shadow of britain

Chapter 760 Offended the Duke and Still Wants to Leave?

In the early morning, the moisture at the West India docks seemed to rise quietly from the bottom of the Thames, turning into a layer of damp and cold gray fog in the air.

The dock was piled high with cargo containers, and through the light brown canvas, you could see a dazzling array of goods inside, including Jamaican sugar, Indian cotton cloth, Chinese tea, and West African ivory.

Large numbers of coolies carrying sacks shuttled between pulley cranes and hoisting towers, crossing the slopes together with low-profile ponies pulling carts, delivering bags of printed fabric and spices to the customs sheds.

Not far from the berthing area, a batch of wooden crates bearing the words "EIC" (East India Company) were being carefully transferred by port authority personnel. Several men wearing metal armbands stood by to supervise, and judging from the tax seals, manifests, and invoices they were holding, these men were clearly inspectors from the Royal Customs Service.

They occasionally spoke in hushed tones to a company representative wearing a top hat and sporting a beard. Judging from the implication, the shipment seemed to be an annual special supply for the gentlemen of the War Department and the Navy Department, and as usual, it would spend the night at the West India docks before being picked up by the Quartermaster General's convoy.

Henry Blackwell carried his suitcase down the gangway, his shoes creaking dully as they trod on the waterlogged planks.

He stopped, looked up at his surroundings, and his exhaled breath quickly blended with the moisture on the dock: "This change is truly remarkable..."

Blackwell recalled that when he boarded a ship at the West Indies docks to Russia eight years ago, the place was not so orderly.

Back then, the workers, shirtless, would shout as they unloaded goods from the barges, and boxes were often carelessly piled up by the pier, where they would roll into the water if one wasn't careful.

The hand-cranked cranes used for moving goods are also old-fashioned models, mostly consisting of crooked wooden poles with rusty iron wheels, and are operated entirely by manpower.

And now?

The crane boom was as tall as a church bell tower, and there was even a foreman standing on a small platform directing the winch's raising and lowering. Damn it, if you stripped him of his clothes and put him in a priest's robe, you'd think he was a pastor preaching.

The row of rusty warehouses at the North Pier is gone, replaced by three neatly arranged, numbered new warehouses. Even the dock passageway has been paved with brand-new stone bricks, and new fences and gas lampposts have been installed along the roadside.

As Blackwell walked, he marveled at how much London had changed over the years.

As he hurried through the iron gate leading to the exit, he couldn't help but glance back a few more times at the neatly arranged lampposts.

The avenue outside the dock was much wider than he remembered, and the poplar trees on both sides were obviously planted in recent years. When the river breeze blew, he could smell the fragrance of soil.

Across the street stood a newly painted three-story red brick building. Eight years ago, when he left, it was just a dilapidated warehouse, its exterior walls covered in vines and pigeon droppings. Now, it was completely transformed. The window frames were painted white, and the brass doorknobs gleamed brightly in the sunlight, as if plated with gold. Even a small drainage ditch had been dug under the eaves, as if this building was so precious that it couldn't withstand even the slightest bit of wind and rain.

However, once you consider the plaque on the door, everything makes sense, because it clearly reads: Royal Customs Service, London Customs Office, West India Wharf.

Blackwell shook his head, muttering, "Customs is really lucrative; even the curtains in their windows look cleaner than those at the embassy..."

He couldn't help but sigh: "If I had had the chance to come to this building to copy orders back then, why would I have wasted those eight years in Russia?"

He stood by the roadside, carrying his suitcase, and looked around. Horse-drawn carriages, barges, and freight trucks were coming and going in front of him.

Logically speaking, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs wouldn't let him stand on the main road in the wind for too long.

After all, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is different from other departments in Whitehall. Due to the nature of their work, these professional diplomats always strive to do a good job on details.

Normally, if the Ministry of Foreign Affairs says they will arrive at a certain time, they will arrive about half an hour early to wait; they would never keep their guests waiting.

Especially since he was an attaché specially transferred back from St. Petersburg by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which is generally a sign of a promotion. Moreover, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs specifically mentioned in the letter that he should wait next to the customs office. They couldn't possibly forget about this, could they?

Blackwell pondered this in his mind, but after waiting for half a minute, only a wagon with the "East India Company" mark, a customs carriage, and a fruit vendor pushing a wheelbarrow wobbled past him.

"Perhaps they really have forgotten about me," Blackwell thought half-jokingly. "After all, I'm not exactly a big shot."

He adjusted the brim of his hat and looked at his reflection in the shop window next to the customs office.

My hair was slightly disheveled, my collar was a little crooked, and my stubble hadn't been groomed for a few days. In the glass, I looked like a refugee fleeing war. Perhaps this appearance could fool a low-ranking official in a small Russian town, but in front of the gentlemen of Whitehall, it was far too shabby to be anything but obvious.

