shadow of britain

Chapter 847 The Eve of the Victorian Era

Dear Delina:

I learned from news from London that your uncle, William IV, is becoming increasingly ill. Perhaps this will be a turning point in your life. I don't want to add to your worries with too many words, but as your uncle and relative, I must tell you frankly and honestly: you may soon be standing in the world's spotlight.

In every letter I write to you, I intend to repeatedly remind you of the same thing: be courageous, honest, and steadfast. These three qualities are the foundation upon which you will stand more firmly in the political world than any crown or formality.

You are still young and inexperienced, but you possess a precious gift from heaven: a frank heart and innate sincerity. I know this will be your strength. You don't need to imitate the ways of any predecessors, but rather to uphold your intuition and conscience in every choice you make.

Many voices will be before you. Some will be eager to offer you shortcuts, while others will threaten to demand compliance. I urge you not to panic, but to remember: you are not alone. My thoughts and prayers, along with all the help I can send, will be with you.

You will encounter many familiar faces, and be surrounded by many new ones. Some are genuinely loyal, while others have ulterior motives. I will gradually teach you the skills of discerning people in future letters. But for now, I want you to pay special attention to two men—Lord Stockmare and Sir Arthur Hastings.

You already know Stockmay well, and I know you trust him implicitly, as do I admire his calmness and rationality. He is loyal, wise, and rarely boasts about his role in public, yet he always manages to point out blind spots you might not have noticed at crucial moments. He is conscientious in handling your daily schedules, and his prudence and keen understanding of the world can often prevent many unnecessary misunderstandings and potential risks if you are willing to heed his advice.

As for Sir Arthur Hastings, the responsibilities this young man has taken on have far exceeded his initial duties. His loyalty, meticulousness, and the decisiveness and courage he has shown in sensitive matters convince me that he is not a frivolous and presumptuous rash individual. His birth may not meet the expectations of some nobles, but I believe that a person's true value does not depend on bloodline, but on whether he possesses a noble sense of responsibility and self-control. I am not surprised that you trust and like him; in fact, I am deeply gratified that you can recognize and utilize talent.

However, I must frankly remind you that true friendship, especially on the threshold of impending power, is both extremely precious and extremely fragile. You will need his loyalty, but you must also guide it, preventing it from veering off course due to misunderstanding or impulsiveness. As I have told you before: a person's greatest strength lies not in how many close friends he has, but in his ability to distinguish between his own role and the boundaries of others.

Regarding political affairs, I still advise you to continue to trust the current cabinet and their leader. The Whigs may not be perfect, but for now, they are your most solid support. The political path is not always straight, but trusting a group of experienced people willing to take responsibility for the monarchy is the best bridge to get you through the early stages. At the same time, you must ensure that you do not lean too much towards the Whigs, do not rush to remove them, and do not let your ascension to the throne be seen as the result of factional struggles.

One last point: Never speak hastily, and never hurt others carelessly.

Many people in the court live by their pride, and if you accidentally touch their feathers, even the slightest humiliation can cause a huge uproar behind your back.

Derina, please take care of yourself. In these stressful times, don't forget to rest, and don't forget to smile. Your presence will become a symbol of the entire nation, and your healthy glow will be more moving than any decree at this moment.

I hope you will reply as soon as possible.

Your affectionate uncle
Leopold
May 21, 1837 in Brussels
The carriage traveled very smoothly, only slightly bumping when the wheels went over the seams between the stone bricks.

Victoria sat in the carriage with the writing box that King George IV had given her in front of her. She held a quill pen in her hand, and the ink bottle was securely embedded in the groove of the box.

She had gotten used to writing letters while traveling, because only when she was in the same carriage as Lyzen were her writings free from the "guidance" of Conroy and her mother. If she could write quickly enough to finish before getting off the train and have Lyzen send the letter to the post office as soon as possible, her letters wouldn't even need to be "censored" by those two.

