The triumph of the First Great Exhibition turned the whole autumn of 1842 into a season of revelry for the British Empire. The Crystal Palace had become London's most fashionable gathering place. Each day, a stream of carriages approached from every direction. Peers hosted lavish balls beneath its vaulted glass; merchants brokered deals in its galleries; even ordinary townsfolk brought their families on weekends to experience the atmosphere of a new "Wonder of the World."
After finalising the strategy for the Panama Canal, Arthur Lionheart—for once—allowed himself an extended holiday. He temporarily set aside grand undertakings of railways, telegraph lines, and canals, and his daily life settled into a rhythm of almost pastoral simplicity.
In the mornings, he accompanied nearly-four-year-old Princess Vicky through the Windsor gardens, teaching her to ride her gentle Shetland pony or telling her his newly embroidered fairy-tales, full of bold princes and misbehaving dragons that delighted her to no end.
In the afternoons, he shared the most traditional English teas with his consort, the Queen. They conversed about harmless trifles—how the palace's new cook made lemon tart not quite sharp enough, or how young Prince Edward had once again relieved himself upon the Royal Physician the previous day.
Naturally, what startled Victoria most was that shortly after the close of the Exhibition, Sir Clark, the Royal Chief Physician, announced—wearing an expression suspiciously close to "I knew it"—that Her Majesty, entirely without realising it, was already three months pregnant.
"Arthur Lionheart!"
That night, in their bedchamber, Victoria—her cheeks aflame—pummeled him with a small cushion while he reclined innocently on the bed, watching her with mischievous amusement.
"This is your fault—your entire fault! I only just had Edward! How could you… how could you possibl—"
"My dearest," Arthur laughed, pulling her into his arms and pressing soft, teasing kisses upon her heated cheeks, "surely you cannot blame me. This merely proves your husband is exceptionally healthy. And besides—are we not fulfilling our regal duties for the Empire?"
Victoria protested, but her heart swelled with warmth.
Children, a loving husband, the adoration of her people, and a nation stronger than ever—she felt blessed beyond what any queen might dare to dream.
At times, watching the man beside her—sometimes a cold strategist, sometimes an exuberant boy—she felt a surreal disbelief. She often wondered what her life might have been had that "unexpected" runaway horse in Hyde Park never crossed paths with her.
Perhaps she would have married her admirable cousin Albert, with whom she had always felt a polite distance. Then, like queens before her, she would have lived a life outwardly noble yet inwardly desolate, smothered beneath politics and the suffocating etiquette of court.
But this man—this impossible, irresistible man—had burst into her life, overturned her shadowed, predetermined fate, and replaced it with a brilliant avenue of stars: radiant, unpredictable, filled with sunlit possibilities.
Thinking so, she nestled deeper into Arthur's warm, steadfast chest.
Meanwhile, Across the Atlantic
In Washington, D.C., in the White House, the President of the United States, John Tyler, was enduring the gravest political crisis—and the sharpest personal torment—since assuming office.
He was on the verge of madness because of those "devils" of the British Empire.
"Mr. President! Mr. President—terrible news!" Secretary of State Daniel Webster burst into the office without so much as a knock, pale with alarm.
"What now?" Tyler muttered wearily. Every time he heard bad news, he felt a heart attack looming.
"It's Texas!" Webster slammed a new report onto the desk. "The British—this so-called 'peace mediation fleet'—never left! They conspired with the Texans to establish a permanent 'Anglo-Texan Joint Naval Base' at Galveston!"
"They even gifted the Texans a brand-new Audacious-class steam frigate—complete with officers and crew—helping them form a miniature 'Royal Navy' of their own!"
"What?!" Tyler struck the desk, his face erupting in fury. "Brazen scoundrels! This is an outright violation of the U.S.–Mexican Peace Framework! They are turning Texas into a military colony at our very doorstep!"
"That is not all, sir," Webster said grimly.
He produced another dispatch.
"Our ambassador in Mexico reports that the British Prince Consort—that Arthur Lionheart—after 'mediating' our war, pressured the Mexicans to sign an 'Anglo–Mexican Treaty of Friendship and Trade'!"
"Free-trade rights in five major Mexican ports, consular jurisdiction, and—this is the worst of it—the Mexican government has granted exclusive priority exploration and exploitation rights for every future mineral resource of Mexico to his infernal 'Future Industries Consortium'!"
"In other words," Webster concluded bleakly, "to our south stands a British-dominated semi-military protectorate: Texas. And beyond that, a soon-to-be British economic colony: Mexico."
"We are, sir… entirely surrounded from the south."
President Tyler sat back, staring into a long, terrible silence. He felt like a poor farmer who once believed his vast fields belonged to him alone. But overnight, his powerful neighbour had stationed a vicious watchdog at his gate—and had quietly purchased the very foundations of his land.
What could such a farmer do?
Nothing but watch his neighbour walk everywhere as if the land were his own.
"This is… too much… far too much…"
For the first time, the proud champion of "Manifest Destiny" felt a deep, bitter helplessness. His grand dream—"America for the Americans"—crumbled before Britain's ruthless trinity of strategy: money, diplomacy, and military force.
"Do we merely stand by and watch?" he whispered.
"I fear so, sir," Webster replied. "Unless we wish to plunge into immediate, full-scale war with the Royal Navy."
War?!
"—Pff!"
A strangled cry burst from Tyler, and blood splattered across the map of the United States spread before him—his nation's intended future.
"Mr. President!" Webster cried, rushing to support him.
"I am fine…" Tyler rasped, wiping the blood from his lips. His eyes—once clear—now glowed with a feverish, unhinged determination.
He had not collapsed.
On the contrary—this blow ignited something primal and ferocious within him.
"Daniel," he said hoarsely, gripping the Secretary's arm like steel.
"Go. Do two things for me—immediately."
"First: in my name, submit an emergency bill to Congress. Call it the American Infrastructure Development Act. The federal government will—whatever the cost, even by issuing war bonds—begin construction of our own 'Pacific Railroad', spanning the entire continent! We will not allow our West Coast to become an isolated island across an ocean!"
"Second—contact our 'friends' within Texas. Tell them to stop wagging their tails for the British. If they are willing to reconsider joining the Union one day, the federal government will repay every penny they owe the British Empire."