The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1917 - 150: Conroy, Are You Trying to Rebel!? (2)

The King and both parties knew that he was a pillar of the nation, turning the tide during the 1832 Parliament reform wave, a key figure in Ramsgate, preventing the collapse of the building.

Unlike those ninth-generation Marquises and thirteenth-generation Viscounts, whose long hereditary titles could put people to sleep, Arthur’s surname was not followed by a long list of ancestors. His family tree was written in just a few lines, and not even whether he was really the nephew of a certain squire could be clearly said, but in contrast, his resume was written quite clearly.

He was a new noble of the Merit Party, his knight title may not stand out among many Marquises and Dukes, but his title was granted as a reward for serving the country and being loyal to the Royal Family, not in homage to family lineage.

He had merits and consequently nobility, rather than having nobility and subsequently gaining merit.

Even when standing before the Duke of Wellington, before King William IV, or before Tsar Nicholas I, Sir Arthur Hastings could hold his head high without any psychological burden; he was indeed not the son of any noble, but if he wished, he could become one himself.

Arthur’s gaze remained steady, as if uninterested in Conroy’s provocation: "Of course, I remember my identity."

He paced the room with his hands behind his back: "I am merely a civil servant of His Majesty the King, a public servant of the people of Britain. My duty is to act on orders, without personal feelings, without presumption. Whether today’s letter is addressed to Her Royal Highness the Princess, or a strike representative from a mining district in the north, or Viscount Melbourne the Prime Minister, or Sir Robert Peel the opposition leader, I would handle it the same way, seal it with wax, and deliver it face-to-face."

He stopped in his tracks, eyes sweeping over those present, his expression still gentle, but his tone unusually steady, as if a sheet of pure white paper, laying himself bare before everyone: "I have no ancestral carriages, no family crests, no silver utensils that have been passed down through three generations in court dinners. I have only a dispatch order and a paper of duties, commanding me to come, to deliver this letter."

At this point, he slowly raised his head, looking at Conroy, then at the Duchess of Kent: "I am a civil servant, not a steward, so I will not attempt to manage a household’s accounts, nor will I advise Her Royal Highness the Princess on whose teachings are more appropriate. I never presumed to be qualified to decide for Her Royal Highness the Princess when and at what time to read which letter, or whose words to heed."

As these words fell, Conroy’s face changed subtly, his adam’s apple quivered, yet he couldn’t immediately respond.

Even the Duchess of Kent’s expression turned stiff, as if the words "I never" were intended for her.

"I dare not forget my identity. I am a servant of His Majesty the King, a minor figure who can be dispatched at any time. Whether they are civil servants at White Hall or ministers of the Cabinet, they hand the errands to me, and I execute them by the rules, no more, no less. However, I do not find anything pathetic about being a civil servant. Because I fulfilled my duty, completed my mission. In this world, the truly pathetic thing is not a civil servant forgetting his insignificance, but someone who cannot distinguish whether he is a servant or a monarch. Someone always wants to add notes on paper that doesn’t belong to him, sign next to names that don’t belong to him, taking royal orders for family letters, and family letters for royal orders."

Victoria was initially standing at the door, her expression tense.

But when she saw Arthur smiling at her, she smiled back.

The atmosphere on site was frozen for several seconds.

Lord Chamberlain cleared his throat, breaking the silence, as if trying to bring the atmosphere back onto the track of royal etiquette: "Your Royal Highness, the letter from His Majesty has arrived."

Victoria took a deep breath, stepped forward two paces.

Her movements were somewhat stiff, but each step was more steady than the last.

When she reached Arthur, she extended her hand and said: "Please hand the letter to me, Sir Arthur."

Victoria’s voice was not loud, yet clear enough for everyone to hear.

Arthur looked at her, nodding slightly, and took the letter sealed with the red royal seal from his inner pocket, solemnly handing it to her.

The Duchess of Kent’s face was ashen, and the knuckles under her gloves subtly whitened.

She wanted to interject but knew that speaking out now, under the guise of "His Majesty the King" and Lord Chamberlain’s witness, would only make her seem unreasonable.

Conroy turned his back, seemingly adjusting his cuffs, but in reality, using the moment to disguise the annoyance on his face.

Victoria opened the envelope, quickly read through the letter, and then softly said: "Thank you, Sir Arthur, and thank you, Your Excellency."

Arthur bowed slightly, doffing his hat in salute: "Honored to serve you, Your Highness."

Lord Chamberlain cheekily winked at her: "Please remember to reply promptly, His Majesty is quite anxious."

Upon finishing, Lord Chamberlain immediately stepped forward, bowing to the Duchess of Kent: "Since Her Royal Highness the Princess has received the envelope, our mission along with Sir Arthur’s is considered complete. Please excuse us, Your Highness."

The Duchess of Kent closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She didn’t speak, only waved her hand, indicating her understanding.

Arthur and Lord Chamberlain bowed in farewell. As they took a few steps away, before exchanging views, they both simultaneously noticed a familiar gentleman standing in front of the hallway pillar—Baron Stockma.