Chapter 1544: Chapter 1: Secret Return to London
Princess Victoria was closely guarded, so much so that the maids were too busy to quietly tell her, “You are the heir to the English throne.” I suspect that if we could dissect that little heart, perhaps we might find that a dove or a little bird has already inford her.
——Walter Scott, 1828
Morning mist enveloped the Thas River, the surface resembling a pale gray silk gently laid across England’s heartland. A small steamship, flying the flag of Great Britain, moved along the winding waterway toward the London Pier amidst the roar of turbines and the splashing of waves.
On deck, a British gentleman stood silently. Wrapped in a black coat, with an ebony cane inlaid with silver in hand, he gazed at the gradually revealing silhouette of the city. His face appeared slightly weary, yet the journey had not left much trace on his expression, except for those eyes, reflecting the misty outlines of St. Paul’s Cathedral and Tower Bridge in the morning twilight.
Sir Arthur Hastings, cultural attaché of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland to the Russian court, was now ending his more than two-year European career and returning to this familiar yet strange city. His journey began in St. Petersburg, taking a rchant ship through the Baltic Sea to Hamburg, then boarding a steamship across the North Sea, and finally aboard this small steamship heading to London at Hull Port. Though not a long journey in terms of distance, it seed to have consud an endlessly extended reality.
The days in St. Petersburg had beco history—golden corridors of the Winter Palace, the cold gaze of the Tsar, the diplomatic receptions with superficial pleasantries, and even the icy snow and gray skies over the Volga River were now sealed into mory.
These mories now quietly lay within his luggage.
Inside the small leather suitcase, along with a few simple garnts, so items carried greater symbolic aning: a leather-bound collection of Pushkin’s poetry, a malachite cigarette case from the Ural, a map marked with Baltic Sea coastal fortresses, a sealed docunt roll, and a few unopened letters from Russian noblewon, their pages tinged with the faint remnants of jasmine perfu. These letters bore elegant handwriting, signed with their nas, yet not a word of farewell was ever written.
They did not believe that this return to England signified final departure, perhaps considering it rely as a brief rotation in the diplomat’s assignnt, an ordinary professional leave. Especially since Arthur recently had suffered an attack from thugs in Moscow; this British Knight might only wish to return to his holand for a two- or three-month respite.
But Arthur knew that his repatriation was not prompted by health or diplomatic matters.
The ship continued upstream along the Thas River, where coal smoke intermingled with the morning mist, and the familiar outline of London gradually erged in the distance.
The docks teed with masts, as ships from around the world converged there, while sailors and dockworkers busily unloaded tea from the East Indies, Persian carpets, and Caribbean rum.
On streets along the river, carriages rolled over damp cobblestones, horse hooves splashing up tiny droplets. The morning bell echoed in the tower of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the air was filled with smoke, the scent of damp earth, and salty sea breezes, while deep in London City, perhaps decision-makers at White Hall awaited his return.
The steamship slowly docked, and the crew expertly lowered the gangplank.
The steamship slowly docked, and the crew expertly lowered the gangplank. At the pier, a four-wheeled carriage waited silently, its driver clad in a blue livery and top hat, while the carriage bore the emblem of the British Foreign Office, clearly sent by Viscount Palrston to receive him.
A young assistant stood by the carriage, quickly stepping forward as Arthur descended the gangplank.
“Welco ho, Sir,” he murmured, respectfully and cautiously taking Arthur’s cane and luggage: “Viscount Palrston hopes you will visit Carlton Mansion this afternoon, as he wishes to personally hear your report on St. Petersburg.”
Arthur nodded slightly, as if everything was as expected.
Yet the corners of his mouth lifted into a barely perceptible smile.
This return had nothing to do with political gas with Viscount Palrston.
He had suddenly requested official leave, not due to issues concerning the Caucasus or the French Royalists, but because of a teasing comnt in a letter from the Duke of Wellington: “Have you any interest in returning to London to see? You’ve been gone so long that everyone seems to have forgotten about you.”
This remark made Arthur catch the scent of opportunity.
He realized that the ti might have ripened to return to the center of power.
Arthur did not take Palrston’s request for him to report urgently to heart.
Even ignoring the impending collapse of the Grey Cabinet, and the fragile guarantee of Palrston’s ministerial seat, even if he retains his position in the next Cabinet, once Sir David Eckett starts stirring up trouble over the Chechens again, Arthur and Palrston will inevitably clash.
Instead of concerning himself with the Foreign Secretary’s demands, Arthur was more intrigued by what the Duke of Wellington might be hinting.
Should I return to Scotland Yard?
Arthur pondered, realizing such an appointnt remained unrealistic.
Although the forgetful citizens of London might no longer rember who Arthur Hastings was, once his na was linked again with Scotland Yard, it was easy to evoke so unpleasant mories.
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