shadow of britain

Chapter 846 God bless! Alexandrina Victoria!
At 3:30 p.m., we set off by car, and the loyalty and affection shown by the people were incredibly heartwarming. The parks and streets were bustling with people, filled with a festive atmosphere. Many people signed their names as souvenirs; even the kind old Rabach left his signature. We attended a ball held at St. James's Palace. The courtyards and streets were packed; people were eager to see this foolish me. I was deeply moved and proud. I have always been proud of my country and the British people.

—Alexandra Victoria, *The Diary of Queen Victoria*

The early summer sun peeked through the thin clouds of London and slanted across the streets outside Kensington Palace.

The avenue leading straight to Hyde Park outside the palace gates was now filled with throngs of people. The gas lampposts along the street were draped with white silk and green laurel branches. Most of the shops along the street were closed, and shop owners had given their employees the day off to celebrate this national holiday. Even their shop windows were adorned with wreaths and ribbons, as if the whole city was holding its breath in anticipation of Princess Victoria's arrival.

The children stood on tiptoe by the carriage wheels and fences, while the girls wore light gauze cloaks and used handkerchiefs to shield themselves from the sun, yet they could not hide the excitement and curiosity in their eyes.

The gentlemen, wearing top hats, some carrying binoculars, others even carrying small wooden stools, were vying for a good spot in the front row.

Craftsmen and newsboys took the opportunity to sell sketches depicting the "future queen" and a special edition of the Illustrated London News printed that day, with the headline in bold black font: "Princess Eighteen, Adult of the Empire."

At the front of the crowd stood an old woman standing straight, wearing a Waterloo medal left to her by her deceased husband.

She said her husband had once escorted George III as a cavalryman, so she wanted to see Princess Victoria today to see if she was as calm and dignified as her grandfather.

In the distance, on the makeshift wooden viewing platforms erected on both sides of the street, many upper-class families had already taken their places. A haughty noblewoman was raising an ivory-handled monocular telescope, sharing with her best friend the news she had heard from elsewhere: "I heard that Her Highness the Princess will be wearing that blue silk dress today, and perhaps with that Saxon blue brooch..."

Amidst the bustling and chaotic crowd, a small group of people remained silent.

They neither shouted nor carried any identifying marks, and even their clothing was impeccable. Their leather boots were polished to a shine, their coat collars were perfectly trimmed, and their cufflinks were fastened with absolute precision. Most of them mingled in the crowd, either leaning against newsstands flipping through old newspapers or standing on the bridgehead smoking pipes, yet all their eyes were subtly scanning every possible shadowy spot.

As for those street corner eaves, church roofs, or behind the half-open windows on the third floor of hotels and shops across the street, another group of people are on guard.

Members of the Police Intelligence Bureau's Ghost Team had already moved into these pre-arranged positions yesterday evening. However, the veterans of the 95th Regiment were not picking up their beloved Baker rifles today, but rather the newest precision rifling rifles that had only been issued to the Army on a small scale last year—the Brunswick rifles.

Although the new rifle's low muzzle velocity, excessive weight, and cumbersome loading, coupled with the need for complex sights, made it unsuitable for field use, the Braunschweig rifle's superior long-range accuracy alone was enough for the sharpshooters at the Police Intelligence Bureau to overlook all its shortcomings.

Most members of the Ghost Team can easily hit targets within 300 yards when equipped with this rifle, and elite members can even reliably hit stationary targets more than 350 yards away.

Of course, the maximum range of this rifle was still determined by Superintendent Thomas Plenkitt, the deputy director of the Police Intelligence Bureau.

This sharpshooter, a veteran of the Peninsular War, once used a Baker rifle to kill French cavalry major general Colbert de Chabanet with a headshot from 300 yards away. This time, he used a Brunswick rifle at the firing range and successfully hit his target at 450 yards.

Inside the window on the third floor of the hotel, Plenkitt was slowly moving his view through the scope.

His rifle butt rested steadily on the wooden windowsill bound with leather. His hand wasn't trembling today, whether because he'd had a couple of drinks beforehand or because he simply couldn't bear to let go of this new rifle that the Ghost Team members called the "Queen of Silence."

Plunkett's shoulders remained motionless, but out of the corner of his eye he suddenly caught sight of a young man in a top hat and tailcoat standing on the roof of a building across the street, with two senior police officers in Scotland Yard uniforms standing beside him.

Needless to say, the man in the tailcoat was Sir Arthur Hastings, a member and secretary of the Commissioner of Police, and the two officers beside him were Charles Rowan, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, and Ridley King, Director of the Fifth Division of the Police Intelligence Service, who was bowing and scraping to them.

