Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

October in London is the season for ink and newsboys.

Suddenly, there were many more papers on the street, with leaflets from the Conservative and Liberal parties pasted on every lamppost, like two groups of parrots fighting.

Meanwhile, newsboys, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, lined both sides of the road, their voices eight octaves louder than usual, holding up extra editions and shouting at the street corners:

"The Liberal Party is rallying tonight at Clare Market! Gladstone will be there! Seating is limited!"

"The Conservative Party defends British dignity! Don't let the Irish steal your jobs!"

Richard stood at the window on the second floor of the factory, watching two men holding different colored flyers on the street below exchange a curse before being pulled away by their companions.

The election has finally begun; he has waited far too long.

Just then, there was a knock on the office door.

"Come in." Richard sat back down in his chair, opened an account book, and pretended to do some accounting.

A worker leaned halfway in and said nervously, "Young master, there's a Mr. Henry outside. He says he's the district's...member of parliament and wants to see you."

Richard closed the ledger, quickly feigning surprise: "Please come in!"

When Congressman Henry walked in, Richard thought the man was perfect for a politician. He was around fifty years old, wearing a dark blue coat and a sapphire brooch on his tie.

The smile on his face was exactly the same as the one I had seen on TV, warm but not overstepping any boundaries, like an old friend I hadn't seen for years and whose name I couldn't recall.

"Mr. Brian, it's an honor to meet you," Henry said sincerely. "I hope my visit has not disturbed your work."

"Not at all, Mr. Congressman, please have a seat." Richard stepped aside and led him to a chair opposite the desk, then went back around to sit down behind the desk himself.

He uncorked the bottle and poured a glass of whiskey for Congressman Henry.

“Mr. Brian, I have heard of your factory before,” Henry said, placing his hand on his glass. “The Richard system is undoubtedly the future of industry. I have mentioned in the House of Commons that England needs more industrialists like you, not those aristocrats who rest on their laurels.”

Richard smiled politely: "Congressman Henry, you flatter me. But you should be careful, my office isn't very soundproof."

"I'm telling the truth, there's nothing to be afraid of," he said more casually, "but I recently heard about your help to Irish immigrants, especially workers, which has really touched me..."

Richard nodded: "Of course, workers are the backbone of our country, and we should not discriminate based on ethnicity when helping them."

“You’re right,” Henry’s eyes lit up, “but some bosses don’t think that way. They think the Irish are taking jobs from the British, that they are a burden on the empire, while you are completely different.”

Richard took a sip of his drink. He knew Henry was setting the stage, praising his factory and the news first, before bringing up the real issue.

Sure enough, Henry leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his knees, and asked him more formally, "Mr. Brian, what are your thoughts on the upcoming election?"

This question wasn't asked casually; it was a probe to gauge his stance and where he was willing to invest his money.

"Mr. Henry, I don't know much about politics, you need to be more specific," Richard said, feigning doubt.

“Of course,” Henry said. “For example, what do you think of the ruling party’s military reforms? Do you think those…tough measures taken on the Irish border have been effective?”

Richard knew that these were the two main directions the Liberal Party was attacking the Conservative Party.

The Conservative Party is ambivalent about military reform and tends to repression rather than reform on the Irish question, while Gladstone of the Liberal Party holds the exact opposite position.

"To tell you the truth," Richard said slowly, "I just met with Viscount Cavill and the Duke of Cambridge a few days ago, and they are very confident in the reforms. The Duke knows that the British Army cannot live on the glory of Waterloo forever."

Henry nodded; in fact, he nodded at every word Richard said, like a doll in a car.

"As for the Irish question," Richard's tone became cautious, "I'm afraid it's a stain on England. For centuries, we've been using tithes and police against the Irish, but has the problem been solved? No. The Irish are still the Irish."

Richard looked at Henry and said, "Only by resolving the religious and land issues within Ireland can the sharp ethnic conflicts be fundamentally resolved."

Henry was silent for two seconds, and Richard heard a low "hmm" from his throat.

"Mr. Brian," his voice trembled with barely suppressed excitement, "every word you say is exactly what Mr. Gladstone has said."

Richard feigned a moment of surprise: "Really?"

“Almost identical,” Henry said, placing his hands on the table. “Mr. Brian, to be honest, I’m not here today just for a visit. I’m here on behalf of the Liberal Party to seek your support.”

"Mr. Gladstone is on an unprecedented Lancashire speaking tour, from Liverpool to Manchester to Wigan, and each one requires venues, printing, publicity, and organization, all of which cost money."

A hint of embarrassment flashed in his eyes, and Richard knew he was doing it on purpose.

"But don't worry, I understand your current situation... Your name won't appear on any documents, we don't need you to publicly endorse us or speak in the newspapers, we just need you to lend a hand behind the scenes, but we will definitely remember you."

Richard leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin with his hand for about ten seconds.

He exhausted his acting skills to perform his thoughts; he couldn't appear too straightforward, or people would become suspicious.

"How much do you need?" he finally asked.

Henry grinned. "We would be extremely grateful for whatever support you can provide."

Richard lowered his head, took out a draft from the drawer, and picked up a pen.

His hand paused on the paper for a moment, then fell down and wrote down a string of numbers.

Three thousand pounds.

He pushed the bill forward.

Henry glanced down, then looked up, his eyes widening considerably. "Mr. Brian, this... three thousand pounds?"

"Isn't that enough?" Richard asked.

"That's enough, more than enough." Henry's voice was slightly unsteady. "That's enough to support our speaking tour in several cities in the north."

Richard suddenly said, "Mr. Henry, I'm a businessman. Businessmen invest and expect a return. I have only one request."

"Please speak."

"If Mr. Gladstone takes over Downing Street, I hope he remembers that he was a British industrialist who stood behind him when others didn't believe in him," Richard said. "I hope the factory orders stay stable and the factory expands."

Henry stared at him for two seconds, then smiled as if relieved:

"Mr. Brian, you are a true industrialist." He stood up, extended his hand, and said, "You have vision and foresight. Mr. Gladstone needs more people like you."

Richard stood up and shook his hand: "I'm glad we were able to reach an agreement."

Henry released his grip, carefully folded the draft, stuffed it into his inner pocket, and patted it to make sure it wouldn't fall out.

He walked to the door, stopped, and turned around: "Mr. Brian, you won't regret your choice today once Mr. Gladstone wins."

Richard shook his head: "I never regret the decisions I make."

Henry opened the door and went out, his footsteps drowned out by the roar of the steam engines in the workshop downstairs.

Richard relaxed his shoulders and leaned against the window frame.

Three thousand pounds. Most of it was Prussian money, campaign funds transferred by Eleanor through her Swiss account. She simply signed it, added her own portion, and made it look more like an investment by a British businessman.

It doesn't hurt to spend money that isn't yours.

Gladstone will win this election; that's a given. He's just signing his name on a script that's already been written.