shadow of britain

Chapter 819 The Hastings Plan
As the letter was closed, Victoria's fingertips were still trembling slightly.

She didn't speak, but silently handed the letter back to Arthur, as if she had just woken up from a dream that lasted for half a year.

Arthur did not immediately take the letter, but instead lifted the cover of his pocket watch and glanced at it: "Your Highness, three minutes, you have thirty seconds left."

The moment those words were spoken, Victoria's hand paused slightly.

She lowered her eyes, her eyelashes trembling slightly, as if she was still hesitating whether to take another look at the familiar handwriting or touch the slightly warm paper.

But in just a breath, she placed the letter firmly in Arthur's palm.

“That’s enough.” Her voice was clear and calm, without trembling, hoarseness, or sobbing.

Arthur paused for a moment, staring at the tear tracks at the corners of Victoria's eyes, as if making a final confirmation.

He deliberately remained silent for a moment, until he was sure that Victoria had no intention of looking at him again, before taking off his hat, gently pressing his white-gloved right hand to his chest, and bowing slightly, saying, "As you wish, Your Highness."

After speaking, he carefully put away the letter she had read, tucked it into his inner pocket, and turned and left the observation cabin without making a sound.

The air outside the corridor was slightly stuffy, and the vibrations of the ship's hull transmitted to my ankles through the floor.

Instead of immediately setting off to find the source of the fire, he walked along the corridor toward the stern, avoiding the restaurants, decks, and forward cabins where passengers gathered, and finally stopped in front of a small door that read "Crew Only".

He looked around to make sure no one was watching before pushing the door open and entering.

It was a spare kitchen on the ship. Several broken wooden crates used for loading and unloading were stacked against the wall, a few bundles of yellowed hemp rope were piled in the corner of the cabin, and a faintly flickering kerosene lamp hung from the beam, making the whole room as dark as a secret room.

Arthur closed the door, bolted it shut, and then slowly pulled the neatly folded letter from his inner pocket.

But the letter he pulled out wasn't just one sheet, but a whole stack of neatly handwritten letters on parchment. These were all the letters John Elphinstone had left for Victoria over the past six months before his departure. Some were sincere and earnest, some were full of poetry and tenderness, some whispered about his dreams and regrets on the eve of their parting, and some even listed his fantasies of giving up his official position, abandoning his family mission, and embracing exile for her.

However, Arthur did not show all of these letters to Victoria.

He did not hesitate, nor did he glance at the pages filled with densely written, heartfelt words.

He simply bent down, opened the furnace door, and threw the pile of letters into the furnace where the flames were leaping.

The flames instantly flared up.

The letter paper crackled and popped under Arthur's utterly calm gaze, slowly curling, folding, and turning yellow...

Arthur pulled out his cigar box and, with a touch of the burnt-out romance, exhaled smoke from the sunny coast of Havana.

He did not see it as cruel; on the contrary, he was quite clear-headed in believing it to be compassion.

Elphinstone's letters were nothing more than impulsive works left behind by a young man who had fallen in love, a moment of passion mixed with self-reproach, cowardice, and romantic self-pity.

Arthur wasn't unfamiliar with such things; in fact, he had seen far too many.

From the taverns of London to the ballrooms of Buckingham Palace, how many young men and women have written similar letters before parting with their lovers, with earnest words, beautiful language, and even poems and vows? But once they turn around and board their ships, they can forget them completely and return to their own missions and lives.

As for Victoria, she was certainly young, and certainly heartbroken.

But that doesn't mean she needs to see everything that happens behind the scenes.

Instead, all she needs to know is that she was once loved, nothing more.

A timely ending is far more beneficial to her future growth than a vague expectation, and it will also help her shoulder the responsibility for the 117 counties of the British Isles in the future.

Love is never free, at least not the Queen's love.

The flames in the furnace gradually died down, and the last corner of the parchment trembled twice on the edge of the glowing embers before finally turning into a clump of silent ashes.

Arthur stared at the fire in silence for a few seconds, then took the cigar from his lips and gently pressed it against the side of the fire to extinguish it.

He straightened his clothes, turned around and dimmed the flickering kerosene lamp, then reached out to unlatch the door and stepped out.

