shadow of britain

Chapter 773 Who is more handsome, me or Lord Carter of the North City?
With 292 votes to 287, the House of Commons formally passed a motion of no confidence, marking the collapse of the Peel cabinet and the resurgence of the Whig Party.

The Conservative Party claims that the alliance between the Whig Party and the Irish Radicals is a political factionalism that has rendered His Majesty the King's good intentions ungrateful.

The Whig Party stated: This is a great victory for liberal constitutionalism. Robert Peel once tried to walk on the red carpet laid out by the king, but unfortunately, the end of the red carpet was a trap made of ballots.

The Peel government disappeared so completely that future historians may doubt whether it ever truly existed.

Even so, Robert Peel became the longest-serving Conservative prime minister. However, if the history of the Tories is taken into account, he would only rank third from the bottom.

The Conservative Party is in tears: Peel's cabinet died faster than Napoleon's restoration.

Robert Peel filled the gaps in Britain's system in just five months, proving to the world that the French were not the only ones capable of destroying a stable government.

The Conservative Party, riding on Wellington's legacy, has stumbled into the trenches of constitutionalism.

The French once sought to bury liberty, but now the Conservative Party has been buried by liberty itself.

The Duke of Wellington cried out: Where is Blücher?

Nineteen years ago, he received reinforcements from Prussia at Waterloo, but nineteen years later, he only received a vote of no confidence.

The morning sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating the dark green tablecloth and highlighting the delicate gold trim on the silver coffee pot and porcelain plate.

Arthur Hastings leaned back in his chair at the dining table, wearing a dark blue-trimmed morning robe, clutching a stack of newspapers that had just been delivered that morning in his left hand, while his right fork rested on the fried eggs on his plate.

Judging from the smile on his lips, he was clearly amused by the newspaper headline.

"The full text of Peale's farewell speech, 'I Will Be Responsible for My Country,' has been published... Ah, here we go again."

The kitchen door creaked open, and the maid Becky tiptoed in, carrying a plate of freshly baked Scottish oat biscuits and a pot of steaming milk.

“Sir, I was worried that drinking only black coffee would upset your stomach, so I added some milk for you.” She put down the tray and then secretly glanced at Arthur’s face. “The postman outside just said that today’s newspapers are selling very well, just like when the Viscount of Melbourne stepped down last time.”

“Is that so?” Arthur replied with a smile. “Then you should be glad that the council is not controlled by Fleet Street, otherwise we would have to change at least a dozen prime ministers every month from now on.”

Becky placed the silver knife and honey jar on the table, wiped her apron with her hand, and looked up to ask, "Sir... will you also be implicated in this leadership transition?"

There was a hint of caution in her voice. Ever since Arthur returned to London last year, his name had been mentioned in the newspapers every few days, either in some royal heist or implicated in some scandal within the Foreign Office. One moment it was investors in the City of London praising Arthur, the next it was some unnamed government official criticizing Arthur for his incompetence.

In short, her employer was never easy to deal with.

Arthur was wiping his hands with a napkin when he heard this, and he gave a lazy smile.

“Me?” He blinked. “Becky, I’m not a cabinet minister, nor the king’s private secretary, and I’m not even middle class. What does such a big event as a change of government have to do with a nobody like me?”

Becky assumed Arthur was joking with her again. Putting everything else aside, Arthur's claim that he wasn't even middle class was an overstatement of modesty.

After all, there are very few girls in the maid reading club who are treated better than her, and those few are all housekeepers who have been engaged in domestic service for more than 20 years.

If Sir Arthur Hastings, chairman of the board of Imperial Publishing and provost of the University of London, doesn't count as middle class, then who else is? Could it be Francis Baring and Lionel Rothschild?

Of course, it's not surprising that Becky thinks this way. After all, according to the Earl of Dalamore, Sir Arthur Hastings' mentor and ambassador to Russia, an annual income of 40,000 pounds is the threshold of the middle class. By this standard, Arthur is at most a wealthy farmer in Yorkshire.

Becky's lips twitched: "But didn't you just..."

Before she could finish speaking, Arthur knew she was probably referring to the Foreign Office: "That's all in the past. Besides, if you really want to care about someone, you should care more about Mr. Disraeli. He's in a lot of trouble right now. He hasn't been sitting in the chair of the Foreign Office's Political Secretary for long, and now he has to go back to the House of Commons to be a backbencher."

Becky blinked, looking at Arthur with a slightly confused expression: "But isn't it the same thing? Political secretary or backbencher... they all sound like pretty high-ranking titles."

