shadow of britain

Chapter 897 Your Majesty, I am content to be your subject.
The fog outside the window had not yet dissipated, and the morning sound of horses' hooves in Bloomsbury, London, sounded muffled through the windowpane, like an echo coming through water.

In the ward of the free general hospital, only a dim wall lamp was lit, and the shadows of the glass bottles in the medicine cabinet were stretched long by the lamp wick.

The ward was eerily quiet, with only the soft sound of a cart wheel rolling over the wooden floor in the distance down the corridor.

The iron bed creaked softly as Arthur turned over.

He slowly opened his eyes, his eyelids heavy, as if two stone slabs were pressing down on them.

Arthur's eyelashes trembled slightly, and a light grayish-blue halo appeared around his eyes, making him look like he hadn't slept all night or had just recovered from a fever.

However, this sickly appearance lacked the naturalness of a real patient's sudden onset of illness; rather, it stemmed from the makeup skills personally taught to him by the Parisian detective François Vidocq.

First, mix talcum powder and lead powder with distilled water and apply it to both cheeks to give the skin a bloodless, pale white appearance while ensuring it doesn't crack.

Then moisten the under-eye bags with glycerin, and gently dab the lower edge of the eye socket with water soaked with smoke tree bark to create a tired look that is a mixture of light purple and gray-blue.

Of course, the most ingenious touch was the diluted rouge, which was used to brush two faint, almost invisible cough marks from the sides of the nose toward the corners of the lips, highlighting the traces of capillaries seeping out after frequent coughing but without breaking the skin.

Under the dim light of the wall lamp, everything seemed so perfect, so perfectly placed.

If it weren't for the duties of the Commissioner for Police Affairs diverting Sir Arthur Hastings' attention, even if he were placed back in the 21st century, he could still make a name for himself in the beauty blogger field with his skills.

After all, this Scotland Yard legend, who apprenticed under Vidocq, not only learned the Bastille makeup from his teacher, but also innovated on it, incorporating the style of Newgate Prison, making him the culmination of pure prison makeup in the 19th century.

However, perhaps because his face powder was too thick, Arthur lay motionless on the bed.

He just stared blankly at the ceiling.

After a long while, the good-natured gentleman finally frowned and said, "Agares, could you please move that damned mirror away from my sight?"

Upon hearing this, the red devil stuck to the ceiling burst into laughter. The red shadow swayed, threw the bronze mirror it was holding onto the bedside table with a thud, and then pulled out a full-length mirror the same size as Arthur from its sleeve.

"Do you know how amusing it is to see you looking like this?" Agares commented, pointing at Arthur in the mirror. "The only problem is the way you're lying. You should still have time to get someone to build a coffin."

Arthur didn't reply to him, but simply closed his eyes again.

Seeing that Arthur ignored him, the Red Devil threw down the full-length mirror and moved to the bedside: "Look at you... tsk tsk tsk, the Secretary General of the Commissioner of Police, the Chairman of the Board of Directors of Imperial Publishing Company, a legend of Scotland Yard, a star of Buckingham Palace, actually has to resort to makeup, feigning illness and crying to gain the pity of a little girl, oh... my dear Arthur... you really are a despicable thing!"

Arthur wasn't angry at all. Instead, he calmly replied, "Isn't that what politics is all about? All politicians are actors, but some are just more convincing. Pretending to be sick is certainly not honorable, but compared to those politicians who only know how to pave their way with money, I'm still doing something respectable."

As soon as Arthur finished speaking, the door to the ward was gently pushed open.

With the clatter of his heels on the floor, Disraeli entered the room.

"Thank God! Arthur, you're awake?"

Disraeli wasn't wearing a hat, and his hair was a little messy from the morning breeze. He quickly walked to the bedside, stood down, and looked at Arthur's pale face. He couldn't help but exclaim, "You look worse than the day you lay in your coffin."

Disraeli helped Arthur sit up from the bed, muttering as he did so, "I heard you collapsed in Piccadilly and were unconscious when you got to the hospital. God, do you know what I was thinking when I heard that? I thought you'd been shot again!"

