shadow of britain

Chapter 873 Idols for Middle-Aged and Elderly Women? No, for Young Women Too!
She doesn't really want you to understand her; she wants you to acknowledge that she was once a mistreated queen.

—Arthur Hastings, *Once Queen: Marie de' Medici*

The Duchess of Kent was overwhelmed with emotion: “You know how much Delina used to depend on me. She even had me choose which shoes to wear after she got up. But now, she has the Viscount of Melbourne, the Duchess of Sutherland, and the whole Buckingham Palace. And I… I don’t even know what time her alarm clock goes off anymore.”

Arthur nodded without interrupting.

As the Duchess of Kent spoke, she looked up toward the distant garden, where sunlight filtered through the leaves and a breeze blew through the high windows of St. George's Hall.

She murmured, “I don’t know when she started looking at me like a stranger. I used to pick out the colors for every pair of her socks, and I would stay up all night thinking about her daily schedule… but now she says she wants dignity and freedom.”

“Perhaps she’s right,” Arthur slowly replied, “but that doesn’t mean she no longer needs her mother.”

The Duchess of Kent paused for a moment, then turned her head back, her gaze lowered to her clasped hands—the hands that had once carefully selected recipes, signed court accounts, and designed lessons for her daughter. Now, however, they rested forlornly on the folds of her morning dress, appearing empty and useless.

She spoke slowly, almost to herself, in a low voice: "But you know what... sometimes I feel like she's not my daughter anymore."

“You know, Arthur,” she took a deep breath, a breath tinged with barely suppressed pain, “I gave almost everything I had left in this country to raise her. Perhaps no one remembers the house we lived in in Kensington during the early years of George IV’s reign. It was drafty in winter and moldy in summer. The year she was born, it was so cold it was almost freezing. Her father… my husband, my dear Edward, he passed away before he even saw his daughter’s teeth. And all he left behind was a debt of seventy thousand pounds, Arthur, seventy thousand pounds!”

Her knuckles suddenly tightened around the pleats of her skirt, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes taut. "Many people thought the royal family would provide for my mother and me, but her uncle, His Majesty George, didn't even bother to reply to a single letter I wrote. I went to see him, begging him to have pity on his brother's widow and orphan, but he left me standing in the foyer of St. James's Palace for hours before sending a servant to tell me that he was too busy with official duties to see me."

At this point, the Duchess of Kent paused, as if trying to suppress a shameful memory. As the daughter of the Grand Duke, her dignified nature often prevented her from mentioning these things in front of outsiders, especially nobles.

But perhaps because she had been suppressing her feelings for too long, and because Conroy had been away from home for so long with no one to confide in, she was actually willing to tell Arthur these things today.

"How did Delina and I survive back then? By selling our dowries, by the occasional help from my brother Leopold, and by scrimping and saving. One winter, I even dismissed most of the servants, leaving only the nanny, the cook, and the doorman with us. At night, sometimes even chores like starting a fire, boiling water, and washing diapers had to be done by John and Lezen..."

Arthur listened quietly, his usual gentle expression unchanged, as if he were patiently listening to a lady of high status recount her deeply moving and arduous experiences, rather than a German widow recounting her past humiliations and misery.

His eyes seemed calm, sometimes showing surprise, and sometimes showing pity.

But what was in his heart?
Sorry, Sir Arthur Hastings, who grew up in a pigsty, probably can hardly understand what it's like to have a nanny, cook, and doorman.

Sell ​​the dowry?

Were they left out in St. James's Palace for hours?
Did they rely on remittances from their brother Leopold to get through the winter?

For Sir Arthur Hastings, who came from a workhouse, did not know his parents' names, and survived as a child by distributing porridge and collecting coal cinders, these were hardly hardships.

He remembered that when he was four years old, he was wearing a donated piece of clothing from the town the previous year. One side of the collar was missing, and the cuffs were roughly sewn together with hemp rope.

At night, a dozen or so children would huddle together on a straw-matted bed to avoid the cold. If they were lucky, they could have a bowl of thin soup made from leftover vegetable leaves before going to bed, so that their stomachs wouldn't rumble like the north wind outside when they went to sleep.

