Resilient. As though that absolved Anthea of her responsibility. As though it did not matter that she had forced her sister into a position where resilience was necessary.
The countryside blurred past. Miles of road that brought them closer to the reckoning Anthea both desperately needed and utterly dreaded.
At the second posting inn, they learned Poppy and Henry had stopped for a meal less than two hours prior. They were gaining ground.
"We will catch them before nightfall," Gregory said, his expression determined. "Before they reach the border."
Relief and dread warred in Anthea's chest. They would stop the elopement. But then what? How could she fix the damage that had already been done?
Gregory touched her arm gently. "Anthea. Talk to me. Please."
She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since they had discovered the letter. Saw the concern etched into every line of his face. The love that still somehow existed despite her complete inadequacy.
She wanted to lean into him. To accept the comfort he was offering. To believe that this could be fixed, that she could be forgiven, that she was not the failure Beatrice had always claimed.
But the words would not come. The walls had gone back up, higher and thicker than before, and she could not make herself vulnerable again. Not when being vulnerable had led directly to this disaster.
"I am fine," she lied. "Simply worried about Poppy."
Gregory's jaw tightened. He did not believe her—that much was obvious. But he did not press. Simply withdrew his hand and gave her the space she had demanded.
The space that felt more like abandonment than freedom.
But she had no one to blame for that but herself.
They caught up to Poppy and Henry's carriage just as the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon.
The road had narrowed, winding through a stretch of forest, and their driver spotted the other carriage ahead—moving at a leisurely pace, clearly confident they had not been followed.
"There," Gregory said, pointing. "That must be them."
Anthea's heart began to race. After hours of travel, of spiraling thoughts and mounting dread, they had finally found them.
"What do we do?" Hugo asked. "Force them to stop?"
"No," Gregory said. "We simply... pull alongside and make our presence known. They will stop."
Their driver urged the horses faster, closing the distance. Anthea watched through the window as they drew level with the other carriage. Saw the exact moment when someone inside noticed them.
The carriage ahead slowed. Stopped.
A young man climbed out—Henry, unmistakably. Even from this distance, Anthea could see the way his shoulders tensed, the protective stance he took as their own carriage came to a halt.
Then Poppy emerged. Her face went white when she saw them.
For a long moment, no one moved. The two carriages sat facing each other on the empty road, dust settling around them, the only sound the restless stamping of horses.
Finally, Gregory opened their carriage door and stepped out. Offered his hand to help Anthea down.
She took it mechanically, her legs unsteady after so many hours sitting.
Poppy stood frozen beside Henry, one hand gripping his arm. She looked young suddenly—younger than her twenty years. Young and frightened and defiant all at once.
"Anthea," she said, her voice shaking. "I told you not to follow us."
Anthea tried to speak. Tried to find words that would encompass everything she felt—the anger, the hurt, the crushing sense of her own inadequacy. But her throat had closed up entirely.
Gregory squeezed her hand gently. Looked at her with a silent question:Do you want me to handle this?