As soon as the door was pushed open, a slightly fishy smell wafted out. Just as he was about to walk forward, someone suddenly patted him on the shoulder from behind.

Arthur's pupils contracted sharply, and he was startled. Almost instinctively, he turned around, grabbed the other's wrist with his right hand, and pulled his left arm around the other's shoulder.

"Are you crazy? Arthur! It's me, it's me!"

Eld, pinned against the wall by Arthur, almost shed a tear from the pain: "Damn it!"

Arthur saw Elder's face clearly and breathed a sigh of relief. He loosened his grip, freeing Elder from his restraints: "Why aren't you drinking and watching girls on the deck? What are you doing here?"

Elder rubbed his shoulder, which had almost dislocated, and glared at Arthur: "I was just taking a walk, who knew you would react so strongly! Please, Arthur, I'm not some East End thug."

"Sorry, Elder, I didn't know you had just changed careers." Arthur casually closed the door behind him, his movement seemingly casual, but actually an attempt to mask the faint smell of burning emanating from the crack in the door.

Elder wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air: "Inside... the cabin is flooded? Arthur, what were you burning in there just now?"

Upon hearing this, Arthur, without changing his expression, quipped with a sonnet: "I threw her letter into the fire, she called me a dog, and I laughed and agreed. Longing is best burned away, otherwise her face is in my dreams every night."

Upon hearing the poem, Elder couldn't help but show a smug look on his face: "Arthur, I didn't expect you to be able to recite it. What do you think? Doesn't my poem have a very Byronian style?"

Upon hearing this, Arthur had to reluctantly admit, "If I said you were already a poet on par with Byron, that would be an inaccurate assessment. But I must say, this passage already has a very Lord Byron-esque quality." "Really?" Elder asked, flattered. "Then which Byron poem do you think this passage is closest to in terms of its spirit?"

After racking his brains, Arthur finally spoke with great pain: "Just that one poem: If we are destined to meet again, after many years, how shall I greet you? With tears, with silence?"

As soon as Arthur uttered those words, he felt as if he had offended the dead Byron, but even though he was filled with remorse, he could not change the fact that Elder was greatly encouraged.

Elder smiled broadly and put his arm around Arthur's shoulder: "Arthur, I must say, you have good taste."

Before Elder could publish his poetry collection, Arthur quickly changed the subject, saying, "You haven't answered my question yet. What are you doing here?"

Elder glanced at Arthur, seemingly weighing whether he should tell the truth.

After a moment, he shrugged and said innocently, "Did you see that girl on the deck wearing a light blue ruffled skirt? She has a sweet smile and looks like the kind of young girl who has just come of age and still has romantic fantasies about the sea breeze and novels."

Arthur raised an eyebrow: "And then?"

Elder spread his palms: "I only complimented her eyes on how they resembled the sea in Venice, and said that if she were in Constantinople, the Sultan would surely order an artist to paint her portrait. I really meant it, there was no pretense in it."

"The results of it?"

"Then the man next to her, who looked like her brother, suddenly got angry. He said I had insulted his fiancée and demanded an immediate apology. I tried to explain... but he wouldn't listen. Seeing that things were getting out of hand, I went around to the back cabin to avoid the storm. I didn't expect you to be here too."

Arthur hesitated for a moment, his gaze falling on the man's askew collar and the footprints remaining on his shoes: "They did it?"

“Almost.” Elder straightened his collar. “Luckily, I’m fast. You know, back in South America, in that race against the cougar, I came in third. The cougar was only a tiny bit faster than me.”

"You're third, the cougar is second, so is Charles the first?"

“Charles? Come on, he can’t even run as fast as me.” Elder lit his pipe and said, “The number one is the bullet.”

Elder leaned against the wall and took a drag of his cigarette. "Alright, I've explained my situation. Now it's your turn. What exactly did you and our future Queen talk about in that observation deck?"

Arthur stood ramrod straight, his hands behind his back, as if he hadn't heard.

“Stop pretending, Arthur. I saw a bit of her from the other end of the corridor.” Elder tilted his head, pressing for answers with his persistent spirit: “When she came out, her eyes were so red, like she had just been choked by smoke. If it were anyone else, I might have thought she had encountered bad guys on the ship.”

