In the courtyard behind the Fat Boss shop in London's East End, Arthur was examining the project he had acquired through the system after making money selling soap. The drawing depicted exactly the hand-crank sewing machine—simple in structure, yet powerful enough to change an era. He was pondering how to further improve the transmission mechanism to make the machine smoother and quieter.
His small workshop was already taking shape, and the first batch of ten sewing machines had been assembled, ready to be launched on the market. The thought filled him with a deep sense of accomplishment.
"Arthur! Arthur!"
The slightly servile, anxious voice of the Fat Boss came from the entrance of the courtyard. He was clutching something wrapped in a silk handkerchief, hurrying over with tiny beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.
"What you've been waiting for has arrived!"
Arthur put down his pen, turned around, and a knowing smile flashed in his eyes. He had known that "sooner or later, she would write to him"—and now the wait was finally over.
He took the object the Fat Boss handed him, opened the handkerchief, and inside found the familiar, plain bar of soap, along with a letter sealed with wax. Embedded in the wax was a simple yet elegant letter V.
"Good. You may go now. And remember—what happened today never happened," Arthur ordered, storing the items away without a change in expression.
"Yes, yes, I understand! Of course!" The Fat Boss nodded repeatedly, bowing and backing away in haste. He now felt both respect and fear toward Arthur; in his eyes, this boy had transformed from a clever poor lad into a powerful figure with connections to the royal family.
Once alone in the courtyard, Arthur unhurriedly opened the letter and read Victoria's words carefully.
The handwriting was delicate, though tinged with youthful immaturity, and the letter was filled with confusion—and a plea for help.
The amendment to the Poor Law?
When he saw the heart of the issue, Arthur couldn't help curling his lips into a confident smile.
This… this was practically walking straight into the line of fire.
For someone versed in modern history, the nineteenth-century British Poor Law was an essential classic. He understood all too well the background of the law, its controversies, and its profound historical impact.
Victoria's "mentor," Conroy, championed the "sin of idleness" and "iron discipline," views widely held among Britain's upper class at the time. This perspective attributed poverty entirely to personal morality, steeped in elitist arrogance and indifference—and it directly led to the birth of the workhouse, a living hell.
And Victoria, a future monarch, was expected to publicly endorse such an inhumane stance? It was practically destroying her future reputation.
Arthur could almost imagine the disastrous consequences if Victoria were to recite Conroy's prepared platitudes before the King and the Prime Minister. William IV might be disappointed, and Lord Melbourne—the cunning and compassionate leader of the Whigs—would likely label her immediately as "cold and ignorant."
"It seems my future Majesty is being pushed straight into a pit of fire," Arthur murmured, shaking his head. He picked up his pen and laid out a fresh sheet of paper.
What he needed to provide was not merely an answer.
He needed to deliver a full, sweeping political framework—one far beyond the comprehension of anyone of that era. With this reply, he intended to completely overturn Victoria's understanding of "politics" and "governance," freeing her from Conroy's courtly manipulations and guiding her toward a broader, grander horizon.
This would be a true dimensionality-reduction strike—twenty-first-century thinking crushing nineteenth-century politics.
After a moment of thought, he dipped his pen in ink and began writing swiftly.
He did not directly refute Conroy's views; that would have been too crude. His opening line operated at an entirely different level:
"Your Royal Highness: poverty is not a sin, but a social illness. A wise physician treats an illness by studying its pathology and prescribing the proper remedy, not by isolating the patient and abandoning them."
This new "social-disease theory" instantly broadened the scope of the issue.
Then he began analyzing point by point, layer by layer.
"First, regarding the 'workhouse.' To imprison the poor behind high walls and force them to labor—though seemingly strict and efficient—is in truth an act of abandonment. Has Your Royal Highness considered that gathering thousands of resentful individuals into a single place, crushing their hopes and stripping them of means to live, does not serve the nation, but instead buries countless powder kegs beneath the Empire? This method is like sweeping the dust of a bright parlor beneath a dark bed; it seems clean, but in truth conceals endless dangers. One day it will rot and stink, bringing ruin to the entire house."
Then he shifted, presenting his core solution.
"Thus, the way to alleviate poverty is not to 'confine,' but to 'redirect.' Instead of spending vast sums to build workhouses, it is better to turn relief into opportunity. I have a strategy, which we may call workfare."
He wrote the word workfare with particular clarity, and beneath it elaborated the advanced concept:
"The Empire, under the Crown or the government, could create special funds to invest in and execute public works for the benefit of all citizens. For example: London suffers from flooded sewers and rampant disease—why not gather laborers to build a full underground sewage system? The Thames is congested and its channels silted—why not recruit the unemployed to dredge and restore it? Such examples are endless. In this way, the jobless gain work to support their families, and the nation acquires infrastructure that will endure for centuries. One investment, countless beneficiaries—is this not far superior to erecting barren 'factories of despair'?"
As he wrote, Arthur felt his blood stir. It was as if he were not writing to a seventeen-year-old girl, but drafting the blueprint of a great empire.
Finally, from a strategic standpoint, he crafted the perfect framing for Victoria's speech.
"Thirdly, Your Royal Highness is a woman and, in time, will be a Queen revered by all. Compared to cold, rigid laws, compassion and mercy are your greatest weapons—the most radiant jewels upon your crown. Therefore, when expressing your views, Your Royal Highness should not dwell excessively on the technicalities of the law, but rather speak from the perspective of a woman, a future mother—expressing concern for poor women and children, and revealing the warm humanity of the royal family. Trust that the hearts of the people are connected; what they will remember most will always be the warm words of comfort from their monarch, not a hundred empty debates among politicians."
When he wrote the final word, Arthur let out a long breath.
The entire response was clear, orderly, and built step by step. From the theoretical height of the "social-disease theory," to the practical function of "workfare," to the rhetorical strategy of "humane concern"—it formed a complete and unassailable whole.
This letter far exceeded the boundaries of a simple "suggestion."
It was a program, a declaration—perhaps even a key.
A key capable of unlocking Victoria's political wisdom and allowing her to see the path ahead.
Arthur carefully dried the letter, folded it, and placed it into a new envelope, sealing it with wax. He left no mark; mystery, after all, was his best disguise.
When he handed the sealed letter back to the Fat Boss, instructing him to return it to Kensington Palace through secret channels, he knew that the "ideological bomb" he had just released would unleash an unprecedented storm in the heart of the future Queen.
And he too, through this unparalleled "intellectual performance," would firmly secure his position as "intellectual person" and " trusted personal advisor." in Victoria's heart.