them seemed convinced that the present peace would last at least another decade.
In other words, the power to break this quiet silence rested entirely in the hands of the Russian Empire.
Cholera did not matter.
If Britain wished to bask in the triumph of defeating a mere epidemic, that would only give Russia more time to prepare.
On his way back to the embassy, a newspaper page scattered along the street caught his eye.
[Medical staff at Killian Medical College invent new intravenous treatment capable of dramatically reducing cholera deaths!]
"Military strength is what matters, you fools."
Did they think intravenous fluids could stop bullets?
Nesselrode scoffed and kicked the newspaper aside.
When I was still a student in my previous life, the most popular genre of music was ballads.
More specifically, medium-tempo ballads mixed with R&B or band arrangements.
And the lyrics were almost always about love.
Naturally, since they were ballads.
But most of them were about breakups.
"I'm letting you go because I love you."
"If you're happier without me, I'll step aside."
Looking back now, some of those lyrics would make you groan.
But they perfectly matched the emotional atmosphere of that era.
Especially for sensitive teenagers.
They would project themselves into the tragic heroes of those songs and decorate their messenger profiles or mini-homepage banners with lines from the lyrics.
This was absolutely not based on personal experience.
I'm merely saying that people around me did such things.
I never had the leisure to enjoy that kind of embarrassing youthful nostalgia.
The reason those awkward memories came to mind now was simple.
I had just been forced to crush the first love of an eighteen-year-old boy.
But even if his love could never be fulfilled, it felt wrong to trample on the sincere feelings of youth.
And if the boy became resentful and grew into the leader of some anti-Killian faction, that would also be inconvenient.
So while I was considering how to persuade him gently, those old ballad lyrics suddenly came to mind.
With that thought lingering in my head, the young student sitting nervously before me with the Marquess of Salisbury looked strangely familiar.
"Welcome. This is the first time we've met in person, isn't it?"
"Yes—yes! Thank you for inviting me. And thank you for the letter you sent when I had to leave school. It truly meant a great deal to me!"
"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it."
I turned toward the marquess.
"Lord Salisbury, Lord Chamberlain wished to speak with you earlier. If you have the time, perhaps you could join him for tea."
It was a polite way of saying: leave us alone.
The marquess was not foolish enough to miss the hint.
He nodded and quietly left the room.
"Yes, this kind of conversation is better held privately. Even if it is your father, speaking about such matters in front of him must feel embarrassing. Isn't that right?"
"Ah—yes. Thank you for your consideration. I'm not sure exactly what my father said to Your Highness, but… have I committed some serious offense?"
"No, nothing like that. To be honest, your father simply worried a bit too much. Now that I have children myself, I can understand his feelings."
"B-but, Your Highness…"
Robert hesitated, then spoke carefully.
"This is not merely a youthful impulse."
"Of course not. When I say I understand your father's concern, I mean that I understand a parent's worry. I am not saying your feelings are childish. After all, at eighteen one is already quite grown and capable of deciding one's own path."
"Yes! Your Highness also became a cabinet minister at a similar age. You are my goal—my idol!"
Apparently my past had inspired young men in ways I had never intended.
If the Prince Consort could become a minister at our age, why can't we?
It was not hard to see how such thoughts would arise.
Still… had it really been that long ago?
Time truly moved quickly.
Sometimes frighteningly so.
"An idol, you say. I never expected to hear that."
"I read that Your Highness worked tirelessly from your youth to become worthy of Her Majesty. Through relentless effort you achieved greatness faster than anyone in the British Empire. The power of love itself! I deeply admire that spirit and wish to follow your example."
What kind of book had he read to get such a strange impression?
Had Victoria secretly given an interview to the newspapers?
Apparently public perception of me had become something like this:
A man who overcame differences of status, rose through sheer determination, became the youngest minister in history, and even a war hero—all for the sake of winning the Queen.
What a legendary romantic figure.
"So you wish to follow that path?"
"Yes. I wish to become a man worthy of courting Miss Nightingale."
"…In that case, there is something you should know. Unfortunately, Nightingale has no intention of marrying. It is not that she dislikes you. She simply possesses a powerful calling to devote herself to the patients of this nation."
"I have heard that as well. But…"
"I will not stop you from improving yourself. But a true man should also be able to support the dreams of the woman he loves. At least, that is what I believe."
"…."
Robert's expression darkened.
I nodded solemnly, pretending to understand everything.
"True love is not about possessing someone. It is about supporting them. People misunderstand this, but I did not strive to become worthy of the Queen. In truth, at that time I never believed someone of my birth could become Prince Consort."
"…Then why did you work so hard?"
"Isn't it obvious? Because I wanted to strengthen the country my beloved Queen ruled. I wanted to support her throne with my own hands. That was the conviction I held at your age."
Even as I said it, my entire body felt like it was curling in embarrassment.
But for a boy his age, this was exactly the right tone.
"So even knowing you could never be with her, you continued striving out of love."
"Yes. I have never told anyone this before. But seeing you reminds me of my younger self."
After that, I quoted every tragic ballad-like sentiment I could remember from the early 2000s.
Lines that would have been perfect for decorating a mini-homepage.
With every word, my limbs felt closer to dissolving from embarrassment.
Yet the admiration shining in Robert's eyes only grew stronger.
Nightingale would finally be free of this troublesome admirer and could devote herself fully to her work.
Robert, even after failing in his first love, would not resent me but admire me even more.
And he would channel that experience into greater determination.
A perfect result for everyone.
"…And Miss Florence Nightingale intends to serve as a battlefield nurse when war comes. She is prepared to face terrible hardships. But if she had a husband or family, that resolve might falter. If you truly love her, you must also love that determination."
"Yes! You are absolutely right, Your Highness! Hearing your words has made me realize how childish my love was!"
"I'm glad you understand."
"It is all thanks to you. I can clearly see the path I must follow."
Yes, of course.
You will pursue the elite path in politics, eventually succeed Wellesley as prime minister, and become my loyal supporter.
And naturally, you will support my son as well.
Everything was finally falling into place—
"I will enlist in the army! If she wishes to serve the nation as a battlefield nurse, then I will eliminate every threat that endangers her!"
…Right.
This boy was not normal either.
Birds of a feather flock together.
Now I understood perfectly why he had fallen for Nightingale.
Perhaps it was not too late to find a different future prime minister.
Watching the boy enthusiastically declare his intention to join the army, I silently apologized to his father.
My apologies, Lord Salisbury.
…Still, we'll win the war, so please try not to be too upset.