Most of the rooms in Kensington Palace lay shrouded in silence, with only a few scattered windows still giving off the faint glow of candlelight. The princess's bedroom, however, was brightly lit.
The heavy velvet curtains kept out every trace of the outside world, and within the room the only sounds were the crackling of the firewood in the hearth and the soft rustle of a quill gliding across paper.
Victoria sat upright at her decorated mahogany desk, her expression both focused and troubled.
She had been restless all day.
Earlier, a messenger from Buckingham Palace had delivered a verbal message from her uncle, the King. William IV would be hosting a small family dinner the following weekend, joined also by several key government ministers, including the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne. In his message, the King had explicitly stated his desire to hear his "beloved niece's" opinion regarding the amendment to the Poor Law, currently the subject of intense debate in Parliament.
This news had struck Victoria like a sudden and significant trial.
She knew perfectly well that it was not a casual question posed by an elderly man to a young woman. At such a crucial moment, as she approached adulthood, every inquiry from the King was like a signal to the highest ranks of the empire. Her answer would be scrutinized by countless eyes and interpreted by countless tongues.
If she answered well, she would gain a valuable piece in her future political struggles, earning greater respect and support from ministers.
If she answered poorly, she would only reinforce her negative image as "naive" and "manipulated by her mother and Conroy," placing unnecessary obstacles along her path to the throne.
"The amendment to the Poor Law…"
Victoria examined the many documents scattered before her, her refined brows furrowed. These papers had been sent by Sir Conroy, listing the key provisions of the amendment along with his personal "interpretations" and "suggestions."
Conroy's views were as rigid and conservative as ever. He believed the growing number of poor in Britain was entirely the result of their laziness and moral decay. Therefore, he strongly supported the strictest provisions of the amendment: drastic reductions to outdoor relief and the forced transfer of impoverished people into workhouses with extremely harsh conditions and prison‑like management, where they would be made to labor.
He had even written in his "suggestions" to Victoria: "Your Royal Highness, your future subjects need a monarch of iron, not a woman overly inclined to charity. Severity toward the poor is the greatest mercy to the nation."
Reading such cold and unfeeling words, Victoria felt deep repulsion and resistance.
Though she lived in the ivory tower of the palace, she was not without empathy. She had read about the suffering of common people in books, and she had seen, with her own eyes, the ragged and frail poor through the window of her carriage. She could not simply dismiss them as "lazy rabble."
But what could she do?
Aside from the ideas Conroy had instilled in her, she knew little about the bill. She did not know the Whig or Conservative Party positions, nor the complex web of interests behind it.
If she contradicted Conroy directly, she would have no convincing arguments. But if she followed his script, she would betray her conscience and announce to the world that she remained a puppet.
This dilemma left her overwhelmed with anxiety and helplessness.
At that moment, her fingers brushed against a small hard object inside the desk drawer.
It was the soap.
That surprisingly good "cleansing soap" of the young man she had met—a product already beginning to sell quite well in the still‑nascent market—
A thought flashed through her mind like lightning splitting the night.
Arthur!
Arthur Lionheart! The young man whose ideas and resolve had already left a mark on her mind.
In the past few days, she could not stop thinking about him: the way he spoke during their meeting, the clarity with which he explained his entrepreneurial plans, the steady confidence with which he outlined his vision for the future. His words had returned to her again and again. She had long wished for a reason to contact him once more—and was this situation not the perfect chance?
He was knowledgeable, forward‑thinking—perhaps… perhaps he could give her an entirely different perspective.
Once the idea surfaced, it could not be suppressed.
Victoria's heart pounded rapidly, filled with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. It was an unprecedented feeling—the sense of standing at the edge of a small rebellion.
She glanced at the pendulum clock by the hearth; the hour hand had already passed midnight.
All of Kensington Palace slept. Her mother and Sir Conroy would never imagine that the obedient princess they believed they controlled was planning a small "coup."
She made her decision.
She unfolded a fresh sheet of stationery, took up her pen, and, as concisely as possible, wrote her dilemma:
"Dear Arthur: I write to you as we previously agreed. I have encountered a difficulty regarding the amendment to the Poor Law. The King wishes to hear my opinion, but the words of my mentors are not what my heart desires. How should I respond in order to preserve my dignity and express my true feelings? I await your sincere counsel. — V"
She did not sign her full name, using only "V." She believed Arthur would understand.
After writing the letter, she folded it carefully and placed it in an envelope. Then she took the soap, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, drew a deep breath, rose, and walked toward the bedroom door.
She pulled the bell cord that connected to the maid's quarters.
Soon, soft footsteps approached, and Frances, her lady‑in‑waiting, appeared in the doorway in her nightgown.
"Your Royal Highness, it's so late. What are your orders?" Frances's face showed traces of sleep and concern.
Victoria pulled Frances into the room and closed the door behind her. With a solemn gesture, she handed her the letter and the soap.
"Frances," Victoria said, her eyes unusually bright and firm in the candlelight, "this is my first and most important request. I need you to use all your wisdom and discretion to find a way to leave the palace and deliver this item and this letter where they must go."
Frances looked at the objects in her hands, immediately understanding the Princess's intentions. Her expression tightened, and she said anxiously, "Your Highness, this is… this is far too dangerous! If the Duchess and Sir Conroy learn of this—"
"I don't care!" Victoria interrupted, her voice low but filled with undeniable determination. "I can no longer allow them to manipulate me like a puppet. Frances, you are the one person I can trust. Help me."
Seeing the almost pleading determination in the Princess's eyes, Frances's heart wrestled with fear.
To betray the Duchess's orders carried immense risk. But to disobey the future Queen could bring even greater consequences. More importantly, Frances could sense something awakening within Victoria: the budding strength of a sovereign.
In the end, loyalty overcame fear.
She tightened her grip on the letter and the soap, bowed deeply, and said, "Your Highness, I understand. Rest assured—no matter the cost, I will carry out your command."
This was the first true secret order issued by the future queen.
It had nothing to do with matters of state or armies of millions; it was simply the plea of a young girl. Yet in future history books, it might be recorded with vivid significance.
Because it was the first time a sleeping lioness showed her claws—still tender, yet already sharp—against the cage that confined her.