That winter, seven children died in the workhouse.

What's even more infuriating is that the amount of thin porridge given to each child the next day was still not increased.

But it didn't matter, because the following spring, eight more people came to the workhouse.

Worst of all, the food at the workhouse got even worse after that.

Five years ago, Arthur might have felt angry at the Duchess of Kent's grievances, but he no longer felt that way. He was neither angry, envious, nor pitying; he simply found it absurd.

He understood, of course, that she was expressing her true feelings; in some ways, it was even a rare display of sincerity.

Because there is a kind of suffering in this world that people are thrown into from the moment they are born—not seeking advancement, not seeking fame or fortune, but only seeking enough food and clothing, only seeking to survive.

Another kind of suffering is the pain of losing even a few inches of dignity, which feels like being in hell.

The Duchess of Kent's suffering clearly stemmed from the latter.

But she was indeed in pain.

He could see that the fall from "heroic mother who raised children for the country" to "helpless widow abandoned by her daughter" made her feel like she had lost everything.

Her descriptions of winter, drafts, and washing diapers weren't fabricated; they were the remnants of her useless dignity churning within her, forcing her to confide in someone.

She needs someone who can understand her and won't argue with her.

And Arthur?
It just so happens to be that person.

Because he knows how to remain silent.

As the leader of Scotland Yard, Arthur understood perfectly well that whoever knew how to remain silent in a meeting had already convinced half the people.

He knew that sometimes all it took was a glance, a slight nod, or even a deliberately slowed breath to make the other person feel "understood."

It's an instinct, a skill honed in the years when no one cares.

While in the workhouse, he wouldn't cry, because no one would care; he wouldn't shout, because no one would listen; he wouldn't beg, because he wouldn't get anything even if he begged.

His experience at the workhouse gave him a valuable lesson: he learned to observe and to pretend that he also had "feelings."

The “poor mother” sitting in front of him, dressed in splendid morning clothes, felt that the world was too unfair to her simply because she had lost her center of power and voice.

Sigh, how can someone live to such an old age and still not understand that they are not the center of the world?
Arthur looked down at her hands, which were still tightly gripping the pleats of her skirt.

Those hands were actually very beautiful, fair and slender, and even with wrinkles, they maintained a certain aristocratic restraint and dignity.

At least, these hands are much prettier than the hands of those laundry workers, which are cracked, blistered, and covered in dry skin and scabs from being soaked in soapy water.

He looked up and saw that the Duchess of Kent had gradually calmed down, and she seemed to realize that she had just lost her composure.

She sniffed, hiding her chaotic emotions deep in her eyes, and once again adopted that familiar noblewoman's expression.

Arthur knew she needed a word of comfort.

He also knew what to say.

“I believe Her Majesty still remembers those nights by the fireplace. It’s just that she has too many people around her now, and too few who can help her recall the past.”

Upon hearing this, the Duchess visibly relaxed, as if she had finally regained her mother's dignity and the value of her sacrifice.

She looked at him gratefully and even patted his hand gently, like a loving elder thanking a kind and understanding young man.

But her fingers lingered on Arthur's hand for only half a second before quietly withdrawing, as if she suddenly realized that the gesture was too intimate and too weak.

But Arthur seemed oblivious to all this, simply smiling gently: "Your Highness, would you like to go for a walk outside? The sun is shining, so it won't be too cold. The rehearsal is about to begin, and you can see the flags of the parade ground from the corridor."

The Duchess of Kent paused for a moment upon hearing this, instinctively raising her head with a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but then lowered her chin again: "No need... Thank you, Sir Arthur. But if Delina sees you walking with me from the window, she will be unhappy."

She smiled self-deprecatingly, her voice even softer: "Perhaps she'll think I'm using you to gain her sympathy, and... that will affect you too."

Arthur looked at her calmly: "Your Highness, I believe that the reason Her Majesty the Queen values ​​me is never because I agree with her, but because I am not a liar."