For Victoria, nothing in the world was more precious than freedom, so she made the most of even the journey from Kensington Palace to St. James's Palace.

At Victoria's request, and in response to and gratitude for the welcome and cheers from the citizens of London, the procession from Kensington Palace slowed down considerably. Inside the slowly moving carriage, Victoria rested her elbows on the edge of her writing box; her slender wrists trembled slightly with the rise and fall of the carriage, but this did not interrupt her continuous strokes of the pen.

Through the gap in the curtains, the sounds of cheering waves from the street could be heard, interspersed with the faint shouts of her name: "Alexandrina! Alexandrina Victoria!"

The voice was both passionate and sincere, filling her with an indescribable sense of awe and shyness.

She couldn't help but look out the window, her gaze piercing through the crack to see the gold and red flags outside the carriage, the tricolor flags and wreaths lining the streets, the citizens waving their hats in the sunlight, the girls standing on tiptoe, and, to her left, Sir Arthur Hastings, riding a black horse and chatting with Colonel Harcourt, the Duchess of Kent's squire.

Arthur was dressed in a rather sophisticated black riding outfit today, his breeches clinging tightly to his muscular calves. He wasn't wearing his sword today, but instead had chosen a light ceremonial staff adorned with silver patterns, which he casually rested on the saddle. His top hat wasn't pulled down too low like the others', but sat firmly on his head.

Colonel Harcourt beside him was dressed in a formal military dress uniform, with a wheat-ear shoulder strap symbolizing his status as a squire on his right shoulder, a saber at his waist, and a dragoon pistol tucked into the saddlebag near the horse's head.

These two York natives, who forged a friendship in Ramsgate and indirectly facilitated the marriage of Colonel Harcourt to Miss Catherine Jenkinson, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Liverpool, have been meeting up every now and then for the past six months.

Speaking of Ramsgate...

For some reason, ever since Victoria returned from the beach in Ramsgate, she has felt a strange sense of peace whenever she sees Sir Arthur Hastings’ face, or even just his back.

She couldn't quite describe the feeling; it wasn't like the flutter of her heart when she was with Lord Elfenstone, nor the deep comfort she felt when she was with Uncle Leopold.

This feeling is somewhat like a mixture of the two, something that's hard to describe.

but……

It doesn't feel bad.

Victoria hesitated before putting down the letter she was writing to her uncle, and started writing in her diary on a new page in her notebook, where she found the most relaxing part.

On May 24, 1837, en route by car to St. James's Palace.

The flowers this morning were pink; I guess it was chosen by Leizen (or perhaps someone's suggestion?).

Maybe I'm overthinking it. But anyway, they made me feel a little better.

Today... I'm so tired. Everyone was smiling at me, and I had to take a deep breath before each door opened. I know they say I should "be natural," but how can anyone remain natural when everyone is watching?
I can hardly remember what the people who came to congratulate me said. His Majesty the King sent a piano, and the ladies sent perfume, necklaces, and a rather comical-looking silhouette of myself.

London's major companies were also scrambling to get their products into my hands. I received many new dresses and a mountain of various cosmetics (even though I'm not usually allowed to use them).

Imperial Publishing Company also sent several sets of hardcover books by the authors of "The Englishman," including my favorite Tennyson's latest work, Darwin's newly revised and edited "The Beagle's Journal," and even a collection of poems by Elder Carter that I rarely see.

However, although Mr. Carter's poetry collections are rare, after taking the time to browse through his work, I quickly understood why they were so scarce. To be fair, Mr. Carter may have been quite talented in poetry, but...

When his counterparts are Alfred Tennyson or Arthur Sigmar (I don’t know why Sir Arthur had to use that pseudonym to publish his work), Mr. Carter is always at a disadvantage.

Actually, I had planned to write a lot to my uncle today. I even laid out the letter paper and dipped the ink in it. But I stopped after writing the third line. I didn't know whether to write more or less. Should I be direct or subtle? It's as if writing someone's name too many times would arouse suspicion, while writing too little would make me seem indifferent.

