The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1730 - 72: Offending the Sir and Still Want to Leave? (Part 2)

Blackwell felt a chill in his heart: "Forget it, better find a barber shop and tidy up first. Not sprucing up, what kind of appearance is this?" 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Just as Blackwell was about to set off, he heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching, the sound growing nearer. He looked in the direction of the sound and suddenly saw a Phaeton car appear at the corner of the street.

"19th Century Typical Phaeton Car"

The Phaeton creaked closer, its body so old it looked like it would fall apart, its canopy mottled, with a temporary patch sewn on one corner, and its iron-rimmed wheels clattered as if they might fly off any moment.

Blackwell instinctively frowned: "God! Which transporter is this, it’s a bit too shabby..."

As he was about to look away and pick up his suitcase to find another place, the ragged car suddenly stopped in front of him, and the driver lowered his voice and shouted: "Henry? Is that you?"

Blackwell was startled, squinted to take a closer look, and to his surprise, the person sitting under the canopy was a familiar face, George Austin, who always loved to carry a leather document bag under his arm and smile before speaking. They had entered the Foreign Office in the same year.

"George?" Blackwell walked forward in disbelief: "You... you’re not working in the Foreign Office anymore? Venturing out for a livelihood?"

"What nonsense are you talking about?" Austin laughed as he jumped down from the carriage: "You really think the Foreign Office can’t afford to hire people anymore? I’m here specifically to pick you up."

"Pick me up?" Blackwell glanced at the carriage while holding his suitcase: "But this carriage... If you hadn’t said, I would’ve thought it was for hauling fruit."

Austin shrugged helplessly: "You think I would want this? It’s the policy of the new Prime Minister."

"You mean Robert Peel?"

"Who else could it be?" Austin said as he helped him place the suitcase on the carriage, smacking his lips: "The first thing he did after taking office was to cut government spending, demanding practicality and frugality from every department, our Foreign Office being the leading department naturally had to set an example."

"So your way of responding is to have me ride in this broken carriage?"

"You should be grateful that you even have a Phaeton to ride in." Austin patted him on the shoulder, half teasing, half comforting: "Your appointment letter describes you as an embassy attaché, not Your Excellency the Envoy. It’s fortunate they didn’t send you in a rural caravan."

Blackwell knew that getting angry was useless. With frustration, he plopped into the creaking seat, muttering, "Even dragging a coffin out from a funeral home would be steadier than this carriage."

"Stop complaining, wait until you meet Sir John Bickhouse, you’ll have a place to vent your anger, but I advise you, best not to do so."

Austin jumped back into the carriage, gave a shout, and the old brown horse seemed somewhat hard of hearing; it took a good while before it slowly reacted and started moving.

As Austin drove the carriage, he said: "Regarding the Caucasus, the department is very pleased with the crucial information you provided. If you hadn’t reported it promptly, it might have led to trouble. I’ve heard Sir John Bickhouse has high hopes for you, and don’t underestimate this shabby carriage; it might just be the one that carries you through the last leg of your promotional journey."

Upon hearing this, Blackwell leaned against the carriage canopy, revealing a smile of undisguised pride: "When it comes down to it, getting promoted these days is just a gamble. Others gamble on luck, factions, or whether the father of a hereditary title might suddenly remember he has a son. And us? We rely on opportunities and courage. Opportunities are hard to predict, but courage, I’m definitely courageous!"

Austin didn’t make a sound, just glanced at him askance, his lips pursed in a smile.

Blackwell laughed aloud: "Oh, that Arthur Hastings guy, he has plenty of tricks. David Eckett isn’t easy to deal with either; the two of them correspond across the Caucasus, yet don’t realize the letters have to be handed over by someone else. I admit they’re both extremely courageous, but they have courage, and so do I. But in the end, my skills are superior."

When Blackwell talked about it, he couldn’t help but mention the thank-you letter he regarded as his life-saving talisman: "Do you know, Viscount Palmeston personally sent me a thank-you letter earlier this year, saying that I made an indispensable contribution to the ’transparency of national interests and the clarification of foreign relations’."

Upon hearing this, Austin couldn’t help but remind Blackwell: "But the whole affair was quite undignified. He might be using the Caucasus incident to hold a grip over Hastings and Eckett, right? Besides, if you do get promoted someday, aren’t you worried your love letters might be spread open for everyone to see?"

Blackwell shook his head, yet there wasn’t a trace of regret on his face: "That’s for later; at least for now, I won. I’m just presenting the truth to those who should see it. Besides, I didn’t alter even a single word. I prefer to be a cunning fox rather than a loyal hound."

"Alright then." Austin sighed as he maneuvered the carriage around a cart loaded with spices: "But you better pray that the fox won’t end up burning its own tail one day."

Blackwell reclined in the creaking seat, intending to close his eyes and rest, lest the jostling of the carriage shook off the last shred of his gentlemanly dignity.

Unexpectedly, as he opened his eyes, he noticed the nearby streets gradually becoming increasingly unfamiliar.

"Wait!" he suddenly said, his voice full of alertness: "This isn’t the way to White Hall."