Gladstone or Disraeli
"Welcome, Empress. Your reputation precedes you."
Victoria's greeting was laced with thorns.
"A pleasure, Your Majesty."
This wasn't even proper protocol.
Strictly speaking, she ranked below me.
She was a queen, and I was an empress.
Russia's Maria, France's Eugénie, and Austria's me—the matriarchs of Europe's three great powers all bore the title of empress.
Yet the monarch of what they called the world's mightiest empire was just a queen.
No wonder she'd later obsess over titles like Empress of India.
When her own daughter, Princess Victoria, became Empress of the German Empire, she couldn't stomach ranking below her child. She threw a hysterical fit until her ministers squeezed out that "Empress of India" title for her.
The Queen Victoria before me now was radiating that inferiority complex from every pore.
"My reputation? You're too kind."
I played dumb in response, but of course I knew what she really meant by "reputation." My mother-in-law had drilled it into me often enough.
More accurately, it was infamy.
The black sheep of Europe's royals.
The daughter-in-law who defied her mother-in-law.
The capricious empress who ignored court protocol and flitted about wherever she pleased.
To Victoria, who'd lived her life as the embodiment of duty and decorum, I must have been a walking counterexample.
And there was one more point needling her.
Prince Albert had sent me the invitation himself, and that clearly rankled.
Her husband—the man she thought she had firmly in hand—had written a personal letter to a young, beautiful, scandal-prone empress far away in Vienna, inviting her to come.
Whether it was jealousy or her control-freak instincts, displeasure simmered in her eyes.
"I hear the Viennese court feels stifling, so you flit off to Hungary and Italy often. I wonder if London's air will suit you."
"Your concern is appreciated, but I simply love free air. And I couldn't ignore the sincerity in the Prince's gracious invitation. I trust the eye of a man who loves art and industry."
At my words, Prince Albert cleared his throat and looked away, while Queen Victoria's eyebrows shot up.
"Ah, haha... Mother, hasn't the palace atmosphere brightened with Her Majesty's arrival?"
"Indeed, dear. We must treat our precious guest from Vienna with the utmost care."
Sensing the tension, Edward and Prince Albert jumped in to mediate between us, while Charlotte looked flustered—she clearly hadn't expected things to escalate this far.
Victoria glared at me for a moment, then lifted her chin.
"Very well. The banquet preparations are ready. Shall we proceed?"
She took Charlotte's hand and turned sharply on her heel, leading the way.
I watched her retreating back and clicked my tongue inwardly.
God, she was only in her forties, and already this prickly.
"...Wasn't it supposed to be dinner?"
"That's what I thought too."
Bertie gave no straight answer to my probing.
"Surely you're not expecting me to attend a banquet without even resting from the journey."
Luckily, my guess was right.
What the Queen had called a "grand banquet" turned out to be a light luncheon-cum-tea.
But my relief was short-lived.
I stared down at the mystery meat pie on my plate.
Wasn't British court cuisine supposed to be French-inspired?
I took a bite, then quietly set down my fork.
Had they salted it and accidentally dropped the whole thing in the North Sea?
I rinsed my mouth with black tea and plastered on a smile.
Victoria, meanwhile, cleaned her plate as if it were truly delicious.
"This is the pride of our Great British chef, yet it seems not to your taste, Empress."
Did the British genuinely find this tasty? Or was it just me?
A glance around: Bertie and Prince Albert ate with relish, while Maximilian and Charlotte pushed through theirs with grim faces.
It was genuine, then.
Back in my room, I told Hunyadi,
"Wake me before the evening banquet preparations."
I needed a nap.
This was the most soul-draining trip ever.
*
At the evening banquet hall, I ran into an unexpected face.
"Count Buol."
"Your Majesty."
Uh, right... I hadn't expected Buol to be invited too.
But his expression looked off.
"Count Buol. Your presence here is because I chose it."
Let's make that crystal clear. It wasn't my mother-in-law who spared you. I did.
"Forgive my rudeness, Your Majesty."
"Water under the bridge."
Even after the reminder, his face stayed dark?
Buol wasn't some court novice.
"If you're unwell, retire early."
"No, Your Majesty."
Maybe it wasn't about me?
I turned and scanned the banquet hall.
Under glittering chandeliers, Britain's nobles clustered in groups, laughing and chatting.
But whenever their eyes met mine, a chill settled in.
London had been rough on him.
"Count, between us... British food is honestly terrible, isn't it?"
Now that I'd confirmed it wasn't my fault, I slipped back into casual speech.
"If only the food were bad. The wine's awful too."
So he hated the people and the policies too.
"Don't judge by appearances."
