The Shadow of Great Britain

I do not love freedom; what I love is not having to kneel to anyone.

—Arthur Hastings

Afternoons at Buckingham Palace always seem a bit brighter than in other parts of London.

The pale winter sunlight gilds the glass windows, falling upon the study’s carpet, creating a tranquility that instills a slight fear.

Victoria stood before the window, her hands folded in front of her, having stared out at the garden for half an hour with hardly a move.

She had already agreed to Viscount Melbourne’s request to personally persuade Arthur to visit Dalhousie.

She agreed so quickly, even Melbourne was caught off guard.

For Victoria, if the situation in Canada truly had deteriorated to the point that only the Earl of Dalmo could intervene, then as the monarch of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, she felt obligated to undertake this heavy responsibility, fulfilling as much as she could of her promise to her subjects from her accession speech.

If this responsibility were solely hers, perhaps Victoria would not be so troubled.

But this responsibility also concerns Arthur...

Since her ascension, no, even before she ascended, Arthur had repeatedly stood on the edge of the blade for her, for the royal family, for the stability of governance.

Victoria gently bit her lower lip, her fingertips lightly brushing the window frame, as though smoothing out something invisible.

Whenever she closes her eyes, she can’t help but recall the suffocating days at Ramsgate last summer.

Conroy trapped her in a room, pushing her, already gravely ill, to the brink of suffocation.

In that darkness where light seemed forever impossible, someone opened her door.

Arthur’s words whispered in her ear, every word, every syllable she still remembers.

”Everything will be alright, I swear by my honor; your illness will eventually fade away, your predicaments will eventually unravel, and those who try to exploit your will shall be completely purged. And then, you shall rise in your own way, stand tall and face the entire kingdom, receiving the cheers of 23 million Britons. Your Highness, you will have that moment, I assure you, you will have that moment.”

He fulfilled his promise.

When the news of Uncle William’s demise was sent from Windsor Castle, it was this man, braving the night, leading the mounted police force to escort the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham into London.

At dawn, in the rushing crowd, Victoria first caught sight of him once more.

Covered in travel dust, he half-knelt on the ground, the first to pledge loyalty to Victoria.

The storm at Ramsgate, that night at Kensington Palace, the turmoil on the day of ascension, controversies at Scotland Yard, the concert at Buckingham Palace, the scandal between her and Viscount Melbourne...

Each time, what he shielded her from was not something a mere ”thank you” could encompass.

Victoria murmured, ”If I send him to face Dalhousie once more... will it be too much?”

As she thought of this, Victoria felt as if something gently hooked her heart.

She instinctively turned around, looking at the recently unsealed stack of the latest issue of The British on the windowsill.

This issue of The British features a new work by Arthur Sigma.

Victoria knows that Arthur is different from those established writers; he never set up a writing studio, nor does he allow others to ghostwrite for him. This stubborn sincerity, or rather dangerous candor, she has gradually become accustomed to.

Or perhaps she quite likes this innocence of Arthur’s, albeit the author of the national treasure work Hastings Case Files never has a high output, but Victoria could never explain why every article, every line of verse Arthur writes always manages to hit her at the most inopportune times.

She reached out, her fingertip touching the cold edge of the paper, where the sonnet lay quietly like a personal secret of his that he would never send.

”Let others dream in their gilded rooms,

Weighing the light and heavy on destiny’s shifting sands.

But I walk within the silent thunder of duty,

Like a solitary shadow, watching over this land in passing years.

What is the breath of death to make me tremble?

The dark tides of fate also cannot make me hesitate.

The path beneath my feet skirts the abyss,

A sterner call drives me forward unceasingly.

For Britain, I leave all hope behind,

Leaving tenderness and love behind me.

If the crown so requires, the storm divides people,

Then so be it, I shall walk alone into the dark.

If honor calls me to the waves of fate,

I shall go gladly, what does this body matter?

May the fire of liberty burn at the storm’s end.”

The paper trembled slightly, unsure if it was from Victoria’s trembling fingertips or the afternoon breeze.

Victoria closed her eyes.

She was very sure, very, very sure.

If today she asks Arthur to meet the Earl of Dalmo, he will surely agree.

No matter what that entails.

No matter how much personal hardship it brings him.

No matter if it requires him to make an irrevocable sacrifice once again.

He will agree.

Without a moment’s hesitation.

Victoria suddenly realized a truth so cruel it seemed absurd; she even wished, if only once, that Arthur could speak a request to her.