With the East India Company—Britain's greatest "gangrenous tumour"—purged to its roots, and the governance of India securely brought under the Crown, the prestige of Arthur Lionheart and Queen Victoria soared to heights unseen in the Empire's history.
No one now dared publicly question the Prince Consort's decisions. A saying began circulating among the people: Her Majesty embodied grace and majesty; His Royal Highness embodied intellect and the conquest of the world.
Arthur knew that external battles were won. Now came the fight within.
The British Empire, that glittering vessel of power and civilisation, was long plagued in its lower decks by rot: inequality of wealth, class antagonism, urban filth, and—worst of all—the tragic masses crushed beneath the gears of the Industrial Revolution.
It was time to repair this mighty ship from keel to mast.
And his first target was the age-old nightmare that made Victorian factory-owners blanch at the mere mention—
Child labour.
That day, in Buckingham Palace, a briefing on "the future social welfare of the Empire" convened under the personal authority of Her Majesty. The leading voices of Parliament were present, along with the newly established India Office.
The meeting began harmoniously. The attendees eagerly praised Arthur's sweeping triumphs in the East.
But the atmosphere shifted the moment Arthur distributed a report—compiled after months of investigation by his secretary team—concerning the conditions of child workers in the textile mills of Manchester and Liverpool.
The contents were horrifying.
"In the mills of the Manchester region, over forty percent of the workforce consists of children between eight and fourteen.
They work more than fourteen hours a day. The air is thick with cotton dust; the machines roar without cease. Many suffer permanent spinal deformities from long hours bent over the looms."
"The most dangerous task—cleaning stray cotton beneath the spinning frames—can only be performed by small children. Hundreds are maimed or killed every year."
The report ended with several sketches secretly drawn by a daring journalist from The Daily Mirror of Dickens—haunting images of skeletal children with hollow eyes, labouring like mechanical shadows beneath dim factory lamps.
A heavy silence fell.
"Gentlemen," Arthur Lionheart said, his voice resonant with grave weight, "this is the truest face of our proud Industrial Revolution. We have traded the flesh and innocence of these children for the fine linens on our tables and the splendid gowns upon our ladies."
He observed the room. Compassion—and shame—clouded many faces.
It was the right moment.
He glanced at Victoria. She rose with quiet grace, her voice warm with a mother's sorrow.
"Gentlemen," she began, "just over a year ago, I became a mother. Each night, as I hold my healthy, laughing daughter, I cannot help but think of the countless children of her age somewhere in our Empire, enduring miseries no child should ever know."
"As Queen, I am deeply grieved—and ashamed."
She steadied herself.
"I ask my Parliament to act. Not for politics, but for these children."
Arthur then presented a bill already prepared.
"I propose immediate passage of a new Factory Act," he declared.
"Three principal articles:
First: It shall be strictly forbidden for any factory to employ children under nine years of age.
Second: Children aged nine to thirteen shall not work more than eight hours a day, and factories must provide at least two hours of free schooling daily.
Third: A Factory Inspectorate shall be established under the Home Office, empowered to enforce this law. Any mill-owner violating it shall face heavy fines—or even revocation of their licence."
The room erupted.
Those noble MPs whose compassion was genuine applauded Arthur's courage.
But others—those tied to industrial interests—rose in furious protest.
"No! Absolutely not!" cried a Manchester MP. "Your Highness, you will ruin our textile industry! Without cheap child labour, costs will soar! British cotton will lose its place in world markets!"
Another, a factory-owner himself, shouted, "And what shall these children do if not work? Starve in the streets? Become thieves? At least in the mills they earn their bread!"
They wrapped exploitation in the cloth of "charity."
Arthur's expression darkened, but he replied with silence.
For he had already prepared a far more powerful weapon.
While Parliament raged, The Daily Mirror of Dickens suddenly launched a full-scale campaign—Arthur's "great gift" to the industrial lobby.
For an entire week, their front page ran a blistering series titled "The Tears of Our Children."
They interviewed crippled mill children, showing sketches of mangled fingers and twisted spines—drawn with merciless realism.
They spoke to grieving mothers who had lost their sons beneath the spinning frames.
Each article was a blade driven straight into the conscience of London.
Then Dickens himself published a new serialized tale—"The Little Match Girl"—a story conceived and quietly gifted to him by Arthur Lionheart.
When readers reached the final image—the little girl dying in the cold, smiling faintly at the visions of warmth she would never know—
London wept.
Housewives sobbed openly.
Hardened gentlemen, men who lived for stocks and politics, lowered their papers in long, shameful silence.
The hearts of the public had been set ablaze.
"Punish the cruel mill-owners!"
"Save our children!"
"Support Her Majesty's Factory Act!"
Crowds marched peacefully to Parliament, bearing placards and petitions.
The wave of public sentiment rose like a tidal surge—and the MPs who had once defended the factory barons found themselves branded "blood-soaked monsters" and "enemies of the people."
If they voted against the Act now, their constituents would see them cast out.
And so, with hardly a shred of suspense, the revolutionary Factory Act for Child Protection passed by an overwhelming majority.
From Buckingham Palace, Arthur and Victoria watched the news in the morning papers.
Victoria embraced her husband from behind, her voice trembling with joy.
"Arthur… we did it!"
"Yes, my love," Arthur Lionheart replied with a smile. "We did."
For he knew that the seed he had planted—the seed called public opinion—had blossomed into its first, radiant, unstoppable flower.
And this was but the opening note of the grand symphony soon to unfold—
Victoria's Reforms.