She spoke very seriously, without a trace of sarcasm in her tone; it was purely based on the simple understanding of a country girl.

To Becky, whether they were political secretaries or backbenchers, weren't they all well-dressed, spoke in affected manners, and were always chauffeured around by carriages?

In the local slang, that's a "big shot," someone who's influential and important.

Arthur chuckled, tossed the newspaper onto the table, and said, "They sound pretty much the same—both wear trousers and are chased by reporters. But if you look closely, they're quite different."

As he added milk to the coffee cup from the milk jug, he explained in a way Becky could understand: "A political secretary is someone who writes letters for ministers, runs errands, and sits and nods at meetings. Although they don't often appear in the newspapers, they are at least familiar faces in Whitehall and can enter and exit through the door on the red banner without being stopped by the doorman."

He paused, feeling that this might not be easy to understand, so he changed his analogy: "It's like the person in the kitchen who's responsible for chopping vegetables and helping out the chef. Although he's not the main character, if he chops the wrong onion, he can make the whole feast taste strange."

Becky understood half of what he said and nodded seriously: "What about the backbenchers?"

Arthur shrugged. "Backbench members, you know, are those people who sit in the back of the council chamber. They don't hold power, they don't give orders, and they're often interrupted when they speak. Like in your domestic service association, those girls who are at the end of the tea party list, usually by the time it's their turn to speak, the tea is cold, and most of the people in the room have left."

Becky couldn't help but laugh: "Wouldn't that be worse than being a kitchen helper?"

“In most cases, it’s definitely not as good as he thought,” Arthur smiled slightly. “Especially when this backbencher still believes he’ll become prime minister someday, the contrast is even more painful. Benjamin’s lips have been blistered from worry these past few days, and when people ask him, he insists he burned them from drinking tea. That kid…”

As Arthur finished speaking, the wooden floor upstairs creaked, accompanied by a muffled yawn, and a guy wearing a purple bathrobe with messy hair that looked like he'd just been pulled out of a pigsty slowly walked down the stairs.

Needless to say, this was Elder, who was staying at Arthur's house.

Although his uncle, Major General John Carter, had a house in Mayfair, Elder still did not want to move back to that place.

After all, he'd been leaving early and returning late every day lately, and explaining all this in detail to his uncle, aunt, and cousin would be quite troublesome. But staying with Arthur would be a completely different story.

Not only could he easily get together with Arthur, Dumas, Dickens, and others to drink and watch plays, but he also didn't have to pay a penny. Besides playing around, he spent his days at home studying and preparing for exams.

With Arthur's all-in-one service and his uncle's connections, Elder felt that if he still failed to pass the Navy's selection this summer, it would be an absolute injustice.

Elder rubbed his eyes, looking like he hadn't woken up yet. He was holding a half-slid wool blanket in his left hand, while his right foot was unsteady on the stairs.

“Arthur, are we going to Leicester Square today, or... uh... Becky's here too…”

“Breakfast is ready, Mr. Carter.” Becky was already somewhat used to the way this eccentric from the University of London did things: “I baked oat biscuits today, and your favorite bacon and ham sandwiches. They’re freshly made, so eat them while they’re hot.”

“You’re so thoughtful, Becky.” Elder came down the stairs and lay lazily on a chair. “What a hardworking girl. Can you imagine? Just a few days ago, I was sleeping in a stinky cabin, and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes every day was Charles’s bald head.”

As he spoke, he took the plate Becky handed him, popped a cookie into his mouth, and then noticed the stack of newspapers that Arthur had rummaged through: "What's wrong? What's gotten into you? Why does your smile have a hint of gloating?"

"Add insult to injury? How could that be?" Arthur took a sip of his milk coffee. "Sir Peel was my old boss. I'm too busy expressing my condolences to him."

"Old boss?" Others might not know Arthur's past, but Elder knew it all: "Don't pretend. When you first joined Scotland Yard, you were cursing Peel eight times a day. But then again, he only made about thirty pounds a year, and he still made you work like your lives depended on it. Anyone would call him an idiot."

Arthur gently set down his coffee cup. "Alright, you say that as if you're so tough. But a few days ago, you obediently wore that dress and went with the crew of the Beagle to Kensington Palace to meet Her Highness the Princess. How did it go? Were you so scared that you started stuttering?"

"So scared she stuttered?" Elder pursed his lips, but the corners of his mouth involuntarily turned up. "No, she didn't. After all, she looked more nervous than I was."

