The Shadow of Great Britain

The morning light slanted through the tall French window panes, casting a glow on the silverware on the long table.

Lancaster Gate 36, the dining room of Sir Arthur Hastings’ residence, was as quiet as ever, with only the ticking of the clock and the rustle of newspaper pages.

The maid, Becky, walked out from the kitchen carrying a tray, her apron hem swinging with her steps.

”Sir, breakfast is ready.”

She set down the tray, the items still the old favorites of Sir Arthur: freshly brewed tea, soft-boiled eggs, toast browned to perfection, and several neatly folded morning papers.

The white porcelain teapot steamed on the tray, the scent of tea mingling with the smell of ink, unmistakably identifying itself as The Times.

”Thank you for your hard work, Becky.”

Arthur sat by the dining table, draped only in a robe, with traces of last night’s hangover still lingering on his face.

For the musicians who participated in last night’s Buckingham Palace concert, performing was only part of the job; there was also a court dinner and dance to attend afterward.

And naturally, these musicians who had shone at the concert became the center of attention.

The lights of Buckingham Palace, champagne, velvet, laughter, and the scent of perfume on the ladies, all combined to create a dizzying experience.

Arthur still remembered that the first to approach was the eldest son of Army Major General Lord George Russell, the nephew of the Home Secretary, Lord John Russell, the 17-year-old Lord Francis Charles Hastings Russell.

From this young man’s middle name, it was evident he was related to Sir Arthur Hastings.

Or rather, he was related to the Hastings family, for his mother’s uncle was indeed the first Marquis of Hastings.

If you meticulously traced the family line, it was quite proper for Little Lord Russell to call Arthur ”cousin”.

In truth, Little Lord Russell was not very keen on his police officer cousin, but he couldn’t resist his sweetheart, Miss Elizabeth Sackville-West, who was a fervent fan of Sir Arthur; indeed, Miss West had become a fervent fan today only.

Miss West, although she had heard the ladies of the Bluestocking Society mention the Hastings frenzy seven years ago, was seeing Mr. Hastings perform today for the first time.

After all, seven years ago, Miss West was only 12 years old, living in her family’s home in Cambridge County, with few opportunities to come to London for performances.

Nonetheless, this did not prevent Miss West from becoming enamored with Arthur, possibly Britain’s most outstanding contemporary composer, at her first sighting.

Thus, at Miss West’s insistence, Little Lord Russell had no choice but to pluck up the courage to introduce her to his Cousin Arthur.

Fortunately, the outcome was good. Cousin Arthur was very kind and forthright; he not only complimented Miss West’s musical understanding, encouraged her to further hone her piano skills, but also subtly praised Little Lord Russell in front of her, saying he was an exceedingly reliable and handsome young man.

And after helping the two young lovebirds, the ambassador’s wife came over.

”I will host a small gathering at Grosvenor Square next week. It would be wonderful if you could attend.”

”When I was in Berlin, I had the pleasure of watching your orchestrated version of Turandot. It was an unforgettable experience. If you have time, perhaps you could come by; my daughter, Gabrielle, mentions you now and then.”

Though the ladies had different ways of expressing it, their core purpose was unanimously to invite Arthur to join the social salons they organized.

For these diplomat’s wives, managing their husband’s social circle was their most important duty, and having a composer like Sir Arthur Hastings, who could stand out at Buckingham Palace concerts, would undoubtedly elevate the overall tone of the salon.

But compared to dealing with these ”ulterior-motived” ambassador’s wives, it was still easier to handle the young noble ladies who were new to the social scene.

These ladies usually carried only harmless curiosity, gathered around Arthur with questions, asking about the material of his baton, inquiring about which Muse inspired him.

Of course, Arthur could not possibly tell them his real ”Muse” was a political intrigue.

One of the young ladies closest to him, around seventeen or eighteen years old, with gray-blue eyes still retaining some ”foolish” innocence, posed questions full of openings for Sir Arthur to maneuver: ”Sir, why do you never look at the audience when you conduct? Is it because you’re shy?”

”Shy? Perhaps a little, but mainly because... I want to focus on what I think.”

”And now?” she blinked her eyes, ”What are you thinking about now?”

”I am thinking...” Arthur took a sip of champagne, ”if I step any closer, your father might have to send someone to find me tonight.”

This successfully caused the young lady’s cheeks to blush, while the surrounding ladies laughed even more gleefully.

And the reactions of the onlookers provided the old fox just the gap he needed to gracefully retreat with his champagne glass.

Of course, Sir Arthur could have lingered here for a bit longer.

But considering that many ladies of ”high caliber” were present nearby, such as Mrs. Levin and others, he had to withdraw from the scene forcefully to avoid being surrounded by the enemy.