The Shadow of Great Britain

Blackwell let out a soft hum, his tense expression relaxing significantly.

Arthur continued with a smile, "He said every time you’d squat by the tea barrel and rummage for ages, insisting on picking the most broken bits, and said that as soon as you got paid, you’d buy a small bag of dried orange peel from him."

"Indeed!" Blackwell’s eyes filled with a look of reminiscence, "Because adding that could mask the medicinal taste in the tea... It was so cold back then, having a bit before bed could also warm the stomach."

Arthur nodded, "You seemed much more spirited back then than now."

"Perhaps," Blackwell chuckled wryly, "After all, back then, the Russians always regarded me as some kind of big shot."

Arthur didn’t respond, but moved his cane aside, jokingly saying, "Maybe not a big shot, but surely a dashing British gentleman. I remember back then, even in temperatures of minus ten or twenty, there were still young ladies arranging for someone to send flowers to you at the embassy on a sled."

Blackwell couldn’t help but smile, "That was from Julia Ivanovna, not some young girl. At the time, she mistakenly thought I could speak on her behalf at the palace to help her son join the Imperial Guard."

"Of course, she would think so," Arthur said with a smile, "After all, at that time, anyone who took a look at you would think you were an important person in the embassy."

Blackwell’s face, which still had traces of amusement, suddenly froze.

He lowered his head, not speaking, and his previously relaxed hands once again clasped together, thumbs rubbing back and forth.

"However..." Arthur leaned back against the carriage wall, "flirtatious as you may be, Henry, you always seem to carry a bit of luck with you."

This sentence was made with a light tone, devoid of visible emotion, yet it made Blackwell restless.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out, and quietly retracted his gaze from the window, landing it on his lap.

The carriage rumbled forward, the light and shadows from the street gas lamps flickered through the glass, casting a somewhat pale glow on his face.

After a while, he finally murmured softly, "Sir, I thought you... wouldn’t care about me anymore."

Arthur did not respond immediately, just took down his pipe and gently tapped the ash onto the lid of a tin box he carried, his movements extremely slow, as if waiting for Blackwell to finish speaking.

"That transfer order of mine..." Blackwell’s voice tightened, "Three years ago I was transferred from St. Petersburg back to London... At that time, I indeed lost my head over immediate benefits. They reached out to me first, saying they needed to know more details about... the Caucasus issue... Sir, I..."

"Henry." Arthur raised his hand to interrupt, smiling, "What kind of person do you take me for? My heart might not be the most generous, but I’m not that petty. Besides, hadn’t I already told you long ago that this matter was put to rest?"

Arthur paused here for a moment before continuing, "If betraying me could land someone a bright future, I believe most people would find such temptation irresistible. Because in White Hall, in this system, even across the political landscape, similar occurrences are all too natural. However..."

"However..." Arthur paused, his voice remaining calm, "if you truly did it for a future... then at least you should have truly gained something. Currently, Sir Bickhouse remains the Permanent Secretary of the Foreign Office, and Viscount Palmerston has returned to the position of Foreign Secretary. But after three years, Henry, have you gained anything?"

Blackwell’s complexion turned a shade paler.

Arthur brushed the ash from his knee, seeming somewhat regretful, like a patient teacher slowly chiding an inept student, "I don’t blame you, Henry. Were I in your shoes, at your age, in that position, I might not have been more virtuous."

His tone carried a subtle undertone of sarcasm when he spoke the word "virtuous," but it was fleeting.

"You thought you made a good deal, right? You handed me over, hoping to exchange for a transfer order, a position closer to the Foreign Office. The carpets of the Foreign Office are thicker than those of the Russian Embassy, and the doors in London lighter than those in St. Petersburg. That’s certainly true. But you actually believed in the promises they made to you?"

Blackwell’s hands tightened on his knees, "At the time, Sir Bickhouse said... he said bringing me back was Viscount Palmerston’s intention."

"At that time, it indeed was his intention. But was it the outcome?" Arthur’s voice dipped slightly, "Ultimately, the decision to bring you back was mine, under instructions from Mr. Disraeli."

The carriage swayed slightly.

The light from the street lamps fell on the side of Arthur’s face, his gaze becoming piercing in an instant.

"Just let me ask you this, Henry, where are you now? Which desk in the Secretariat of the Foreign Office are you sitting at? Whose old pen are you using? What documents do you review? What’s your yearly salary? Your residence, landlord, gloves, overcoat... and that invalid ’Foreign Office Promotion Notice’ of yours, were they worth betraying me?"

Blackwell’s lips moved, and after a long pause, he whispered, "I... it wasn’t worth it."

Arthur remained silent, seeming as though he was waiting for this admission to settle.

Moments later, he gradually reclined back into his seat, his tone once again becoming composed, "I said I don’t blame you, Henry. You weren’t exactly betraying me, merely... placing trust in the wrong people."

Blackwell seemed to have been struck heavily, raising his head sharply.

"You trusted Bickhouse too much, and Palmerston as well," Arthur remarked, "The quality of keeping one’s word is not bestowed upon everyone."

"But they..." Blackwell instinctively wanted to argue, but the words died in his throat.

He recalled the various promises made by Sir Bickhouse, Permanent Secretary of the Foreign Office, in letters, remembered Palmerston’s statement of ’Do well, and we’ll look after you.’

But looking back now, how ironic those words seemed, almost like opium tincture meant to numb a patient.

Arthur gave him a long, complex look, "Henry, you’re not cut out for making deals with them. Because you don’t understand that in politics, all promises made on paper are invalid."

The carriage was silent for a few seconds.

Then he coolly added, "You’re too naive."

Blackwell said nothing, merely bowed his head and let out a heavy sigh, as if releasing the suppressed resentment accumulated over three years.

He slowly began to speak, his voice somewhat hoarse, "Sir, I know... saying this might be shameless, but... do you... do you still trust me?"

Arthur cast him a sideways glance, a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth, "Didn’t I have the carriage stop today because I trust you?"

Blackwell froze, a trace of almost disbelief surfacing in his eyes, a mix of shame, excitement, and redemption: "I... you... Sir..."

But Arthur had already turned away from him, lightly tapping on the front wall: "Turn left, into Lamborn Street."