The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1700: Chapter 61: God Bless Victoria_2

”The day before yesterday, as I stood at Kensington Palace, watching the flames of Westminster Palace rise into the night sky, I was truly scared. I stood by the window, watching those familiar towers collapse bit by bit, watching the flames lick the golden cross on the roof, watching the bell that never spoke suddenly fall silent as if burnt into silence.”

These words echoed powerfully, even the seasoned Fleet Street journalists in the back rows couldn’t help but raise their heads.

Closer to the front, Lady Leisen’s eyes were slightly red as she gently crossed herself across her chest, seemingly praying for the child she had raised.

The Duchess of Kent lowered her eyes, and the hand that always held her gloves finally relaxed slightly.

She had read Victoria’s speech draft and even once doubted whether it was too plain. If not for knowing it was jointly revised by Sir Arthur Hastings and Alfred Tennyson, she might have asked Conroy to redraft it.

But now, it seemed that the live impact of this speech was unexpectedly good.

”That night, I saw my mother sitting silently in the firelight by the fireplace. Her shadow was cast long and long on the wall by the flames. I asked her: Would even the strongest house burn to the ground? She did not answer, only held me tightly.”

Victoria raised her head: ”The fire is over, but my fear remains. The next day, I went to see the Westminster Palace fire site with Sir Arthur Hastings. The stones seemed to cry tears dry, the wooden beams were burned into shells, and the air still held the charred scent from the night. But what was more distressing was seeing the Scotland Yard officers standing at the edge of the ruins. They had been busy all night, their faces covered in ash, their eyes full of exhaustion, yet they were still present. No one ordered them to do so, they just stayed, just like Officer Robert Cali.”

I heard Sir Arthur say that the Scotland Yard teams were the first to arrive at the fire that night. Some were burned, some fainted, and some were hit by falling stones, now lying in the hospital. At the edge of the Westminster ruins, I saw an injured officer lying on a stretcher, his eyes still open. He saw me and said nothing, just raised his hand, like saluting, or perhaps comforting me. The doctor beside me advised me not to come closer, saying he was not fully conscious. But I thought, he was more awake than any of us.”

At that moment, I said nothing. Not that I didn’t want to, but I didn’t know what would be appropriate. My hand tightly gripped my skirt, with only one thought: If it were me, would I be brave like Officer Robert Cali and this officer, equally brave and dutiful? I feared I was not strong enough, not firm enough, and unworthy of standing among them. None of us are perfect, and I am even less so.”

Hearing this, many of the officers who had previously straightened their backs suddenly felt their eyes grow warm, and the citizens’ gazes at the Princess shifted from initial surprise and admiration to gentleness.

Even sitting in the front row, the senior officers bearing various scars slowly raised their hands to remove their hats.

They had not believed a little girl from the royal family could say anything convincing, but at this moment, they felt Princess Victoria’s speech was more honest than any eulogies spoken by politicians, bishops, and nobility at funerals.

At this point, Victoria suddenly faced Mrs. Cali and her two children: ”I won’t pretend to know your pain, nor dare claim to understand the feeling of loss. I don’t understand politics, nor whether these decisions are correct. But I know, in recent years, I’ve seen many adults argue, MPs rage, nobility debate, and ordinary people... they just quietly watched Westminster Palace burn, just as we watch this rain fall today.”

Victoria did not criticize, but spoke from her own unease: ”I heard them talk about power, about reform, about losing control, about replacements, about what must be done. But no one said they were afraid. No one said: they too fear, fear the next fire won’t be in Westminster, fear Officer Robert Cali won’t be the last to fall. I am just a fifteen-year-old girl. Honestly, there is much I don’t understand. I don’t understand why sometimes the country chooses silence, why so many people on the streets distrust a police uniform, nor do I understand why a good person’s name must wait a year after their death to be remembered.”

She paused for a moment, seemingly organizing her words: ”I think I have always been asking myself one question: if I am scared, should I still stay? If I don’t know what to do next, should I still walk out that door?”

Her gaze slowly passed over those in uniform, those tired but bright-eyed eyes, those fingers calloused and hair soaked by rain, the officers.

”Later, I understood it.”

Victoria lifted her chin, her tone light yet unexpectedly clear: ”Stay, not because the fire didn’t reach me, but because I saw Westminster collapse in the night. Stay, not because I was ordered, but because I saw officers not retreating amidst the chaos. Stay, not because I was born noble, but because if I don’t stay, who will remember they once stood in the storm, before the raging flames?”

Each of these three sentences, like water drops on stone, silent, yet seeping deeply.

After a moment of silence, a police cap was quietly removed, followed by the second, the third, no one gave orders, no one shouted slogans, but more than a hundred and forty black and blue police caps were steadily lifted like a tide before the altar.

The officers did not clap; they merely removed their hats, pressing them against their chests. Not out of command, not out of ceremony, they were not used to applauding a child during a ritual. As for their gesture of removing hats, it wasn’t because of her lineage, but because of her promise, a simple, irrefutable promise – despite fear, I will stay.

Immediately afterward, a soft applause emanated from a man who looked like a craftsman in the back row.

The next second, a second, a third applause emerged from the crowd.

The applause began like raindrops on stone, then gradually merged into a wave, like a tide slowly approaching shore, restrained, slow, yet unstoppable.

There was no uproar like in the theaters, nor cheers like at City Hall, it started with an ordinary citizen, an old craftsman with a cap and graying beard, he clapped three times and then stopped, as if afraid to disturb the solemn scene. But soon after, the flower seller, printer, and coachman joined in.

In the audience, some older citizens’ eyes turned red, a retired veteran wearing a felt hat gently breathed in, muttering something about it being really hot today.

In the inner row near the arches of the church, a mother in her thirties whispered to her child while holding their hand: ”God bless Her Highness the Princess, dear, remember what she said today.”

While off-stage to the side, Mr. Redish, the skeptical parliamentary correspondent for the Observer, even forgot to take out his notebook, he only shook his head self-deprecatingly and said: ”Haven’t heard such truth in a long time.”

Applause started from the people, slowly, fervently yet firmly reaching the forward guest seats.

The nobility weren’t accustomed to applause either, but some nodded lightly, seeming to recognize the Crown Prince.

The Duchess of Kent heard the thunderous applause coming from behind her and couldn’t help but smile and nod at her daughter: ”Delina, well done.”

The observer sent by the Home Office originally intended to record the semantic essence of the princess’s speech, but after hesitating for a long time, he wrote nothing down, eventually only scribbling briefly: ”Public sentiment is apparent.”

At that moment, time seemed to pause.

Robert Cali’s portrait quietly stood beside the podium, its dark frame casting a gentle glow in the sunlight.

And standing far away in the shadows of the colonnade, Sir Arthur Hastings had already moved to lean against the pillar.

He did not approach, nor make any obvious gesture, simply nonchalantly placed those white gloves gently into his pocket.

As if, this speech was always meant to be her battle alone.

In the midst of the crowd’s cheers, no one noticed Arthur taking Robert Cali’s eldest son aside, placing a bloodstained bullet in his hand: ”Keep it safe, lad, it’s your father’s.”

At that moment, the church bell rang.

The clock struck eleven in the morning.