PERSONAL LETTER
My Dearest Uncle,
I trust this missive finds you in good health. I write to you from the bustling city of London, a place you once warned me against. I confess, your words of caution were not unfounded. I was but a naive, overconfident youth from France when I first set foot in this vibrant metropolis in the year of our Lord 1875.
You cautioned me against following my dear friend, Aurora, when she wed the elderly Earl of Grandrivers. I confess, a pang of jealousy did strike my heart, for I saw through the veneer of the scoundrel’s charms. He, a man of forty winters, preyed upon my beautiful, vulnerable friend, who was but nineteen and still mourning the loss of her parents.
I understand what might be going through your mind. Perhaps I should have been more persistent in convincing her to reject this match. However, I was afraid of losing her completely. Remember, our friendship was already under tension after I impulsively kissed her on her fifteenth birthday... It was only through your prudent advice that we overcame that awkward display of my affection for her.
Upon her marriage, I feigned happiness, but her silence in the ensuing months wounded me deeply. Anger and hurt were my companions, but above all, I was consumed with worry. Thus, I resolved to journey to England.
The Aurora I encountered was a stranger to me, distant and cold. I vowed never to visit her again. I do not seek to justify my subsequent reprehensible behavior, but I wish for you to understand my state of mind.
In my folly, I sought to wound her as she had wounded me. I paraded an indifference I did not feel, seeking solace in the fleeting pleasures of boudoirs and the chaos of gambling dens.
I was a fool, and I regret the pain my reckless ways have caused you. Despite my efforts, I found myself searching for her at every glittering ball, each extravagant dinner party. Slowly, the grim reality of my friend’s situation revealed itself.
Aurora’s laughter, once so free, are now restrained. Her eyes, once so full of determination, are shadowed by an unspoken fear. I noticed bruises hidden beneath silk gloves and layers of makeup, and her once vibrant presence seems to shrink, as if wishing to disappear.
Her eyes still sparkle upon seeing me, but the haunted look they hold is impossible to ignore. She declines my offers of help, her voice quivering whenever her husband’s name is mentioned. The whispers of his violent temper echoes through the salons and ballrooms of London.
Yesterday, Sophie's maid discreetly handed me a card adorned with a painting of pansies, blue columbines, yellow roses, and marigolds. The style was unmistakably Aurora's. I am certain it represents her desperate plea for help and her expression of regret.
The authorities are indifferent, incapable, or simply unwilling to intervene. Their inaction only strengthens my resolve to uncover the truth and protect my friend from the horrors that plague her.
In this year of 1880, violence against women is rampant. Despite societal disapproval, it often goes unchecked. Wives, daughters, and mothers are treated as property, their rights unrecognized. Their vulnerability is exploited, especially when the perpetrator’s wealth ensures immunity from prosecution, perpetuating a cycle of violence.
Thus, dear uncle, I find myself at an impasse. I yearn for your wisdom and insight, yet I dread that this story may only conclude in sorrow. I beseech you, guide me on the course to liberate Aurora from her brute of a spouse.
As always, your impetuous, foolish and devoted nephew.
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