“I don’t think I’ve done anything that would warrant a bullet lately, have I?” Arthur forced a smile. “Don’t worry, Benjamin. It’s just the old problem; my heart was acting up again, but it’s over.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Disraeli rolled his eyes at him. “Look at you, look at you! How have you ruined yourself these past few years? You’re not even thirty yet, and you’ve been to the hospital almost as many times as my grandfather.”

Just as Disraeli was about to say something more, he suddenly frowned, his eyes shifting slightly as he looked towards the ward window.

He heard the sound of horses' hooves.

At first, there were only a few distant echoes, very faint, almost inaudible, like the sound of water flowing in the morning mist, seemingly no different from the horse-drawn carriages that often appeared on the street corner.

But soon, the dull thud of hooves gradually became more orderly, and the sounds of iron hooves striking the ground and the saddle rubbing together became increasingly clear.

Disraeli frowned slightly, stood up, walked to the window, and parted half of the curtain.

At the street corner, accompanied by the sound of wheels rolling over stone bricks, a caravan slowly approached.

It was neither a creaking coal wagon, nor a postman's light carriage, nor the milk delivery wagon most commonly seen in the early morning.

It was a carriage twice the size of an ordinary carriage, with light gold decorations on its body, and much larger than the four-wheeled carriages used by the middle class.

The carriage was not pulled by brown horses, nor by the common black horses, but by four rare Windsor grey horses, whose smooth coats looked almost silvery-white in the morning mist.

The coachman, holding a whip and with his hat tassels hanging low, stood ramrod straight. On each side of the carriage, two guards, each wearing a cloak, accompanied him.

The staff at the corner tea shop had just hung up the wooden signboard when they stopped what they were doing. Several gentlemen who were standing in front of the shop smoking and chatting couldn't help but look in the direction of the motorcade.

Disraeli rested his knuckles on the windowsill, then suddenly turned to look at Arthur on the hospital bed, his expression becoming strange and complicated.

“Arthur…” he lowered his voice, as if unsure, “Did you do something I don’t know?”

Arthur tilted his head slightly to look at him: "What's wrong, Benjamin?"

“From Windsor…” Disraeli was halfway through his sentence when he suddenly seemed to remember something. He hurriedly put down the gifts he was holding and made as if to leave: “It seems that Windsor has sent someone. Arthur, let’s talk later.”

After speaking, Disraeli strode open the door to the ward, but before he could even take a step, he came face to face with Madame Lezen.

Caught off guard, Leizen thought he had entered the wrong room: "Excuse me, sir..."

Seeing her turn to leave, Disraeli quickly spoke up to stop her, saying, "You're here to visit Sir Arthur Hastings, aren't you? He's staying in this room."

Upon hearing this, Leicen paused slightly, a hint of embarrassment flashing in her eyes. She then turned aside and respectfully stepped aside to let him pass.

The moment she took a small step, the figure behind her was revealed.

A light white veil covered the patient, its brocade trim trailing on the ground, as if the morning mist of London had been blown into the hospital room.

Victoria's arrival made the air in the room suddenly tense.

She stood quietly at the door, her gaze sweeping across the ward until her deep blue eyes locked onto Arthur, at which point her cold, hard aura finally dissipated.

Disraeli stood frozen in the doorway, completely bewildered, still not understanding what had happened.

Victoria turned her head slightly, her tone not harsh, but carrying an undeniable authority: "Sir, could you please move aside?"

As soon as he finished speaking, Disraeli seemed to wake up from a dream and apologized repeatedly, quickly stepping aside.

Leizen bowed his head and followed, then turned and closed the door behind him.

Victoria walked to the bedside, her skirt trailing on the floor with a soft rustling sound.

Her gaze was fixed on Arthur's pale face, and for a moment, she vaguely recalled the reflection of herself in the mirror she had seen in Ramsgate last year.