He paused, gazing at the slanting sunlight filtering through the garden outside the window, before continuing, "I stand here today because I truly respect you. Even if Her Majesty doesn't understand for the time being, it won't change my attitude."

The Duchess's gaze lingered on his face for a long time, her eyes welling up with tears again, but this time, she didn't shed a tear. She simply nodded gently: "You're a good boy, Arthur... Sometimes I even think that if Delina had had a friend like you by her side in her younger years, she might not be the way she is today."

Arthur smiled faintly, without replying, but simply raised his arm slightly in a half-invitational gesture.

"Your Highness, let's go. Just for a walk, nothing more."

The Duchess looked at him, then at the sunlight streaming onto the stone slabs outside, and finally nodded slowly. Her fingers were still trembling slightly as she stood up.

"Okay, just for a little while."

……

Victoria stood before her dressing table, the morning light streaming in through the sky-blue surround window, falling on the tips of her boots and the shoulders of her cloak that were not yet open.

She wore a close-fitting white undergarment dress, the cuffs tightly bound, her silhouette silhouetted against the sunlight, as she stared motionlessly at the military uniform laid out before her. It was a deep red woolen coat, trimmed with gold thread, its epaulettes standing upright. Beside it lay a short sword, silver buttons, a grand sash, a cloak, a hat, and the Garder Star badge that symbolized her status as the Grand Master of the Garder Knights.

Queen Victoria in military uniform at the Trooping the Colour at Windsor in 1837

—Excerpt from the British magazine *The Graphic*, January 26, 1901
She stood in front of the mirror, leaned slightly forward, and gently touched the chevron emblem embedded in the left breast of her dress with her fingertips.

"Your Majesty, this epaulette is slightly crooked..."

The Duchess of Sutherland spoke softly and gracefully, wearing sheer gloves, as she personally adjusted Victoria's shoulder line.

Mrs. Lezen stood beside the mirror, holding the military cap, its brim pulled low, the ribbons and sashes gleaming softly in the lamplight: "Which do you prefer, today's cap or yesterday's feathered one?"

“Yesterday’s outfit was too ornate.” Victoria’s eyes sparkled. She seemed to be in a good mood. Although most girls prefer floor-length dresses, wearing a military uniform occasionally was a novel experience. “Today’s outfit is much simpler and looks more dignified and powerful.”

Although she has been on the throne for less than two months, the ladies-in-waiting seem to have long been accustomed to the 18-year-old queen sitting on the throne.

They gathered around, whispering about the cut of the dress, the sheen of the epaulettes, and how the badges should be worn.

"Your shoulders are well-defined; this uniform makes Your Highness look like a major general."

"Those gold threads and boot buckles... Her Majesty's aura today is truly..."

Victoria didn't respond, but she heard it.

She heard the compliments these people gave her, and she also heard the vague voice in her heart repeating over and over again: "Delina, you are the queen."

She walked to the mirror, tilted her head slightly, and adjusted her hair between her hat and temples.

The person in the mirror is still young, but there is already an undeniable air about them.

She slowly, almost ritualistically, put on the Garter Star badge, fastened the last gold clasp on her epaulettes, and gripped the English dagger at her waist with her white-gloved right hand.

"Is everyone here?" Victoria stared at herself in the mirror, her tone lighter than usual. "Is Viscount Hill in charge of the parade today?"

“Yes,” Lady Lezen replied immediately, having already walked to her side and half-bending as she pointed towards the garden: “Lord Viscount Hill, Commander-in-Chief of the Army, will be in charge of the parade. The left wing of the Imperial Guard cavalry will be commanded by General Marquis Anglesey, and the light cavalry will be commanded by General Sir John Slade. The right wing of the infantry will be led by Lieutenant General Sir Henry Aske, and the grenadier corps will be commanded by Major General Lord Salton.”

The Duchess of Sutherland seized the opportunity to add, "As you wish, the Duke of Wellington, the 'Hero of Waterloo,' will accompany you on the inspection."

Victoria nodded in satisfaction.