Arthur removed his gloves and raised his hand to shield his brow, seemingly surveying the crowd before him: "Today's scene is even more bustling than I expected. From here all the way to the south bank of the Thames, it seems most shops have voluntarily closed."

Commissioner Rowan straightened up, his words as blunt as ever: "Too many people are a problem. From Kensington Palace to Hyde Park, the entire section will be patrolled by the Royal Guards, with Scotland Yard maintaining order along the way. I've personally marked out the patrol lines three times in the past few days, and dispatch orders have been issued to each squad. Anyone attempting to approach the carriage must be stopped within five seconds. I've never worried about our men. I just hope those Royal Guards don't get in our way."

After speaking, he unconsciously raised his chin and looked at the row of guardsmen with their breastplates gleaming coldly in front of Kensington Palace. He was clearly quite confident in the defensive line he had woven himself.

Ridley, standing to the side, was slightly bent over, clutching a silver pocket watch in his hand, his eyes darting around, occasionally glancing up at the eaves and windows to make sure that the police intelligence agency's security forces in the shadows were all in place.

“Director Rowan is right,” Ridley said with his usual obsequious tone. “On the surface, the formation is complete, and the eyes and ears in the shadows are all in place. The Ghost Team has been divided into seven groups, five on high ground and two on low ground, each guarding a 500-yard surveillance sector. Last night, we also organized a clearing and search operation targeting various high points along the travel route, and so far, none of the groups have found anything unusual.”

Rowan was not pleased at all upon hearing this; instead, his brows furrowed even more.

He said in a deep voice, "This is the streets of London. Don't let them treat this place like a battlefield."

Ridley was well aware of Rowan's position. The Scotland Yard's top officer had always opposed the use of firearms, advocated that modern police must adapt to low-force law enforcement, and resolutely opposed the French police's style of using violence to suppress violence.

If Sir Arthur hadn't defied all opposition, and Rowan hadn't genuinely approved of his former subordinate, the plan to send the Ghosts would definitely have fallen through.

Ridley nodded quickly and said, "Of course, of course. The Ghost Team's orders are only to keep an eye on suspicious targets, and they will never fire first unless absolutely necessary."

Upon hearing this, Arthur simply smiled and shifted his gaze from the crowded throng back to the heavy iron railings of the palace gate.

Rowan, somewhat relieved by Ridley's assurance, asked Arthur before the Kensington Palace motorcade departed, "How is His Majesty the King? Will he be able to attend the ball at St. James's Palace today?"

Arthur said casually, "The situation isn't very optimistic. Lord Chamberlain said that His Majesty the King has woken up intermittently several times since he fainted last time. Although he can still speak, he has difficulty getting out of bed. And..."

"and?"

"Moreover, His Majesty the King seems to have lost his hearing," Arthur said calmly. "Now they can basically only communicate with His Majesty the King through pen and paper."

Upon hearing this, Rowan's expression darkened slightly, his lips moved, but he ultimately only sighed: "If His Majesty has truly reached this point... then it means that everything will have to be brought forward."

“None of that matters anymore.” Arthur gazed into the distance, hands behind his back. “His Majesty has already left a decree before several gentlemen, and according to his wishes, even if he were to pass away before the end of today, the Royal Household Bureau would wait until the next day to hold the funeral. Therefore, there will be no question of whether or not he will serve as regent. However… may God bless His Majesty. I remember he told me before he fainted last time that he wanted to live until Waterloo Memorial Day, and wanted to witness one last Mass for the fallen soldiers of Waterloo in St. Martin’s Church.”

……

The shouts outside the palace gates could be faintly heard at Kensington Palace, but through the heavy curtains and high walls, they sounded like the low murmur of the receding tide at Ramsgate Beach.

Victoria sat quietly at her desk, the quill pen making a soft scratching sound on the paper.

Beside the inkwell, a small bunch of lavender was placed in a porcelain vase, emitting a faint fragrance. Her handwriting was neat, yet still retained a girlish innocence.

Today is my eighteenth birthday! What an old age! Yet, I am still far from being who I should be. From this day forward, I resolve to study with redoubled diligence, concentrate fully on everything that needs to be done, strive to reduce frivolous behavior, and make myself increasingly worthy of—if God permits, that place will ultimately be mine!
At this point, Victoria suddenly stopped writing. She turned to Mrs. Leather beside her and asked softly, "How is Uncle William?"

Mrs. Lezen clutched her handkerchief and shook her head with heartache: "The situation is not optimistic. Everyone says he is on his deathbed."

