While President Taylor was watching his nation bleed itself white, losing both men and certainty by the day—
London remained calm.
Buckingham Palace
On the palace lawn, beneath a pale English sun, Arthur was playing croquet with his wife.
Queen Victoria, recently recovered from the birth of their thrid child, moved with renewed grace. Motherhood had not diminished her—if anything, it had sharpened her presence, giving her a warmth that softened, but never weakened, her authority.
"You missed again," Arthur said lightly, tapping his ball through the hoop with deliberate elegance.
Victoria huffed, cheeks faintly flushed.
"If you hadn't insisted on keeping me awake half the night," she retorted, "my aim would be far steadier today."
Arthur laughed, the sound easy, intimate. He adored this side of her—the empress who could scold him like a mischievous girl.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that the moment had come.
It was time to save their American friends.
Days later, an official document—personally signed by Queen Victoria—was delivered simultaneously to Washington and Richmond through the fastest diplomatic channels available.
Its title was gentle.
Its content was lethal.
> *"An Initiative for Friendly Coexistence, Urging the North American Brothers to End the Tragedy of Civil War."*
It was written with noble restraint, saturated with humanitarian concern.
And it was a masterpiece of calculated division.
Arthur Lionheart had not offered peace.
He had offered **two different futures**.
President Taylor nearly tore the document apart upon first reading.
Only discipline—and desperation—stopped his hand.
The British envoy, Lord Melbourne , read calmly:
> "Her Majesty deeply respects the principle that a divided house cannot stand.
> Yet violence will only deepen hatred between brothers."
Then came the price.
> "Should the Northern Federation be willing to *temporarily recognize the autonomous status* of the Confederate States—
> for the sake of long-term peace in North America—"
The room went silent.
> "—the British Empire shall immediately provide the following support."
One.
All British agricultural loans to the South would cease.
A total arms embargo would follow.
Two.
The industrial goods of the Northern Federation would gain **preferred access** to every imperial market—India, Australia, Africa.
Three.
Lord Melbourne smiled.
> "Prince Consort **Arthur Lionheart** is personally willing to authorize the full civilian and military use of selected patents belonging to the *Future Industrial Group*—including breech-loading firearms, steam engines, and railway systems—at a… favorable cost."
The room froze.
They understood instantly.
This was bloodless victory.
Cut the South off.
Feed the North with empire-wide markets.
Grant them the technology they had dreamed of.
Recognize Southern independence **temporarily**—
and build an industrial colossus capable of reclaiming everything later.
A pact with the devil.
And it was intoxicating.
President Taylor's resolve wavered.
The Confederate leadership received a very different letter.
The tone was respectful.
The message, indulgent.
> "Her Majesty honors the courage of Southern gentlemen defending liberty and tradition."
Then the proposal:
Recognition of independence—**permanent**.
Borders fixed along the Missouri Compromise Line.
In exchange—
A joint patrol fleet with Texas in the Gulf of Mexico.
Immediate British recognition, followed by European recognition.
And finally—
A **thirty-year mutual defense treaty**.
Any attack on the Confederacy would be considered a declaration of war against the British Empire.
Calhoun trembled.
Jefferson Davis could barely breathe.
This was immortality.
Under the Royal Navy's shadow, their cotton kingdom could endure for generations.
Expansion dreams would be sacrificed—but survival would be guaranteed.
The choice was obvious.
With two documents—perfectly aligned in outcome, radically different in promise—
Arthur Lionheart achieved the impossible.
He gave both sides exactly what they desired.
And locked them both into Britain's future.
That Night — The Queen's Chambers
Arthur showed Victoria the two letters.
She read them slowly.
When she looked up, her blue eyes shone—not with fear, but awe.
"Arthur…" she whispered.
"You are a devil."
He smiled and drew her close.
"This isn't conspiracy, my love. It's human nature."
She hesitated, then asked softly:
"Why divide them so completely? Would it not be safer to let them exhaust one another?"
Arthur shook his head.
"No. That would be catastrophic."
His gaze drifted far beyond the room.
"I once dreamed of a different future."
He spoke quietly.
A unified America.
An industrial giant.
A global navy.
A currency that replaced the pound.
A culture that conquered without armies.
Victoria clutched his sleeve.
"I don't want our children to live in that world."
Arthur's grip tightened—protective, resolute.
"Then they won't."
"This is not for today," he said gently.
"It is for the next hundred years of our Empire."