"I know. They use a lion that doesn't even live on their island as their crest."
At my joke, Buol relaxed a fraction and finally sipped his champagne.
Unicorns and double-headed eagles at least made sense as mythical beasts.
Palmerston's gaze lingered on me too long.
Palmerston, Viscount...
"He's the leader of the anti-Austrian faction."
The prime minister who'd started a war to sell opium, right?
British gentlemen, my foot. A winking grandpa like that wasn't gentlemanly.
"He's not who I want to meet."
One of the two.
"Gladstone or Disraeli. Which do you think benefits us more?"
Buol furrowed his brow. Both were heavyweights to succeed Palmerston, but poles apart in outlook.
"...The Tory Disraeli aligns better with us. Gladstone's likely to criticize Parliament, the constitution, and military expansion. Seeing our multi-ethnic empire as oppressors is another strike against him."
I nodded, listening intently.
Pandering to liberals would give Joseph a splitting headache...
Plus, like Palmerston, he backed Italian unification.
"Any other reasons Disraeli's better?"
"He's not interested in our system. He'll likely use us as a counterweight to France and Russia."
Hmm—
"Count Buol, approach Disraeli. Better than demands to overturn our constitution and finances."
"Understood, Your Majesty."
Edward would back us too. Morality, duty, faith... perfect sermon fodder.
"One moment."
Buol looked puzzled but waited as ordered.
"I've made a new friend in England."
Champagne in hand, I called to Edward.
"Prince of Wales."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Who's that man in the black suit, looking so stern and preachy? Like a governess."
My fingertip pointed to William Gladstone.
He was gripping someone and expounding passionately.
Edward's shoulders twitched at my question.
"Ah... That's Chancellor of the Exchequer Gladstone."
Instinctive aversion colored his voice.
"Why the face? You look like you've seen a wolf."
"A wolf would be better. He lectures for thirty minutes straight on morality, duty, and piety every time. Even suffocating-er than talking to Father."
Perfect.
My hunch was spot on.
To a fun-loving, free-spirited teen prince, a moralist like Gladstone was public enemy number one.
I nodded with sympathetic understanding.
"Poor thing, that must be exhausting. Vienna has a few like him—I know the pain."
"You too, Madame? We really do click."
Edward lit up at my empathy.
I twirled my fan's tip, pointing now to another man in the corner.
Flashy waistcoat, rings on his fingers, curly locks artfully draped over his forehead.
A vivid, slightly exotic flair amid the drab British gentlemen.
"And him? Our eyes keep meeting—his gaze isn't casual."
"Oh! You've spotted Mr. Disraeli."
Edward's face brightened instantly.
"He's a riot. His wit makes time fly. Best of all, he's one of the few politicians who treats me not as a boy, but as the future king."
Game over.
The next king's favor, and our empire's needs.
All arrows pointed to Benjamin Disraeli.
"Then introduce him to me? I'd love some entertaining London tales."
"Of course! An honor."
Edward bounded ahead eagerly.
I gestured for Buol to follow and tailed him.
As we approached, Disraeli turned gracefully, as if expecting us.
Edward introduced us and stepped back.
"Oh, Your Highness of Wales. Now I see why the banquet shines so brightly tonight. You've brought the Moon of Austria herself."
He extended his hand and bowed to me.
"Benjamin Disraeli, Your Majesty. Gazing upon Austria's moon blinds me."
He took my fingertips and brushed them feather-light with his lips.
I smiled leisurely down at him.
"Too kind, Member. The Prince raved about you as London's most conversable gentleman, so curiosity drew me."
"Lost for words at your praise, Your Majesty. Under your moonlight, even werewolves turn poets."
His quick, unflappable riposte was no joke.
"Now I see why Queen Victoria treasures you."
Everyone loves flattery, but royals need it shoveled by the spade.
"I merely speak truth."
"I'd like to hear more of that truth."
Disraeli's eyes narrowed slyly.
"If Your Majesty wishes, I'd gladly offer the passion of the empire where the sun never sets... though London's fog grows thick these days."
"Fog makes it easy to lose one's way—best to join hands."
I indicated Buol with my fan.
"This gentleman here aches to stargaze and talk all night with you."
Buol nodded with his usual Viennese composure.
Disraeli flashed Buol a grin.
"Ah, Count. Welcome. Far more edifying than Lord Palmerston's dull sermons."
For the Tories, led by the Jewish Disraeli and desperate for wins unlike the Whigs, Austria extending a hand first was a golden opportunity.
I covered my mouth with my fan and murmured to Bertie,
"Isn't the banquet getting a bit dull...?"
Time to escort me back to my lodgings.
You want to go play with the actors too, don't you?