As he spoke, he stuffed the sandwich into his mouth and mumbled, "But it is indeed quite cute, completely different from the kind of powerful future monarch described in the newspapers."

Arthur raised an eyebrow with interest: "You guys seem to pay quite a bit of attention to Her Highness?"

“那当然。”埃尔德一边嚼着三明治，一边含糊道：“这年头谁不关注王储长啥样？我还记得，我们的炮手，萨里郡的那小子，死撑着说她未来会嫁给一个德意志的亲王，结果被曼彻斯特的舵手揍得鼻青脸肿，他说公主心里肯定有个骑士模样的男人，懂法、懂诗、还懂得怎么和人调情，毕竟小说上都是那么写的。”

“Please, Elder, watch your mouth.” Arthur finally looked up and said, half-seriously and half-mockingly, “She’s not even sixteen yet, still a girl who spends her days copying Shakespeare in the Rose Hall and studying geography in the garden. Those fantasies on the ship would be perfect for Alexander’s play, but they would be absolutely impossible in Kensington Palace.”

“You underestimate girls.” Elder swallowed the last bite of his sandwich, then grabbed a glass of milk from the table and gulped it down. “So what if she’s sixteen? She doesn’t live in the Syrian desert, nor is she in some closed-off environment at a girls’ boarding school where she’s studying the Bible. She’s the Crown Princess; she’s surrounded by the future of England’s young talents every day. If I were in her position, I wouldn’t be able to guarantee I wouldn’t be tempted. If this girl doesn’t even have her own agenda, then she’s truly unqualified.”

Arthur didn't take Elder's words to heart at all. In his view, it was simply impossible for Victoria to do anything out of line within the Kensington system.

He simply picked up his coffee cup and blew on the rising steam: "So you mean... she's already got her eye on someone?"

Elder smirked and teased Arthur, "That's right, I actually know who it is."

This time, he not only attracted Arthur's attention, but even Becky in the kitchen couldn't help but prick up her ears.

"Please don't tell me that the Crown Prince has fallen in love with you."

Elder waved his hand and said, "I don't think there's anything good about being a king's consort. I wouldn't go even if you paid me."

"Who asked you?" Arthur assumed the kid was having another fit of delusions. "Maybe I should tell your uncle about this. He'll probably make you take another round-the-world trip to clear your head."

“I didn’t say it was really me,” Elder said, glaring. “I was talking about Lord Elfenstone, that guy is quite interested in anything related to the princess.”

"Who?" Arthur was taken aback. He had been teaching at Kensington Palace for more than half a year, but he had no recollection of Lord Elphinstone.

Arthur racked his brains for a while before remembering who this person was: "You're not talking about Elphinstone, the one who runs errands for His Majesty the King and is always at his beck and call, are you?"

“That’s right, it was him.” Elder said confidently, “You don’t know, do you? That day we had just returned from Kensington Palace, and as soon as we went out, we saw him waiting outside the door with a painting in his hand. It was a sketch of Her Highness the Princess. Although the brushwork wasn’t top-notch, the intention behind it, tsk tsk, it was so obvious. Do you know what it is?”

"Is that a painting of Her Highness the Princess?"

"It depicts a dog in Kensington Gardens."

Arthur frowned, then couldn't help but laugh. "A dog? You mean Dash? The princess really likes it."

“No.” The Casanova of the Beagle analyzed methodically: “The dog is just a silhouette, standing in the flower bushes, looking out the window. On the windowsill is an open book, a bunch of freshly cut roses, and… a silhouette.”

"Back view?"

"Yes, he looks exactly like His Highness. The most amazing thing is that he didn't paint his face."

Arthur chuckled, speechless. "So you're convinced that there's something hidden in this painting?"

"Of course I wouldn't presume to know what people are thinking, but I can say that after the painting was sent out, Her Highness kept it in front of her writing desk for two whole days. The desk originally only had books given to her by your teacher and a bonsai sent from Germany by her sister."

Upon hearing this, Arthur immediately sensed something was wrong: "Eld, forgive my bluntness, but how did you know what was on Her Highness's desk?"

Elder said with a smug look on his face, "This is naturally thanks to my unique charm. I know a lady-in-waiting at Kensington Palace."

Upon hearing this, Arthur felt his hair stand on end; this was even more shocking news than Victoria's budding romantic feelings.

In order to break through the defenses of Kensington Palace, he meticulously planned and repeatedly considered the details, and it took him a great deal of effort to finally create an opening.

However, his efforts were not as effective as Elder's "unique charm".
Ridiculous!

(End of this chapter)