Chapter 2009: Chapter 183: Idol of Middle-Aged Women? No, Young Ones Too! (Part 2)
The pain of the Duchess of Kent was clearly the latter.
Yet she truly did feel the hurt.
He could see that the fall from a "heroic mother raising a child for the country" to a "helpless widow abandoned by her daughter" made her feel as though she had lost everything.
Her descriptions of winter, drafts, and washing diapers were not fabricated, but rather the remnants of her useless dignity churning within her, compelling her to find someone to confide in.
She needed someone who understood and would not contradict her.
And Arthur?
He happened to be that person.
Because he knew how to remain silent.
As a leader of Scotland Yard, Arthur deeply understood—whoever knew how to keep silent in a meeting had already persuaded half the people.
He understood when a mere glance, a slight nod, or even a deliberately slowed breath could make the other person feel "understood."
This was an instinct, a skill honed during years of neglect.
During his time at the Poorhouse, he wouldn’t cry, because no one cared if he cried; he wouldn’t shout because no one listened when he shouted; he wouldn’t beg as begging yielded nothing.
The experience at the Poorhouse granted him a priceless treasure: he learned to observe and pretend that he, too, had "feelings."
And this "poor mother" sitting in front of him, wrapped in an exquisite morning gown, felt the world was unjust simply because she lost her center of power and speech.
Alas, how could someone live to such an age without realizing they were not the center of the world?
Arthur lowered his head, looking at her hands still clutching the hem of her skirt.
Those hands were quite beautiful, white and slender, maintaining a kind of noble restraint and decorum despite the wrinkles.
At least, those hands were much more attractive than the chapped, blistered hands of laundry workers, soaked in soapy water, peeling, and scabbed with blood.
He raised his head to see that the Duchess of Kent had gradually calmed down, and she seemed to realize her loss of composure.
She sniffed, gathering her tumultuous emotions deep within her eyes, once again posing with the familiar demeanor of a lady.
Arthur knew she needed reassurance.
He also knew what to say.
"I believe Her Majesty the Queen... still remembers the fires of those nights, Your Highness. It’s just that too many surround her now, and those who could help her recall the past are too few."
With these words, the Duchess’s shoulders noticeably relaxed, as if she finally regained the dignity and value of maternal sacrifice.
She gave him a grateful glance, even lightly patted the back of his hand, like a loving elder thanking an understanding youth.
But her fingers lingered on Arthur’s hand for only a half-second before retreating, as if she suddenly realized the action was too intimate and vulnerable.
Yet Arthur seemed oblivious to this, only smiling gently: "Your Highness, would you like to take a walk outside? The sun is shining; it’s not too cold. The rehearsal is about to start, and you can see the parade ground’s flags from the corridor."
The Duchess of Kent paused at his words. She instinctively raised her head, a hint of wavering in her eyes, but quickly lowered her raised chin: "No need... Thank you, Sir Arthur. But if Delina sees you walking with me from the window, she would be displeased."
She smiled with a hint of self-mockery, her voice softer: "Perhaps she’d think I’m using you to gain her sympathy, and besides... it would affect you too."
Arthur looked at her calmly: "Your Highness, I believe Her Majesty holds me in regard, not because I share her opinions, but because I am not one to speak falsehoods."
He paused, gazing at the garden’s oblique shadows outside the window, then continued: "If I’m standing here today, it’s because I truly respect you. Even if Her Majesty doesn’t understand for a moment, it won’t change my attitude."
The Duchess’s gaze lingered on his face for a long time, her eyes slightly misty, but this time, she didn’t cry, only nodded gently: "You are a good child, Arthur... Sometimes I even think, if Delina had a friend like you by her side earlier, perhaps she wouldn’t have turned out this way."
Arthur smiled faintly, not responding; he only slightly raised his arm in a half-inviting gesture.
"Your Highness, let’s walk. Just walking, for nothing else."
The Duchess looked at him, then at the sunlight falling on the stone slabs outside. Finally, she slowly nodded, her fingers still trembling slightly as she rose.
"Alright, just for a while."
...
Victoria stood in front of the dressing table, the morning light poured down from the sky-blue windows, casting on her boot tips and the shoulders where a cloak had yet to unfold.
She wore a tight-fitting white chemise, sleeves drawn tight, her silhouette carved by the sunlight as she stood still, gazing at the military uniform spread before her.
It was a coat tailored from deep red wool, trimmed with gold threads, shoulder epaulets stiff and erect, with a sword, silver buckle, sash, cloak, hat, and the Garter Star Badge symbolizing her role as the head of the Garter Knight Order placed beside it.
"Queen Victoria Wearing Military Attire at the 1837 Windsor Review"
——Excerpt from Britain’s "The Graphic," January 26, 1901
She stood in front of the mirror, slightly bending forward, her fingertips gently caressing the Garter Star pinned to the left chest of the uniform.
"Your Majesty, the epaulet is slightly askew..."
