The Shadow of Great Britain

The ”Isabella Evening News” outright fabricated a drama, claiming an anonymous servant heard the Duchess of Kent weeping by the window at night, murmuring, ”He is a good man; he once saved us,” and even fabricated the Queen’s reproachful tone: ”XXX is better than him!”

Such an emotional plot, together with the poster for the play ”The Bride” soon to be shown in front of the Haymarket Royal Theater, sparked much discussion among middle-class ladies and even among cab drivers and workers who began to comment on the affairs of the court in station pubs.

Faced with these slanders against Her Majesty the Queen herself, Sir Arthur Hastings, Secretary-General of the Police Commissioner Committee, was naturally ”enraged.” Yesterday afternoon, before the Windsor Castle military parade, he convened an emergency meeting of high-ranking police officers in London at Scotland Yard, where he severely reprimanded Sir Charles Rowan, Chief of the Royal Greater London Police Department, and Sir Richard Mayne, Deputy Chief.

According to Chief Inspector Charles Field, head of the Police Intelligence Department, Sir Arthur flew into a rage at the meeting, and all officers above the rank of inspector at Scotland Yard were caught in the crossfire. Even though the government has no authority to censor newspaper publication, in Sir Arthur’s view, the lack of censorship does not prevent Scotland Yard from exercising power for post-publication punishment.

After all, during Sir Arthur’s tenure at Scotland Yard, they had carried out multiple raids on printing houses, seized printing machines, and arrested their editors using means such as the Libel Act, sedition charges, and unpaid stamp duty in cooperation with the Home Office.

Due to Sir Arthur’s extreme dissatisfaction with Scotland Yard’s negligence, he demanded immediate comprehensive rectification of relevant work matters and required Chief Inspector Tom Flanders to submit a written report within three days.

Of course, asking Tom to produce a written report within three days was somewhat challenging for him. After all, before his appointment to Scotland Yard, he was an honest laborer; if not for Darwin’s tutoring and being sent to further his studies at the University of London, he might not have recognized all twenty-six letters of the alphabet.

Now, although he can recognize all twenty-six letters, having him write a report that can be presented with dignity is still quite demanding.

Therefore, this report will likely be drafted by his two good sons, Little Adam and Pinkerton.

But Little Adam and Pinkerton need not worry too much because Uncle Hastings, while verbally demanding it within three days, had in fact already set off for Windsor Castle early this morning after the meeting yesterday.

And after attending the Windsor parade, he still had to make a trip to Paris, which would take ten days to half a month before he returned.

If they couldn’t produce a written report within ten days to half a month, wouldn’t that be a disgrace to Hastings College at the University of London?

Apart from Little Adam, even pulling out Pinkerton alone would be...

Allen, Allen Pinkerton, you were one of the first students at Hastings College, how can you let yourself down in official writing!

...

Arthur rode his Brougham carriage, bumping along to Windsor, where the midday wind blew fiercely across the lawn.

The sound of horns from the parade rehearsal still echoed in the distance, but he was the first to step into the corridor outside St. George’s Hall.

The shadow of the stone archway cut off the summer heat outside, and the long corridor was filled with a damp and cold air, with the Hanover Royal Family’s flags hanging on the walls gently trembling in the airflow.

He had just brushed the dust off his cloak when he heard the sound of light footsteps approaching.

At the corner of the corridor stood a slender woman, her lace hat pressed low, her body wrapped in a dress of subdued color.

It was the Duchess of Kent.

She looked significantly more haggard, her face devoid of its usual color, with a heaviness and fatigue etched between her brows.

Perhaps it was because of long-term worries or perhaps because the loneliness of life in Buckingham Palace had finally become too much for her.

When she saw Arthur, she was initially startled, then forced a slight smile and nodded to him.

”Sir Arthur.”

Arthur paused briefly, removed his hat, placed one hand on his chest, and bowed in salute, ”Your Highness.”

His tone remained gentle and appropriate, dignified yet poised, carrying the formality appropriate for the court.

Arthur’s tone remained gentle and appropriate, dignified yet poised, carrying the formality appropriate for the old-style court.

But the Duchess of Kent remained silent for a long time.

She stood at the edge of the shadow cast by the sunlight, as if hesitating, or perhaps seeking some slight support.

Arthur sensed the fleeting hesitation in her eyes and softly asked, ”Your Highness, are you waiting for someone?”

The Duchess shook her head lightly, the pride once in her demeanor already gone: ”No...in fact, there’s no one who would come.”

She suddenly paused here, then added softly, ”Sir Arthur, are you...very busy right now?”

As she said this, her gaze was slightly hesitant, her voice softer as if trying to hide the pride she was unwilling to easily concede.

Arthur instinctively took out his pocket watch, opened the cover, and glanced at the dial; the hands had just passed one o’clock.

Before he had time to speak, the Duchess rushed to ask, ”Have you an appointment with someone? Is Her Majesty the Queen summoning you?”

The Duchess, though endeavoring to maintain a steady tone, could barely conceal a hint of bitterness.

Arthur closed the watch, smiling as he replied, ”If you need, I can cancel.”

Arthur’s words bore no pretension, neither complimentary nor servile, but rather, the kind of gentlemanly demeanor the Duchess recognized he possessed when she first met him.

The Duchess of Kent smiled faintly at this, a pale and forced smile: ”You should go, don’t delay proper duties for my sake. Her Majesty the Queen has many around her now; getting an audience isn’t easy.”

At her words, Arthur nodded slightly in farewell.

But as he walked halfway, his steps suddenly paused.

He turned to look at the Duchess of Kent, feeling that under the sunlight, her shadow seemed very solitary.

He pretended to hesitate for a moment, then, as if he had made a great decision, turned back: ”I should stay, Your Highness; you seem to be in bad shape.”

The Duchess of Kent was stunned.

She froze in place without immediately responding, just lowered her head and slowly breathed in, a breath so light it seemed to use all her strength.

The sunlight cast through the corridor’s traceried windows, shedding light on her lowered eyelashes, creating almost transparent shadows. She lightly grasped the hem of her cloak, a tiny action that betrayed a rush of panic after being touched on a soft spot.

She has always been unwilling to show vulnerability before others, maintaining the dignity of a crown prince’s mother even in the hardest and most isolated times, remaining poised amid applause and prejudice.

But now, without Conroy, without Victoria by her side, she was too weary to keep up the facade.

”Why do you...” she began softly but suddenly choked, her voice seeming to be crushed by something. Looking up at Arthur, her eyes glistened with tears: ”Please...just leave.”

Arthur did not reply, just quietly watched her, a gentle smile on his face.

The corners of the Duchess of Kent’s mouth quivered slightly: ”You were never on my side before.”

”I’m not taking sides, Your Highness,” Arthur said softly, ”I simply can’t stand to see anyone suffer.”

This statement seemed to strike a chord within her defenses.

She slowly closed her eyes, tears uncontrollably slipping from the corners, first a drop, then bursting forth uncontrollably.

Instinctively, she reached to conceal them, but her hands were too slow and weak.

She couldn’t even think to take a handkerchief from her sleeve, and could only let those bits of wetness slide down her cheeks, staining the lace of her morning dress with fuzzy marks.

Arthur gently took his white handkerchief from his pocket, stepped a half-step closer, but did not presumptuously reach out, instead quietly offered it to her fingertips.

She looked at the hand extended to her, hesitating as she received it, as if suddenly realizing she had broken decorum or recalled some long-forgotten tenderness.

She held the soft white cloth, her fingers trembling slightly, yet nothing to say in gratitude.

But Arthur did not need to hear her say anything.

He understood the weight behind this silence.