The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1938 - 157: The Eve of the Victorian Era (Part 2)

From the gaps in the curtains, waves of cheering from the street kept coming, faintly mingled with someone calling her name: "Alexandrina! Alexandrina Victoria!"

The voices were both enthusiastic and sincere, stirring an indescribable sense of awe and shyness within her.

She couldn’t help but lift her eyes to look out the window, her gaze passing through the gaps to see the golden-red flags outside the carriage, the tricolor flags and garlands lining the street, the citizens waving their hats in the sunlight, the young girls standing on tiptoe, and also, on the street directly ahead, Sir Arthur Hastings, riding a black horse, conversing merrily with Colonel Hackett, the military officer attendant of the Duchess of Kent.

Arthur was wearing an exquisite set of black riding attire today, the breeches hugging the sturdy muscles of his calves. Today, he hadn’t donned his ceremonial sword but instead chose an elegant walking stick adorned with silver patterns, resting diagonally on the saddle. His top hat was not pressed down too low like others but sat steadily atop his head.

Beside him, Colonel Hackett was dressed in full military regalia, a braid of wheat denoting his status as an attendant hanging from his right shoulder, a saber sheathed at his waist, and a Dragon Cavalry pistol tucked into the saddlebag near the horse’s head.

These two old acquaintances from York had, since forging their friendship in Ramsgate and indirectly facilitating Colonel Hackett’s marriage to Miss Catherine Jenkinson, eldest daughter of the Earl of Liverpool, gathered every few months over the past half-year.

Speaking of Ramsgate...

Since Victoria returned from the beach at Ramsgate, whenever she saw Sir Arthur Hastings’ face, or even just his silhouette, she felt an inexplicable sense of reassurance.

She herself couldn’t articulate the nature of this feeling, neither like the palpitations of being with Lord Elphinstone nor the inherent comfort of being with Uncle Leopold.

This feeling felt a bit like a mixture of both, indescribable and enigmatic.

Nonetheless...

It’s not a bad feeling.

Victoria hesitated and put down the reply to her uncle, starting a new page in her journal, where writing always brought her the greatest relaxation.

May 24, 1837, midway to St. James’s Palace.

The flowers this morning were pink, I guess it was Leisen (or perhaps someone’s suggestion?) who purposely chose them.

Maybe I’m overthinking, but in any case, they lifted my spirits a bit.

Today... is exhausting. Everyone is smiling at me; I have to take a deep breath before each door opens. I know they say I should "act naturally," but how can anyone remain natural when constantly under the gaze of everyone?

I could barely remember what those who came to congratulate me said. His Majesty the King sent a piano, the ladies sent perfumes, necklaces, and a comical silhouette of myself.

London’s major companies are trying their hardest to push their products into my hands. I received many new dresses and almost a mountain of cosmetics (which I’m normally not allowed to use).

Empire Publishing Company also sent several sets of finely bound books by the authors of "British," including my favorite Tennyson’s latest works, Mr. Darwin’s newly refined and published "Beagle Voyage Diary," and even a rare poetry collection by Mr. Eld Carter.

However, although Mr. Carter’s collection is rare, after glancing through his works, I quickly understood why. To be fair, Mr. Carter may be quite talented in poetry, but when his works are compared with Alfred Tennyson or Arthur Sigma (I don’t understand why Sir Arthur insists on publishing under this pen name), Mr. Carter inevitably falls short.

Originally, I wanted to write many things to my uncle today. I even had the letter paper spread out, the ink well dipped. Yet, I stopped after the third line.

I wasn’t sure whether to write more or less. Should I be straightforward, or should I be subtle? It seemed that writing someone’s name too many times would arouse suspicion, whereas writing too little would make it seem as if I didn’t care.

Yet, I clearly...

Hmm...

Let’s not speak of it.

Today, I suddenly recalled "Under the Golden Gauze" by Arthur Sigma (aside from Tennyson’s "Marianne" and "Daughter of Charlotte," my favorite), which perfectly describes my current mood.

I remember the roads on the carriage,

The sunlight descending like golden gauze,

Gently falling on the exposed back of my hand,

Warm and light,

Like an unsigned letter,

Carrying the remnant warmth of his breath.

I dared not move.

Because if I did,

The handkerchief he claimed was "accidentally left behind,"

Would slip from the folds of my skirt,

Like a small lie,

Accidentally falling into the breeze before the crowd.

But still, I moved,

At the next intersection,

I reached out to push the curtain aside.

I just wanted to confirm,

Whether the sun was still present,

Or if it too knew my secret,

And hid behind the clouds.

...

In the afternoon at Windsor Castle, the room was unusually quiet, broken only by the soft crackling of the wood in the fireplace and the occasional birdsong.

King William IV half-reclined in the high-backed chair, covered in a wool blanket, a glass of warm water freshly poured by Queen Adelaide resting by his side. Despite the fire burning warmly, he still felt a chill. His hands occasionally trembled uncontrollably, sometimes needing the Queen’s assistance to lift a handkerchief.

He turned his head to glance at his wife, his voice dry, hoarse, carrying the exhaustion of long illness: "Wellington... should be at St. James’s Palace by now, right? That child... Delina, has she set off too?"

Adelaide didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she leaned over to tuck the slipped wool blanket a bit tighter, then whispered gently close to the old King’s ear: "Yes, dear. They’re all there now. Delina followed your instruction to wear the sky-blue cloak. She knows you favor that color."

William’s lips twitched slightly, as if smiling: "I remember... when you wore that blue cloak, she was only this tall..."

He lifted his hand, making a gesture at height: "Back then she clung to your skirt and asked me: ’Why does Uncle George always glare so fiercely?’"

Adelaide chuckled softly, though there was a touch of wistfulness in her laughter.

King William IV murmured: "Back then we were young, you were young, and my body was still strong. But now... I can hardly hear you speak, Adelaide..."

She didn’t respond immediately, simply lifted the glass and brought it to his lips, letting him sip.

Queen Adelaide whispered close to King William IV’s face, tear-streaked: "Dear, don’t utter such foolish words, didn’t Dr. Chambers say? You can still witness many more sunsets."

William IV chuckled softly, shaking his head: "I’ve said that if I could live to see the anniversary of Waterloo, I’d willingly forgo more sunsets. As for Chambers... seeing many sunsets... dear, that is an entirely different matter, an entirely different matter, my dear Adelaide."

William IV stretched his hand, slowly covering hers, gently tightening.

"Tell her, tell her, go to Windsor, tell her, Adelaide..." he said haltingly: "Don’t fear those old men, there is nothing to fear about them... It’s just antiquated titles and parliamentary arguments. Go, Adelaide, you should be by that child’s side... not here, keeping company with an old man too ill to even rise."

Adelaide bowed her head, gently shaking it, tears already dampening William IV’s hand.

"I won’t leave, William. There are many people at St. James’s, the Duke of Wellington, Viscount Melbourne, Lord Chamberlain, Sir Robert Peel, and Sir Arthur Hastings, all distinguished figures. They will take good care of Delina; you don’t need to worry."

William IV seemed not to fully grasp but when the name "Sir Arthur Hastings" lightly entered his ears, his eyelashes trembled suddenly: "Arthur... Sir Arthur Hastings?"

But at the end, he seemed to recall something, murmuring in relief: "He has become a distinguished figure now too, hasn’t he?"