Dear Arthur:
When I pick up the pen, my palms are cold, and my vision is blurry.
I understand my identity, as a lady of nobility, society demands that I maintain composure and grace, yet it seldom allows me to show my true self.
I thought I could face everything bravely, that I could hide my weakness from anyone, that I could stand alone in any predicament.
I often fantasize about being like you, even if standing in the center of a storm, still able to face challenges and pressures fearlessly and decisively, even if it means abandoning all feelings and weaknesses.
However, I must admit, I am not as fearless as you.
After all, I am a woman, rumors, even the most trivial glances and words, deeply wound me.
The vulnerability I dare not face has long since turned into silent tears, entwined around my heart.
A few months ago, when my health wasn't so poor, I accompanied the Duchess to an exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts.
