The Shadow of Great Britain

When the letter was folded, Victoria’s fingertips were still trembling lightly.

She didn’t speak, just silently handed the letter back to Arthur, as if waking up from a half-year-long dream.

Arthur didn’t take the letter immediately but flipped open the cover of his pocket watch and glanced at it: ”Your Highness, three minutes, you have thirty seconds left.”

At the moment he said this, Victoria’s hand paused slightly.

She lowered her eyes, her eyelashes trembling lightly, as if still hesitating to look at that familiar handwriting again, to touch that slightly warm paper once more.

However, after just one breath, she calmly placed the letter into Arthur’s palm.

”That’s enough.” Her voice was clear and calm, with no tremble, no hoarseness, and no trace of weeping.

Arthur was slightly startled, gazing at the tear marks at the corner of Victoria’s eyes, as if making a final confirmation.

He deliberately remained silent for a moment, until he was sure Victoria had no further intention to look, then he removed his hat, placed his gloved right hand gently on his chest, and bowed slightly, saying, ”As you wish, Your Highness.”

With that, he carefully stored the letter she had read, tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, and turned to leave the observation cabin without a trace of emotion.

The airflow outside the corridor was slightly oppressive, and the vibrations of the ship transmitted faintly through the floor to his ankles.

He didn’t immediately look for a source of fire but instead walked along the corridor towards the stern, avoiding the dining room, deck, and forward cabin where passengers congregated, finally stopping at a small door marked ”Crew Only.”

He looked around, and after confirming no one was watching, he pushed the door open and entered.

It was a spare kitchen on the ship, with several broken wooden boxes for loading and unloading stacked against the wall, a few bundles of yellowing hemp ropes piled in the corner, and a weak, flickering kerosene lamp hanging from a beam, casting a dim, secretive light across the room.

Arthur closed the door, fastened the latch behind him, and slowly drew out the neatly folded letter from his inner pocket.

But what he drew out was not just a single letter but an entire stack of neatly transcribed letters on parchment, written in John Elphinstone’s clear hand, encompassing all the letters he had left for Victoria over the past six months before his departure; some written sincerely and earnestly, others full of poetry and tenderness, some whispering of dreams and regrets on the night before leaving, and yet others even listing his fantasy of giving up his official position, severing family duties, and willingly going into exile for her.

But Arthur had not shown all these letters to Victoria.

He didn’t hesitate nor did he glance at the densely penned words of deep emotion again.

He merely bent down, opened the furnace door, and tossed the stack of letters into the flames, which danced wildly in the hearth.

The flames surged instantly.

The letters crackled as they burned, as Arthur watched in icy calm, curling, folding, turning ochre...

Arthur took out a cigar box, and amid the burning love affair, he inhaled the smoke from the sunny coasts of Havana.

He didn’t see it as cruelty; rather, he viewed it with a clarity that it was mercy.

Elphinstone’s letters were nothing more than the impulsive creations of a young man in love, a momentary passion, mixed with self-reproach, cowardice, and romantic self-pity.

Arthur had seen such things before, or rather, he had seen too many of them.

From the taverns of London’s underbelly to the ballrooms of Buckingham Palace, how many young men and women had written similar letters before parting from their lovers, with earnest words, beautiful language, even with poetry and vows, but once they turned to board the ship, they could forget completely, returning to their missions and lives.

As for Victoria, she was undoubtedly young, and undoubtedly heartbroken.

But this did not mean she needed to see everything behind the scenes.

On the contrary, she only needed to know she had once been loved, and no more.

An appropriate ending was far more beneficial to her future growth than a vague expectation, and it would also help her shoulder the responsibility of the British Isles’ 117 counties.

Love was never free, at least not the love of a queen.

The flames in the hearth gradually subsided; the last corner of parchment fluttered lightly at the edge of the glowing embers, eventually turning into a silent handful of ash.

Arthur stared at the fire in silence for a few seconds, then removed the cigar from the corner of his mouth and pressed it lightly by the hearth to extinguish it.

He tidied his clothes, then turned back and dimmed the flickering kerosene lamp, before reaching out to unbolt the door, pushing it open.

As the door was pushed open, a faintly fishy-smelling air rushed in, and he was about to move forward when someone suddenly patted him on the shoulder from behind.

Arthur’s pupils contracted rapidly in shock, almost reflexively turning around swiftly, his right hand gripping the wrist, and his left arm locking on the person’s shoulder.

”Are you crazy? Arthur! It’s me, it’s me!”

Pinned against the wall by Arthur, Eld almost winced with pain to the point of tears, ”Damn!”

Arthur saw Eld’s face clearly and couldn’t help but exhale in relief. He loosened his grip, freeing Eld from the hold: ”Why aren’t you on the deck drinking and watching the girls, what are you doing here?”

Eld rubbed his nearly dislocated shoulder, glaring at Arthur, ”I was just wandering around. Who knew you’d react so strongly! Come on, Arthur, I’m not a gangster from the East District.”

”Sorry, Eld, I didn’t know you changed professions recently.” Arthur casually closed the door behind him, seemingly nonchalant but actually intending to conceal the faint smell of burning seeping from the door crack.