Hearing this, Victoria couldn't help but feel a little sad: "I hope his pain can be lessened; he has always been very good to me."

Upon hearing this, Leizen gently comforted him, "You don't need to be too sad. His Majesty the King is a strong and optimistic person. I believe he will eventually pull through."

No sooner had Lezen finished speaking than another cheer erupted outside the palace gates. Someone had started it, and the crowd in the streets was chanting "Alexandrina Victoria." The shouts rose and fell like waves on the sea.

Victoria pursed her lips and said softly, "Lyzen, I can hear them calling. They're calling my name in the street. But do you really think I'm ready...to grow up?"

"Princess Victoria with Dash, the Spanish Hound," painted by British artist George Haydt in 1833.

Lady Lezen reached out and gently brushed aside a stray strand of golden hair from her head: "No one can become queen overnight. But from today onward, you must learn to show them what a queen looks like."

Victoria stared silently at the ink stains on the diary, not writing anything for a long time.

Finally, after hesitating for a moment, she wrote at the bottom of the text: "At 3:30 pm, we will go on a tour by car. The loyalty and love of the people... I hope I will not let them down."

Outside, the sound of horns from the palace gates suddenly rang out, shaking the windowpanes.

Lady Lezen closed her diary and softly urged, "Your Highness, it's time to prepare for departure."

With Lezen's help, Victoria slowly rose to her feet, her skirt gently brushing against the thick Turkish carpet.

She stepped out of the room, her footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor of the corridor.

Portraits of the ancestors of the Hanoverian dynasty hung on both sides of the corridor, as if they were all watching the heir who was about to step out of the door of a young girl.

The Duchess of Kent was already waiting at the corner.

Her demeanor, appearance, and attire were as dignified as ever, with an embroidered handkerchief clutched in her hand, yet her eyes betrayed her anxiety.

The Duchess stepped forward, reaching out to put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, but hesitated and stopped in mid-air, as if she was still weighing something.

“Delina.” The Duchess of Kent hesitated for a moment before finally speaking, trying her best to appear calm: “You must remember that everything you do today represents not only yourself, but also our family and our dignity.”

Victoria nodded slightly, without saying anything more.

Just as Baron Stockmall said to Arthur in a casual conversation a few days ago, Victoria has now learned how to be outwardly compliant and gentle in her interactions with people she doesn't trust or like.

Although the price she paid to learn this was somewhat high, as the heir to the British throne, these valuable experiences will benefit her for the rest of her life.

Conroy stood behind the Duchess of Kent, dressed in a well-tailored dark suit, leaning on a cane, with the polite smile he usually only wore outside Kensington Palace.

Unfortunately, the smile looked too forced, even jarring.

He first bowed to the Duchess, then turned to Victoria: "Your Highness, please allow me to remind you again. The crowd outside is too overwhelming. If you feel unwell, please let us know immediately, and the Duchess and I will take care of you as soon as possible."

Conroy's words appeared humble, yet his tone carried an undeniable certainty.

It's as if he's implying that even though Victoria is an adult, the real decision of whether she can face people is still not her own.

Mrs. Lezen frowned, her gaze sweeping over Conroy, but she remained silent.

She gently adjusted the brooch on Victoria's chest, her voice soft and clear: "Your Highness, everyone is waiting for you outside. Today is your day."

As if reminded, Victoria straightened her back, did not answer Conroy, but instead gestured slightly to the maids behind her, indicating that they should lift her skirt and walk towards the marble steps. Her steps were not fast, but seemed to carry a kind of determination.

The Duchess of Kent's gaze followed her daughter's retreating figure, half in astonishment and half in fear.

Conroy's smile froze. He remained silent for a long time, tapping his fingers irritably on the handle of his cane a few times, a restless expression of frustration.

A wide staircase stretched out beneath her feet, its deep red velvet carpet flowing like a river, guiding her toward the main hall.

The maids and attendants on either side stood holding their breath, bowing their heads in greeting, until the hem of her skirt gently brushed past their eyes.

In the garden, court attendants were making final adjustments to the ribbon decorations on the carriages, while outside the palace gates came the sound of hooves and the clanging of metal armor, as the Imperial Guard cavalry had already taken their positions.

The moment Victoria appeared at the top of the marble steps, the light and shadow from inside and outside the palace gates converged on her.

The heavy oak door was slowly pushed open, and the sunlight outside suddenly burst forth like a curtain being drawn back, causing the bustling crowd on the street to erupt in a thunderous shout.

"God bless you! Alexandrina Victoria!"

(End of this chapter)