The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1763 - 85: Who Is More Attractive, Me or Carter from North City? (Part 2)

While picking up the milk jug to add milk to his coffee cup, he explained in a way Becky could understand: "The political secretary is the kind of person who writes letters for the ministers, runs errands, and nods along during meetings. Although they aren’t often seen in the newspapers, they’re at least familiar faces in White Hall and can enter and exit from the side of the red notice board without being stopped by the guards."

He paused, feeling this might still be a bit hard to understand, so he used another analogy: "It’s like in the kitchen, the person standing beside the chef responsible for chopping vegetables and assisting; although they’re not the main character, chopping the onion wrong can make the entire feast taste peculiar."

Becky understood half of it and nodded earnestly: "And what about backseat parliamentarians?"

Arthur shrugged: "Backseat parliamentarians are those sitting at the back row in the Parliament Hall. They don’t wield power, they don’t give orders, and their speeches are often interrupted. Just like in your household association, those girls placed last on the tea party list, usually by the time it’s their turn to speak, the tea has gone cold, and half of the people in the venue have left."

Becky couldn’t help but laugh: "Aren’t they even worse than kitchen helpers?"

"In most cases, indeed they are." Arthur smiled slightly, "Especially when that backseat parliamentarian still believes he’ll become the Prime Minister someday, that kind of disparity can really make one’s teeth ache. Benjamin’s lips have been blistering these days, telling others it was burnt by hot tea - that kid..."

As Arthur spoke, the wooden floor upstairs creaked, accompanied by a muddled yawn, and a guy with a purple robe thrown over him, hair so messy it seemed as if he’d just been pulled from a pigsty, leisurely walked down.

No need to say more, this was indeed Eld lodging at Arthur’s house.

Even though his uncle, John Carter Major General, had a house in Mayfair, Eld still didn’t want to move back there.

After all, he was going out early and coming back late these days, and if he explained things in detail to his uncle, aunt, and cousin, it would be quite troublesome.

But staying at Arthur’s place was entirely different.

Not only could he drag Arthur, the Great Dumas, Dickens, and others to drink and watch plays, he didn’t have to spend even a penny, and besides messing around every day, he would just nest at home reading and preparing for exams.

With Arthur’s all-inclusive service, plus his uncle smoothing things out, Eld thought if he still couldn’t pass the Navy Department screening this summer, it would be utterly unjustifiable.

Rubbing his eyes, Eld seemed to not have woken up yet, his left hand cradling a half-slipped wool blanket, and his right foot hovering on the stairs.

"Arthur, are we going to Leicester Square today, or to... uh... Becky is here too..."

"Just in time for breakfast, Mr. Carter." Becky was somewhat used to this London University’s oddball’s ways: "We’ve baked oat cookies today and your favorite smoked bacon ham sandwich, just freshly made, eat while it’s hot."

"You’re really thoughtful, Becky." Eld came down the stairs, lazily sprawled onto a chair: "Such a hardworking girl, can you imagine? Just a few days ago, I was still sleeping in a foul-smelling cabin, and the first thing I saw daily upon waking was Charles’ bald head."

As he spoke, receiving the plate Becky handed over, he stuffed a bite of cookie into his mouth, then noticed the pile of newspapers Arthur had rummaged through: "So, has anything big happened? Why does your smile carry a hint of schadenfreude?"

"Schadenfreude? How could I?" Arthur took a sip of his milk coffee: "Sir Pier was my old boss, it’s not like I have time for condolences."

"Old boss?" Others might not know Arthur’s little story, but Eld was well aware: "Stop pretending, when you first joined Scotland Yard, you cursed Pier up to eight times a day. But indeed, earning just about thirty pounds a year, and he still wanted you all to risk your lives, anyone would call him a fool."

Arthur gently placed his coffee cup down: "Alright, you sound like you’re quite tough, mouth-wise. But didn’t you obediently don that formal dress a few days ago and follow the Beagle’s crew to Kensington Palace to meet the Princess? How was it there? Were you scared into stuttering?"

"Scared into stuttering?" Eld scoffed, but couldn’t help letting his mouth curl into a smile: "Not at all, she seemed even more nervous than I was."

He said, stuffing the sandwich into his mouth, mumbling indistinctly: "But she’s indeed quite adorable, nothing like the strong future monarch described in the newspapers."

Arthur raised a brow with interest: "You all do take interest in the Princess?"

"Of course." Eld chewed his sandwich, murmuring: "These days, who doesn’t care what the Crown prince looks like? I still remember our gunner, that chap from Surrey, insisted she’ll marry a German prince someday, only to be beaten black and blue by the helmsman from Manchester, who said the Princess surely imagines a man like a Knight, who’s knowledgeable in law, poetry, and how to flirt, just like novels portray."

"Come on, Eld, you’ve got to be careful with your words." Arthur finally lifted his eyes, speaking half-seriously and half-teasingly: "She’s not even sixteen yet, still a girl who copies Shakespeare every day in the Rose Hall and studies geography in the garden. Those fantasies from the ships, while fitting perfectly in Alexander’s script, are definitely impossible at Kensington Palace."