It rained very much that day and when I read about your arrival in the country, I was thrilled. I could get hold of your letter because my maid, Madeleine, is very fond of me and she was kind enough to sneak it out of the household. I do not live in our plush mansion in the heart of the city, not anymore. Now your letters have to be directed to my new room in Leicester Square. I have a little corner in the second floor of a home – of Sheryl and Emily. They were kind enough to offer me a place to stay. However, I insisted on paying rent and therefore, turn this into my new home.
My life has changed manifold ever since I wrote back to you last, ever since I got offended by how you underestimated the honesty of what I hold in my heart for you, dearest. I had saved my Grandma’s monetary gifts in a little box, ever since I was five and that has amounted upto a handsome amount. I will take a minute out of my rant to say that I love you, Florence, but I am not doing this for you, or us, or for the movement. I am doing this because I want to be comfortable in my own skin. I want to live a life which is built on truth and not as an unhappy wife of a rich lord and as mother to his sons and daughters. I am a woman, yes, and for me that statement does not interpret as what my parents interpret it.
I had to find a way to let the world know that I am not bound by how it views me. Therefore, I found a residence, counted my accounts and began to write an article for ‘The Daily Telegraph’ on women’s issues and included a paragraph on sexual liberty. The paper entered my home that morning, and I was packed and ready to leave. No one held me back, not even mamma. My younger sister, Clementine, sobbed and begged my father to stop me. I had left a letter for her inside her chest of drawers and she knows where I live. She’s visited me once with a batch of cupcakes and a lot of love. Florence, I have the hair I want now and I wear the clothes that I wish to wear. I smoke a cigarette when I feel like and the three of us sing a lot after downing a few bottles. But I do not speak of this independence when I say I feel free. I do not wake up every morning, in fear of someone discovering your letters and my truth. I do not fear anything anymore. That’s a lie, I do fear death and I do fear losing you.
After the uproar due to my article, the editor of ‘The Daily Telegraph’ has given me the position of a newspaper sub editor in his office. I am earning. Unlike the bourgeois image that you have of me, I am actually someone very different from what I had been taught to become.
I am sending this letter to you via your hotel staff as I know which room you are in. The hotel owner being a childhood friend has never been more beneficial. Meet me tomorrow, 9:00 a.m. in the morning at the coffee shop downstairs, my hands miss intertwining with yours.
All my love,