The Shadow of Great Britain

After a brief intermission, the lights turned on again.

The noise from the audience had not yet completely subsided as the court attendants carried trays among them.

Everyone was still immersed in the lingering echoes of Liszt’s performance, an experience both shocking and intoxicating, with the air of Buckingham Palace retaining the scorching smell left by the burning piano sound.

At this moment, the announcer stepped onto the stage.

His voice was not loud, yet exceptionally clear.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Next, please welcome with the utmost respect the lifelong honorary conductor of the London Philharmonic Association, returning to the stage after many years... Sir Arthur Hastings! Tonight, he will personally conduct, debuting the piece dedicated to the ’Hero of Waterloo’—’Wellington March’!"

At that instant, the entire hall suddenly fell silent.

The air seemed to pause slightly, many guests’ expressions shifted from puzzlement to astonishment, as if they hadn’t heard clearly.

"Wellington?" someone softly repeated the name: "Did I hear Duke of Wellington?"

A few nobles in the front row exchanged glances, while the noblewomen quietly discussed among themselves.

All guests at Buckingham Palace had received the evening’s program upon arrival and had naturally seen Arthur’s name on it.

This arrangement had already caused a minor sensation, given the number of Arthur’s fans among tonight’s attendees.

It should be noted that before Arthur officially announced his farewell to the music stage, he was always quite popular in London.

Whether in London or Paris, pianists with good figure and appearance would always receive attention from the ladies, and Arthur had benefited a bit from this.

For this reason, a few women who considered themselves core fans of Sir Arthur had been betting with their friends before the show, believing that the Hungarian pianist from Paris was undoubtedly talented, but this didn’t mean he could easily overshadow the "dreamlike Hastings."

But evidently, what these ladies did not expect was that Arthur had chosen not to perform with the piano but brought out a march.

This twist sharply changed the entire hall’s atmosphere.

The air of the concert hall was tightened anew, with whispers rising and falling like waves crashing against the golden dome of Buckingham Palace.

Almost everyone focused their gaze on the Duke of Wellington in the front row.

The old duke slowly raised his head, his distinct jointed hand resting on his cane, his face carrying an uncommon bewilderment.

He was equally unaware of Arthur’s new piece tonight, and there was no time to ponder what this unexpected honor meant.

Victoria turned her head, smiling as she spoke to Wellington: "This is dedicated to you, Your Excellency."

She used very few embellishments, her tone sincerely almost clumsy: "Although you already have a ’Wellington’s Victory’ composed by Beethoven from the Peninsular War, I think we still owe you one from Waterloo."

"Waterloo..." the old duke softly repeated, he hoarsely sighed: "I remember that battle too clearly, so much that I would rather never hear its name."

As he spoke, a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"However..." Duke of Wellington paused, turned to look at Victoria, bowed slightly, and said: "If this is from His Majesty’s intention, then everything is different."

As soon as he finished speaking, Leopold, seated beside him, took over seamlessly: "For this piece, Sir Arthur and Albert have put considerable thought into it. This piece was originally supposed to be dedicated to you on this year’s Waterloo anniversary, but... you also know, at that time, His Majesty William’s health... Hopefully, this piece can bring some comfort to Queen Adelaide as well."

Wellington nodded slightly, not pursuing the matter further.

The light in the hall gently dimmed.

Slight airflow brushed past the crystal chandelier flames, the firelight flickered, reflecting on the golden decorations, looking like countless flags waving in the wind.

Extremely light footsteps came from behind the stage.

Initially, the sound was so subtle as to be almost indiscernible, yet it carried a rhythm that commanded attention, firm, poised, solid.

In the next moment, the curtains opened from both sides, and a slender figure appeared at the junction of light and shadow.

In a deep black tailcoat, styled in the classic Savile Street cut, with sharp shoulders, a narrowed waist, the coat tails unfolding naturally with the steps.

A pristine silk scarf tied at his chest, its corner wings accented the jawline clearly.

The white glove on the left hand was lightly folded in his palm, the right hand held that short and slender ivory baton. The stage lights cast on his face, light and shadow gliding between his cheekbones and jaw, making those eyes seem deeper than usual.

When Arthur stepped onto the stage, the entire united orchestra of St. James Theatre stood up almost simultaneously.

No one applauded.

No one dared to applaud.

Because the aura itself rendered all sounds redundant.

He was not like Liszt, who could actively attract others’ gaze, but when he appeared, the entire concert hall was under his control.

The footsteps paused before the conductor’s stand, his back straight.

Arthur did not immediately raise the baton, just slightly bowed his head, took off the gloves, neatly folded and placed at the side of the music stand.

The movement was almost ritualistic, yet without pretension.

When he raised his head, it seemed as if all the light in Buckingham Palace gathered before him.

His gaze swept across the audience, over members of the Royal Family, nobility, diplomats, and musicians, calm yet sharp, as if to confirm that everyone present was prepared.