The Shadow of Great Britain

He smiled as he spoke, a smile so pure it didn’t resemble that of a political figure; silence lingered between them for a moment. Finally, King William IV asked the question that had been buried in his heart for too long, perhaps originally intended to be taken to the grave.

”Adelaide...” His voice was as light as the night breeze brushing through the window cracks: ”Do you think... I was a good King?”

”You may not be the best of Kings,” Adelaide said with tear-filled eyes, cutting off any doubt: ”But you are the most diligent and honest ruler I’ve ever seen. You lack the political acumen bestowed by heaven, nor do you have a schemer’s coldness. Yet you possess a passionate heart, refusing ever to see the country take a wrong step, even if it might bring disgrace upon you. William, I don’t think anyone could have done better than you.”

King William IV listened quietly, his gaze softening inch by inch, as if the stones weighing on his chest were finally lifted away by her words.

After a long while, he lightly uttered a ”hmm,” as if in agreement or perhaps a sigh.

His fingertips slowly tightened, as if to confirm he could still hold her hand, even if only for these last few moments.

”In this life... I haven’t been able to bring you much happiness.” King William IV turned his head, looking at his wife: ”The Cabinet that argues all day, the never-ending moves of the sleeping quarters, and the endless malicious gossip... you’ve endured all these with me.”

King William IV’s voice grew softer, yet he still endeavored to maintain a gentle demeanor, as if preserving his last bit of dignity for Adelaide.

Adelaide shook her head gently with tears: ”Don’t say anymore, my dear. Don’t say anymore, my dear.”

King William IV gazed at her, his eyes tender to the point of transparency: ”Ultimately... I still have to leave. But after I’m gone... what will you do? My sweet little woman...”

Adelaide could no longer hold back; she bent down to lean on his chest, tightly embracing him, her tears falling on her husband’s shoulder still warm with life: ”Don’t go, William, promise me, don’t leave me.”

However, King William IV did not respond to his wife’s affectionate plea.

His breathing was no longer heard, yet the corners of his eyes seemed still to carry a trace of an undissipated smile.

Those eyes, accustomed to waves and court battles, finally closed slowly, like a once-opened ship cabin, silently returning to darkness.

The King has returned to the sea.

Queen Adelaide stood there frozen, and only after a moment did she realize—he was truly gone.

In this instant, Adelaide, always proper and never exceeding boundaries, finally broke down, sobbing quietly, then unable to suppress all grief within, crying out in pain.

The guards outside the door, hearing the sound, moved immediately, a few quickly pushing the door open, at first on high alert, but when they saw the scene by the bed, they all froze.

They had never seen the Queen so unrestrained.

The room was left with only the sound of sobbing and the flicker of candlelight.

The older Guard Commander slowly stepped forward, bowed his head in salute: ”Your Majesty has rested, Your Majesty the Queen, please take solace.”

Adelaide nodded with a choked voice, her eyes still filled with unstoppable tears.

She gently placed each of her husband’s fingers down, trembling as she placed them on his chest, just as she would when tidying his Navy Marshal’s formal dress.

The Guard Commander turned: ”Summon the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham.”

A few guards responded and withdrew, moments later, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, dressed in black robes, arrived supported by the Bishop of Windsor, along with the Lord Chamberlain, the Marquis of Cunningham.

They saw the lifeless King William IV lying on the bed and Adelaide silently weeping at the bedside and merely sighed lightly.

Then the faltering Archbishop of Canterbury approached the royal bed, facing the now calm King William IV, and slowly took out the Gospel and Holy Oil Bottle, solemnly beginning the last Mass for this Sailor King.

He prayed in a low, long Latin chant, his voice like waves gently lapping the throne: ”Lord, you are the harbor of mercy and glory...”

The vast sleeping chambers fell silent, with only the droplets of Holy Water and whispers of the Gospel echoing, gently enveloping this imperfect yet honest and straightforward King.

Tonight, Britain’s stars still twinkle above in the night sky.

But Britain’s King is no more.

The Tower of London has fallen.

Simple letters, sent from the telegraph station at Windsor Castle with unstoppable speed.

Passing through the fog-cloaked Surrey Hills, across the dew-laden Thames River banks, breaking the chimes at Westminster Abbey, along the still-chilled iron rails, racing towards Southampton, Portsmouth, and Liverpool, crossing the cold waves of the English Channel and the North Sea, reaching Belgium’s Brussels and the Kingdom of Hanover.

...

Kensington Palace was unnaturally quiet in the deep night, as if the entire estate held its breath in the darkness.

In the bedroom at the end of the corridor, heavy velvet curtains tightly drawn, shutting out all light, leaving a hint of embers from the not yet extinguished fire.

Suddenly, the person on the bed sat up abruptly, as if awakening from a nightmare.

Victoria gasped for breath, her lashes wet with cold sweat, a damp strand of hair clinging to her cheek.

Her gaze was clouded with the lingering confusion of dreams, scanning all around, as if to confirm she was still in reality, and not within that deep illusion.