Arthur propped himself up on his arms to get out of bed and bow, but as soon as he exerted himself, he clutched his chest and coughed repeatedly.

Seeing this, Victoria hurriedly reached out to support his back, saying, "Please don't push yourself." Mrs. Lezen quickly stepped forward, propped up Arthur's pillow a little, and then skillfully picked up the damp towel from the bedside table, wanting to gently wipe away the cold sweat seeping from his forehead.

But Arthur, worried that his makeup would smudge, saw her do this and quickly reached out to press the towel down: "Thank you, madam, but I'm still not used to having others take care of me."

Lady Leigh couldn't help but complain when she heard this: "Sir Arthur, please don't be so stubborn."

“Lezen is right.” Victoria looked at Arthur, her tone tinged with reproach: “If you continue to be stubborn, you’re just being defiant.”

Arthur was slightly taken aback upon hearing this, then smiled self-deprecatingly: "Your Majesty, you don't understand. A person like me wouldn't have gotten to where I am today without being stubborn."

Victoria paused for a moment, staring into Arthur's eyes, a hint of confusion and displeasure flashing in them.

She bit her lip, her voice extremely low: "You really are just being stubborn with me..."

She wanted to reprimand him sternly, but when her gaze fell on Arthur's pale face, her suppressed anger finally dissipated: "But even if you really want to be angry with me, you should wait until you're better."

Arthur noticed her hesitation and chuckled, "Your Majesty, I'm not being stubborn; it's just my nature. If I were weaker, I'd probably be buried in the Bradford workhouse long ago."

"A workhouse? A burial ground?" Victoria looked blank; she had never heard Arthur mention these things before. "What are you talking about?"

Arthur gazed at the mist outside the window and murmured to himself, “I’ve never seen my parents. My mother died in the workhouse maternity ward, without even leaving a name. As for my father… I don’t even know what he looked like. Everyone says I’m a bastard, but I don’t even have the right to be identified. In the winter at the workhouse, the straw beneath me was warmer than human kindness, and a bowl of thin porridge for dinner every day was a blessing from God.”

Victoria still didn't understand Arthur's meaning, so she pressed on, "Are you referring to Mr. Dickens's work, 'Oliver Twist'?"

Arthur looked into Victoria's eyes: "Did you like that book?"

“That book…” Victoria hesitated for a moment, then waved her hand apologetically: “I haven’t read the book yet, but I saw the play adaptation of Oliver Twist at the palace last month, and it was really interesting. Even now, I still occasionally think of the main character, Oliver Twist.”

Arthur smiled upon hearing this: "Thank you very much, Your Majesty. Thank you for liking my early experiences."

Victoria paused, as if she didn't immediately grasp the weight of Arthur's words.

A moment later, she realized that he was comparing her to the orphans on that stage.

Victoria's eyelashes trembled slightly, and a mixture of pity and shock welled up in her eyes.

"You mean..." Her voice was so soft, as if she didn't want to disturb anyone, "You, are that Oliver?"

Arthur smiled and shook his head, a hint of self-mockery in his sickly expression: "No, Your Majesty. I am not Oliver, but Oliver has a bit of me in him. At least I didn't meet old Fagin and Bill Sykes, and of course, I certainly didn't meet Nancy and Miss Meryl."

Victoria's heart skipped a beat when she heard "Nancy" and "Miss Meryl".

She had never read the original novel, only seen the orphan on stage, but Arthur's casual confession cut a wound in her heart like a dull knife.

She wanted to say something, but her throat felt dry, and she couldn't squeeze out a single word for a long time.

The person in front of her was not a character from a book, but her most trusted and respected teacher.

She still remembered Arthur's confident demeanor in the Rose Room of Kensington Palace, the newspaper reports of his decisive and calm strategy at Golden Cross Station, and who had rescued her from Conroy's clutches in Ramsgate last year.

But now, this extraordinary hero, this figure revered by Scotland Yard, sits on a hospital bed in a free general hospital in London, casually comparing himself to the orphan Oliver.

