The Shadow of Great Britain

The evening fog draped over the surface of the Thames River like a light veil, and the gas lamp posts on both sides of Whitehall lit up with a dim glow.

Henry Blackwell stepped out of the Foreign Office residence, watching as his smiling colleagues were picked up one by one by four-wheeled carriages, rolling away with laughter toward restaurants near Charing Cross or gentlemen’s clubs on St. James Street.

He looked at these dazzling colleagues, then lowered his head to glance at himself.

His tailcoat seemed decent at first glance, but on closer inspection, the cuffs had long since worn white, and the buttons shone with wear.

The bowler hat he wore was bought on sale last Christmas, and the edges had become frayed because of several douses of rain.

Seeing this, Blackwell instinctively adjusted his cravat, not to tidy his appearance, but to cover the collar that had yellowed from repeated ironing.

He clearly knew he wasn’t truly poor; at least in the eyes of most people, working at Whitehall was already a mark of respectability.

Moreover, after all, he did hail from a proud middle-class family and had studied at Oxford.

But...

Speaking of which, it seems, perhaps, possibly... there are disparities even within the middle class...

Though Blackwell verbally claimed not to care, every time he clocked out, walking out of the Foreign Office and seeing his Whitehall colleagues clad in new black wool coats and wielding silver-topped canes, he’d instinctively shove his hands into his pockets, as if this way, people wouldn’t notice his deerskin gloves hadn’t been replaced in years.

Thinking of this, Blackwell couldn’t help but sigh.

He walked, flipping through the folder in his hand, then closing it. His footsteps echoed on the stone road of Whitehall.

Today’s meeting notes were only half transcribed; the other half had to be completed tomorrow morning...

Complete...

Damn it!

Sometimes he really wanted to shove the pile of documents into Foreign Secretary Palmerston’s mouth!

Three years!

Three whole years!

He had been transferred back to London from the Russian Embassy for three years now!

Admittedly, the position of senior copyist in the Secretariat of the Foreign Office, while not marginalized, couldn’t be considered all that senior in terms of importance.

But what’s beyond that?

Every year, they talk about promotions, but how many are waiting in line?

An annual salary of eighty Pounds sounds decent, but by month’s end, you’d realize every Pound had to be stretched.

Living in a rented house in Clerkenwell, the pipe downstairs still leaked, and the lamp wick that should’ve been changed three months ago could only be reluctantly lit.

High-end theaters in the West District?

Heh, he went once at the beginning of this year, and just for that ticket, he had to switch his Christmas gift to friends to cheaper cedar soap.

But this year?

He probably can’t even afford cedar anymore this year!

He wanted to get a new suit, preferably one with a black satin trim, just to not seem so shabby at meetings. But thinking of the price, Blackwell silently pulled out his old gloves to straighten the cuffs.

The landlady mentioned last week that rent was going up, after all, even postage had increased by two Pennies these days.

The colleagues at the Foreign Office, the sons of real estate moguls, the illegitimate sons of the nobility, or nieces and nephews of certain parliament members.

Those decent folks raked in much and spent much, whereas little clerks like him, to prove themselves on the same level, were caught in between—not quite with the workers in the pubs, nor climbing the ladders of gentleman’s clubs.

He began to ask himself constantly, when would he get promoted? When would he get a raise?

He wasn’t without ambition, nor lacking the desire for a better life.

Of course, he wanted a promotion, even if it meant just moving from "senior copyist" to "third-class clerk" in charge of some office, so he’d have formal authority over documents, could approve official letters, could supervise interns...

But those positions were always taken by the nephews of some Sir, or the cousin of some Upper House Noble’s friend.

Those posts would never rotate to you, and you better not ask why.

He suddenly felt a bit regretful about coming back to London.

If not for that transfer order, if not for thinking that returning to Whitehall meant being a step closer to promotion, he could’ve stayed indefinitely in St. Petersburg.

At least there, he could live like a somebody.

Back then, while serving as an attaché in the Russian Embassy, even as merely an auxiliary clerical role, he was often treated as a legitimate diplomat.

Those young Russian nobles, especially the provincials who didn’t have much education and could only think of the European style, treated him with utmost respect.

They would invite him for meals, accompany him ice-skating, even invite him to family music evenings.

As long as Blackwell flashed his British diplomat identity at the noble salons on Great Marskaya Street, someone would approach to talk, hand him champagne, and the young ladies would always smile at him.

As for those high-ranking Russian Great Nobles, although their status was esteemed, they seldom put on airs when speaking with Blackwell.

No matter if you were an aide-de-camp of some Duke, or the son of some high-ranking official, or a General somewhere... when encountering him, all maintained a courteous demeanor, using friendly language, addressing him as "Mr. Blackwell."

Even those stern Council of State members would occasionally nod to him in greeting in the corridors.