Her hand rested on the window frame, seemingly not only to gaze into the distance but also to calm the surging emotions within her.

She saw white military tents, neatly arranged military flags, the rhythm of horses' hooves striking the stone pavement, and the sounds of a military band tuning their instruments, as if everything was waiting for the young queen to stand at the very front of the procession.

Victoria was about to turn around when suddenly, she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye.

In a corner of the garden not far from the parade ground, a man and a woman walked side by side beside a shadowy corridor paved with stone slabs.

The woman was dressed in a grey-blue morning gown, her lace hat pulled low, while the man, with his elbows slightly bent, made a restrained, London gentlemanly gesture of guiding without touching her.

For a moment, Victoria thought she was seeing things.

She recognized the two people.

mother.

Sir Arthur.

Her heart suddenly felt as if it had been squeezed tightly.

The atmosphere around them remained unchanged. The ladies-in-waiting were unaware of the Queen's subtle emotional shift; they continued to adjust their ornaments, whisper among themselves, and bend over to adjust the pleats of their skirts.

But few people noticed that Victoria's breathing had changed rhythm and her eyes had lost focus.

Leizen, who was standing guard beside the Queen, was the first to notice something was wrong. She asked softly, "Your Majesty?"

Victoria did not answer.

She stared at the two figures walking slowly forward, as if in disbelief, or as if she felt she might not be fully awake.

"Who's walking with Mom?" Victoria murmured to herself. "Is it Conroy?"

The Duchess of Sutherland, standing nearby, looked up at the window and recognized the tall figure.

He was the young man who was summoned to Buckingham Palace by the Queen every now and then for a chat, the Secretary General of the Commissioner for Police.

The Duchess of Sutherland lowered her eyes and replied, "Yes... Sir Arthur Hastings."

Victoria was still somewhat incredulous, and she couldn't help but take a few steps back, back to the front of the mirror.

In the mirror, her military uniform still stood tall and straight, but her eyes were no longer as bright as they had been.

Victoria said softly, as if doubting herself, "Why...why is Sir Arthur...over there with Mother?"

The ladies-in-waiting looked at each other, many of them still not understanding what was happening.

Leizen glanced outside, her mouth agape for a moment, before she couldn't resist taking a small pinch of caraway seeds and popping them into her mouth: "Your Majesty, would you like me to prepare a horse for you? Before the parade begins... we can take a walk in the garden."

Victoria didn't move; her mind was a mess.

She only saw the girl in the mirror, wearing a military uniform, with bright epaulets and dazzling gold buttons. The sunlight danced on the epaulets and gold buttons, but she felt that the light was a bit dazzling, so dazzling that it looked like a shackle on her neck.

When she finally put on the military uniform she had been looking forward to, she suddenly wanted to leave the mirror.

I thought he was on my side...

I thought he understood me...

Victoria stood there without saying a word.

She seemed to hear the whispers of the female official behind her, yet also seemed to hear nothing at all.

The surrounding people were completely silent, whether out of awe of the Queen's majesty or because they were choked by the sudden silence, even the air seemed to thicken.

Her right hand slowly lowered, her fingertips still maintaining the slightly tucked-in position they had when she pressed the brim of her hat.

She stood quietly, her eyes still fixed on the direction of the courtyard, but the figure in the corridor was no longer in her sight, leaving only those thoughts surging like a tide.

Why is he?
Isn't he the one who understands me the most?

He's the one who pulled me out of the mire...

Why is it that now, when you turn around, it's as if you're trying to push me back in?
Or……

He has always been on his mother's side.
Victoria suddenly realized that she couldn't tell whether the feeling surging in her chest was one of resentment or anger.

But she couldn't show it.

She was the Queen, the center of attention, the direction from which the sun rose, a fact she had long since learned.

Victoria withdrew her gaze and slowly turned around.

Her tone was calm to the point of being gentle: "The Duchess of Sutherland."

“Yes, Your Majesty?” Sutherland stepped forward immediately. “What are your orders?”

"Could you arrange for Sir Arthur Hastings to come here to see me later?"

(End of this chapter)