Victoria suddenly felt suffocated, and her eyes welled up with tears.

“Arthur…” she lowered her voice, as if afraid that others would hear, or as if afraid that she would not be able to hold back her sobs: “Why did you never tell me? I never knew that you had gone through this.”

Arthur looked at her, his gaze calm, even carrying a hint of comforting gentleness: "Because it doesn't matter, Your Majesty, those are all things of the past. And now, as your subject, I am very content with the circumstances I have been given."

I am very satisfied...

Very satisfied...

These words completely shattered Victoria's defenses.

Her shoulders trembled slightly, and she raised her hand to cover her eyes. Even though she tried her best to restrain herself, tears still slipped through her fingers.

Seeing this, Mrs. Lezen was about to step forward to comfort her, but Victoria raised her hand to stop her.

Seeing this, Leizen knew that the Queen's loss of composure was unstoppable, so he had no choice but to turn around, pull Disraeli along, and walk towards the door: "Sir, let's go outside and talk."

Stunned by the scene before him, Disraeli was at a loss for words. Now that Mrs. Lezen had offered him a way out, he naturally rushed to agree: "Of course, madam, thank you for your kindness."

Victoria couldn't help but reach out and gently place her hand on the back of Arthur's hand, just as Arthur had done to her when they were in Ramsgate.

An overwhelming sense of guilt welled up inside her.

She had always thought that Sir Arthur Hastings, her teacher, was invincible, someone who could navigate Whitehall and the court with ease, and who could command a large following during street riots, and was a reliable pillar in her life.

She even subconsciously regarded him as some kind of superman, someone who would never get tired, never become weak, and never fall down.

But now, as she held those hands, which were not particularly broad but strong, she truly felt their coldness and weakness.

That wasn't the hand of a superman, but the hand of an ordinary person, the hand of an orphan who once clutched at straws for warmth in the cold night, stared blankly at thin porridge in hunger, and endured it all with sheer stubbornness.

“Arthur…” Her voice was so low it was almost inaudible: “Was I… too selfish, too willful in the past? All along, I thought you were omnipotent. I wanted you to help me out of trouble, I wanted you to appear at any time—at St. Martin’s Cathedral, at St. James’s Palace, in Kensington, in Windsor. I never thought that you were also human, that you would get tired, feel pain, and need comfort…”

Her tears slid down her cheeks and dripped onto the back of Arthur's hand, leaving a small wet patch.

“I always thought… if you didn’t say anything, it meant you didn’t care. But it turns out, you were just hiding your pain too deep, unwilling to let me see it. You taught me to be independent, taught me how to master my own strength, but I never thought that you were actually a person too… No one has ever said a kind word to you, no one has ever expressed gratitude for your efforts, as if everything was taken for granted…”

“I thought I was a girl who needed to be protected, so I relied on you without any reservations, treating you as a wall, a crutch to support me. But I forgot that walls can weather away, and crutches can break. Arthur, I was too selfish, always thinking about what I could get from you, but never considering whether you needed it too…”

At this point, Victoria finally choked up, gently pressing her forehead against Arthur's hand, her voice choked with tears: "Please forgive me, Arthur... please forgive me..."

The ward was eerily quiet for a moment, with only Victoria's suppressed sobs and breathing remaining.

Arthur looked at the girl in front of him, or rather, Her Majesty the Queen.

He wanted to reach out and wipe away her tears, but he was afraid that his makeup would be ruined by them.

So he simply moved his fingers slightly and gently held her hand with those trembling, cold fingers.

He actually prepared many lines for today and rehearsed them many times in his mind, but no amount of acting skills can compare to the outpouring of true feelings.

Victoria's performance was more than enough for today's show.

Given such a performance, any further acting from him would be superfluous.

Moreover, at this moment he really didn't know what to say, or rather, he knew he shouldn't say anything more.

Admittedly, he is a political fraudster, but compared to those seasoned political fraudsters, his meager conscience ultimately makes him seem too naive.

(End of this chapter)