Chapter 2008: Chapter 183: The Idol of Middle-Aged Women? No, Young Women Too!
She doesn’t really want you to understand her, she wants you to acknowledge that she was once a neglected Queen.
——Arthur Hastings, "Former Queen: Marie de Medici"
The emotions of the Duchess of Kent surged like a tide: "You know, Delina used to... rely on me so much. She couldn’t even decide which pair of shoes to wear in the morning without me choosing for her. But now, she has Viscount Melbourne, the Duchess of Sutherland, and the entire Buckingham Palace. And I... I no longer know when the alarm clock by her bedside goes off."
Arthur nodded, not interrupting.
The Duchess of Kent continued speaking, looking up towards the distant garden, sunlight streaming through the leaves, the wind brushing past the tall windows of St. George’s Hall.
She murmured, "I don’t know when she started seeing me as a stranger. I used to choose the color of every pair of socks for her, lose sleep over every day’s schedule... But now she’s asking for dignity, for freedom."
"Perhaps she’s not wrong," Arthur slowly replied, "but that doesn’t mean she no longer needs her mother."
The Duchess of Kent paused, her gaze falling on her clasped hands, those hands that once meticulously selected recipes, signed court accounts, and designed her daughter’s curriculum, now merely resting on the hem of her morning gown, empty and useless.
She slowly, as if talking to herself, whispered, "But you know... sometimes I feel like she’s no longer my daughter."
"You know, Arthur." She took a soft breath, a breath carrying the utmost restrained pain: "To ensure her growth, I nearly exhausted everything I had left in this country. Perhaps no one remembers which room we lived in Kensington during the first few years of George IV’s reign. That house was drafty in winter, moldy in summer. The year she was born, the weather was so cold it could freeze people to death. Her father... my husband, my dear Edward, didn’t even live to see his daughter teething before he passed away. And what he left behind was only seventy thousand pounds of debt, Arthur, seventy thousand pounds!"
Her knuckles suddenly tightened on the folds of her skirt, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes stretched taut: "Many people think the Royal Family would provide us mother and daughter with a life free of worries, but her uncle, King George, didn’t even deign to reply to my letters. I went to see him, begged him to have mercy on his brother’s widow and orphaned child, only for him to leave me waiting in the anteroom of St. James’s Palace for hours before sending an attendant to inform me he was too busy with affairs to see me."
The Duchess of Kent paused here, as if struggling to suppress that shameful past, her nature as the daughter of a Grand Duke often preventing her from mentioning such things in the presence of outsiders, especially the nobility.
But perhaps due to having suppressed for too long, coupled with Conroy’s prolonged absence, leaving her with no one to confide in, she was willing to disclose these matters to Arthur today.
"At that time, how did Delina and I survive? By selling off dowries, relying on occasional aid from my brother Leopold, by cutting down on food and clothing. There was one winter I even dismissed most of the servants, leaving only the nurse, cook, and porter to accompany us. At night, sometimes even tasks like starting a fire, boiling water, and washing diapers had to be done by John and Leisen..."
Arthur listened quietly, his usual gentle demeanor unchanged, as if patiently listening to a lady of high status recounting a deeply moving and tumultuous experience, rather than a German widow recounting her previous embarrassment and humiliation.
His gaze appeared calm, at times carrying a hint of surprise, at others a touch of sympathy.
But in his heart?
Apologies, Sir Arthur Hastings, raised in a pigsty, probably finds it hard to understand where the hardship lies in having a nurse, cook, and porter.
Selling dowries?
Being left waiting in St. James’s Palace for hours?
Relying on remittances from brother Leopold to get through winter?
These, to Sir Arthur Hastings, born in a Poorhouse, unaware of his parents’ names, relying on porridge and picking coal slag for survival in childhood, hardly count as hardship.
He remembers the winter when he was four, wearing donated clothes from the previous year, with one side of the collar missing and the sleeves roughly sewn up with hemp rope.
At night, a dozen kids crowded onto a bed board padded with straw, huddled together to keep out the cold air. If they were lucky, they could drink a bowl of broth made from leftover vegetable leaves before sleep, so their stomachs wouldn’t be as empty as the whistling north wind outside.
That winter, seven children died in the Poorhouse.
More infuriatingly, the porridge distributed to each child the next day still didn’t increase in quantity.
But it doesn’t matter, because eight more arrived in the Poorhouse come spring.
Even worse, since then, the food in the Poorhouse became even worse.
If this were five years ago, Arthur might still feel anger at the Duchess of Kent’s grievances, but he no longer feels that way. He doesn’t feel anger, envy, nor pity, just absurdity.
He certainly understands that she’s genuinely expressing her feelings, even in some sense, it is rare sincerity.
Because there’s a kind of suffering in this world that people are thrown into at birth — not seeking success, fame, or fortune, just enough food and warmth, just survival.
And another kind of suffering is when one’s dignity falls by a few inches, it feels like descending into Hell.
