The Shadow of Great Britain

It was neither the creaking coal cart, nor the light postman’s carriage, nor the milk cart commonly seen in the morning.

It was a carriage twice the size of an ordinary one, adorned with pale golden decorations, much larger than the four-wheeled carriages used by the middle class.

The horses pulling the carriage were not brown, nor the common black ones, but four rare Windsor grey horses, the sleek coats of the four grey horses looking almost silver in the morning mist.

The coachman, holding a whip, let the tassel of his hat droop, his back ramrod straight. On each side of the carriage, there were two Guard Cavalry members draped in cloaks, accompanying them.

The clerk at the tea shop on the street corner had just hung the wooden sign at the door when he stopped his action. Several gentlemen smoking and chatting in front of the shop also couldn’t help but look towards the direction of the procession.

Disraeli placed his knuckles on the windowsill, suddenly turned to look at Arthur on the sickbed, his expression becoming strange and complicated.

"Arthur..." he lowered his voice, as if unsure, "Did you do something I don’t know about?"

Arthur slightly turned his head to look at him at that moment: "What’s wrong, Benjamin?"

"Over at Windsor..." Disraeli began to speak but suddenly seemed to remember something, hurriedly put down the gift in his hand, and made a motion to leave: "It seems someone from Windsor has come, Arthur, let’s talk later."

As soon as Disraeli finished speaking, he quickly pulled open the door of the ward, but before he could step out, he was faced with Lady Leisen.

Caught off guard, Leisen thought she had entered the wrong room: "Sorry, sir..."

Seeing her turn to leave, Disraeli hastily called out to stop her: "You’re here to visit Sir Arthur Hastings, right? He lives in this room."

Upon hearing this, Leisen paused slightly, a trace of embarrassment flashed in her eyes, then she turned sideways with a respectful demeanor, giving way.

At the moment she gently moved, a figure behind her emerged.

A light veil and a trailing silk edge, it was as if London’s morning mist had been blown into the ward.

Victoria’s appearance caused the room’s air to suddenly tighten.

She stood quietly at the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the ward’s surroundings until her azure eyes locked onto Arthur, then the cold, hard aura finally dissipated.

Disraeli stood stunned at the doorway, as if frozen, still not understanding what had happened.

Victoria slightly tilted her head, her tone not heavy but carrying undeniable authority: "Sir, could you please make way?"

As soon as she spoke, Disraeli, as if waking from a dream, repeatedly apologized and hurriedly stepped aside.

Leisen bowed her head and followed, turning to close the door behind her.

Victoria walked to the bedside, her skirt trailing on the floor, making a slight rustling sound.

Her gaze lingered on Arthur’s pale face, and in a fleeting moment, she seemed to recall seeing her own reflection in the mirror last year in Ramsgate.

Arthur propped himself up on his arms, intending to get out of bed to salute, but as soon as he exerted himself, he clutched his chest and began coughing repeatedly.

Seeing this, Victoria, in a panic, reached out to support his back: "Don’t push yourself."

Lady Leisen hurriedly stepped forward, raising Arthur’s pillow a bit higher, then, adeptly taking the damp towel at the bedside, she intended to gently wipe the cold sweat from his forehead.

But concerned about his makeup coming off, Arthur saw her action and quickly reached out to hold down the towel: "Thank you, madam, but I’m still not used to letting others take care of me."

Hearing this, Lady Leisen couldn’t help but admonish: "Sir Arthur, you shouldn’t be so stubborn."

"Leisen is right." Victoria looked at Arthur, a hint of rebuke in her voice: "If you continue to be stubborn, it means you’re sulking with me."

Arthur was slightly stunned upon hearing this, then laughed self-deprecatingly: "Your Majesty, you don’t understand. Someone like me wouldn’t have made it this far if I weren’t stubborn."

Victoria paused for a moment, looking into Arthur’s eyes, a flash of confusion and displeasure in her own.

She bit her lip, her voice extremely low: "So you are sulking with me..."

She intended to severely reprimand him, but when her eyes fell on Arthur’s pale face, the pent-up anger finally softened: "But even if you really want to sulk with me, you should wait until you’re well, shouldn’t you?"

Arthur noticed her hesitation, so he smiled along with the conversation: "Your Majesty, I’m not sulking; it’s just my nature. If I were a bit more docile, I would have been buried in the Poorhouse in Bradford long ago."

"The Poorhouse? Buried?" Victoria looked puzzled, as Arthur had never mentioned these matters before: "What are you talking about?"

Arthur looked at the mist outside the window, muttering to himself: "I have never seen my parents. My mother died in the Poorhouse’s maternity ward, not even leaving a name before she passed. As for my father... I don’t even know what his shadow looks like. Everyone says I’m a bastard, yet I don’t even have the qualifications to be accused. During winter in the Poorhouse, the straw beneath me was warmer than human kindness, and getting a bowl of thin porridge for dinner was a blessing from God."

Victoria still couldn’t comprehend Arthur’s words, so she asked further: "Are you talking about Mr. Dickens’s work, ’Oliver Twist’?"

Arthur looked into Victoria’s eyes: "Do you like that book?"

"That book..." Victoria hesitated for a moment and bashfully waved her hand: "I haven’t read the book yet, but I watched the play adapted from ’Oliver Twist’ in the palace last month. That play was indeed interesting. Even now, I occasionally think of the main character, Oliver Twist."