If he were to walk straight into 15 Downing Street dressed like that, the senior civil servants would surely think he was there to beg for food. And if the Permanent Under-Secretary of State, Sir John Backhouse, were to see him, well…

Blackwell felt a chill run down his spine: "Forget it, I'll find a barbershop to fix it up first. What will I look like without a trim?"

Just as Blackwell was about to set off, he heard the sound of hooves approaching from afar. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw an old Forton car suddenly appear at the street corner.

A typical 19th-century Phaeton carriage

Old Forton creaked as it approached, its body so old it was practically falling apart, its canopy mottled, a patch of cloth nailed to one corner, and the metal rims of its wheels rattling as if they might fly off at any moment.

Blackwell instinctively frowned: "My God! Who's this freight company? They're so shabby..."

He was about to look away and pick up his suitcase again to find another place when, unexpectedly, the dilapidated car suddenly stopped in front of him, and the driver called out in a low voice, "Henry? Is that you?"

Blackwell was taken aback. He squinted and saw that the man sitting under the canopy was a familiar face. It was George Austin, who always carried a leather document bag under his arm and liked to smile before speaking. He was an old colleague of Blackwell's who had joined the State Department in the same year.

“George?” Blackwell walked up to him incredulously. “You…you’re not working at the Foreign Office anymore? You’re out here making a living on your own?”

“What nonsense are you talking about?” Austin laughed as he jumped off the carriage. “You really think the Foreign Office is so poor it can’t afford to hire anyone? I came here specifically to pick you up.”

"Coming to pick me up?" Blackwell glanced at the car while carrying his suitcase. "But your car... if you hadn't told me, I would have thought it was a fruit truck."

Austin spread his hands helplessly: "Do you think I wanted this? Isn't this a good policy of the new prime minister?"

You mean Robert Peel?

“Who else could it be but him?” Austin smacked his lips as he helped him put his suitcase in the car. “The first thing he did after taking office was to cut government spending and demand that all departments be pragmatic and frugal. Naturally, a leading department like our Ministry of Foreign Affairs had to take the lead in responding.”

"So your response is to make me ride in this crappy car?"

“You should be grateful you still have old Fulton to sit with.” Austin patted him on the shoulder, half teasing and half comforting him. “Your letter of appointment says you’re an attaché at the embassy, ​​not a minister. You’re lucky you weren’t sent one of those rural caravans.”

Blackwell knew that getting angry was useless, so he slumped into the creaky seat, muttering under his breath, "Any coffin you drag out of a coffin shop would be more stable than this car."

“Stop complaining. You’ll have plenty of an outlet for your anger when you see Sir John Backhouse, but I advise you not to.” Austin climbed into the carriage and gave a shout. The old brown horse pulling the carriage seemed to be a little hard of hearing, and it took it a while to react and start moving.

As Austin drove, he said, "The ministry is very satisfied with the important intelligence you provided regarding the Caucasus matter. If you hadn't reported it to your superiors in time, things might have gotten messy. I heard that Sir John Backhouse has high hopes for you. Don't look down on this old car; it might just be the one that carried you to the very end on your road to promotion."

Upon hearing this, Blackwell leaned against the carriage roof, a hint of undisguised smugness in his eyes: "In the end, getting promoted these days is nothing more than a gamble. Others gamble on luck, on factions, on whether their hereditary father will suddenly remember he has a son. But what about us? We have to rely on opportunity and guts. Opportunity is hard to predict, but guts, I'm very gutsy!"

Austin didn't say anything, but just glanced at him sideways with a smile playing on his lips.

Blackwell chuckled. "Well, Arthur Hastings has a lot of tricks up his sleeve. David Urquhart is no pushover either. The two of them were writing letters across the Caucasus without realizing that the letters had to be passed through someone else. I admit they're both very decisive, but while they're decisive, so am I. But in the end, I'm the one who's more skilled."

As Blackwell got into the conversation, he couldn't help but mention the thank-you letter he considered his get-out-of-jail-free card: "You know, Viscount Palmerston personally sent me a thank-you letter at the beginning of the year. He said I had made an indispensable contribution to 'the transparency of national interests and the clarification of foreign relations'."

Upon hearing this, Austin couldn't help but remark to Blackwell, "But this was ultimately handled in a very unseemly way. He used the Caucasus incident as leverage against Hastings and Urquhart. Besides, if you really get promoted in the future, aren't you afraid that your love letters will be exposed to others?"

Blackwell shook his head, but there was no trace of regret on his face: "That's for later. At least I've won now. I've simply presented the truth to those who are meant to see it. Besides, I didn't change a single word. I prefer to be a clever fox than a loyal hound."

“Alright then,” Austin said, driving around the spice-laden barge. “But you better pray that this fox doesn’t burn its own tail one day.”

Blackwell leaned back in the creaking seat, intending to close his eyes and rest, lest the jolts of the car shake off the last vestiges of his gentlemanly dignity.