Arthur brushed the ash off his cuffs and asked in a calm tone, "Do you want to hear the truth, or a gossipy version?"

“Of course I’d like to hear your version,” Elder said, exhaling a smoke ring with a hint of sarcasm. “It would be best if it were accompanied by some melancholic background music, like Schubert.”

“It’s nothing really, we were just talking about Elphinstone.” Arthur borrowed a light from Elder: “Don’t you know that, on the advice of the Viscount of Melbourne, Lord Elphinstone has been transferred to the position of Governor of Madras, India?”

Upon hearing this, Elder couldn't help but sigh, "India... the Governor of Madras... Damn it, this kid really struck gold! If it were anyone else who had an affair with Princess Victoria, they would have been kicked to Australia long ago. But Elfenstone, he's gone from a palace attendant to the Governor of Madras. I wonder how much money he'll make in a year."

Arthur, pipe in hand, snorted, “Envious? You can’t learn that even if you do. Lord Elphinstone is a representative of the Scottish Whig nobles. Viscount Melbourne can’t deal with him too harshly unless he wants to cause a split within the party. Besides, Elphinstone has a very good relationship with His Majesty the King. Back when His Majesty was still a naval cadet, Elphinstone’s uncle was His Majesty’s captain. Ordinary people can’t follow his path.”

Elder knew, of course, that the Carter family couldn't compare to the Elfenstone family, so he didn't dwell on the matter too much.

He then asked, "So, Your Highness... has she finally given up completely?"

Arthur held the pipe to his lips, letting the warm wisp of smoke meander up his nose: "Does it matter whether I'm resigned or not?"

On this issue, Elder unusually agreed with Arthur: "That's true. Whether you give up or not is never the issue, especially at this age. Tears and vows are worthless. After a while, she'll forget what that guy looks like, just like that Welsh girl I met last week. Today, I can't even remember if she had one or two beauty marks under her eyes."

Arthur took out his pocket watch, glanced at it, and casually asked, "By the way, where are the others?"

Elder smacked his lips. "Dickens is chatting with the captain in first class. I asked him to go to the restaurant and see if he saw any girls he liked, but he didn't have the guts. As for that fat Alexander, he overslept. He gambled away all his money last night, and I couldn't find him anywhere. He probably missed the ship. But it doesn't matter; he can take the afternoon ship with his son."

As Elder spoke, he walked forward while secretly commenting on the appearances of the girls on the deck.

However, just as they reached the end of the corridor, two men suddenly and silently blocked their way.

Their posture was somewhat unique among the tourists: their feet were slightly apart, their weight was shifted to the right, their left arm hung naturally, and their right hand was vaguely resting on their waist. It was obvious at a glance that they were hiding something in their pockets.

“Sir Arthur Hastings.” One of them spoke in a low voice, his tone calm and polite, and the way he raised his hand in salute had a touch of official formality.

Seeing their tense expressions, Arthur slightly pursed his lips and asked, "What's wrong?"

"May I speak to you privately for a moment?" The man seemed a little flustered. "We are here on orders. We have guests waiting for you in the upper cabin."

“Of course.” Arthur raised his hand to greet Elder. “Go to the restaurant and order first. I’ll be there in a bit.”

Although Elder was a rough-around-the-edges person, that didn't stop him from recognizing the two men in front of him at a glance as plainclothes police officers from Scotland Yard.

"Okay, then I'll wait for you at the restaurant."

Arthur was led to a private box on the upper level near the bridge. It was far from the public areas and, while not luxuriously decorated, it was clean and quiet.

The hatch was gently closed behind him, and the two plainclothes police officers who had led the way stepped outside and stood guard at the door.

The room was dimly lit. Arthur's gaze swept over the silver teapot and two steaming cups of black tea on the coffee table, and soon landed on the figure standing by the window with his hand on the railing.

He took off his gloves and tossed them onto the sofa, then picked up the Baker rifle leaning against the door and weighed it in his hand. "The view from here is good; it's more than adequate as a lookout point. You've got a good eye on the spot, Thomas."

(End of this chapter)