The Shadow of Great Britain

The sea outside Albion Villa had been stained a dark copper by the dusk; the roar of the tide was heavy, like a huge curtain, cutting the villa off from the world outside. The lights inside the house pierced the thick curtains and were sliced into fine golden threads.

Ever since Princess Victoria had gone back to her room the afternoon before last, she had not set foot outside again.

According to the Maid’s reports, she was ”feeling particularly unwell” and had even stopped writing her diary, which in her habits was almost unheard of.

The Duchess of Kent sat in a corner of the drawing room, a Nose Snuff Bottle in her hand, gazing uneasily at the Clock hanging above the mantelpiece.

In front of the fireplace, Conroy, as usual, staked out the spot by the window with steady assurance, gloves pinched in his hand, a kind of impatient composure on his face, as if he meant to press this matter down, just as he had done countless times before.

”Your Highness.” He spoke in a tone that was almost tantamount to a conclusion. ”It’s nothing but the young lady’s temper flaring up. You know her disposition—at the slightest displeasure she likes to feign an illness to win people’s attention.”

The Duchess tapped lightly on the lid of the Nose Snuff Bottle, but tried to keep her voice as gentle as possible. ”But she looks... truly very weak. Besides, Clark was personally recommended by Leopold; he is a highly skilled physician. Whether she’s feigning illness or not, letting him have a look would...”

Conroy raised his hand to cut the Duchess off. ”Your Highness, you are her mother, not Leopold. You needn’t be swayed by these appearances. The Princess’s health is not in any real danger; more than anyone, you ought to understand that this is merely a little fit of mood from your daughter, and you must hold firm. Besides, I have already sent Clark back to London; even if we dispatched someone to summon him now, it would still take some time.”

The Duchess’s gaze drifted to the beach outside the window. Though she was half in doubt about Conroy’s words, she did not wish, at this moment, to come into open conflict with him.

Over these past months she had heard nothing but bad news: relations between Kensington Palace and King William IV continued to deteriorate; even her brother Leopold had ceased corresponding with her; and just a few days earlier, the newly appointed governess, the Duchess of Northumberland, had presented her resignation to her in person...

Those figures once regarded as friends of Kensington Palace were now taking their leave from her one after another, and this situation only made the Duchess of Kent feel all the more isolated.

She had never dared to offend Conroy, least of all at a time like this.

Yet two more days passed, and upstairs remained so quiet it set one’s teeth on edge.

The Maids’ soft-voiced reports shattered the silence of the drawing room again and again.

”The Princess is eating very little.”

”The Princess has remained in bed.”

Not until the third day did the deep furrow between Conroy’s brows finally ease a fraction.

Perhaps he too had realised that something was amiss, for even if Victoria had made up her mind to throw a tantrum, going five whole days without getting out of bed and barely touching food would harm her body all the same. And if anything truly happened to Victoria, his dream of becoming a power behind the throne would naturally shatter to pieces.

Worse still, as the Crown prince of Britain, Victoria’s every move was in full view of the public.

Especially in a holiday resort like Ramsgate, many of the visitors who came to the local beach this year did so for the express purpose of catching a glimpse of what the future Queen looked like.

Besides the tourists, the vexatious news media were also keeping an eye on Kensington Palace.

Not only the press from Fleet Street in London, but also from Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham...

Journalists from as far away as Edinburgh and Glasgow in Scotland had likewise turned out in force.

The first to notice that something was wrong were the local newspapers in Ramsgate. When they realised that Victoria had not shown herself for quite a number of days, they came specially to inquire about the reason, and Conroy was forced to fob them off with, ”A servant in Albion Villa has fallen ill; Princess Victoria has merely caught a slight chill from her.”

However, despite Conroy’s attempts, by every means he could think of, to play down the situation, as Victoria’s absence lengthened, more and more reporters and onlookers gathered outside Albion Villa. What worried Conroy even more was that, through the slit behind the curtain, he could see several familiar faces.

Among them were a star reporter from The Times who had long been following Kensington Palace’s movements, a professional writer from the Economist who had come to Ramsgate to research the tourism economy, and several of the great men of letters of British who were holidaying here for relaxation...

The pressure weighing on Conroy grew by the day, and at such a time he naturally thought of an old friend who might rescue him from hardship and distress—Sir Arthur Hastings.

Fortunately, he had not yet left Ramsgate, and Conroy had heard that Miss Flora Hastings went walking on the beach with this cousin of hers every evening.

Of course, given that he had ”roughly” handled him some time ago, Conroy also understood that Arthur might not be inclined to do him any favours.

Thus he could only ask Flora in private to intercede with Arthur, in the hope that Arthur would use his influence on Fleet Street to help send that crowd of reporters packing.

But Sir Arthur Hastings had plainly seen through Conroy’s manoeuvre.

According to Flora, her cousin did not directly refuse her request, but in front of her he launched into a discussion of freedom of the press and brazenly declared: ”Since the Princess will one day sit upon Britain’s throne, her every move belongs to this country’s public affairs. And as the fourth estate of British society, it is the duty of the news media to conduct faithful and trustworthy reporting. Fleet Street does not exist merely to make it convenient for the court to proclaim good news.”