But I clearly...

Ok……

Don't say anything.

Today, I just inexplicably thought of Arthur Sigmar's "Under the Golden Veil" (my favorite poem besides Tennyson's "Marianne" and "Charlotte's Daughter"), which perfectly describes my current mood.

I remember that stretch of road in the carriage.

The sunlight fell like golden gauze.
Quietly, it landed on the back of my bare hand.

Warm and light,

Like an unsigned letter,

Carrying the lingering warmth from his breath.

I dare not move.

Because of a movement,
The handkerchief he said he "accidentally dropped"

It will slip off the hem of my skirt.
Like a little lie,

The wind that accidentally fell in front of people.

But I still moved.

At the next intersection,
I reached out and pushed the curtains aside.

I just want to confirm,

Is the sun still shining?

Or does it also know my secret?

It hid behind the clouds.

……

Windsor Castle was unusually quiet after noon, with only the soft crackling of firewood in the fireplace and the occasional chirping of birds.

William IV leaned back in the high-backed chaise longue, a wool blanket covering his legs, with a warm cup of water that Queen Adelaide had just poured for him beside him. The fire was burning brightly, but he still felt a little cold. His hands trembled uncontrollably at times, and he occasionally needed the Queen's help to pick up a handkerchief.

He glanced at his wife, his voice dry and hoarse, carrying the exhaustion of a long illness: "Wellington and the others... should they be at St. James's Palace by now? And the child... Delina, has she set off too?"

Adelaide did not answer immediately.

She simply bent down to tuck the wool blanket that had slipped off him, and then she whispered gently in the old king's ear, "Yes, my dear. They've all arrived. Delina, as you instructed, has put on that sky-blue woolen cloak. She knows you like that color."

William's lips twitched slightly, a half-smile playing on his lips: "I remember... she was only this tall when you wore that blue cloak..."

He raised his hand, gesturing to indicate a height: "She even grabbed the hem of your skirt and asked me, 'Why does Uncle George always glare at people so fiercely?'"

Adelaide smiled gently, but there was a hint of melancholy in her smile.

William IV muttered to himself, "Back then you were so young, and I was in good health, but now... I can barely hear you anymore, Adelaide..."

She didn't answer immediately, but gently picked up the glass of water and brought it to his lips, letting him take a sip.

Queen Adelaide pressed her face close to William IV's, tears welling in her eyes, and said, "My dear, don't talk nonsense. Didn't Dr. Chambers say you'll live to see many more sunsets?"

Upon hearing this, William IV smiled and gently shook his head: "I have said that if I live to see Waterloo Memorial Day, I would rather never see another sunset. As for Chambers... seeing many sunsets... my dear, that is a completely different matter, a completely different matter, my dear Adelaide."

William IV reached out and slowly covered her knuckles, his hand tightening slightly.
“Tell her, go tell her, go to St. James’s Palace and tell her, Adelaide…” he said haltingly, “Don’t be afraid of those old men, they’re nothing to be afraid of…it’s just some old titles and parliamentary squabbles. Go, Adelaide, you should be with that child…not here, with an old man who’s too sick to even get up.”

Adelaide lowered her head and shook it gently; tears had already streamed down her face, soaking the back of William IV's hand.

“I’m not leaving, William. There are many people at St. James’s Palace: the Duke of Wellington, the Viscount Melbourne, Lord Chamberlain, Sir Robert Peel, and Sir Arthur Hastings—all distinguished men. They will take good care of Delina; you don’t need to worry.”

William IV didn't seem to have heard it completely, but when the name "Arthur Hastings" gently reached his ears, his eyelashes suddenly trembled: "Arthur... Arthur Hastings?"

But then, as if remembering something, he murmured with a sense of relief, "He's an outstanding person now too..."

(End of this chapter)