The Shadow of Great Britain

Thomas Wycliffe would never forget that moment.

As the carriage turned from St. James Street onto the main road, the wide iron fence of Buckingham Palace slowly emerged from the morning mist, resembling the ribs of a giant beast, he instinctively slowed his reins.

The air had changed completely from before.

It wasn’t the damp cold of Hay Market, nor the noise of Piccadilly Square, as if even the sound of hooves was swallowed by the gray-white palace walls.

This place was unlike anywhere he had passed before, unlike the university courtyards of Bloomsbury, nor the Cabinet residences on Whitehall. It was an indescribable quiet, belonging to the highest power of the Kingdom, pressing heavily beneath the mist, making one unsure whether to look up or to hold their breath.

Wycliffe’s knuckles tightened slightly on the reins.

The main gate of Buckingham Palace had not yet fully emerged, but he could already see the road ahead widen slightly, a symbol of royal ceremony, the road must be wide enough for a grand carriage pulled by four horses to drive side by side.

The square outside the palace gate was being cleaned by the first group of morning workers, gray-black coal dust being swept into small piles under their brooms.

In the distance, the gas lamps had not yet all been extinguished, their warm light reflecting on the iron railings, making them look like sacred objects in a religious ceremony.

As the carriage approached the palace gate, the two horses seemed to sense the extraordinary atmosphere here, their breathing deeper than before, the rhythm under their hooves slow and steady.

Thomas unconsciously straightened his back.

He had never, never thought he would drive a carriage here.

When he ran postal carriages, the most dignified passengers he served were just local gentlemen.

Running rental carriages, getting a well-dressed lawyer on board was considered lucky.

As for the Royal Palace?

It was a place even to glance at was intimidating.

The anecdote during the Regency said that any poorly dressed fool who dared approach the palace gates would be mercilessly driven away by guards, Thomas knew this was likely exaggerated, but enough to inspire awe.

Yet at this moment, he was driving the carriage, openly heading toward those iron railings.

Not sneaking away, not rushing to leave, but, by his master’s command.

”A place truly belonging to gentlemen.”

He again recalled Sir Arthur’s casual remark.

Thomas’s throat tightened slightly, yet his palms steadily held the reins.

He suddenly realized that what he was wearing now was the uniform Miss Becky had washed, dried, and carefully ironed for him two days ago.

The silver buckle around his collar glinted in the mist, not the cheap sheen common in impoverished days, but a dignified and undeniable shine, akin to those iron railings at the palace gates.

In the mist, two figures gradually took shape.

They were guards of the Coldstream Guards Regiment.

They stood straight, and the long guns in their hands gleamed in the sunlight.

The carriage gradually approached the main gate.

Two guards stepped forward.

Thomas instinctively thought to first report the master’s name, but before he could open his mouth, the carriage window slightly opened behind him, revealing Sir Arthur’s half face.

A few short words fell softly in the mist.

”Arthur Hastings.”

No redundancies, no exaggerations, no full title of nobility, no elaborate listing of family names and official titles.

Not an heir to some Baron of some county, not a royal advisor to some committee, nor those self-elevating proclamations Thomas had seen countless times — such as local estate owner, lifetime member of some club, or sponsor of some society.

These philistines reaching the palace gates invariably reported their lineage, fearing others might not know whose company shareholder they were, or on which noble’s ballroom they had appeared. Every word seemed to attach a label to the air, allowing others to recognize their ”identity,” but once those labels were spoken too heavily or hastily, they appeared light, worthless.

Those claiming to be ”upper-class” guys always made it a point to exhibit a disdainful expression to rental carriage drivers as they passed Regent Street, as if raising their eyebrows high enough would convince passersby they truly belonged to high society.

But at this moment, Thomas suddenly understood that true gentlemen never needed such decorations.

Arthur Hastings.

Simple to the point of almost being indifferent.

Not a single extra word.

Concise, unbelievably so.

Yet, just after the name fell.

The guards straightened their posture, stepped back half a step, raised their guns in salute, a clean and sharp action, bearing marks of the distinct training of the guards regiment.

”Let pass!”

The two wide iron gates then slowly parted, opening steadily, without the slightest hesitation.

Wycliffe did not look at the guards, nor did he look back at Sir Arthur.

He stared at Buckingham Palace Avenue gradually revealed ahead, a sudden surge of inexplicable emotion rising in his chest.

Calm, he felt an unusual calm.

It turned out, the calmness he thought only came from formal education was actually a power born naturally at a certain moment when status and ability accumulated.

It turned out...

Those who yelled at the coachman like a whip were, in fact, most afraid others would see through them.

When the iron gates fully opened, Wycliffe almost couldn’t help but straighten his chest and take a breath.

He even held the reins more firmly.

Confidence, a newfound confidence.

The carriage passed through the palace gates.

Thomas could only feel that he seemed drawn into another kind of air, that air silent, spacious, cool, yet carrying a subtle fragrance, perhaps the scent of palace lawns soaked by night dew, or maybe the faint soap scent left by maids as they walked along corridors in the morning.