The Shadow of Great Britain

Our King is on his last legs; he won’t hold on for much longer.

——Henry John Temple Palmerston, Third Viscount Palmeston

The night in London had not yet fully descended, but the lights of St. James’s Palace had already set the entire building aglow, preceding the stars.

The grand ballroom of St. James’s Palace was adorned tonight like a golden beehive, with thousands of candles burning in layered chandeliers. The flames fragmented into countless tiny shards of light within the facets of the crystal chandeliers, and the flowing light, like a gentle rain, fell upon the heads of the guests.

The floor was made of freshly polished soft wax oak, its glossy surface reflecting the shoes of the dancers. The rustling friction of silk and satin gowns dragging with each step sounded like the breath of the ballroom. Clusters of white gauze and pearlescent light swayed with the movements, resembling drifting clouds.

The air was filled with the sweet, cloying scent of perfume, intermingled with the sweat of the densely packed crowd, yet under the light and music, all discordance was cleverly disguised as an exhilarating, intoxicating atmosphere.

Sir Arthur Hastings stood in a corner of the crowd, his black tailcoat and breeches perfectly tailored. He carried no sword, only placing a short staff adorned with silver curling patterns on a chair by the edge of the dance floor.

He was not intentionally looking for anything amidst the crowd, but simply stood quietly there, as if purposely finding a less crowded spot to enjoy some solitude.

Yet even in the shadow, he was soon recognized.

The delicate sound of skirts brushing the floor approached from afar, like the sound of a long dress sweeping across the grass in the morning mist.

A familiar figure elegantly wove through the crowd, silently stopping by his side. She stood near Arthur without deliberately maintaining any social distance, nor standing too close, stopping at a subtly appropriate distance.

”You arrived earlier than I expected tonight.” Miss Flora Hastings spoke softly. Her makeup tonight appeared very beautiful yet not overly stunning.

”Portrait of Miss Flora Elizabeth Rotton-Hastings” by British painter Alexander MacKay

Flora’s hair was styled high tonight, lightly secured with a silver hairpin. Two strands of hair at the front were left to fall naturally at her temples. Unlike the ladies around her, she did not wear a diamond headband or feather ornament, only a delicate emerald brooch pinned at her chest, set quietly against the white fabric, with a near minimalist grace that highlighted the beauty of her ivory evening gown.

The dress bore no intricate pleats or gold threads, only a circle of dark green satin ribbon at the waist, resembling an ink wash sketch outlining her figure cleanly from neck to ankle.

She said little, nor showed any excess expression, simply standing before Arthur, slightly raising her right hand clad in lace gloves, as if to say, ”You know.”

Seeing this, Arthur stepped forward with a smile and asked in the most fitting tone, ”May I have the honor of inviting you to the first dance of the night?”

Upon hearing his words, Flora only slightly bowed her head, the corners of her mouth drawing up into a gentle arc.

Then she placed her right hand, which had been suspended in mid-air, steadily into his palm, neither hurried nor slow, the strength perfectly measured.

She did not look up at Arthur, only whispered softly in his ear, ”My pleasure, Sir Arthur.”

Arthur naturally took Miss Flora Hastings’ arm and led her into the dance floor. As the light chime signaled the start of the quadrille, the central space of the dance floor was quickly cleared, the velvet satin gowns gathering like blooming roses.

They entered the formation to the rhythm of the music, stepping forward, exchanging positions, then turning back.

The quadrille’s pace was not urgent, but as a dance derived from military drills, it required a high degree of synchronization between partners.

Every time they brushed past each other, Arthur could feel Flora’s gown sweep over his boots. In the alternating turns, they briefly locked eyes. Flora’s gaze flickered, as if wishing to say something, but was swiftly carried away by the next beat’s spin.

The first section of the quadrille was simply the couples twirling, but as the second section’s music began, the exchange between dancers unfolded.

In the ensuing cross-steps, Arthur naturally stepped forward, his right hand falling into the soft, gilded glove.

He looked up, almost losing his composure in surprise, silver-grey brocade gown, a fiery red brooch—Mrs. Dorothea Levin.

”Sir Arthur.” Mrs. Levin spoke in a low, soft voice, yet her tone carried the elongated vowels typical of Russian nobility, coupled with her inherent arrogance and sharpness: ”This must be your first time dancing with me, yes?”

”An utmost honor.” Despite the sweat forming on the back of his neck, Arthur maintained a polite smile: ”I thought you were still in Paris...”

”I indeed was in Paris last week, but my dear friend Vidocq (the Duchess of Kent) invited me to celebrate her daughter’s birthday; how could I refuse?” Mrs. Levin wore a smile of ambiguous meaning: ”But tonight’s ball is awfully dull. If not for meeting you here, I would find little satisfaction... Sir Arthur, you should come to dance more often and not always hide in those shadows playing little tricks.”

She deliberately said the last sentence in Russian, her tone light and conversational.