But when he opened his eyes, he found that the nearby streets were gradually becoming strange.

"Wait!" he suddenly said, his voice wary. "This isn't the way to Whitehall."

Austin did not answer immediately, but instead flicked his whip lightly, urging the old brown horse to step over a puddle at the street corner.

Blackwell frowned even more as he looked at the familiar flower shop on the street corner and the shoe repair shop around the bend: "Austin, are you sure you haven't gone to the wrong place?"

Austin slowly turned around, a perfunctory smile still on his lips: "Don't worry, Sir John Backhouse does want to see you, but the location has been changed at the last minute."

"Changed?" Blackwell asked, clearly skeptical. "When was it changed?"

“Yesterday morning,” Austin said, reciting his prepared explanation, “he received a last-minute invitation to a small tea party at Kensington Palace. So he asked me to tell you to wait for him near Kensington Palace.”

Blackwell stared at Austin for a while, trying to find a hint of unnaturalness on the other's face, but the face remained as calm as ever.

"So we're heading to Kensington?"

“There’s a newly opened café across from Kensington Palace. The owner is a second-generation Russian immigrant, and the tea, snacks and desserts sold there are all authentic Russian flavors. Sir John Backhouse knows that you have lived in Russia for eight years and was worried that you might not be used to eating anything else when you first returned to London, so he specially chose this place as the meeting place.”

Upon hearing this, Blackwell couldn't help but curl the corners of his mouth slightly.

“I say, George…” he lowered his voice, “Are you really not lying to me? The location was personally arranged by the Duke? And he even took my tastes into consideration?”

“Of course it was arranged by the Duke, it’s absolutely true.” Austin turned his head and smiled at him: “He said that after all these years, you’ve been through wind and snow in St. Petersburg, so he had to give you a dignified return.”

"Ha!" Blackwell laughed heartily, straightening his back considerably. "I told you long ago, Viscount Palmerston's letter of thanks wasn't given for nothing. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs does have discerning eyes after all!"

Austin gave a perfunctory reply, then flicked the reins, and the old brown horse pulled the old Fowton, which looked more shabby than a coffin, slowly through a quiet alley.

Just outside the alley, I saw several newly built row of red brick buildings. Intricately woven hanging baskets were displayed on the windowsills, filled with pansies in early winter. Although they had no fragrance, they looked beautiful and delicate.

"This is the place."

Austin didn't say much, but simply pulled on the reins and stopped the car at the door.

The café has a small storefront with a black lacquered wooden door and curved brass rings. The windows on either side of the door display some rather exquisite Russian tea sets and jam jars, and the curtains are made of old-fashioned white gauze. Above the door frame hangs a black sign with gold lettering that reads "Les Douces Datchas".

Blackwell could tell what made this coffee shop different just by looking at the sign.

Les Douces Datchas is a French phrase, but the word Datchas is borrowed from the Russian word дача, which refers to the country villas or suburban cottages where Russians spend their summers.

The direct translation of this phrase is "a lovely country cottage." This would not only be perfect for a café sign, but it would also effectively highlight the shop's character and the owner's lineage and education.

Blackwell squinted at the sign, laughing and shaking his head. "It's really Russian style, even the sign has a bear on it. Sir John Backhouse really went to great lengths."

He was about to step inside when he couldn't help but turn back and tease Austin: "Thanks, George, not many people in London get this kind of treatment."

Austin didn't speak, but merely gave a slight twitch of his lips, shrugged, and nodded.

Overwhelmed with joy, Blackwell failed to notice Austin's subtle actions. He got out of the car with his suitcase, straightened his collar, and adopted the air of an old diplomat returning to court before pushing open the door of the café.

A fragrant aroma of baked milk and nuts wafted over, and Blackwell took a deep breath, also tasting the flavors of cinnamon and dried currants.

The interior decoration is also quite charming, with white wooden tables, light blue wallpaper, and a landscape painting of the Winter Palace hanging on the wall. Soft light shines from the chandeliers, making it seem as if this place has been carefully prepared for a distinguished guest from Russia.

He had just taken his third step and was about to walk toward the counter when suddenly a chill ran through him, as if something was pricking him from behind.

He turned around abruptly and saw only a few guests sitting by the window sunbathing.

Just as Blackwell thought he was imagining things, he caught a glimpse of police uniforms hanging on the cafe's coat rack, along with neatly stacked high helmets bearing the Scotland Yard insignia.

"what?"

Blackwell unconsciously stroked his chin. He didn't recognize the uniforms and badges, as Scotland Yard was only a five-year-old department, and Blackwell had left London eight years ago. Even so, he could guess that these people were government employees.

He couldn't help but chuckle, inwardly cursing himself for overthinking: "Seriously, when did Russian food become popular in Whitehall?"

(End of this chapter)