The Shadow of Great Britain

The dawn had yet to fully awaken the streets of London, and a shroud of morning mist lingered between the window bars and eaves.

At 5 a.m., as the night was gradually receding, in the Baroque townhouse at No. 15 Lancaster Gate, the maid Becky had just risen.

She first stretched lazily, then swiftly like usual, changed into her housekeeping dress, wrapped her shawl tightly, and rubbed her drowsy eyes as she went downstairs, preparing to clean the stove and cook the morning porridge before daybreak as usual.

But when she turned the corner of the stairs, she suddenly stopped. The dining room on the first floor still had its lights on.

This was very unusual on normal days. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

Sir Arthur Hastings was always meticulous in his habits, even if he returned late at night, he would always extinguish the lights himself.

Yet now, the glass chandelier below the beam, illuminated by whale oil, was still emitting a circle of warm light, tinting a corner of the staircase with a soft yellow hue.

"Could it be... a burglar?"

Becky instinctively lifted her skirt, quietly tiptoeing back upstairs, grabbing a long-handled broom from the corner on the second floor used to sweep away spider webs, and stealthily walked back down.

She gently circled around the carved screen in the hallway and approached the ajar door of the dining room.

However, there were no whispers behind the door, nor any sound of rummaging, only the faint rustle of a quill gliding over paper, and the occasional heavy sigh.

Peeking in, Becky saw her master sitting alone at the table, his whole figure like a statue frozen on the walnut chair.

His coat was still on, his cravat hanging loosely, even his hair was a mess, bloodshot eyes hinting that he hadn’t closed them all night.

A hefty notebook lay spread out on the dining table, alongside several compiled volumes of legal texts and jurisprudence tomes, some pages dog-eared, betraying signs of repeated perusal. From a distance, only a few blurred titles were discernible: "The Royal Marriage Act of 1772," "The Act of Settlement," "Precedents of Royal Marriages with Commoners"...

Becky was utterly astonished, she almost couldn’t recognize the person before her.

Sir Arthur Hastings, always composed and nonchalant, maintaining his gentlemanly demeanor and outward appearance even at home. It was the first time Becky knew Sir Arthur could look like this.

Becky hesitated but eventually pushed open the door: "Sir... haven’t you slept yet? Is something wrong with your business?"

Arthur seemed not to hear her, staring blankly at the candle flame on the table, his gaze somewhat unfocused.

"Sir?" Becky called again.

Arthur then awoke from his daze, turned to look at Becky, and glanced outside the window: "Ah... it’s morning already?"

There was a trace of confusion in Arthur’s tone, but soon enough, he seemed to realize his disheveled appearance, subconsciously raising his hand to tidy his messy hair, but halted when his hand reached the top of his head, as if some weighty thought halted his hair-combing motion.

Seeing him like this, Becky couldn’t help but gently place the broom at the corner of the wall, stepping forward a few paces softly asking, "You haven’t closed your eyes all night, what on earth happened?"

"Nothing," Arthur muttered to himself, "some sudden changes threw off my plans."

Becky frowned: "Is it Blackwood’s again? What have they written about you this time? I’ve always said, those who spend all day buried in ink, spouting sarcastic words all the time, will choke on their own spittle eventually! Last time they wrote about you, saying you’re a ’Devil in disguise,’ and that your ’symptoms of madness worsened’ in Russia, but in my opinion, they are the ones who truly don’t understand God and the human heart!"

At this point, her eyes widened, her tone more impolite: "Just yesterday, I heard someone at the bakery say that Blackwood’s sales this year are below Housekeeping Magazine. Serves them right! If I knew their editor, I’d shove his head into the fireplace. Let’s see if he dares to gossip about you behind your back again."

Listening to Becky angrily speaking up for him, a faint bitter smile finally appeared on Arthur’s tense face: "No, Becky, it’s not that bad. And it wasn’t Blackwood’s upsetting me this time."

Becky was taken aback: "Then is it The Times? No, didn’t The Times just publish an exclusive interview about your case solved at Golden Cross Station last year? The journalist, Langworth, right? Last time he also said you were..."

"It wasn’t The Times either," Arthur interrupted her softly, "If you’re asking which company, well, it was the East India Company."

Becky clearly didn’t expect this answer, her mouth half-open, hesitatingly repeating: "The East India Company? What happened? Aren’t they sellers of spices and teas? What dealings do you have with them?"

"Your analysis is quite reasonable, I indeed have no dealings with the East India Company," Arthur rubbed his face in distress, "but there are always a few bastards among them who inadvertently wish to ruin my plans... or perhaps that’s not accurate, more appropriately, a certain board member’s descendant of the East India Company. Forget it, don’t ask me anymore, just let me be alone..."

Becky listened, bewildered, but she remembered what those experienced housekeepers at the Housekeeper’s Association said, that it’s not wise to pry too much into the employer’s worries, especially when Sir Arthur’s brow has furrowed enough to pin a flea.