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.
