Chapter 2232 - 257: The Complex Mother-Daughter Relationship at Buckingham Palace (3)

"But... what about the children? What should happen to those children? Are they destined to suffer these indignities?"

Arthur sighed as he continued to apply ointment to the Parliament’s eyes: "Your Majesty... the members are not saying that children are not worthy of protection. However, within the current system, to protect the children, some people’s perceived freedom must be sacrificed. To give the police a step ahead in power, London must tolerate premature suspicion. To ensure suspicion doesn’t harm any innocents, one must accept that scoundrels are always quicker than the police..."

Arthur was about to continue elaborating on the "cost of the system", aiming to push the young monarch into Scotland Yard’s embrace, but before he could finish speaking, the dining hall’s thick doors were slowly pushed open by an attendant’s knock.

Cold air, like an icy current, silently poured in through the crack of the door.

"The Duchess of Kent, Your Highness..."

The attendant’s words were unfinished as the familiar figure already stepped into the dining hall.

Today, she wore a deep blue French morning dress with lace at the collar that appeared stiff, as if even the fabric itself carried a sort of indisputable rigidity and distance.

As soon as the Duchess entered, the air in the dining room seemed to tighten.

Victoria’s spine instinctively straightened.

Emotions, anger, irritation, inquiries—all the things that were about to burst forth from her chest were pushed back to the depths of her soul at the moment her mother appeared.

Even her breathing became lighter.

The Duchess glanced over the dining table; her gaze showed neither hostility nor kindness, just a cold habit of examining without ever allowing others to scrutinize her.

Then, she nodded slightly to her daughter as if out of routine: "Good morning, Your Majesty."

Victoria put down her knife and fork, speaking with a polite but almost flat tone: "Good morning, Mother."

She didn’t even say "Mom".

The Duchess of Kent noticed but said nothing, only responding with detached courtesy: "I hope you rested well last night."

Victoria seemed to recall the infuriating letter from last night, and the countless times her mother had used "hope you rested well" as an excuse for control over the years.

Her throat moved slightly: "Thank you for your concern."

The Duchess of Kent had yet to sit down, and her gaze was slowly gliding along the side of the table.

By tradition, the right-hand seat next to the Queen should belong to Viscount Melbourne.

She originally thought the person seated there would be Melbourne.

Until she truly saw the face of the figure lifting his head.

Sir Arthur Hastings.

The Duchess’s steps paused for a moment, imperceptible to most, yet not escaping Victoria’s eyes.

For half a second, the tense, ceremonial facade on her face lightly eased.

It wasn’t surprise nor joy, but rather an instinctual warmth, as if suddenly meeting someone still willing to reminisce in a long winter.

The Duchess spoke, with a noticeably warmer tone than the earlier "good morning" to Victoria: "Good morning, Sir Arthur, is breakfast to your liking?"

This gentleness wasn’t feigned, it was more of a genuine gratitude for those maintaining her dignity after experiencing much coldness and exclusion.

Perhaps, this young man before her once opposed her.

But after Victoria ascended the throne, everyone in the palace feared associating with her, except Arthur, who remained courteous, speaking with her, assisting her when needed, and respectfully addressing her as "Your Highness." In the ostracized and marginalized palace life, such details seemed especially precious.

Arthur immediately stood, offering a polite bow: "Your Highness, I am very glad to see you well."

The Duchess’s expression softened: "How have you been? I’ve heard people say you work tirelessly, with many affairs. I’ve been worried..."

She paused mid-sentence, realizing her tone was too personal, and quickly retracted to leave only a stately ending: "worried that you’re overworked."

Victoria’s hand subtly tightened under the table.

Arthur couldn’t possibly be unaware of the strange atmosphere in the air.

Despite his courteous exterior and stable demeanor, he didn’t dare meet Victoria’s eyes, knowing without looking what expression she wore now.

What did this cold war between mother and daughter have to do with him early in the morning?

He had only come for the rice pudding.