The Shadow of Great Britain

Sea bathing is a burgeoning medical trend, not merely a leisure activity.

People come to Ramsgate not to suntan on the beach, but to regain their health.

Doctors put up posters around the town and publish articles in newspapers, asserting that regular sea immersion can harmonize body fluids, invigorate nerves, and dispel dampness. Thus, a great number of middle-class and respectable families, with the elderly and young in tow, surge toward this southern coastal town during summer.

On the beach, rows of bathing machines stand on the edge of the tide. These wooden cabins, resembling small house trailers, have wheels and curtains. Ladies change inside the machine, which is then pushed by the proprietor into deeper shallow waters, avoiding the embarrassment of public exposure.

There are also particular protocols for how women enter the water; ladies usually accompany the bathing women.

The so-called bathing women is a genteel term. It’s a unique seaside city profession; bathing women are typically tall, robust middle-aged women responsible for supporting customers, ensuring that the ladies aren’t swept away by the waves.

As for gentlemen, they don’t have so many concerns. They usually wear only a vest and knee-length shorts, with some daring enough to swim dozens of yards out, showcasing their robust physique in the telescopes of the ladies on the beach.

On the beach, those not planning to enter the water also have plenty of enjoyment.

Children gather around the tidal rocks, searching for small crabs and starfish, carefully placing them into tin buckets.

Flowing dressed ladies sit on tweed-upholstered lounge chairs, shading their foreheads with long-handled umbrellas, sipping warm lemonade, and reading the latest published issues of the Gentleman’s Magazine and The Times. If lucky, they might spot an impromptu performance by the local choir on the nearby wooden platform.

Near the pier, it’s even livelier than the beach, with rows of souvenir vendors, candy sellers, sketch artists, and street performers. Sketch artists typically pre-draw backgrounds, and if you’re willing to spend a few shillings, you can have a ”Mrs. (or Miss) Someone’s Delightful Memory in Ramsgate” captured in about ten minutes.

At the foot of the east cliff, at the far end of the beach, hotel owners are busy welcoming and seeing off guests. Their entrance usually displays signs advertising ”Tea 6 Pennies” or ”Fresh Fish Breakfast 1 Shilling per Person.” Though these prices are substantially higher than in London, as travelers, guests generally don’t haggle over such trifles.

However, the Duchess of Kent and Princess Victoria certainly wouldn’t squeeze into the same hotel with the citizenry.

Several months in advance, they had already reserved the Albion Villa, exclusive to royal family members and senior nobility.

As in past years whenever Victoria travels, the scenario in Ramsgate resembles a scene from before. As Kensington Palace’s carriages roll along Ramsgate’s streets toward the harbor, spectators have long lined the roadsides. As The Times noted, the direct arrival of the royal family amongst them is something England’s people welcome.

The entirety of Ramsgate seemed ignited by the morning sun. Triangular buntings hung from windows along the streets, children waved from row house balconies, and someone tossed down paper-cut ”petals” from above, falling onto the royal procession’s carriage roof like some secular coronation.

The band awaited the main street corner leading to the pier, brass instruments blaring in the sea breeze, but always half a beat behind the conductor’s motions. Clearly, these ”musicians” were temporarily borrowed from the church, hence the lack of professionalism.

And standing in a row behind the band were members of the local Parliament; nearly all these gentlemen wore sixteen-inch-tall top hats, in their freshly tailored best coats, unwilling to unbutton even when flushed from the heat.

The crowd enveloped the carriage, cheers, applause, and hats tossed into the air blended in jubilation.

Vendors maneuvered candy-laden carts along the edges, with the savvy seizing the chance to peddle their pre-ordered ”royal souvenirs.”

Children yanked at their mothers’ skirts, crying for a ”Princess Victoria edition” handkerchief. Young men stood on tiptoe, trying to see if the princess in the gold-ornamented carriage truly was, as rumored, a rare beauty or genuinely had a leg ailment.

Today, Victoria wore a light purple gown with a silver-gray trimmed capelet, her hair styled in a smooth bun, topped with a feather-adorned small hat.

She sat in the carriage, face softened with a smile, mechanically waving to the crowds on both sides, but her arm had grown stiff, and her back started to ache.

She ought to find solace in such scenes. After all, she remains merely the crown prince, not the queen, yet the citizens already greet her with nearly kingly fervor.

But ultimately, a person is merely a person. Before coming to Ramsgate, she had received equally warm welcomes along the way, repeatedly responding with the same gracious demeanor to the public’s expectations.

”How much longer?” she softly asked the gentleman beside her, dressed in a black tailcoat.

Arthur did not immediately respond. He looked up through the window, confirming there was a short distance to go, then turned his gaze back to her face: ”Soon, Your Highness. However, afterward, you still need to deliver a speech before the city council and citizens, thanking them for their warm welcome, and compliment Ramsgate’s civic development and pleasant scenery.”

Victoria nodded languidly: ”I understand.”

Arthur also knew that such an itinerary arrangement was indeed grueling, yet it was part of the Kensington System, and Arthur deemed this part most beneficial.

Thus, he could only persuade Victoria to persevere, cheering her on: ”Your Highness, people of high standing are somewhat like actors on stage; they must strive to please their audience. You have always done well in this regard. I know you might feel tormented now, but please endure a little longer, just hold on a bit more; the most arduous part will soon be over.”

He smiled, looking toward the window at the ceaselessly waving crowd, a tone of encouragement laced with a bit of harshness in his voice: ”These people stand by the roadside from morning, draped in shawls, children in tow, under the scorching sun, merely to catch a glimpse of you. They don’t know whether you slept well, how long on the ship and carriage, or if you’re weary of this pageantry. But you surely know, their expectations for you are high; Great Britain’s expectations for you are high.”

Victoria remained silent for a moment.

”They think I’m the future.” She finally spoke, a soft voice as if talking to herself: ”Yet I have no idea where I’ll be tomorrow.”

”Indeed, they do think you are the future,” Arthur paused, turning his head toward the seemingly endless cheering crowd outside: ”Your Highness, this country has been too long without genuinely admiring its ruler. Therefore, if you wish to know where your tomorrow lies, you must meet their expectations, for they surely hope for your future on the throne.”

The words weren’t heavy, but perfectly measured.

Victoria listened, still not turning to him, merely straightened her back and smiled: ”I also want to know where I’ll be tomorrow. Then let’s give it a try, perform today first.”

Soon after, she looked back at Arthur. Though still fatigued, her eyes appeared clearer than before: ”Do you still have my speech?”

Arthur nodded approvingly, taking from his leather pouch the speech and handing it to her: ”Your Highness, your address follows the Duchess of Kent’s, and I’ve slightly adjusted the opening thanks. I hope Your Highness doesn’t mind.”